#when like.. hes so interesting under a microscope

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ ａｒｔ ｄｅｃｏ ♡

♡ Pairing: roommate!hyunjin x chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: smut/fluff

♡ Summary: You and Hyunjin are roommates, nothing more...and that's alright. At least that's what you tell yourselves. You've survived the last year by pretending you don't want each other, telling yourselves that the other's not interested. Your delusion's fully intact when Hyunjin catches you up late one night working on a project. He offers to help you research your subject, deepen your knowledge so to speak, but there's much more to it than that.

♡ Word Count: 4k-ish

♡ Warnings: playful teasing, use of an aphrodisiac, hyunjin can get a lil bossy, jealous hyunjin, making out, finger licking, nipple play, dry humping, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), pussy drunk hyunjin, things get very wet, fingering, clit play, low key body worship, a lil manhandling, unprotected sex, rough sex, marking, creampie, they're both quite needy, overstimulation, pet names (baby, sweetie, good girl, pretty girl).

♡ A/N: Hello my darlings. So this fic is a request that's a part of my 3.4k follower celebration which you can find on my page if you wanna put a request in! Thank you to @owlbeforsunrise for requesting this and for being so genuinely supportive of me with my writing. Love you so much xoxo

Procrastination. It’s your worst enemy. You had weeks to get this project done but it was always one thing or another and before you knew it the clock was counting down. Now it’s half past midnight and you’re stationed at your kitchen table, legs kicked up and a sketch pad in your lap.

The subjects of your current drawing are nestled in a medium sized wooden bowl, swirls of mahogany dancing in harmony with the collection of glistening pomegranates resting within. Pressing the button on the side of your headphones, you skip to the next song, humming along as it picks up, your colored pencil scratching away all the while. 

Hyunjin thinks you’re cute like this. With your messy hair and mismatched pajamas. You’re running on the last bit of an iced Americano and feel like absolute death but to him you couldn’t be cuter. He knows that even from behind. It’s not nice for roommates to sneak up on each other but you and Hyunjin never quite got around to the whole “setting boundaries” thing. 

Resting a hand on the back of your chair, Hyunjin leans over your shoulder, lifting one of your earphones to whisper, “Boo.” 

You jump a bit but immediately still yourself, readjusting in your seat to play it off. “Boo yourself” you huff, refusing to look in his direction.

“Scared ya?” he asks, grinning at the defiant look on your face. He was mistaken when he thought you couldn’t get cuter. You’re much cuter when you’re mad. 

You turn to him, lips tight, eyes narrowed, “Don’t you have something better to do? Drink cement? Chew glass?”

His smiling face hovers only an inch from yours, even less when he leans in closer, his gaze dancing over your features. Sometimes when Hyunjin looks at you it’s like being under a microscope. With him no glance is passive. Everything feels like it means something, like he’s studying you, and you can’t stand it. The heat behind those brown eyes is so casual, so effortless, that it’s intimidating in ways you could never bring yourself to admit. And now’s not the time for it. 

You roll your eyes, snapping your attention back to your drawing. “Why are you up anyway?”  

Hyunjin lingers a moment, a photographer taking one last shot of a precious thing, before making his way to the fridge. “I don’t know” he shrugs, an arm draped across the open door as he takes in his options, “Just couldn’t sleep I guess. Too much to worry about.”

You pause your music, jaw hung in shock, “Hwang Hyunjin? Worried? What about?” 

He drops his shoulders, responding with a pained groan, “You know I hate when you call me that.”

“I know” you giggle, doing a little dance with your shoulders, “That’s why I call you that. So, what’s up? Come share with the class.”

Grabbing a bottle of soda, he flings the fridge door closed, and turns to face you, unamused. He contemplates telling you, you can almost see the idea floating around that head of his. He could tell you what he was thinking about. It’d only take a sentence to tell you how one of his best friends texted him earlier asking if you were single. It’d only take another to confess how jealous that left him, how he’s been spiraling ever since, but instead he pops the soda open, gulping down the fizzy drink and any possibilities of a confession right along with it. 

“So, why are you drawing pomegranates?”

You click your tongue, lips curving into a smile, “Why are you deflecting?” 

Hyunjin grabs for your sketch pad and you tighten your grip around the corner of the book but it’s no use, it’s already his. “Is this some new fruit fixation or…”

“It’s not a fruit fixation. It’s for one of my classes. Human Sexuality and the Arts” you say, twinkling your fingers to make it seem fancy. 

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, glancing over at the bowl of fruit and back to you. “And what does that have to do with human sexuality? Were people, you know?” 

He does a light humping motion, your sketch pad propped up at his hip. You snatch it back, refusing to let him violate your art in such a way. “No. People weren’t fucking the pomegranates!” you shout, hitting him with the book, “The ancient Greeks thought that pomegranates were an aphrodisiac. They associate it with the goddess Aphrodite. Some people even say that the forbidden fruit in the Bible was a pomegranate, not an apple.” 

You light up when you speak, you always do when it comes to your art, and Hyunjin can’t help but admire everything about it. The way your brain works, what it manages to create, is almost as beautiful as you are. Just almost.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” you ask, catching onto that starry eyed gaze. 

Hyunjin shakes it off, switching modes like a classically trained actor. “Because you’re just so…” he trails off, thinking up the word, “Painfully nerdy.” 

“Oh, fuck you!” you laugh, flipping him off, “Forgive me for doing my research.” 

He blows you a kiss, making your heart flutter against your will. “Research, huh?” he asks, picking up a pomegranate. He juggles it in his hand, feeling the weight of it, “So you must’ve tried it then.”

“Tried what?”

“Pomegranates. You said they were an aphrodisiac. Ancient Greeks, goddesses, forbidden fruit, all that. How do you know it’s not bullshit?”

You chew at your inner lip, the tail of your pencil tapping away at the page, “I guess I don’t.” 

“Then why don’t we try it?” he asks, presenting you with the fruit. 

You stare at it for a moment, taking it in like it’s some alien thing. You look up at him, your temperature rising at his sudden closeness to you. You’d be a liar if you said you never wondered what it’d be like to have him standing over you like this, that handsome face staring back down at you, but in none of those fantasies was he holding groceries. 

“And by ‘try it’ you mean what exactly?”

You watch as he heads over to the kitchen counter, grabbing a plate from one of the cabinets above before he slides a knife from the block near the sink. With a few swipes of glimmering steel, the pomegranate’s left in four perfect pieces. Placing the knife down, he picks one up, turning back to you. “Come here.”

“No…” you sigh, popping your headphones back on. You have a deadline to meet. There’s no time to spare for his nonsense. 

“Come here” he repeats, his voice laced with a certain sweetness. The kind that makes you fold for him every time. 

You toss your headphones onto the table, your art supplies following close behind as you rise from your seat, bare feet dragging across the cool tile floor. You grab a slice of pomegranate, raising it to your lips before an unexpected hesitation takes hold of you and you toss it away. 

Hyunjin leans against the counter, vexed by your reaction, “What? You think I poisoned it?”

“No, it’s just…you first” you insist, hoping to distract him and yourself from the nerves bubbling up inside you. 

“Me first?”

“Yes, you first. It was your idea so you eat it first.”

He clears his throat, standing up straight so that his tall figure seems even more impressive. Two steps bring him closer to you, his toes right on the edge of touching yours as he brings the fruit to his mouth. His plush rosy lips close around it, his dexterous tongue working the fleshy seeds free of the rind. Scarlet juice drips from the corners of his mouth, riding the sharp contour of his jaw to coat his chin. You’re drawn in by how delicately his mouth works against it. Something about it is so sensual, far more sensual than you’re sure he intends it to be. 

Your body doesn’t care one way or another. Intent means nothing to your quickening pulse or to the warmth creeping its way to the lower half of your body. You don’t even notice you’re holding your breath until his mouth pulls away from the rind and you exhale like you’ve been underwater for an eternity. 

“Now you’re the one staring at me like that” he laughs, disposing of the rind on the plate. “Something on my face?” 

Instinctively you bring your fingers to his chin, wiping the juices away, “Actually, yes. Didn’t know you were such a messy eater.” 

“I thought some girls liked that” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

You swallow hard, your hands trembling barely enough to notice. Only Hyunjin does. Taking you by the wrist, he presses your fingertips to his lips, your touch feather light. You still as his tongue darts out, its wet warmth tracing the shape of your fingers. His eyes never leave yours as he does it. He wants to see how you react, how you feel, and you don’t disappoint. Your legs are shaking, soft thighs rubbing together in shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. The friction is heavenly, soothing the throbbing between your legs and making it much much worse all at once. 

“Is it working?” you ask, your voice cracking under the weight of a question you already know the answer to. 

Hyunjin lets out a chuckle from somewhere deep within his throat, his breath skimming your palm as his lips chart a path along your arm. Every kiss is electric. The tingling left behind at each point of contact gives you goosebumps. Ghosting over the sleeve of your loose fitting tee, his lips find yours, cautiously waiting as near to them as they can be without touching. You’re two magnets, the attraction between you too intense to ignore. All that holds you back are yourselves, your very cells vibrating at the need for connection. 

“Your turn” he whispers, breaking the spell to give you enough room to breathe. As if you ever could under the circumstances. 

You reach over, picking a slice of pomegranate up, fragile as a bomb. This is silly, you think to yourself. Hyunjin’s right. It’s not like it’s poison. You dive in, clearing the rind in a hurry, and flashing Hyunjin a look that says, “What now?” 

What now? Now is the force of his mouth colliding with yours, the sweet, tangy juices lingering on your tongue for only a second before his own tongue’s snaking between your lips to drink it down and you along with it. You tense at first. Not quite resisting. Not quite surrendering. But when his hands find your figure, palms riding the hills of your curves, you crumble. 

A year of living together. A year of playful flirting. A year of words spoken and words not. All of it is poured into a kiss that could shatter worlds. Without question it shatters yours. You never imagined that Hyunjin’s feelings for you could be mutual but the hunger he kisses you with leaves nothing to be questioned. 

“I think it’s working” he says, a breathless taunt against your lips. 

You grab onto his shirt, your nails digging into the fabric as he grips the back of one of your pillowy thighs, raising your knee to rest at his side. “I hate you” you whimper when he presses into you, the growing bulge in his sweatpants teasing your core. There’s no denying how wet you are. The need soaking through the cotton of your panties is more than enough evidence of that. 

It only worsens when he strays from the kiss, leaning into your neck to whisper, “You hate me?” His tone is playful with a hint of something darker. He’s daring you to lie when you both know the truth. “How much do you hate me? Enough to make me stop when I do this?” His fingers dig into the supple flesh of your ass, grinding you against him, and you tremble, your moans as light as your next breath.

“Or this?” Spinning you around, Hyunjin slams you back into the counter, his lips latching onto your neck to feel your pulse race beneath his tongue. He suckles harshly at the skin, the sharpness of his kiss balanced by the ecstasy of his clothed cock rubbing your clit.

This wasn’t the plan. When he stumbled into the kitchen, his eyes barely open, he expected to find a late night snack. What he found instead was you. Something he wanted infinitely more than anything this kitchen could offer. He can’t remember ever needing something so badly that it hurts. His cock straining against his pants is nothing short of torture. It aches for you and only you. 

“Hyunjin, just…aaah” you whine, arching as he sneaks a hand under your shirt, touching your naked skin for the first time. 

He massages your belly, your side, all the way up to your swollen breast that fits in his hand with the perfection of something made to be there. He captures your bud between his fingers, his pointer and index pinching it with just enough pressure to send more of those delicious moans pouring from you. 

“Just…what, sweetie?” he asks, pulling back from your neck with a pop. His lips float back up to yours and that’s where they wait, eager for your next words. 

You can barely form them when he’s throbbing against your drenched pussy, your panties and shorts too wet to make a bit of difference. His fingers tighten around your nipple, playing you like a finely tuned instrument, and you sing for him just the way he wants. 

“Just…just…” you stutter, your hold on his shirt threatening to tear it, “Just fuck me already if you’re gonna do it.” 

You’re both taken back by your directness, the shock doing away with whatever last bit of pretending that lived between you. Hyunjin kisses you again, the passion burning just as hot as the first time, grabbing you by the waist to guide you somewhere you can’t see.

Everything’s dark. The only light you see are the sparks twinkling behind your lids, the kiss pulling you in so that nothing else matters. It’s only when you feel the edge of the kitchen table press into your ass that you remember where you are. 

“Clothes off” he demands, the hem of your shirt already knotted in his fists, “I wanna see you.” 

Your shirt disappears and your immediate reaction is to bring your arms around yourself, shielding yourself from his sight, but Hyunjin peels them away, the awe in his expression quieting your fears. “Oh god, you’re so beautiful” he gasps, slipping your shorts down to reveal your figure in its full glory.

Your panties come down with them, discarded at your feet, leaving you exposed. Hyunjin lifts you onto the table, a hand coasting along your inner thigh to spread your legs open. His gaze falls below your waist and he’s instantly mesmerized by the slickness of your gorgeous pussy. 

He runs his fingers through your folds, coating them in your arousal, watching your stiff clit twitch from the faintest touch. “Didn’t know you’d be this wet for me. Look at you…” He strokes your entrance, spreading you open and the way you leak onto the table makes his mouth water. “Is this an aphrodisiac too?”

Even in a haze of pleasure, you manage the most adorable giggle, “I don’t know. My books didn’t say anything about that.” 

“Let’s find out then, hmm?” Hyunjin doesn’t wait for your response. He dives right in, dropping to his knees, a devoted lover eager to worship his goddess. 

Your palms smack down on the table, your arms propped up on either side in a desperate attempt to keep yourself upright but it’s no use. Hyunjin’s tongue’s buried too deep within your walls, curling and flicking as he messily slurps down your essence. Your arms are slipping out from under you. The quaking of your body’s too much to control.

Hyunjin slides his hands up to your lower back, cradling you as your back meets the surface below. You shake, maybe from the chill—maybe from his nose bumping your clit, your pussy clenching around his tongue each time. 

“Mmm, tastes so good…” he groans, pulling you closer so that your ass dangles right on the edge of the table, “Can’t stop, fuck, I can’t…”

The slurping noises are borderline obscene, his mouth spread open to taste every part of you. The tip of his tongue swirls through your smooth, velvety folds, teasing your entrance with the slightest stretch before drawing figure eights up to your clit.

It makes every bit of sense in the world now how he got that pomegranate down so quickly. His tongue moves with expert precision, knowing just what to do to achieve exactly what he wants and right now what he wants is for you to keep moaning. Keep trembling. Keep raising your hips to meet the heat of his mouth, riding every wave of pleasure and oh so needy for the next. 

“Jinnie…” you moan, his short hair tickling your palm as you pet the back of his head. 

“Jinnie?” he laughs, applying kitten licks to your pussy between every word spoken, “You only call me that when you want something. You want something, baby?”

“Mmhmm” you nod, still raising your hips for more.

And Hyunjin gives it to you, sinking two fingers into your warmth and seeking out the sweet spot previously discovered by his tongue. The sound you make when he finally hits it is like music to his ears, his cock throbbing from how desperately it wishes it were the one responsible for it.

Hyunjin’s fingers pick up speed, coaxing out a stream of broken moans, “Tell me what you want from Jinnie. Anything for you.” He spreads his fingers wide, stretching you open as his lips latch onto your clit once more.

“Mmm, so close, wanna come for you…” you confess, making the terrible mistake of glancing between your legs.

Hyunjin’s eyes await yours, the lust behind them worsening the pressure building within you. “Then do it. Come for me. Let me taste you” he urges, his fingers abandoning you to let his tongue fill the space.

Your head falls back, your lush breasts jutting out with every rise and fall of your chest. You hook your legs around his shoulders and he grabs onto your thighs, keeping you right where you are. Squirming, whining, begging him not to stop as your orgasm tears through you leaving you speechless.

All you can do is lay there, completely at his mercy, gushing down his chin and helpless to stop his pursuit of more. The taste of you is addictive, so addictive that he can’t pry himself away. Not even when you attempt to twist yourself free, weakly pushing his head back. He’s not done until he says he is. Not until he’s lapped up every last drop. 

“You’re trying to kill me” you pout, managing to turn onto your side. 

Hyunjin tilts his head, keeping his mouth on you, refusing to give up those last few licks. When he finally drags himself away from you, his chest is heaving, and a haze of bliss hangs over him. The same one that hangs over you, weighing you down to the table.

You couldn’t get up if you wanted to and Hyunjin won’t give you the chance. Grabbing you by the waist, he flips you onto your stomach, the impact sending your nearby art supplies tumbling to the floor. 

“I’m not trying to kill you, pretty girl” he grins, tugging his shirt over his head, “Not yet.” 

It’s a subconscious thing, poking your ass up at him like you are. You don’t mean to drive him crazy but you do and he can’t finish stripping down fast enough, breathing a sigh of relief when his cock springs free from his boxers. He rubs the head against your entrance and your walls are already fluttering, wanting nothing more than to suck him in.

There’s a twinge in his chest, at the sight of you stretching around him as he presses into you, and he can’t go any further. Everything’s been happening so fast that it’s just hitting him that this is all real. This is happening.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you turn to look back at him, your expression heavy with concern. “We don’t have to if you don’t…”

Hyunjin’s quick to cut you off, “No! I want to! It’s just…I’ve wanted you for so long and I never thought that I could have you.”

You smile, warm and comforting, “Well you can have me. I’m all yours. You just have to take me. Take me, Jinnie.”

Nothing else needs to be said for him to thrust into you, your heads spinning from the euphoria of your bodies finally meeting. “Aah, fuck, you’re so tight baby” he hisses, slowly rocking in and out of you. He can feel you adjusting to his size, your walls reveling in his thickness as his tip kisses your cervix only to tighten right back up when he dares to pull out a little too far.

He runs a hand along your back, tracing the curve of your spine with his fingertips. You shouldn’t be this beautiful. You shouldn’t take him this well. It’s not fair what you do to him. How hard you make his cock pulse, your pussy already leaving him drenched down to the base. 

And you’re faring no better. Your senses are dominated by the sensation of every thrust, his tip beating against your g-spot with every thrust. It’s the kind of pleasure you can feel tingling your toes and ghosting your fingertips. You can taste it on your tongue. It vibrates in every fiber of your being.

Hyunjin’s hips snap into you harder, the moisture between you sending a lewd slapping sound pinging off the walls of the kitchen. It makes your body jiggle, your ass bouncing back onto him, and he feels so completely enveloped by you that he has to do it again. And again, harsher, faster, his hold on your hips unyielding, dominating your every move. 

The banging of the kitchen table against the wall is more than enough for a noise complaint but your moans? You’re crying out like no one can hear you—every fractured syllable of his name bleeding through the walls into the apartment next door—but it’s nothing you can control. Nothing you want to control.

Hyunjin dips an arm under you, two fingers caressing your clit, and the muscles in your body pull tight, your eyes beginning to water from the overstimulation. You think you might cry if he keeps going but you know you’ll cry if he stops. You’ll throw a tantrum, kicking and screaming, because this is all you want in the world. He has to keep going. Keep pushing you further and further beyond your limits.

“Aah! Oh fuck!” you scream, grabbing onto the edge of the table, nails scraping the wood. Your hips stutter, unable to keep their rhythm, and Hyunjin knows you’re close again. 

Leaning forward, he decorates your back with kisses, uttering praises that chip away at your resolve. “Come again for me, my beautiful girl. No holding back. Let go for me.”  

Just like that you feel light, like your body holds no weight at all. Everything’s soft and fluffy, the most gentle it’s ever been, then all at once you feel all of it. The intensity’s beyond anything that was building before and you’re coming down your thighs, drenching the fingers that frantically work your clit.

“That’s it. Good girl” he coos, the knots in the pit of his own stomach tightening, ready to come undone. “You want me to pull out?”

He leans away but you reach behind you, grabbing him by the arm, “No…inside me.” 

Hyunjin takes you by both hands, interlocking his fingers with yours, and fucks iyou into the table, your pussy clinging to him, swallowing him in so far that he fears he might lose himself in you. If he bites down on his lip any harder he’ll break skin. Not that he could even notice. He’s too busy unraveling between your walls, thick ropes of cum painting you with their creamy white warmth.

There’s no telling how much time passes before he stops moving. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? But you’re both left trembling, your sweat slicked bodies still connected as you drift back down to earth, basking in the afterglow. 

You let out a squeak when he finally slips out of you, rolling onto your back to get more comfortable. Hyunjin positions himself between your legs, his arms caging you in on both sides as he leans in to plant a kiss on your lips. The taste of pomegranate has faded and now he tastes only of a flavor that’s distinctly you.

“See, I told you research was important” he gloats, his length teasing the sensitivity of your pussy. 

You shiver, cupping his face as you arch into him, “I mean, I guess but don’t get any more ideas. I still have a project due you know.”

Hyunjin cuts his eyes at the sketch pad scattered on the floor amidst a sea of colored pencils. “One second.”

He slips off of you and you sit up, crossing your legs, a silent observer as he carefully gathers your things for you. He hands them over with a pleased look on his face. “I can come to your room….help you finish.” 

You clutch your items close to your chest, not at all ignorant to the way his thumbs are stroking your thighs. “Help me finish in what way exactly? 

“Mmm…” he hums, the pad of his thumb just barely touching your clit, “You’ll just have to trust me.” 

“Trust you?” you laugh, hopping down from the table, “We’ll see about that.” You give him a peck on the lips, depriving him of something deeper. A small form of torture done fully on purpose. “Follow me. Oh and bring the plate just in case we have to do more, uh, research.”

Time seems to move in slow motion for Hyunjin as you walk off towards your room, your naked body breathtaking even in the shadows of the dimly lit hall. Backing up, he blindly retrieves the plate from the counter, his fingers skimming the fruit as he does so. 

“God bless the Greeks” he utters under his breath, his brain already running rampant with all the filthy things he wants to do to you tonight. He’s definitely gonna need more fruit.

[greeneldritchfurby]

I wrote an informal essay on the tragedy of Paul Matthews as a character and I thought.. why not post it here!

What do you want, Paul?

On the surface, Paul Matthews is a very bland and normal character. He works a simple 9-5, hes maybe a little blunt, and he has a crush on this one barista at a copy shop. He is a simple, bland man. But underneath that normalcy is really a complex and conflicted man.

It's clear that Paul doesn’t know what he wants for his life, that's a huge part of the show. He refuses to make an outright statement of what he wants. During “What Do You Want Paul?”, and under the duress of Mr. Davidson, he throws out several ideas of what he wants, money, a partner, maybe kids. But he's so non specific and its clear he’s just throwing them out there to satisfy Mr. Davidson.

While not having much of a personality in the way of hobbies or interests, his personality is built on an ironic source. He doesn’t like musicals. That is the crux of who he is, that dislike leads him. Instead of a want pushing him through the events of the story, it is his staunch denial that does this. He has no ambition, nothing that drives him, except for his distaste of musicals.

Its almost tragic in a way, because we begin to see Paul discover possible wants throughout the span of TGDWLM. He grows closer to Emma, he willingly goes with Bill to save his daughter, he even goes to sacrifice his life to save the world. He never says it directly, but it seems he yearns to find that want, that desire, but he can only satisfy others wants. Bill wants to save his daughter, Emma wants to go and save the world together but cant. In the end he still doesn't figure out what he wants truly.

And then, the final confrontation. In Let it Out Paul is forced to come to grasps with what he wants, and to let go of that want to assimilate into the hive. And yet.. he still doesn't know what he wants. He says hes never been happy and that maybe the hive is the solution… but that's just a guess. The only thing he has is his hatred of musicals. And even then, as the spores take root in his mind, he begins to question that.

In a way, you could argue Paul sacrificing himself was a purposeful act. He most likely knew he wasn't coming back alive. But what does a man with no ambition, no pursuits have to lose? Why continue to live when you can give your aimless life up to save those that have a plan for their life?

Yet, in some tragic irony, through the hive Paul found purpose. He has a want now, and even if its not his own, what does it matter if he is happy now? He has a role to play. Its so legitimately heartbreaking because Paul is always so close to finding his purpose and yet he can only find his purpose in death. Either by sacrificing himself for the greater good, or succumbing to the alien hivemind.

Paul is such an interesting portrayal of a depressed, emotionally isolated man, a man trapped by the monotony of everyday life and riddled with a pervasive sense of aimlessness.

[crustycrackhead]

I got possessed dude, did a line of flour— some crazy shit anyways… Swampcat

Swampcat, Kremy Lecroux x Morning Frost

They both find each other interesting like anatomy wise, drastically different, some “lemme examine you 🤓☝️”

Kremy slowly blinks and Frost gets flustered… that’s the good shit to me man. Purring, Bellows… I SHOOT THEM TWO WITH MY AMERICAN GUN

[temporoom]

"The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System" is such a great title because it can either refer to the concept of the system (a magical electronically menu to help the player/protagonist in his transmigration journey) saving the villain, or to a system operated by an entire group of people that works to allow a villain to keep on doing villainous things.

[deeism]

to me macden is not quite a fell first vs fell harder situation its more like dennis fell first then mac fell harder then dennis fell harder again then mac fell for dennis' gay alter ego who was actually just dennis manipulating mac into staying in love with him thus creating an endless toxic yaoi loop and god fucking knows whats going to happen in season 17

[bonestrouslingbones]

branching off my tags from that last post because they got horrendously off topic and im trying to get slightly better with that but aaghgghg

for a while i was thinking that russ wouldn't have very many written segments from his own POV because he's supposed to be really mysterious and kinda shady to not only everybody else but the reader as well, at least to a certain extent. i wouldn't want to accidentally allude to certain events that could give away his whole deal, and also seeing things from his "eyes" could downplay some of the vagueness & strangeness of his character

but now that i've got a couple of his POVs under my belt i'm realizing i've written him in a way that works . pretty well for those things i think! because he's a character who very very intentionally does not think about the things that are bothering him, or even properly acknowledge or process when he is thinking about those things because he'd rather it be a passing mention in his stream of consciousness instead of something to really dwell on.

like with scenes like this, russ knows something's up. edge is somewhat okay at pretending to be normal, but it was still weird to bring russ out for drinks as a thanks for chasing off his brother, and now he's very intentionally ordering russ more alcohol after not saying anything when russ drank the glass that was supposed to be his, and after confirming that russ is drinking on an empty stomach

this is, objectively, shady as hell and russ isn't actually dumb enough to fall for it, despite how much i make fun of him lol. but he's still so deep in denial that he doesn't even try to question it. because even though he hates alcohol, he doesn't hate the distraction it gives him, and he does NOT want to acknowledge that he would purposely allow someone to manipulate him like this

this is also definitely why he's lowkey binge drinking and not at all bc my friends & i are all doing our 20s wrong and don't go to bars or drink like at all so google is my only reference for how people do that shit. its in character for him to binge drink anyway WHATEVERR

which is all word vomit just to say: i probably still won't give him very many POV fics because having as much as every other character definitely would chip away at the mystery surrounding him, or at least make him a bit less of an almost mythical figure in the narrative, but in the bits he does have i will probably keep writing him like this lmao

it's good to see that he's constantly thinking and floundering but i really want to have that balance between him being this kinda-crazy-but-mostly-normal-if-you-squint, borderline invincible, unbreakable leader figure from everyone else's POV, but then from his own he's just someone who got shoved into this position and trying to do his best in insane situations all the goddamn time and he's tired but if he ever acknowledges how tired he is he might not be able to keep going and everyone is counting on him so he's gotta keep fucking going forever and ever and ever no matter what

[goldentigerfestival]

Yuri's dialogue (JP) is so fascinating to study, like... the repetitive use of certain words/phrases that others use sparingly but he uses constantly. the way it feels like his vocabulary is more expansive than what he uses, but he defaults to a "comfort" level of speech. the way it mixes in with his sort of "street talk" words and the sheer level of informality. the way his "street talk" phrasing is contrasted by the tone of his voice (on that note, people I know who also know JP are also very endeared by these aspects of him so I KNOW IT'S NOT JUST ME!!!).

'cause the thing is, he uses phrases that yeah, other people do use, but he uses a handful over and over and over (contrast to other characters' sparing use of repetition). it's actually... really refreshing? it sounds more relatable and less "video game/anime/JRPG/RPG" writing or something, idk. like closer to how a real person would speak.

I do my best in my translations not to make things sound too stiff across the board, but Yuri makes it so easy. it's why I'm so interested in translating all his lines in Vesperia, like... the actual, original tone for him with his original wording because it's smth Eng only players don't get to experience ('cause even if you listen with JP audio, if you don't know the language, ofc you're gonna miss out on context. it's nobody's fault for not knowing, just... they unfortunately miss out). the thing is, there are a lot of times when the lines in and of themselves are not contextually incorrect in the English ver (usually the situation for smaller scenes, because they altered the text outright for more important stuff which was the stuff that originally set me off, but there were also plenty of cases of just vocal tone shifting with the correct context that still gave off the wrong impression), but Yuri's tone is shifted away from the original in Eng even though it's completely and perfectly translatable.

I am by no means about to translate the entire game because let's face it, I really don't care that much for Vesperia on the whole. I'm kinda stuck with it because Yuri's there lo and behold I actually am WAY more engaged in his stories in Rays, Link and Asteria because it's an amazing character put into circumstances where he actually gets to shine and feels more alive, which Vesperia did not provide nearly as well with its very disjointed story. also, Tales gachas have banger stories that are arguably better than the mainline games, and they regularly make Yuri a very central character to the gachas. Crestoria was also about to do it until they pulled the plug on that game and I'm pretty confident something interesting has been lost to the world. also I just generally don't have the energy or motivation to do that, so... I'll only be focusing on Yuri's lines, especially because his stuff is where the bulk of the messing around was. he's just insanely fun to translate for and I love burying myself head first into his speech.

will I actually finish this project? dunno. will I get around to posting it? whatever I get done (so all of it if I complete it), and if I decide to call it quits then I'll post what I have at the time I decide that. will it take a long time? probably, but I can always mention stuff along the way...

[beloveds-embrace]

OK IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS FOR A WHILE

so I keep seeing these ads for “pheromone perfume” pop up. the women in who advertise it say that it makes men go crazy, it smells amazing, they can’t get their bfs off of them whenever they put it on (and usually they put it on and then set up the camera and wait for their significant other to walk in the room and react to it)

and every time I see one of those ads, I think of designationless reader.

idk if that’s something they’d ever do, but I feel like it would be interesting for them to dab some of it on their wrists and behind their ears, as well as where their scent glands are and see how the guys react to it 🤭🤭

Anon i love you and I am smooching your brain so hard rn

The idea had been simmering in your mind for weeks, born from the endless pheromone perfume ads that flooded your late-night scrolling. People with bright smiles swore their perfumes were magic, capable of driving their partners wild with desire. But you weren’t like those people. You had no designation, no scent, no pheromones to speak of-

The ads made you feel like an outsider all over again. But they also left you wondering- what if there was a way to bridge that gap, just a little?

That’s how you found yourself at a specialized lab, the kind that catered to people willing to spend a small fortune for something deeply personal. It wasn’t easy. The process was invasive, awkward, and expensive. The technicians had taken a lot of samples of your body- skin oils, sweat, saliva- examining them under microscopes, running them through machines you didn’t understand, distilling your very essence into a single vial of concentrated potential.

When you walked out with the tiny glass bottle, your wallet was lighter, and your chest was tight with nerves.

What if this didn’t work?

What if it did?

Being scentless had always set you apart, a quiet absence in a world built on pheromones and instinct. You didn’t have the alluring pull of an omega’s sweetness or the steady, grounding weight of a beta’s calm. And you certainly didn’t have the commanding presence of an alpha’s dominance.

You were… nothing.

Not that your pack ever made you feel that way. Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz treated you like you hung the moon, their affection constant and overwhelming. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, you wondered what it would be like if you could scent them. If you could mark them the way they marked you. If you could pull them closer without relying on their instincts to protect what was theirs.

You’d dabbed the finished product on experimentally: just behind your ears, at the base of your throat, and along the faint line of your collarbone. You added drops to your wrists and even a little over your faulty scent glands, though you weren’t sure why. It had no scent for you, and you were almost worried that they might have scammed you.

But their reactions convinced you otherwise.

The moment he walked into the common area, his steps faltered. His broad shoulders stiffened, and his blue eyes sharpened, narrowing as if sensing something just out of reach. He sniffed once, subtly at first, but then again, deeper, his nostrils flaring, and his hands flexed at his sides.

“Something’s… different.” He muttered, almost to himself, but his voice was low enough to send a shiver through you.

“Something wrong, Cap?” You asked innocently, feigning ignorance as Soap entered behind him.

Soap stopped in his tracks, bright demeanor dimming as his eyes zeroed in on you. His head tilted, his mouth parting slightly as he breathed in deeply. “Lass,” he murmured, soft and careful. “What are you wearin’?”

“Clothes? What else would I be wearing, Soap?” You replied, voice dry just enough to be convincing. You raised an eyebrow, then, and crossed your arms. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Gaz appeared next, his movements slower than usual as he approached. Dark eyes narrowed, his focus razor-sharp as his body tensed. He didn’t speak immediately; instead, he circled you slightly, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know where to start.

Ghost entered last, his imposing frame cutting through the room’s tension like a blade. He didn’t say a word, didn’t ask, didn’t even hesitate. He simply stopped in front of you, his chest rising and falling steadily as his head dipped slightly, his masked face inches from yours. His gloved hands found your waist, and a low growl rumbled in his chest as he inhaled deeply.

“What?” you asked again, blinking at them with wide eyes, your voice lilting with carefully curated confusion. “What’s wrong?”

Price stepped closer as well, his boots heavy against the floor as he studied you. “You smell… different, love.” He said, voice like the distant rumble of thunder.

“Different how?” you asked, biting back a smile.

Johnny couldn’t hold himself back from you any longer, his hands sliding over your hips as he leaned in, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck. He let out a low hum, his warm breath skimming your skin. “Christ,” he murmured, his lips barely grazing your throat, “you smell good. Like somethin’ I can’t quite place.”

Gaz knelt at your side, his hands wrapping around your wrists. He brought one up to his face, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed a kiss to the soft skin. “Sweet,” he murmured softly. “Warm, like you’ve been wrapped in sunlight.”

Ghost growled again, deeper this time, the sound vibrating through his chest as his gloved fingers tightened on your waist. He pulled you closer, pressing his masked face against the other side of your neck, and the rumble in his throat sent a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice trembling just enough to sell the performance. “I didn’t do anything.”

But the pack wasn’t buying it.

Price’s hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he tilted your face up. Piercing blue eyes searched yours. “You sure about that, love?” he asked, a low grumble that sent heat pooling in your stomach.

Soap pressed a kiss to your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin lightly as his hands slid beneath your shirt. “Disnnae matter,” he murmured, voice thick with affection and something more primal, more hungry. “Whatever it is, it suits you.”

Gaz hummed in agreement, his lips trailing up the inside of your wrist to the sensitive skin of your palm. “Feels like it’s everywhere,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Can’t get enough of it. Can’t get enough of you, dove.”

Ghost was silent, but his actions spoke louder than words. He lifted you effortlessly, setting you on the edge of the table with a deliberate slowness that made your heart race. His hands found your thighs, his grip firm but gentle as he leaned in, his masked face pressing against your stomach. The low growl in his chest deepened, a possessive sound that sent a thrill through you.

They were relentless after that.

John claimed your lips, firm and demanding, his hands cupping the back of your neck as he tilted your head back. Soap followed, his kisses trailing along your jaw and down your throat, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made you shiver.

Gaz and Simon kissed the inside of your thighs, their teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as theirs hands held you steady and open, all theirs.

“Perfect girl,” Simon groaned against the back of your thighs, thick fingers digging into your skin. “Ours. Whatever you’d done- you don’t need it. You’ll always be ours.”

Hours passed in a haze of touch and heat, their attention unyielding as they marked every inch of you as their own. They murmured about your scent between kisses, their words a mix of worship and devotion. You played your part perfectly, letting soft, breathless sounds escape your lips as you clung to them, your innocence a carefully crafted mask.

By the time they were done with you, your were very sure they had rubbed off all the perfume off your body, and covered you with their own scents.

When they finally pulled back, in the nest, their bodies heavy with satisfaction, Price cupped your cheek with gaze still burning with intensity. “You don’t need anything to make us want you,” he said, low but steady. He stared straight at you, so that you would not have any reasons to doubt his words. “You’re already perfect.”

You smiled, letting the words wash over you, but said nothing. Your secret was safe, for now.

[fortheloveofexy]

It's so interesting to me that Nora describes Jean and Neil as being similar in personality.

On a surface level, yes they are a lot alike. Jean is prickly and blunt and prone to verbal insults, just like Neil is. He's unfamilar with affection and kindness like Neil was at the beginning of tfc and he fears older male authority figures just as Neil does.

But at the same time, they are also just so completely different.

Like, I love Neil, but there is nothing about canon Neil Josten that could be described as gentle or soft-hearted or overtly affectionate. In tfc he was studying the Foxes behavior like they were alien specimens under a microscope because he was so unused to how friendships work. He didn't even realize Nicky was his friend until Nicky outright confirmed it. He softens a little for his Foxes in the end (especially for Andrew) and he does love his chosen family, but even by the end of tkm his empathy for other people is still highly selective and he remains a cagey and rude asshole.

But Jean? Jean is a loverboy, through and through. He's not used to receiving affection, but he's a remarkably quick study and he learns how to reciprocate just as fast. He has compassion even for the people who betrayed him and hurt him in the Nest. Protecting Jeremy is so instinctive for him, he does it without thinking. He was so horrified by the thought of Cat being hurt that he couldnt stop himself from checking her for injuries that weren't there. He agrees to getting a dog because he couldn't bring himself to deny Jeremy and Laila something that brought them so much joy. He was already looking out for Cody when he barely even knew them. To his very core, he is so gentle and tender-hearted and kind.

Neil had to be taught how to love other people (and he got there eventually), but Jean's love for others has been pouring out of him for years with nowhere to go.

[corsairier]

dc x dp prompt: in which Danny accidentally becomes an alien

So I'm not super caught up on the modern day dp fandom lore, but what i am very familiar with is pre-2016 dp fandom lore. And that lore tends to take a much more sci-fi slant than a lot of the current magic stuff I've been seeing circulating around, so... what if we took that and put it in a batfam crossover?

Picture this: Danny is sixteen, he's told his parents he's a halfa, and despite all his fears, things actually went... well? They apologize for how they've treated Phantom, they reaffirm they still love him as their son, and things are surprisingly okay.

Except... ghosts are still their biggest interest in life, and researching ghosts is their entire passions and careers. And they've got a kid right there who not only is a ghost, but a rare type of half ghost who could give them a completely different set of data than any of their previous research! And he's their kid, so why not just go and ask Danny how he's feeling about helping them out with their research?

And Danny is, well... his friends and Jazz are all super happy for him that Maddie and Jack accepted him, and they think it's sweet at first that they're trying to bond with Danny over this. So he feels a bit pressured to go along with it, even though it feels incredibly invasive to have his parents asking him all these things. But they're his parents, and he does feel grateful for them not trying to vivisect him, so it can't be that bad, right?

But it just escalates.

His parents have never really been great with boundaries, especially when it comes to ghosts, and at some point Danny realizes that there's not really a point where either of them will truly stop. They keep asking him for blood samples, skin samples, hair samples, marrow samples, anything that can help understand him inside and out. They know ectoplasm can bring inanimate things to life or infuse life into the dead, so it quickly becomes Hey Danny, what if we injected human blood into a ghost? And Come watch us infuse ectoplasm into these frozen mice! and Danny, come help us out with this project!

Vlad won't even come in between any of this, not after Danny let slip that he wasn't the only halfa out there. Maddie's affections are a lot less attractive to him when it feels like being a lab rat under her microscope, and the coward seems more than happy to leave Danny to his fate while he goes and lives it up in his mansions. His friends are sympathetic, sure, but they don't really get it beyond usual "parents suck" complaining. it's not like Danny is actually in any danger.

Jazz at least takes it seriously, but she's off at university by then and she can't just drop everything to get into fights with their parents telling them to leave Danny alone. So Danny starts spending a bit more time than he probably should exploring the Ghost Zone and tumbling through portals, just to see where it leads him. It's stress relief, you know. Jazz would approve of him getting out of the house to clear his head.

The fact that some of these portals happen to connect dimensions isn't something he's expecting.

Neither is the fact that dimensions have their own rules, and in order to pass between dimensions, they must undergo changes as needed to fit those rules. Someone with magic cannot exist as is in a dimension without it, and the dead cannot walk in a dimension where the rules of life and death are drawn by different lines.

Danny winds up in Gotham with a body that feels unlike his own, the majority of his powers and his ghost half seemingly beyond his reach. He still thinks he's human (probably), but something about him isn't quite right. He feels odd, where he lands, and something about the air and the weather just doesn't sit right in his bones.

He's hungering for... ectoplasm, maybe? He can't put a finger on it, only that he's starving without it. Danny can't quite figure out how to get his way back—and he's not sure if he really wants to, if it means going back to playing house with his parents.

Then the Bats, from their own perspective, stumble across a medical mystery—one that doesn't want to be solved.

One that's absolutely sick of people trying to research everything about him.

And there's no way a being like him could be from Earth, right?

Batman is convinced he's an alien seeking amnesty on Earth. Tim's got his bets on an experiment escaped from some dark and corrupt lab somewhere. Dick's thinking the kid's a Meta with the kind of powers those with bad intentions would kill to have.

Jason, for what it's worth, really just wants to know how this bandaged and ill kid ended up in one of his safehouses—especially considering it's not accessible from the ground floor.

---

I've been chipping away at a fic for this, but I'm not sure if it'd be something modern dpxdc fans would be interested in? Feel free to use this idea yourselves for anything if it piques your interest LOL, just credit me in the AN if you post it to AO3. I just think it's really funny to have Danny having incredibly boring "i feel i can't enforce boundaries with my parents" problems and then the Batfam seeing what it all looks like from an outsider's POV and coming to some very severe conclusions based on what they can pick up on because it's really not a good look.

Danny voice. No my parents are fine except for all the experimenting on me. Jason voice. THE WHAT.

[ceilidho]

fear of god

There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 10 masterlist

-

Only after incinerating the original samples do you second guess your actions.

Too late by then. By the time it occurs to you that it might’ve been smarter to keep the samples to reference later, they’re already in biohazard bins, autoclaved and in the process of being incinerated, flames dancing behind the glass. 

You can only watch dispassionately. Mistakes made in crisis; you keep yielding to the thin stretch of fear across the vanishing point of your paranoia and hoping you won’t make the same mistake again, only to repeat the same pattern. 

Over lunch in the mess, you bite back your anxiety and ask Gaz to come by the lab in the morning in order to draw another vial of blood. He spreads his legs under the table until his knees taps against yours.

There’s a glint in his eye when he smiles. “Something wrong with the one from yesterday?”

Stare and swallow your pride. “I…accidentally contaminated it. Can you come by?”

“Of course, doctor. Anything for you.”

You grit your teeth to avoid snapping at him in front of everyone else, the mess full for a change. Under the table, you press your knees together until your legs tremble. 

True to his word, Gaz comes by first thing in the morning, perky enough to rub you the wrong way. You slept poorly again though, so it’d be hard to rub you the right way. 

“You look tired, love,” Gaz observes quietly, the paper crinkling under him as he sits himself down on the exam table.

“I am tired.” Your voice is subdued, weary, but somehow the thought of being vulnerable in front of him doesn’t scare you the way it once did. Your dynamic these days is an interesting one. Two people in on the same secret. It makes you feel almost close to him in a way, a shared intimacy that doesn’t extend to the rest of the crew. 

“Didn’t get enough sleep?” he asks.

“No, I—” 

A man stands at the end of a long corridor, shrouded in darkness.

You are powerless to stop him unless he wants to be stopped.

He is coming for you. He is holding out his hand and waiting for you to take it.

You rub your forehead where it aches. “No. Not enough.”

Hadir follows not long after, the door sliding shut behind him as you prep the syringe. You don’t respond when he says good morning, not in the mood for pleasantries or conversation with everything else going on. It’s hard to feel up to being friendly when this whole situation feels like a thinly veiled attempt to monitor you, like you’re the untrustworthy one when two feet away, Gaz sits with a serene smile on his face and twiddles his thumbs. 

There’s a small pleasure in plunging a needle into his vein again, but you’re not cruel enough to try and make it hurt. You’re not even sure if you could. 

He doesn’t so much as wince. 

You’re much more efficient about it with Hadir hovering over your shoulder, immediately transferring Gaz’s blood into capillary tubes after drawing it from him and flitting to the other side of the room to place the tubes into the centrifuge. It’s not a long wait—ten minutes tops—but you spend it hunched over the centrifuge. On the other side of the room, Gaz and Hadir chit chat like nothing’s wrong. 

The second the centrifuge beeps, you pop the lid and remove the tubes. Perfectly separated; no different than the day before. You repeat the same steps as Hadir watches, pipetting the supernatant fluid into a new test tube and preparing the slides, shoulders tense the whole time. Waiting for him to stop and correct you. 

It never comes—as it shouldn’t. You may not be above question, but you’re good at your job. You wouldn’t have messed up something as simple as a blood test of all things.

Then, you sit down in front of the microscope. 

Something in your gut tells you what’s going to happen before it does. You slip the slide under the microscope and lean forward into the eyepiece only to find perfectly normal red blood cells. No strange wandering cells bending into confounding shapes. Just erythrocytes sitting peacefully on the blood smear slide, not overlapping and not too widely spread apart.

You look over at Gaz when Hadir takes your place, the man still sitting on the examination table as if waiting for your permission to leave. The smile on his face is as placid as ever, almost affectionate. You’d almost believe it too, if you didn’t know any better. 

Why are you doing this? You wish you could just ask him outright. It borders on the cruel. Like a humiliation ritual, the both of you knowing that the blood cells under the microscope aren’t what they seem. Why are you putting me through this?

His eyes twinkle. Because I can, they say. 

It doesn’t take Hadir very long to come to the same conclusion as you. 

“Looks all good to me,” Hadir pronounces, smiling brightly when he pulls away from the eyepiece. “See, doc? Yesterday’s must’ve been a fluke.”

You nod instead of answering. It seems trivial to respond with words; nothing you could say would express the deep well opening up inside of you, the ever widening gap between you and the reality you once took for granted. All you can do is sit there in silence as the two of them leave together.

That seemingly no one aside from you can seem to articulate or even comprehend the magnitude of the situation at hand is starting to get to you. 

Deep within every quiet corner of the universe lie the seeds of destruction; a throbbing, cancerous heart. There’s no epiphany there though, no revelation or moment of enlightenment to shock you to your core—you know that life and death are inextricably intertwined, an egg nesting within another egg. Supermassive black holes at the centre of galaxies. Figs and wasps. Beginnings and endings.

Now one is knocking at your door, asking to come in.

The day severs itself into two when Farah finds you making a cup of tea in the galley. Your guard is already up when the door slides open and she marches in, so geared up to be scolded that you flinch at the sound of the door sliding shut. 

“We need to talk,” Farah says. Her tone brooks no argument. You’ve been dreading this confrontation, but you aren’t particularly shocked by its arrival. News travels fast in confined spaces; gossip faster. You knew from the second that you got Hadir involved after promising that you wouldn’t share your misgivings about Gaz with anyone other than Farah that this would be coming.

“Now?”

“If you’re not busy.”

You’re not and you know she knows that, so instead of arguing you just nod and pour your tea down the sink, following her out of the galley.

She steers you down a hallway away from the main corridor that leads towards the brig and several supply rooms. At the end of the hall, the brig just around the bend behind her, Farah stops and turns to face you, arms across her chest. Her face is set in a stern cast. 

“Why did you ask Hadir to help you with a blood test? He’s not the ship’s medic.”

That being her first question does come as a surprise. You’d assumed she’d immediately tear into you about involving Hadir in your arrangement, not interrogate you about leaning on another crew member for advice and support. 

“I didn’t ask him to. He volunteered.”

“Why did he volunteer?”

“I…thought there was something wrong with Gaz’s blood sample from the other day. I asked him if he could confirm if there was something wrong. I just needed a second pair of eyes.”

A terrible idea in retrospect. You should’ve anticipated Hadir’s reaction and the subsequent fallout. 

“He told me about what you said yesterday. About Gaz. Do I need to be concerned?”

“Well, I am concerned about Gaz. If you’d seen his blood the other day—”

“I mean concerned about you.”

You blink, floored. “Concerned about me?” you ask in bewilderment. “What did I do?” 

“You told Hadir that you didn’t think Gaz was human. How is anyone supposed to take that? You might not like him, but he's part of the crew now, and insinuating that about someone on the crew is—”

“Wait, wait—I’m sorry I got Hadir involved when I said I wouldn’t, but—I thought when you said you’d keep an eye on Gaz that it meant you…had similar suspicions.”

She looks at you strangely. “I never promised to keep an eye on Gaz. What are you talking about?”

Her response leaves you at a loss for words. Suddenly and acutely aware that you have been having two separate conversations—you assuming that Farah’s frustration stemmed from involving her brother when she previously asked you not to, and her assuming something entirely different. 

“Yes, we did,” you insist. “You told me the other day that you would as long as—”

Something moves in the shadows. 

Your eyes flick towards it instinctively. Then your body goes rigid.

A slender, dark eyed woman watches you from the end of the hall, her lips tilted up in an enigmatic grin. Half-shrouded in shadow, you notice her only because you catch her moving in your peripheral vision when she shifts her weight to one leg. You notice first the familiar stripped headscarf wrapped around her head. Then, the smaller details of her face—full eyebrows and aquiline nose, the soft rounded corners of her jaw pulled tight with her smile. 

“Doctor?” the Farah in front of you asks. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, blood pressure spiking. 

The other woman takes a step into the light. It’s Farah in shape and appearance, but there’s something off about it. Like you’re aware now of something intrinsically lesser about it when shown in opposition to the real thing. 

The Farah in front of you frowns, concerned at your sudden silence. You’re aware now of how much more solid she is, real as a gut punch. Real as grass beneath your feet back on Earth or the heat of the sun on your face, all dulled out in space.

“Did we talk the other day?” you ask. “The other day—after the navigation system was fixed?”

And her eyes say it before her lips do. 

“We haven’t spoken in days. I stayed back to help Alex after that meeting.”

Cold reality flashes briefly before you: hollow voices and replicas. What have your eyes been seeing? Reality laps against the smoothened rocks of your mind. Do you know what’s happening to you?

Can you trust what’s really in front of you?

The thing behind Farah wearing her face approaches without sound, coming closer and closer until it stands right beside her, mirroring her stance, its face screwing itself into a similarly serious expression. Double vision. Your vision is blurry around the edges, fear making you tremble something fierce. 

You keep waiting for Farah to notice it standing right beside her, for her to suddenly turn her head and see it there, but she doesn’t. She stares at you with mounting concern. 

And then you blink, the two versions blurring and then overlapping. 

Your throat makes a sound like a whimper. You take a step back, the metal clang of your boot against the floor jarring in the silence. 

“I have to go,” you whisper, the blood draining from your face, your lips almost numb.  

She calls after you when you turn around, hurrying back down the hall whence you came, but you don’t stop, breaking into a run when you hear Farah come after you.

Rat in a maze. Mouse in a trap. You scurry down corridors knowing that there’s no place to run to. At every point, there is a wall past which you cannot go. Hauntingly familiar twists and turns, everything saturated with the memory of itself, the same walls you’ve seen innumerable times. The ship fills with low creaks and hollow sounds, cramped quarters and over familiarity to the point of suffocation. 

And then the nothingness that waits for you right outside the ship. Billions upon billions of miles of dark emptiness surrounding you, only occasionally interrupted by pockets of cold clouds of gas, even more seldomly coming together in precisely the right way for a star or planet to be born. 

Set in contrast with the vast infinity just beyond your walls, the ship feels impossibly small. A tiny speck floating through the cosmos. 

You wish you could wrench a window open and climb out of it. 

You can feel it swell up in your chest at first, bigger and bigger, stretching you around its immensity. Suddenly unable to take in a full breath, your chest too tight for your lungs to fill. Your body is somewhere else behind you, on a ship drifting through space, no certainty that you’ll ever return home. Earth is so far away—tens of millions of miles away from you and no way to get back. 

There’s a hand on your nape suddenly. 

“Hey,” a low voice murmurs. “Are you alright, love?” 

You don’t answer, heaving for breath. Chest collapsing in on itself. A dying star; tiny, tiny light flickering in and out of existence. Hands sweating profusely. Heart hammering against your chest so hard it hurts. 

“I’m with you, love—I’m not going anywhere.”

The voice murmurs low in your ear again, susurrus but too far away for you to make out. Then, a hand on your low back guiding you away, tucking you into a soft, warm place. You go with it. Dark. No blinding artificial lights blinding you. 

“C’mon, breathe with me,” the voice guides you. “Deep breaths. In, out, in, out—”

You follow their instructions, taking in a shaky breath and holding before expelling it. 

“There you go—that’s good,” he praises softly.

The come down is rough. All that adrenaline dumping straight out of you, heart still lurching in your chest. You’ve never had a panic attack before, but you know what to expect in the aftermath and it doesn’t disappoint. You might as well have been hit by a truck for how much your body aches. 

When you finally have the wherewithal to look around and take stock of the situation, you notice that you’re in someone else’s quarters, the lights dimmed until only a sliver of light penetrates through the dark. It’s one of the smaller rooms, no porthole to gaze out through into the blackness of space—only a cot and a folding table mounted into the wall. 

Crouched in front of you, your limp hands held in his while his thumbs rub soothing circles on the backs of your hands, is Gaz. 

Your horror is a beast on the periphery of your consciousness. Too depleted for it to overwhelm you. But you feel it balloon in your chest even though it doesn’t have the strength to move you. 

“Love, listen—shh, no, no, no,” Gaz shushes you when you try to cry out. “No, enough, you need to calm down. Just let me speak, alright?” 

He shuffles closer to you until he looms over you, your knees spread wide to accommodate him. You get a better sense of his true size from this angle, the man composed of solid, compact muscle, his narrow waist deceptive, giving him a leaner appearance from afar than up close. You know now how much room he can take up when he wants to. 

“None of this is your fault,” he says. He shifts, releasing your hands to cup your elbows instead, smoothing his hands up your arms. “You’ve worked so hard to show them the truth, but they just don’t want to see.”

“It’s—they can’t see because of you—” you croak. 

Gaz shakes his head. “No, no. If they wanted to, they’d see through it. Like you have.”

“No—you’re doing something to me.” 

His lips flick up into a smile. “Doing something?”

“You’re making me see things that aren’t there,” you whisper, shrinking into yourself. “I don’t even know what’s fucking real anymore—you’re scaring me.”

Even this close, you smell nothing. No heat emanates from his body or breath puffs from his lungs. It’s like a monolith looms over you, staring down at you through eyes that you can see but cannot comprehend. For all intents and purposes, he looks like a man. But he is not; he is something altogether different. 

A habitation of otherness smiling down at your unraveling interiority.

“I can make them believe you. I can help them see it with their own eyes. Would you like that, love?”

He says it with so much tenderness, stroking the backs of his knuckles over your cheek. 

“What do you mean?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer at first. You’re stuck gazing into his eyes. 

“What I mean,” he says, leaning in until his words are all you can hear. “Is that I can take away every shadow of doubt from their minds until all that’s left is the cold clarity of certitude. Show them what I’ve shown you.”

Gaz cups your face in both hands, fingers spread wide over your cheeks and neck, drawing you in until your lips brush against his. Softer than you expected, with a touch of texture. You don’t know what to think of him anymore, whether it’s your lips touching his now or whether this is all happening in your head. 

Then your lips part and he sighs into your mouth. His lips glide over yours, tenderer than you expected. Soft and wet; silky. Warmth spreads across your chest, everything suddenly concentrated on his kiss. It deepens almost naturally, your hands lifting to fist in the collar of his shirt and drag him closer to you, exhaling harshly into his mouth when you pull back to breathe, only to fall back into him again. Mouth tasting of something you can’t put your finger on; almost ambrosial. 

Is this what he’s wanted this whole time? The thought vanishes as soon as it comes. You’re a ball on a tether swinging in circles, a small planet orbiting this sun. And you’re slowly, but surely, sinking into him, gravity pulling you so close that you can feel the heat of flames against your cheeks. 

He breaks the kiss and your eyes flutter open to find him staring back at you through half-lidded eyes. “Well?”

“Please.”

Gaz smiles against your lips.

[munsonsmixtapes]

That's My Man

rockstar!eddie x popstar!reader

Eddie defends you in an interview and you repay him in the most generous way

cw: MDNI (18+) oral (m receiving) handjob, the interviewer makes some inappropriate comments about reader

This is a request made my the always lovely @the-witty-pen-name who also came up with the title!

Eddie puts on the pair of headphones that were pervaded for him as the “on air” sign glows the bright red, signaling that the show has started. He doesn’t even know why he even agreed to this interview. The guy’s an ass and Eddie just knows that he’s inevitably going to say something inappropriate. 

He’s really only doing this because his team begged him to. Why, he doesn’t know since the majority of the band’s fanbase hates the kind of guy that Rick is. He’s everything in the book that Eddie can’t stand and now he’s gotta sit here for an hour for his segment. It can’t be too bad, can it? 

“Eddie, welcome,” Rick greets and Eddie puts on a smile even though all he really wants is to kick Rick’s ass. He’s unfortunately caught clips of the show here and there and all he does is sexualize women and talk badly about people of color and members of the LGBTQ+ community. 

“Hey, thanks,” Eddie replies, trying his best to not say something he really shouldn’t. He just sits there and waits for Rick to start the conversation. 

“So you’ve got a new album out which is “From the Upside Down.” What was the process like for creating the record?” Eddie’s genuinely caught off guard by the question considering that Rick never seems to care about that kind of thing. Maybe this won’t be as bad as he initially thought. 

“It was actually so different from what we’ve done for past albums. We actually did everything ourselves this time and that was really fun. We took some time off and wrote a bunch of songs and Gareth actually produced them so that was a really cool process to see.” 

Eddie loves talking about his music. It’s like a parent talking about their child. He’s always so proud of himself and his bandmates for what they do and he doesn’t think that’s ever going to change. They worked so hard to get where they are now and he’s nothing but grateful that this is his job. 

“That’s very interesting,” Rick nods and there’s just something about the look on his face that makes it obvious that he’s about to say some dumb shit. “So I know you’re seeing y/n l/n and can I just say, well done, man.” Yep, definitely some dumb shit. 

Eddie can’t help but roll his eyes. Normally, Eddie would love to talk about you. It’s actually his favorite thing to do. But not like this, not in the way that Rick and a lot of other men like to. Where they just sexualize you and reduce you to an object. Eddie won’t stand for that for anyone, but especially not you. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I’m “seeing” her,” Eddie laughs nervously. You’ve been trying to keep your relationship under wraps for the past six months but it’s so hard to do when the two of you are under a microscope. 

“Oh, so you wouldn’t categorize this as seeing her?” Rick asks as he pulls up a photo of you and Eddie kissing outside a bar. He didn’t even know that anyone had taken photos of that and now he feels gross.

“Well-” he tries to explain himself but Rick quickly cuts him off. 

“Is she a good kisser? Better yet, is she good in bed?” All of this makes Eddie want to throw up and he can’t believe that men like Rick actually have the audacity to ask questions like that. 

“I don’t feel comfortable answering that,” he answers politely even though he’s seconds away from a crash out. 

“C’mon, you can tell me. It’s just us.” It’s actually not considering it’s a live radio show and even if it wasn’t, that’s something just between you and Eddie and no one else. Especially not pigs like Rick. 

“No, I’m not sharing anything about our relationship. That’s the only thing we have that’s ours.” 

“Is she flexible? I bet she’s flexible.” He shows Eddie a photo of you doing a split on stage and his lunch is about to come up. “Oh yeah, definitely-” 

Rick doesn’t even have time to finish his sentence before Eddie snatches the tablet and slams it down on the table. He would never let any woman be talked about this way. Especially not his girlfriend. 

The anger is festering and he’s having a real hard time trying to keep his cool. Fuck that. He’s not going to be so nice anymore, not wanting anymore disgusting things to be said about you. He can’t let anything else be said about you or he’s going to do something he regrets. 

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he points at Rick, glaring at the man and the man actually looks afraid of him. Good. “I know you tend to objectify women and that shit stood today. If I ever hear you talk about anyone else this way or in a derogatory manner, you’ll have me to answer to. Now keep my wife’s name out of your mouth or we’re going to have a problem.” 

With that, out of the room. Nothing is worth sitting there and letting that man sexualize you. It makes him feel disgusting and now he feels like he needs a long shower. He’s wiping his jacket with his hands to try to literally get rid of that feeling, but he knows the only thing that will help is seeing you. He just needs someone to talk to about the whole thing. 

He’s driving to the venue where you’re performing tonight before he can stop himself. He just wants to hold you in his arms and tell you how much he loves you, hoping that you haven’t been listening to the radio even though he’s sure that you are because you always listen to his interviews. 

Eddie’s so angry about the whole thing, still letting it eat at him even though he already took care of it. He just needs to calm down and he will as soon as he sees you. That always makes him feel better. Just thinking about you is doing the trick and when he pulls up to the venue, the weight on his shoulders is lifting.

You’re sitting in your dressing room, doing your makeup when he walks in, your face lighting up when you see him in the mirror. The anger on his face seems to melt away when he sees you, his smile matching yours as he makes a beeline for you. He saw you just this morning but the time you’ve spent away was far too long. 

You get up from your chair and he’s quick to pull you into a hug, a tight one as he buries his face into your neck. This is all he’s wanted all day, especially since he stormed out of the interview. You always seem to calm the screaming that’s constantly going on in his head. Your hand moves up into his hair, scratching at his scalp as he kisses your neck, moving your hair away from it as he does so. 

You pull away far too soon for his liking before pulling him in for a kiss. He’s needy and desperate and he just wants to show you how much he loves you. Your hands are in his hair as you lick into his mouth, moaning loudly which is only making him harder. He needs your cunt so bad and is so close to taking you right there until you begin to grind against him. 

“I heard what you said on the radio,” you tell him as you kiss down his neck, unbuttoning his jeans. “Defending me like that, it was so…hot,” you whisper the last part into his ear before biting down on the lobe before kissing his neck again, giving it a rough suck, making him squirm. 

You’re backing him up against the vanity, pinning him there as you continue to suck, his hands falling from you to grip the table behind him, white knuckling it as he lets out a whine, his cock hardening even more to the point where you can now fully feel him against you. 

“Now I feel like I owe you.” He defended you and you know it’s because you’re his wife, but you know that he would do that for anyone and that’s how you know you got one of the good ones. 

“You-you don’t owe me anything, sweetheart,” he breathes. He really wants whatever you’re willing to give but only if you really want to not because you think he deserves in return for defending you.

“How about I suck you off, is that payment enough?” His eyes widen at both your question and the way you’re biting down on him. 

“Please,” he whines, needing to get some sort of relief. You give his neck one more kiss before pulling down his jeans, his underwear following as you get down onto your knees. You’re looking up at him with lustful eyes and he watches you, wondering what you’re going to do next. 

You start by spitting into your hand then grab hold of the base, slow strokes to warm him up but they progressively get more intense. He’s already leaking with precum, letting out stuttered breaths as he watches, white knuckling as a moan escapes his lips. 

You keep up the pace, moving as fast as you can as Eddie lets out moan after moan. He’s coming undone already so you know he won’t last long. And you only have a few more minutes before you have to be on stage, so you’ve gotta make it worthwhile. You’ve really gotta make this count. 

You bring your tongue to the slit, licking up the cum that’s already come out, not wanting to waste a drop then bring your lips to the base, kissing it which catches Eddie off guard. You’re now peppering it with kisses and he somehow gets even more hard as he watches you leave lipstick prints behind. It’s hot. You’re hot and he thinks this is where he likes you most, on your knees.

You then bring your mouth back to the slit, licking it again before bringing it into your mouth, sucking lightly as Eddie’s hands wind into your hair, letting out yet another whine as you bring him in deeper, sucking harder as your tongue swirls around the head. You’re taking him inch by inch and he’s so close, on the edge of an orgasm as you finally get the last bit of him inside. 

Cum leaks into your mouth as he screams your name, your eyes watering as the head hits the back of your throat, gagging as you suck him off for just a bit longer. Tears are streaming down your cheeks as you pull him out of your mouth with a loud pop, making sure to swallow as he helps you to your feet. 

Eddie pats your tears dry with a tissue so as to not smudge your makeup before you press a lingering kiss to his lips. You clean him up before pulling up his pants and touching up your lipstick.

“How’s that for repaying you?” You ask and he smiles, still dizzy from receiving the best head of his life as he follows you to the side of the stage, wondering how he can get you to do that again once your show is over. He’s sure that you won’t need much convincing.

[violet-eng]

F!reader spoils Lil Dragon!Zhongli... at first | Fluff🧸 (with dragon)+ 🔞 (with human Zhongli)

🎨by: @nagarnia_art and @JeanGreyCG

Summary: You're doing some research in the woods, looking for certain minerals, when you feel some tiny tiny eyes staring at you. After Zhongli morpps from a dragon to a human, things get a bit... hot...

Tw: with human Zhongli smut 🔞, PIV. Insinuations of breeding season, with dragon Zhongli just some cute Dragon behavior bc I ended up traumatized after writing some angst.

•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈••✦ ● ✦••┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•

Your research is going well. Your reports to the Fontaine Science Institute were successful during your last expedition, earning you praise from your superiors. You have been living in Liyue for over six months. After learning about minerals that can emanate energy, you sought out information to educate yourself on the subject. 

The rocks in Liyue seem to have a memory, possibly due to the work of their Archon or as a natural result of high evolution and energetic vestiges from ancient wars. 

Zhongli, the Parlor consultant, had told you about a spot at the foot of a valley that might interest you, and you were amazed. You had no reason to doubt the man's wisdom. You had formed a deep bond of friendship with him because you admire his extensive knowledge about everything. You set off almost immediately. He had offered to accompany you, but you had refused because you prefer to do your research alone, surrounded by nature and away from the attractive distraction that Zhongli could become.

Your friend is attractive, in a way that you tried to express in your letters to your friends at Fontaine, but never succeeded. Your banal words and names do not do justice to the physique of this man of unshakable character, steely sense, and tenacious gaze. You could not bear to make a mistake in his presence during the expedition, not because you were clumsy, but because his figure moved your senses, your ground, and betrayed your own perceptions.

So, as you walk through a pleasant area of foliage, covered by the fierce, scorching rays of the sun, you decide to let your guard down, to take off your jacket and your gloves. You use a ribbon to tie up your hair as you walk on, arriving at the place Zhongli had shown you beforehand. The passage is strangely comfortable, very suitable for a quiet investigation, full of strange figures of small rocks of irregular and curious shapes.

Under the canopy of large trees, you spread out your arsenal of tools on the grass, put on your protective visors, and get to work. Sequencing the rock profile takes little time, your agile skills allowing you to avoid unnecessary pauses or clumsy backtracking typical of an amateur. Then you take the samples, tiny particles that do not alter the correct and productive nature that King Geo has protected for years, and while you wait for the filtering to finish, a strange sensation runs down your spine.

You had let your guard down during your experiment, letting the peaceful appearance of the place convince you, something very unprofessional on your part. So you turn to the side and feel a presence. Among the bushes, you spot a pair of curious little spheres, and you jump as the leaves rustle in the presence of an unknown being. 

A deep relief washes over you as the creature in question appears on the scene. A small dragon, microscopic in physiognomy compared to adult forms, with curious eyes and a golden tail twisted into a spiral. Its little paws make furrows in the ground, its face dejected, as if it had been caught doing something illegal.

"Little one, have you been watching me all this time?" You ask the cute little creature, who hides his head between his front paws, realizing he can't do it with his tail, which isn't long enough.

"Come here, don't be afraid of me," you whisper, approaching it cautiously, holding out your hands.

The dragon gathers itself in its own anatomy, growling low, sounding almost like a common cat, you can't help but laugh at it. You bring your fingers up to the growling pellet and stroke its head, right between its underdeveloped horns. You notice a puff of breath coming from the little guy's nose.

"How cute, you liked that, didn't you?" you laugh as you stroke his head and then his back, causing the miniature dragon's tail to wag.

"Come, sit with me, we'll have to wait a long time until the filtering is finished," you take him in your hands, on your palms.

"Wow... I've never seen one of your species so small... and those scales," you comment, bringing your face close to the reptile's, "I'd swear you have very, very soft skin, you're very rare, uh," you add, while you turn to your tools, which emit a strange smell.

You leave the dragon on the ground and approach your machinery, no, nothing out of place... well, now you can turn your attention to the little guy who... what is he doing?

You notice the tiny creature rubbing against your foot, making strange squeaks. It's... it's mating with your shoe? You burst out laughing and shake your foot, pushing it away and picking it up again.

"You horny little bugger," you say, poking him in the nose, "I forgot that your species is in mating season. I regret to inform you that you will get nowhere with me, I am not of the same species... ours is impossible."

A sad sigh escapes from the little animal's chest, and you notice how its whole face becomes depressed, its horns and ears seem to droop in deep disappointment.

"Don't cry," you say, putting it on the ground in the grass and lying down in front of it, "we can play if you want, to distract you a little”.

That got his attention, because he looked at you again. He walks up to you with his little paws and puts one on your nose, he starts to sniff you with that little button in the middle of his little face.

"Ohhh... do you want a little kiss?" you ask, flooded with tenderness, "I would do anything to make you happy" you say, placing a tender kiss on the dragon's forehead. Is like a puppy...

The dragon retraces his steps, accelerating and rolling his head in madness. You see him writhing in place, as if he had suddenly fallen ill, and then... poof... a golden flash and a trail of smoke,  ike the one he had just exhaled through his nose. A faint wave of heat and a faint smell of sulfur as a figure began to form behind the column of smoke.

You straightened up in your seat as the column disintegrated, revealing the very embarrassed image of Zhongli, covering his mouth as he coughs, with traces of smoke and golden flames escaping from his throat.

He is wearing little clothing, a tunic of the same color as the skin of the dragon you spoke to earlier... is that perhaps...? 

"You," you point an accusing finger at Zhongli, and he looks at you with flushed cheeks, "what was that? Aren't you going to say anything about it?" you say to the man, appearing to be annoyed, although in reality, seeing him in that outfit has aroused something pleasurable in you.

"Well?" you insist.

"Are you going to give me that kiss or?" he interjects, his voice still weak and embarrassed.

His embarrassment fades for the next hour, during which he relentlessly thrusts himself into you, waiting for your boring explorer machine to end.

The filtering of the rocks continues, the particles falling into the vessel like sand in a crystal clock. The small machines emit tiny clicks and a faint plume of smoke and gas. The rumble of the cycle's drumbeat advances in rhythm with your moans as you feel Zhongli sink deep into you.

You lie on the grass, your pants and panties around your ankles, your hands on your head clinging to the foliage, your waist encircled by Zhongli's large hands holding you steady so he can work his way into your pussy. You feel his pelvic bone against your center, his balls against your skin, and then he pulls away to enter again. Gently, lovingly, afraid to break you and hurt you. He's painfully slow, but how good it feels.

You hear him make low, rasping noises as faint plumes of smoke rise from his nose, as when he looked like a dragon. His cock twists inside you, slapping against your cervix, massaging your wet, warm depths that mold to the shape of his member. You feel the warmth rush down your legs, an electric current coursing through every fiber of your limbs, your chest heaving in desperation.

The orgasm hits you both at the same time, decorating Zhongli's cock with a white ring as his cum spills into you like thick ropes from his ecstasy. He pulls back your panties and pants, leaving a chaste kiss on your cheek.

"May I mark you?" he asks with a look of honor, his face sublime and devoted.

"Don't even think about it," you say, joining in, noticing the sadness in his eyes, "we weren't even supposed to do it. It was just supposed to be a kiss and that's it," you seem to scold him, though it's you who's scolding yourself for being so unseemly and impetuous, though damn... you've enjoyed it so much... ....

Sensing your hostile tone, Zhongli wraps himself up and immediately transforms into his small reptilian form.

"Please stop being so dramatic," you express, leaning against one of the tree trunks and letting out a laugh. "Come back... I don't want to wait alone," you say, crossing your legs and putting your jacket down.

Zhongli, the dragon, approaches you with short steps, due to the length of his small legs, and climbs onto your lap, where he rubs the fabric of your coat, nestling into the fabric to take refuge, and lets out a yawn before closing his eyes and settling down for a nap. You stroke his back and coo to the little creature, feeling him purr like a cat.

"How cute you are when you sleep," you laugh, stroking his nose, causing him to bite your finger, "did you just mark me without my permission?" You ask, but he just squeals and jumps off your lap, looking for a way to escape. You catch him with your coat and throw it at him like a fleeing rat, but he manages to escape and hide in the bushes... you don't see him again for the rest of the afternoon, but you know that when you return to Liyue Harbour you will demand an apology, an explanation... and maybe a round two.

[f0point5]

Max Verstappen x bestfriend!reader Masterlist

She’s still bejewelled - Y/N finds out F1 wag pages are once again speculating she is dating her best friend, Max Verstappen

It’s (not) a cruel summer - Y/N and Max enjoy the summer break

August slipped away - Y/N does a Q&A to catch up with her followers after summer break

Burning red- Lando puts his foot in it

Holy ground - Fans discuss their excitement to see Y/N and Max interact at Zandvoort

I’m the one who understands you - A window into Max and Y/N’s home life

It turned into something bigger - Y/N’s comments about her childhood friend, Mick Schumacher, lead to a social media firestorm

They’d say I’d hustled, put in the work - A look at Y/N’s podcast, Dirty Air(time)

Shake it off - Determined to forget her worries, Y/N goes out parting with Max and Lando

They say home is where the heart is - Fans discuss how Y/N and Max love being roommates

(We’re) in the club doing I don’t know what - Fans look back on Max and Y/N’s Club Rat Renaissance

Pauses, then says, (he’s) my best friend - Y/N spends the day in Amsterdam while Max does press at Zandvoort

How evergreen, our group of friends - Snippets of Y/N and Max’s other friends on the grid and beyond

We’re faster and never scared - It’s a dramatic Friday in the Zandvoort paddock

I watch Superman fly away - The drama continues as Y/N and Mick have a run in in the paddock

Long live all the magic he made - Y/N supports Max as he equals the record for most consecutive wins

Remember the footsteps - A look at Y/N and Mick’s lifelong friendship

He has his father’s eyes…his father’s ambition - A look at Y/N’s relationship with Jos

I love your handshake, meeting my father - Fans discuss Jos’s perspective on Y/N, and her relationship with Max

And maybe it was egos swinging - Everyone speculates about the cause and consequences of Y/N and Mick’s falling out

I fell from the pedestal - Y/N becomes the subject of internet trolling after her fall out with Mick becomes public

Don’t know how long it’s gonna take to feel okay - Unable to deal with the stress and trolling, Y/N goes home to Switzerland, cutting off Max

My reputation’s never been worse so - Y/N’s absence sparks concerns amongst those closest to her

If someone comes at us, this time I’m ready - Y/N’s friends publicly support her as the hate continues

You don’t want to know me, I will just let you down

My words shoot to kill when I’m mad - Mick and Y/N finally talk

Something in your eyes says we can beat this - Max has a tough start to an important weekend, but his luck is about to change

(We) saw something the can’t take away - Y/N is there as Max wins at Monza and breaks another record

This is life before you know who you’re gonna be - Netizens discuss Max and Y/N’s enemy era

20 questions, we tell the truth - Y/N catches up with her followers after a hectic couple of weeks, and meets a man in Monaco

On a Wednesday, in a café - Y/N’s podcast with Daniel leads to some interesting revelations

Do you really want to know where I was? - Y/N and Max spend a day at the factory as rumours begin to swirl

I make it look oh so easy - Y/N and Max choose different confidants as they both attempt to avoid the elephant in the room

You’ll find me on my tallest tiptoes - It gets harder for Y/N to keep her secret

Slow motion, double vision in rose blush - Y/N gets back in the saddle while Max watches from the sidelines in more ways than one

Carnations you had thought were roses - Two of Y/N’s secrets are revealed

Didn’t it all seem new and exciting - Max leaves Y/N behind in Monaco as she reflects on her date

Loose lips sink ships all the damn time - Y/N heads to Switzerland for a special appointment as her relationship with Max is put under a microscope

I don’t wanna miss you like this - Y/N and Max deal with the distance between them differently

Your finger on my hairpin trigger - Tensions run high as Max has a bad day on track and Y/N gets defensive

Takes one to know one - Y/N’s much needed talk with Elliot is interrupted by an explosive qualifying in Singapore

I want to tell you not to get lost in these petty things - Max’s streak comes to an end and he and Y/N look ahead to Suzuka

Forever going with the flow, but you’re friction - Max asking Y/N to fly out early to Japan leads to tension and Y/N turns to Daniel for advice

I drive down different roads - Fans, and Y/N, speculate about her budding relationship

(They) knew what it was, he is in love - Netizens set out to prove that Max is in love with Y/N

(We) counted days, I counted miles, to see you there - Y/N arrives in Japan and is reunited with Max

Balancing on breaking branches - Max receives an unexpected delivery as Y/N answers questions from the media and her mother

It’s you and me, there’s nothing like this - As Max gets back to business as usual in Suzuka, wag social media does it’s thing

My (baby flies) like a jet stream - Max has a good day on track and Y/N’s Vogue article goes live

I can read you like a magazine - The internet reacts to mentions of Max in Y/N’s Vogue article

He’s passing by, rare as a glimmer of a comet in the sky - Red Bull securing the WCC is overshadowed by the revelation that Max hates podcasts

The lingering question(s) kept me up - Y/N does an Instagram Q&A

I just may like some explanations - Y/N answers more questions

How you held me in your arms that September night, the first time you ever saw me cry - Set in 2017, we learn what led to Y/N’s dad being dropped as Max’s sponsor, early in their friendship

People started talking, putting us through our paces - When Y/N is spotted out with Elliot, Instagram, Max, and Lando react

I don’t wanna touch you - Y/N finds herself short of breath on her padel date. Later, she appears on Max’s stream

(I) will never make my parents’ mistakes - Y/N’s dad hears about her dating life, and her mother weighs in

Drinking on a (yacht) with you all over me - Y/N and Max kick of his birthday celebrations with a day on the water, while Elliot changes his tune

I’d pick you up and we’d go back in time - Y/N and Max bring in his birthday somewhere special

We’re gonna be timeless - It’s Max’s birthday, but Y/N isn’t the only one planning surprises

Take the moment and taste it - Max enjoys a birthday boat day with family and friends, and Vic makes an accidental discovery

There’s glitter on the floor after the party - It’s the morning after night before. Max and Vic discuss Y/N’s letter

Movin’ on was always easy for me to do - Y/N and Elliot meet up to talk and Y/N’s friend weighs in. Y/N’s tweets irritate Max

Your eyes look like (being at) home - Y/N goes riding, Lando proposes plans, and Max has plans of his own

No I didn’t hear the news, ‘cause we were somewhere else - Max and Y/N arrive in Doha, but rumours about Max’s Monaco exploits follow them

You heard the rumours from (your friends) - Max attends Media Day while Y/N hangs out with an old friend

‘Cause they don’t know about the night in the hotel - Max’s GQ interview exposes an interesting part of Max and Y/N’s past

I was dancing around, dancing around it - Y/N and Clara celebrate Max’s on track triumphs

(You) stand up, champion tonight - Max becomes a three time world champion

This life is sweeter than fiction - Max wins in Qatar in a physically gruelling race

Life makes love look hard - Back in Monaco, Y/N is seen out with Elliot, and he makes a bold suggestion

Can we always be this close? - Y/N and Max have a chill day at home and while Twitter notice Max made an admission in an interview, Y/N makes an admission to Victoria

Inescapable, I’m not even gonna try - Y/N and Max spend a day at the factory, where both realise they may have something to work on

You go talk to your friends, talk to my friends, talk to me - Y/N’s podcast with Oscar comes out, on the same day she finally films one with Max. Meanwhile, Max uses the sim in an unconventional way

Yes, I remember what you said last night - Y/N’s plans for COTA baffle Christian, and Y/N learns an unexpected fact about the past

Take out, then take me home - Y/N prepares for Austin, and an interview with Max comes out

Love’s a game, wanna play? - Y/N tries her hand at padel after watching Max compete, and Max steams with Redline

Rosé flowing with your chosen family - Clara and Y/N spend the day together, and Clara becomes determined to finish what she started in 2017

(We are) a flight risk, with a fear of falling - Y/N and Max head to the US

Ain’t it funny, rumours fly - Y/N heads to a Ferrari gala as rumours swirl about Max’s next career move amid reports of infighting at Red Bull

As if I don’t already see (it) - The circus settles in to Texas and Y/N’s dad weighs in on Elliot

Can you see right through me? - Y/N and Elliot make a king and awkward paddock debut

I’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty year dark night - Y/N sheds light on her dating history while she and Elliot struggle to adjust to life in the paddock

It’s morning now, it’s brighter now - Y/N reaches out to an old friend for support. Meanwhile, Daniel tries to support Max

The moment I could see it - Max takes another win in Austin while Elliot reaches his breaking point

You’ll find the real thing instead - Y/N and Elliot have an honest conversation

In the name of being honest - Bonus part where Y/N answers Instagram questions after the Austin GP

I’m asking you why - More of Y/N’s post Austin Q&A

You’ve got a girl at home and everybody knows that - Y/N and Max are suspects in the wildest paddock rumour yet as they wrap up their trip to Austin

You learn my secrets and you figure out why I’m guarded - Y/N gets brutally honest with Mick as Max plays goalkeeper twice

You saw the truth in me - Max cuts it close before media day as reports surface of security threats in Mexico

They tell you that you’re lucky, but you’re so confused - Max attends a gruelling media day as Y/N deals with the heat of Mexico

Laughing with (your head in my) lap, like you were my closest friend - Everyone has a tough quali day

This is the golden age - Maxico delivers another win, and Y/N celebrates with tequila

(You would never) me darling, but who could stay? - Y/N and Max arrive in Brazil for a short break before the race

No one has to know what we do - Max and Y/N fall off the map and enjoy some private time

I can’t say anything to your face - Max and Y/N continue to leave each other flustered and Max starts press for the Brazilian GP

The way you move is like a full on rainstorm - Max takes pole in difficult conditions and Y/N gets near her breaking point

We were cards sharks, playing games - Max wins the sprint and Y/N wins games of her own

🚨I’ve had to add a second masterlist for all posts after this point. That can be found here 🚨

[fagbearentertainment]

I think the best way to explain why I like billford is that I like the canonical implications of their fucked up relationship ya know? Like I don’t want them to be a couple or have been a couple I want to pick their brains apart and study their relationship under a microscope.

I don’t ship them the way that I ship dipcifica, it’s the fact that they canonically have this history of obsession and manipulation and hatred that’s so interesting. Bill used his charm to take advantage of ford, the social outcast desperate for validation, and ford fell for every bit of that praise and did whatever bill wanted to get more for years. It’s such an interesting fucked up relationship whether you think they had a thing or not.

It’s also funny that bill canonically got blackout drunk when ford said he didn’t wanna be partners anymore

[theonottsbxtch]

ANXIETY FINAL PART | CL16

an: and this series comes to wrap! thank you to all of those who were interested in following it - i hope this end does it justice, thank you for supporting my writing. much love <3 i may have some drabbles in mind lemme know what you guys think

wc: 8.6k

warnings: smut, mdni 18+ hehe written by the beloved @iimplicitt

part one | part two | part three |

SHE WAS DRIVING HIM CRAZY.

This was her form of revenge, it had to be.

Charles sat in his usual chair in the library, the book in his hands long forgotten. He hadn't turned a page in at least twenty minutes. His jaw was tight, his fingers gripping the edges of the paper, but his mind wasn’t with the words. It was on her.

It had only been a day since that conversation—since she'd looked at him with those eyes, seeing through him, picking him apart, laying him bare without even trying.

And now?

Now she was everywhere.

Floating in and out of the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of books, standing too close behind him when she reached for something on a higher shelf. She let her touch linger when she passed by, featherlight, barely there. But he felt it like a brand.

She was testing him.

He wasn't stupid.

He knew she had read those books in his library, knew she had picked apart his weaknesses, dissected his mind the way a scientist would a specimen under a microscope. And now—now she was toying with it.

Because she had realised.

She had realised that he was the one teetering on the edge now. That the dynamic had shifted. That she held all the control.

It terrified him.

And worse?

It thrilled him.

He had spent weeks keeping her in place, watching her movements, calculating her reactions, ensuring she never tipped too far one way or another. But now.

Now she was the one watching him.

Now he was the one bracing himself every time she stepped near, unsure if she would touch him, unsure if he wanted her to or if he’d crumble beneath it.

And she knew.

He could see it in the way her lips curved ever so slightly whenever he tensed. The way her fingers skimmed his sleeve just long enough to make him ache with the need to either pull her closer or bolt from the room entirely.

She was relentless.

And he was losing.

The book snapped shut in his hands, the noise breaking the quiet hush of the library.

She turned from where she stood by the window, blinking at him.

He forced his voice to remain steady. "Do you need something?"

She tilted her head, studying him like she was debating how far to push.

"No," she said eventually, "I was just thinking."

"About?"

Her gaze flickered over him, slow and deliberate.

"You."

His throat went dry.

He stood abruptly, turning away before she could see the effect she was having on him. "I need to—" He didn’t even bother finishing the sentence before striding from the room.

Her quiet laughter followed him down the hall.

It was taunting.

Charles barely made it to his room before closing the door behind him.

His breathing was uneven, his hands shaking as he raked them through his hair.

She was doing this to him. On purpose.

He knew it.

The worst part? He couldn't even blame her. He had stolen her life, caged her like some helpless bird, played mind games with her for weeks. And now?

Now, she was winning.

Because she knew.

She had figured him out, unravelled his layers with every book she had read. She knew about his disorder, knew how his mind worked, knew that deep down, beneath the cold, calculated exterior he had worn for so long—

He was desperate.

He needed.

And she was testing just how far that need ran.

Charles sat on the edge of the bed, gripping his knees, trying to breathe. He had spent years trying to suppress it, trying to push down the unbearable, gut-wrenching fear of being left, of being unwanted, of being a burden.

But she saw it now.

She saw him.

And she wasn’t running.

She wasn’t screaming or fighting or trying to claw her way back to the life she had before.

She was staying.

And worse than that—

She was pulling him in.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help.

He felt her everywhere.

In the walls, in the shadows, in the air thickening around him like a noose.

He clawed at his own skin, nails biting into the flesh of his arms as if he could peel her out of him—out of his head, his thoughts, his bones.

His breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling too fast, too sharp, like he couldn’t get enough air no matter how hard he tried.

She knows. She knows. She knows.

The thought was a drumbeat in his skull, relentless, suffocating.

She had seen him. Seen every pathetic, twisted, needy part of him. And she wasn’t running, she wasn’t screaming, she wasn’t even fighting anymore.

She was just watching.

Toying with him like he had once toyed with her.

And he deserved it.

He deserved all of it.

A sob tore its way out of him, raw and broken, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, as if he could force the shame back inside. His chest ached with the weight of it, the suffocating, unbearable weight of himself.

He was evil.

He had taken her.

He had played with her mind, broken her down, twisted her into something else just to make her stay.

And now—

Now, she was the one in control.

His fingers fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting.

You’re disgusting.

You’re a monster.

You don’t deserve—

A quiet knock at the door.

His whole body stiffened, breath shuddering to a halt.

She was there.

Right outside.

And she had heard him.

The knock at the door came again, softer this time.

“Charles?”

Her voice.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to breathe, but it only made it worse. His chest locked up, his throat tightening like a fist was closing around it.

No, no, no—she couldn’t see him like this. Not her.

He pressed himself back against the headboard, his body curled in on itself, hands still tangled in his hair, his skin burning where his nails had dug too deep.

The door creaked open.

He wanted to tell her to go away. Wanted to force out something—a warning, a snarl, leave me alone. But all that came was a wrecked, gasping sound as he struggled against the panic clawing its way through him.

She hesitated in the doorway, then stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

He couldn’t look at her. He could feel her gaze, though—steady, unreadable.

He turned his face into his knees, but it was too late. She had already seen.

The way his shoulders trembled. The way his whole body was curling in like he was trying to disappear.

Like he had nowhere to run.

And then—

A soft rustle of fabric. A shift of weight on the bed.

She sat down beside him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

His breaths were short and fast, hitching in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs like a caged animal.

Then—

“Breathe,” she said quietly.

He let out a sharp, broken laugh, but it only made his chest tighten more.

“Breathe?” he choked. “You—” Another gasping breath. “You’re telling me to—?”

But he couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He felt her move before he saw it—slow, deliberate. A hand, warm and steady, holding his.

He flinched.

She didn’t pull away.

Just kept her hand there, a grounding touch, not demanding, not forcing—just offering.

His mind was spinning.

His body wasn’t used to this—her being the calm one. Her being the steady one.

“Breathe in,” she said again, quieter this time. “Hold for four.”

Her voice was gentle, measured. The same way he had spoken to her that time in the office—when she had been the one gasping for air, when she had been the one drowning in panic.

His chest was tight, painful.

But he listened.

He dragged in a breath—ragged, unsteady—held it.

“Now out,” she murmured.

He let it go, but it shuddered on the way out.

“Again.”

He obeyed.

In. Hold. Out.

Again.

Again.

His head was still spinning, but—slowly, slowly—the crushing weight on his chest loosened.

The air started to return.

The trembling in his hands softened.

He swallowed hard, then finally, finally let his head tip back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut. His pulse was still too fast, his breathing still uneven—but he wasn’t drowning anymore.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, he forced himself to look at her.

She was watching him, her expression unreadable.

The strangest, sickest part was—he had never felt more exposed in his life.

Not even when she had been his prisoner. Not even when he had forced her into submission, played with her mind, made her his.

This—this—was so much worse.

Because she had seen him.

The real him.

The weak, pathetic, broken him.

And she hadn’t run.

She hadn’t screamed.

She had stayed.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and charged. His breathing had steadied now, though his hands still trembled faintly at his sides. He felt drained—like something had been ripped out of him, leaving him raw and aching.

And then, out of nowhere—

"Why me?"

His stomach twisted.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to look at her. Not while she pulled her hands away.

Her voice had been quiet, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something demanding.

He exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple.

"I don't—" His throat tightened. "Don't do this."

"I need to know."

His jaw clenched. He forced himself to his feet, suddenly desperate to put distance between them.

But she followed.

"Charles," she said, and there was something different in her voice now—something that sent a cold shiver down his spine. Understanding.

He looked down, facing his sheets, but it didn't matter. He could feel her gaze burning into him.

"You planned this," she said, and it wasn’t a question.

He swallowed hard. "I took advantage."

She stilled.

The words hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was barely above a whisper. "Explain."

He let out a low, bitter laugh. Explain? How could he possibly—

But he owed her this much.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. His voice was hollow when he finally answered.

"I saw your meds." His throat was dry. "I saw your emails with your therapist."

A sharp inhale from behind him.

"I knew you were vulnerable," he went on, hating himself with every word. "I knew how to break you."

A pause. Then, she whispered, "You chose me because you knew I’d crumble."

His eyes squeezed shut.

He wanted to tell her no, that she was wrong, that it had never been about that.

But wasn’t that exactly what he had done?

Used her struggles against her. Bent her mind to need him.

And now—

Now she was sitting in front of him, not running, not screaming—just sitting there.

And somehow, that was worse than if she had put a knife through his heart.

The air between them felt razor-sharp, stretched too thin, like it might snap at any moment. Charles kept his gaze down, his eyes focused on the sheets, but he wasn’t seeing them. He could hear her breathing, steady but too quiet, as if she were holding something back.

She should be screaming at him. She should be trying to run.

Instead, she just sat there.

"You knew how to break me," she repeated, softer this time.

His fingers twitched at his sides. "Yes."

"And yet... here we are."

That made him turn. He expected anger, disgust—anything but the look she was giving him. It wasn’t quite pity, but it wasn’t hatred either. It was something else. Something he couldn’t decipher.

His pulse pounded in his ears. "I never wanted you to know."

"But I do."

His breath hitched.

Her eyes scanned his face like she was trying to see inside of him, and he hated how bare he felt beneath her gaze.

"I thought I was going insane," she murmured. "The dreams, the way I started needing you, the way I made excuses for you even when I knew I shouldn’t. You made me this way."

His stomach twisted painfully. "I know."

She inched closer. "And yet you were the one falling apart tonight."

He exhaled shakily, shaking his head. "I—"

"You pulled at your hair," she interrupted. "Just like I did, that time in the office."

Charles swallowed hard.

She kept going, her voice quiet but relentless. "You couldn’t breathe. You thought you were being watched. You felt like you were losing yourself."

His jaw clenched.

"That’s what you did to me."

Her words landed like a punch to the ribs. He shut his eyes for a second, as if that might shield him from the weight of them.

But then, before he could say anything, she did something he didn’t expect.

She touched him.

A light press of fingers against his wrist. Not forceful. Not demanding.

Just there.

His entire body went rigid.

Her voice, when it came again, was barely above a whisper. "You knew exactly how to break me, Charles. Because you are just as broken."

His breath hitched.

And she wasn’t wrong.

Charles felt like he was standing on the edge of something—something vast, something dangerous. Her touch on his wrist was barely there, but it burned like a brand. He should move away. He should make her move away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let himself look at her, really look at her. The defiance was still there, flickering beneath the surface, but something else had taken root alongside it. A dangerous, quiet understanding.

"You think you’ve figured me out," he murmured. His voice sounded rough, unsteady.

Her fingers twitched against his skin. "Haven’t I?"

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t know."

It was the truth. He didn’t know anything anymore.

She studied him, her gaze tracing the shadows beneath his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. And then, in a voice so soft it was almost cruel, she asked, "What happens now?"

Charles stiffened.

She wasn’t asking him to let her go. She wasn’t demanding freedom.

She was asking what happens next—as if she already knew there was no escape.

He should tell her that nothing happens. That she should still hate him. That whatever shift had begun between them was wrong, twisted, sick.

But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, "I don’t know."

Her head tilted slightly, as though she’d expected that answer.

Then, before he could stop her, she did something that made his stomach flip.

She turned his wrist over, palm up, and pressed her thumb lightly against his pulse.

Charles shuddered.

His heart was pounding.

"You’re scared," she murmured.

He flinched. "I’m not—"

She squeezed his wrist, just enough to make him stop talking. "You are."

She was right. Of course she was right.

Because for all the control he had taken—stolen—from her, for all the ways he had manipulated her, somehow, against all logic and reason, she was slipping through his fingers.

And he was letting her.

No, worse.

He wanted her to.

The silence between them stretched, thick and unsteady, like a fragile thread pulled too tight. She hadn’t let go of his wrist. She hadn’t moved away.

Charles could feel the warmth of her fingers against his skin, the steady press of her thumb against his pulse. It was unbearable. It was intoxicating.

She was still watching him, waiting—though for what, he wasn’t sure.

"You're doing it again," she said quietly.

His brow furrowed. "Doing what?"

"Pulling away."

Charles inhaled sharply, only just realising that he was—not physically, not yet, but in the way he tensed, in the way his breath had caught, like he was bracing himself for something inevitable.

She didn’t let him.

Instead, she shifted, closing the space between them, her legs tucked beneath her as she faced him fully. Her presence was overwhelming, a quiet force pressing against every carefully built wall he had left.

"You’re not supposed to be this close," he murmured, though he didn’t move.

"Neither are you," she countered.

His mouth went dry.

Charles had always been the one in control. From the very beginning, he had dictated how close she was allowed to get, how much she was allowed to see. But now—now—the balance was shifting, tilting wildly in a way that made his chest ache.

She was letting him see her.

Worse still, she was choosing to see him.

Her touch trailed from his wrist to his forearm, fingertips barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve. It sent a shiver up his spine.

She noticed.

Charles swallowed hard, his breath coming a little faster now, a little less steady. "You should stop."

Her lips parted slightly. "Do you want me to?"

No.

God, no.

But he didn’t say it. He couldn’t say it.

Her touch moved again, fingertips ghosting over the back of his hand before curling lightly around his fingers.

He closed his eyes for half a second, and when he opened them, she was even closer.

"Tell me to stop, Charles."

His pulse thundered.

He couldn’t.

His free hand lifted of its own accord, trembling slightly as his fingers brushed against the curve of her jaw.

She exhaled, her breath warm against his skin.

It was maddening. It was inevitable.

She leaned in first.

And then he closed the distance.

The second their lips met, it was like something broke. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks—months—finally cracked open, spilling over in a way neither of them could control.

Charles barely had time to process the heat of it, the way her mouth moved against his, before panic clawed at his chest.

He tore himself away, breath ragged, heart hammering.

"This is—" His voice was hoarse, like he had been drowning in her and had only just come up for air. "This is wrong."

She didn’t even hesitate.

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, gripping tight, and before he could talk himself out of it, she pulled him back in.

The second kiss was nothing like the first.

It was desperate, heated, intentional.

She felt him stiffen for a split second before he gave in with a low, shuddering whimper, his hand coming up to cup the side of her face, fingers slipping into her hair as though he had wanted to do it for far too long.

She kissed him harder.

A noise escaped him—something between a gasp and a groan—and then suddenly, he was the one pulling her closer, pressing her down against the bed until she was beneath him.

He was shaking.

She could feel it in the way his hands hovered, in the way his breath hitched when she parted her lips against his.

Charles had spent so long controlling everything—controlling her—and yet here he was, completely at her mercy.

And she knew it.

Her fingers skimmed the nape of his neck, feeling the slight tremor there, the way he whimpered at the contact.

He broke away for a second, forehead pressing against hers as he tried to steady himself.

"You're not afraid," he murmured, half-disbelieving, half-dazed.

She could feel his breath on her lips, still uneven, still wrecked.

"Should I be?"

His grip on her tightened.

"Yes."

But he didn’t move away.

She wasn’t sure she had ever seen such unadulterated longing before. It was an odd thing to try and come to terms with. 

“I want you in a way I’m not sure either of us can handle,” his voice was rough and gravelly. A rasp dancing up from the back of his throat.

When his grip tightened on her, perhaps to ground himself, the sound that left her made them both freeze.

Only a moment. A tick of the clock.

Charles was all over her.

His hands slid from her face, down and down, dancing over her throat as his mouth collided with hers harshly. Two stars crashing into one another and lighting up the night sky in diamonds. 

Charles twisted them around, guiding her as if they were in a pas de deux. Her mind was spinning and rationality was cut right off her shoulders. All she felt was him. All she could think about was him. How he was touching her. How wonderful it felt. 

Stumbling through space, she wasn’t scared as she fell because she knew Charles had her. The way his rough hands held her as he laid her down on the sheets beneath them, making sure she knew she wasn’t going to get hurt. 

Her breath was coming out hot and heavy, erratic as her fingers dug into his hair and pulled slightly. Delighting in the way he moaned into her mouth,

tongue sliding against hers. Exploring and greedy. 

Charles climbed over her, slowly, giving her time so she didn’t think she was being trapped. She felt the mattress dipping with each adjustment and it made her heart stumble over itself. Not in fear. But in anticipation. Closer and closer.

She could still tell between the kisses and needy hands. He was still hesitating. Terrified he’d frighten her. Scared she’ll change her mind and leave. 

“Charles,” she spoke his name softly, her own hands trailing down from his unruly brown hair to his face. Taking in how truly stunning he was and the technicolor that were his eyes. 

She brushed her thumbs over his cheekbones, watching him as he watched her. His shoulders slightly coiled in tension. 

For the first time in what felt like ages she smiled, “I want all of you. Every piece.” She could physically see the relief pulse through his veins at her words. His eyes glowing as he pressed his forehead against hers, her heart beat thrumming in her ears as she felt the weight of his hips settle against hers.

The hardness of him. How warm he was. The comfort of his body so close to hers.

“Give me everything,” she whispered. 

He kissed her again, a little bit harder. His fingers pressed a little bit further into her neck. Inching but not quite. Being treated so delicately while knowing he was trying to hold back was driving her crazy. She wanted to know. Needed to know. What he was like.

Sudden determination slammed into her, making her lose her breath for a moment before it caught up again. 

Her hand danced up into his hair again, and then she yanked. Hard. 

A wince left him but something else lingered. Darker. More sinful. 

“Charles,” she practically bit out the plea. “Everything. Please.”

His eyes flicked between hers, his pupils blown wide with desire. “I don’t want to hurt you, mon ange.”

“You won’t.” She didn’t hesitate in her response.

So neither did he. 

She cried out into his mouth as he ground his hips into her. One hand tight on her throat and she immediately felt dazed. His other hand snaked down to her knee,

hiking it up around his waist so he could grind into her harder. A better angle. His cock running directly over where she needed it most and the sounds that we’re leaving her didn’t seem real. 

Her head was spinning. Her mouth falling open on its own accord as he explored every inch of her mouth with tongue. His hand still squeezing. Applying the perfect amount of pressure to cut off blood flow but not

air. 

Charles’ mouth found her jaw, danced down her throat, teeth grazing against her skin. Wanting to take in all of her. Terrified this was some dream he might wake up from. His breathing was unsteady, frenzied. Hungry. 

Her own breathing came out in stuttered gasps, her hands everywhere. All over him. Dancing over his back, shoulders, his face. His wild hair. Her fingers tugged at his roots as he sucked on a space just below her jaw, getting carried away. A clear bruise being left by his mouth. 

It was clear she wanted him to be rough with her. The trust she was handing him made his heart stutter. 

He could. Be rough. It’s what he was good at. What he was familiar with. But with her… his heart was aching. Feeling as though it was lodged in his throat as he explored her sweet skin with his mouth. He wanted this to last. 

Charles’ fingers danced under her shirt, feeling her gasp and responding to his touch. Arching as he slowly pushed the fabric up and out of the way. His tongue slowly ran a line up from her navel to her throat. She tasted heavenly. Sweet. 

He was unraveling. Her soul pulling at the threads of his own, yanking and yanking. 

He wanted to kiss more of her but her stupid fucking clothes were in the way and before his brain could catch up with what he was doing he had torn her skirt off, ripping her underwear in the process and the threads of cotton were frayed in his hands.

His eyes met hers, wild and glittering. 

Her chest was heaving. “Please.”

Charles leaned down, tossing the torn fabric aside and brought her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently. Eyes glowing. A dragon unfurling at the sight of gold. 

“Beg me to.”

She inhaled sharply, her pupils blown wide and lips swollen. 

It was twisted. Fucked up. A horrible, awful thing to ask her. 

She did it anyway, words tumbling out and greedy hands reaching, nails digging into his skin and he practically shattered in her palms. Her fingers hooked into the belt loop of his trousers, yanking him closer. Desperate. 

When he freed himself, he took in her face as she stared down at him. Her hair falling over her shoulders, eyes glazed, swallowing. Looking like an angel. 

He took hold of her chin, making her look at him as positioned himself before sinking into her, shuddering and a moan left him as his forehead fell against hers. Always watching, taking in how her lips fell apart, her brows furrowed, the sharp intake of breath as he bottomed out. 

She was warm. Tight. Hot velvet and he felt like he was slipping under an opium induced haze as he slowly pulled back out. Finally he looked down at where he was connected to her, gripping her chin to tilt her head. He needed her to see. 

“Look at you.” Charles sank his cock back into her. “You take me so well.” 

“Charles,” his name left her lungs in a trembling breath, her nails raking down his back. Leaving red streaks he wanted imprinted into his flesh for forever. 

He leaned back, taking hold of her hips in a bruising grip. He wanted her to feel everything. Every touch. Wanted her to remember everywhere he had touched her. The thought of marking her up would’ve terrified him, but when he looked at her and she nodded, he snapped. 

His fingers dug into the flesh and bone of her hips, his own nails digging crescents into her skin as he pulled out and thrust back in. Setting a brutal pace. Each roll of his hips was barely tempered, dancing on the edge of violence. 

She clenched down hard around him, throwing her head back into the sheets and crying out. His name dancing out into the heated air. 

The lewd sound of skin hitting and how wet she was, was echoing around the room. Sounding like the bells of heaven in his ears. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” He pressed one hand down just below her navel to feel his cock as he fucked her, his other hand rubbing circles into her clit and the combined sensations made her hips buck into him. 

“Oh my god—“

He laughed lightly, drowning in her. “Not quite.” He pressed down a bit harder, feeling the way his cock dragged in and out of her. “But you can pray to me, if you’d like.”

frewffgghjfdx

Her own laugh left her, but it was cut off by a choking cry of pleasure. “I’m going to—“ her hips rose to meet his. 

Charles snapped into her harder, leaning down on his elbows to drive his hips forward, rolling, dizzying. Pressing his forehead into hers as he caught her mouth in a kiss, breathing in her moan with his own as he felt her come undone beneath him. Stars danced behind her eyes as she came. 

Her cunt squeezed him and he shut his eyes, shuddering. “Fuck me,” he lowered his head and bit into her neck, his pace now sloppy and erratic. Messy. Sweat coating their bodies. 

Her nails dragged against his scalp, trembling beneath him. Her voice shaky, delicate. “I’ve got you, my love.”

He came with a cry of his own, teeth sinking even further into her throat and her wince turned into a near mewl as he rode through his high. His stomach clenching as he buried himself as deep as he could. 

Their panting breaths danced in the air and he felt light headed as he lifted himself with his arms, his eyes taking in the marks he left, scattered constellations of bruises and broken blood vessels. 

His eyes danced down, down, hissing as he slowly pulled out and watched as his cum spilled out of her. 

Charles’ body acted on its own accord, his conscious on the back burner as his fingers danced down her stomach, grazing over her clit and gathering what had spilled out, fucking it back into her pussy with two fingers. 

“Charles,” her moan was guttural. 

He seemed to snap out of it, rationality catching back up to him and he only just realised what he was doing. He flinched back, trepidation crawling up his spine. Too much, too much—

“Don’t you dare,” her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, bringing his hand back to her scorching skin. 

God, how he had gotten so lucky? 

Charles let his body guide itself again, his fingers trailing up. 

“Open.”

Her lips parted, her eyes glazed over as she did as told. 

His breath hitched as his fingers slid into her mouth, dragging against her warm tongue and he felt like he could come again as she sucked on his fingers. 

He dragged the digits back out, the pads hooking on her teeth to pull her towards him and he kissed her. Tasting a mixture of them both and he groaned.

His hand slipped around her neck, hands twining in the hair at the nape of her neck. His other arm snaked under her waist, flipping them around so she straddled him and his hands fell to her hips, gently tracing the bruises that were starting to develop and the crescents of his nails he had left. Marks of greed. 

Charles looked up at her, stars in his eyes. 

And they started again. 

Charles lay awake.

The room was silent, save for the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him. The sheets were tangled around their bodies, clinging to sweat-dampened skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—fractured, spiraling, unable to settle.

She had undone him.

Not just physically—though the memory of her hands, her mouth, the way she had taken control still burned through his nerves like a brand—but something deeper than that. Something irreversible.

His fingers twitched against the sheets.

She was asleep, or at least pretending to be. He didn’t dare turn to look. If he saw her eyes, saw the quiet calculation in them, he didn’t know what he would do.

Because she had him now. Completely.

Charles swallowed against the tightness in his throat. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was the one who had taken her, manipulated her, crafted every careful thread of her dependency. He was the one who had made her need him.

So how had it come to this?

Why was he the one who felt like he was unravelling?

She shifted beside him, just slightly, and his pulse spiked. The movement was small, barely noticeable, but he felt it like a ripple in his bloodstream.

For a terrifying moment, he thought about reaching for her. Pulling her closer. Burying his face in her hair and breathing her in until his mind stopped racing.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew—he knew—if he touched her now, it wouldn’t be him holding her in place.

It would be her letting him.

And that was worse. So much worse.

Charles exhaled shakily and closed his eyes. But even in the darkness, he felt her presence pressing in on him, inescapable.

She wasn’t running.

She wasn’t screaming.

She was staying.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure whether that was his victory—

Or his downfall.

He lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, his mind an endless loop of static.

The room was too quiet. Too still.

He could hear the faintest sounds—the whisper of her breath, the rustle of fabric when she shifted in her sleep—but it wasn’t enough to anchor him. It only made the thoughts spiral faster.

His body ached, not from exertion but from something deeper, something he refused to name.

He had given in.

He had let her pull him under, let her take control, let her do to him what he had once done to her.

And he had wanted it.

That was the part that unsettled him the most.

He had wanted it.

Needed it.

Somewhere between her lips on his skin and her voice in his ear, he had stopped being the one holding her in place. And now, lying here in the aftermath, he felt something curdling inside him, something dangerously close to desperation.

Because she could leave.

She had always been able to leave, he knew that now. The locks, the walls, the carefully constructed prison—it had never been those things keeping her here. It had been him.

And if she ever decided she no longer wanted to stay, he would have nothing left to hold her.

A slow exhale.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to steady, but then—

A shift.

A quiet inhale.

And then the subtle change in her breathing that told him she was awake.

He felt it before she moved, before she even opened her eyes. The weight of her awareness pressing against the space between them.

He didn’t turn to look at her.

Didn’t dare.

But then—softly, tentatively—

"Are you awake?"

Her voice. Groggy with sleep but clear enough to cut through the silence like a blade.

His fingers twitched.

"Yes."

A pause.

He could feel her looking at him. Studying him in that unnerving way of hers, peeling him open with nothing but silence.

"Charles."

The sound of his name sent something sharp through his chest. He exhaled carefully, measuring his voice before he spoke.

"What?"

Another pause.

And then, quieter—

"What now?"

The words settled heavily between them.

He swallowed. What now? As if he had an answer.

For months, he had dictated the course of things. Had controlled every moment, every breath between them. But now, in the aftermath, it wasn’t his decision to make.

He didn’t know what was worse—the uncertainty or the fact that he was waiting for her to decide.

After a moment, he finally turned to face her.

She was watching him, eyes unreadable, her hair a tangle against the pillow. She looked different. Not softer—no, she had never been soft—but something had shifted.

She looked like she knew.

Like she had all along.

His throat tightened.

"What do you want it to be?" he asked, the words tasting foreign in his mouth.

Her gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. She was silent for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer.

But then—

"I don’t know," she admitted.

Something in his chest twisted.

Neither of them knew.

For the first time, they were on even ground.

And that terrified him.

The silence between them stretched, taut and expectant.

Charles felt the weight of it pressing down on his ribs, making it harder to breathe. He had spent so long crafting their dynamic, pulling her strings, manipulating every interaction to keep her where he wanted her. But now…

Now she was the one leading.

"You never answered me," she said at last.

His brows pulled together. "About what?"

She studied him, head tilting slightly against the pillow.

"What now."

Charles exhaled through his nose, glancing towards the ceiling as if it might have the answer.

"I don't know," he admitted. The words felt foreign. He wasn’t used to not knowing.

"Liar," she murmured.

His jaw tensed.

Of course he knew. Of course he had spent the past hour running through every possibility, every outcome, every way this could all fall apart. He had been raised to plan ahead, to anticipate, to always have control.

And yet, here he was, utterly at her mercy.

He turned his head slightly, looking at her properly now. Her gaze was steady, unnervingly perceptive.

"Tell me about them," she said suddenly.

His stomach twisted.

"Who?" he asked, though he knew exactly who she meant.

"Your family."

Charles stilled. His fingers curled slightly against the sheets.

"Why?"

She shrugged, but there was intent behind it. "I just… want to know."

His throat felt tight. He had spent so long keeping her separate from that world, keeping everything controlled. His family was expectation, obligation, duty. She was chaos, unpredictability, something that he had slipped through the cracks of his carefully constructed life.

He shouldn’t let the two overlap.

And yet—

"They expect things from me," he found himself saying.

Her brows lifted slightly. "Like?"

He swallowed, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. "Like a wife. An heir. A life that fits into the perfect little box they’ve built for me."

She blinked. "And do you want that?"

He hesitated. Then— "I want the inheritance."

A humourless huff of laughter left her. "Honest, at least."

Charles shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to talking about this, not in any real way. Not with someone who actually wanted to listen.

"My father left conditions in place," he went on, voice tight. "If I want my inheritance, I have to be married before I turn thirty."

Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture did. A slight shift. A subtle awareness.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Twenty-eight."

Another pause. She sat with that for a moment, then—

"So you're running out of time."

He didn’t answer.

Because she was right.

Another silence settled between them, thicker than before. But then—she moved.

She sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around her waist, bare skin catching in the dim light.

Charles stilled.

He looked—just for a second—before guilt curled through his chest like something rotten.

He shouldn’t. He had already taken too much from her.

His gaze dropped away, jaw tightening.

But then—fingertips, warm and soft, trailing over his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t pull away.

Her thumb brushed over the sharp edge of his cheekbone, slow and deliberate, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. Measured.

"Why don’t we then?"

His breath caught.

His eyes snapped to hers, searching, desperate, trying to figure out if she was toying with him again, if this was just another way to tip the scales back in her favour.

But her gaze was steady.

Unwavering.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

He had wanted control over her. Had wanted to make her his.

But now, looking at her, watching the way her lips curved just slightly, the way she ran her thumb over his skin like she was memorising him—

He realised she had already won.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop her.

Charles swallowed, his throat tight, his mind caught between a dozen conflicting instincts.

Her words hung between them, weighty and deliberate. Why don’t we then?

He should have laughed. Scoffed. Told her she was insane.

Instead, all he could feel was the unbearable pressure of his own pulse.

His fingers curled into the sheets.

"I’m scared," he admitted.

It was barely a whisper, but it felt like a confession, like something ripped from the darkest part of him.

Her gaze didn’t waver. She was still close, still watching him like she could see straight through his skin.

"Why?" she asked, voice soft.

Charles forced out a breath. His thoughts tangled, chaotic, but she was waiting. Expecting.

"Because," he said, voice strained, "you already have too much of me."

A flicker of something passed through her expression. Not triumph, not cruelty—just something knowing.

She didn’t move her hand from his cheek. Instead, her thumb traced over the skin again, slow and deliberate.

"You know how I work better than I do," she murmured. "I know how you do. It’s perfect almost, no?"

His chest tightened.

Perfect.

The word lodged itself inside him, curling in the spaces between his ribs.

She wasn’t wrong.

He had built this. Had shaped her mind to fit against his own, had twisted and moulded her fears until she couldn’t breathe without thinking of him.

And now—

Now she had done the same.

Not by force, not by manipulation.

By knowing him.

By understanding him in a way no one else ever had.

His stomach twisted painfully.

It should have terrified him.

Maybe it still did.

But as he looked at her, bare and unflinching before him, something else stirred beneath the fear.

Something far, far worse.

He wanted it.

He wanted her.

And perhaps, in some strange, awful way—

She wanted him too.

What Charles hadn’t expected was for things to go the way they did.

For the shift to be so seamless.

For her to stay.

And yet, here they were.

She slept in his room now. Not because he made her, not because of some unspoken rule, but simply because she did. Because she climbed into his bed at the end of the day, settled against the pillows like she had always belonged there.

She moved around the house with familiarity, no longer stepping carefully, no longer treating it like a place she was trapped in. It unnerved him.

Because it wasn’t control keeping her here anymore.

It was something else.

Something he didn’t know how to name.

He still caught himself slipping. The disorder was a living, breathing thing, curled in the depths of his chest, waiting for a reason to claw its way out.

Every time she left the room for too long, every time she didn’t respond to something he said, the thoughts would creep in—She’s leaving. She’s changing her mind. She’s going to realise what you are and run.

But then—her hand on his arm, her voice pulling him back.

"I’m here, Charles."

"I’m not going anywhere."

"Breathe."

It was unnatural, this thing between them.

It shouldn’t have worked.

And yet, it did.

Somehow, it did.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen now, watching as she stirred sugar into her tea. She was still in her nightdress, her hair loose, her bare feet silent against the tiled floor. She looked soft in the morning light, nothing like the girl he had taken all those months ago.

She caught him watching.

Her lips twitched slightly. "What?"

Charles shook his head, exhaling. "Nothing."

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was this.

The domesticity of it. The ease. The way his world had been rearranged without him even noticing.

And the strangest part?

He wasn’t sure he minded.

He had never thought this would be his life.

Not because he hadn’t wanted something like it—not because he hadn’t craved the warmth of another body in his bed, the certainty of knowing someone was there—but because he had always known he was broken.

He had known it since childhood, since he first realised that his love felt different from other people’s, that his need for closeness was something raw, something desperate, something people recoiled from when they saw it too clearly.

He had never imagined there would be someone who stayed even after seeing the worst of him.

Yet she had.

She had stayed through every manipulation, every cruel game, every attempt he had made to own her, to keep her.

And now, somehow, impossibly—she wanted to stay.

This time he watched her across the room, curled in the corner of the sofa with a book in her lap, one leg tucked beneath the other. She looked so at ease, as if this had always been her place.

It still startled him sometimes, how quickly things had shifted.

How easily she had taken control of him.

And when his parents next came unannounced, he wasn’t forcing her to play a role.

He thought of the time he had put a knife to her throat and forced her to be his fiancée. The way he had held her so tightly, whispering threats in her ear, making sure she played along.

And now?

Now she did it willingly.

He hadn’t even had to ask.

She had smoothed down her dress, glanced at him once, and slipped into the part as though she had always belonged in it.

His mother kissed her cheek. His father nodded in approval. The conversation flowed.

Charles sat beside her, his fingers twitching slightly against his knee, his mind caught between past and present.

He had made her into this.

But she had remade him in return.

It was late. The kind of late where the house felt like it existed in its own pocket of time, separate from the rest of the world.

The fire had burned low, the glow casting flickering shadows along the walls. She was sitting at the foot of the bed, her legs crossed beneath her, watching him.

"When was the last time you left the house?"

Charles blinked. The question was so unexpected, so out of place in the quiet, that it took him a moment to process it.

His fingers flexed against his knee. "I went into the garden last week."

She gave him a flat look. "Out, Charles."

His jaw clenched slightly. "Since the day at the office."

Her expression didn’t change, but he saw the flicker of understanding behind her eyes.

"Because of me."

It wasn’t a question.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Because I was scared that if I left, you’d be gone when I came back."

Silence settled between them. Not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just there.

Then, after a moment, she tilted her head. "We should go out."

Charles tensed. "Out?"

"To celebrate our engagement."

His stomach twisted.

It’s a trick.

That was his first thought. His immediate, panicked, irrational thought. That she would get him out of the house, that she would leave—slip away, disappear into a crowd, and he’d come back to an empty home, to silence, to nothing.

She must have seen it on his face, because she sighed, lifting her left hand, holding it up between them.

Her ring finger was bare.

"I won’t leave," she murmured. "And anyway—" she glanced towards the door, then back at him—"the front door has been unlocked for far too long. I would have done it earlier."

His breath hitched.

She wasn’t lying. He knew she wasn’t lying.

She had seen the worst of him, and she was still here.

And now, she was asking him to trust her.

He swallowed hard.

Maybe it was time to see what happened when he did.

Charles stood, dousing the last of the fire with the poker, watching as the embers faded into darkness. The warmth in the room dulled, but the air between them remained thick with something unspoken.

She was waiting for him. Already beneath the sheets, watching as he moved through the motions of closing the house for the night. It was strange, how natural this had become. How effortless.

He slid into bed beside her, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Then, as he did every night, his fingers reached for her hand.

And, as she did every night, she placed it on his chest.

The tension in him melted—just enough. Just enough to let sleep take him.

Morning came gently. Light filtered through the curtains, spilling golden across the room. Charles stirred, feeling the absence of warmth beside him before he heard the soft shuffle of movement.

He blinked up at her.

She was standing near the dresser, pulling her hair away from her face, already dressed.

In the clothes he had bought her.

A simple dress. Modest. Nice. Something unassuming, something she had never objected to, never even commented on.

And yet, seeing her in it now, he felt something shift inside him.

Because she had chosen to wear it.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to.

His throat felt tight as he sat up, watching her.

"You’re staring," she murmured.

"It suits you."

She glanced at him in the mirror, eyes unreadable. Then, after a pause—"Good."

Charles watched her move around the room, the quiet rustling of fabric filling the space as she finishing taming her hair. She didn’t need to ask for help, didn’t need his input. She simply got ready, as though it was something so ordinary, so simple. Yet for him, it was another reminder of how much had changed.

He sat up slowly, still watching her from the bed, the sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains. The golden light made her skin glow, made everything in the room feel warmer, more familiar. Her movements were so natural now, and it unsettled him—this—the way she seemed to fit, like a puzzle piece finally snapping into place.

When she finished adjusting the dress and her hair, she turned to him, meeting his gaze. There was something different in her eyes now, something more certain.

She wasn’t running. She wasn’t pretending.

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly thick. "You look…"

She raised an eyebrow, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. "I know."

He couldn’t help but chuckle, even if it was a small, dry sound. There was no need for words anymore, was there? They had learned each other so well, learned how to communicate in the silences between their sentences.

She walked towards him, the hem of her dress brushing the floor with each step, and paused just before him. Her eyes flickered to his hand, then back to his face.

"Do you think we’re ready?" Her voice was soft, steady.

He didn’t know what he was ready for—what they were ready for—but he reached for her, his hand trembling slightly. When she placed her fingers in his, there was an unspoken understanding between them, something that hadn’t been there before.

"I think so," he replied, his voice low. "But I’m still scared."

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she placed her hand gently over his, holding him as if to steady him, as if she were the one in control now.

"We’re both scared," she whispered. "But that doesn’t mean we have to stop."

The front door loomed before them.

Charles hesitated. He hadn’t stepped beyond it in months.

But then—her fingers in his, firm, grounding.

"Come on," she murmured.

And so, together, they stepped outside.

The air was sharp, cool against his skin. The world stretched out before them, vast and open.

And for the first time, Charles didn’t feel like he was losing her.

Not as long as she was still holding his hand.

the end.

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