#I hope you’re having fun with the game!!

[cybrasigilism]

husband dae ho and dad dae ho hc NOWW jkjk plsssssz

I love your work

ahh thank you so much! i try my best for you all ^_^

of course i will cook up some more content for my babygirl you don’t even gotta ASK

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Husband/Father Dae-ho Headcanons!

warnings: no NSFW!| certain hcs imply a f!reader, but for the most part the readers gender is pretty inconspicuous | not proofread | lowercase intended | these are my headcanons for this character, please be respectful even if my opinions about the character differ from yours

character: kang dae-ho (player 388)

A/N: i think it goes without saying that this is a non-games AU! thank you sm to the anon that requested this, dad-ho is such a cute idea :) as always i hope you enjoy!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

➸ we all know that dae-ho is the epitome of the husband standard

➸ his favourite part of the day is hearing all about how your’s went; if your day was especially hard he’ll insist on giving you a backrub + lots of kisses/if you aren’t a super affectionate person he’ll cook you your favourite meal or even just lend an ear for you to vent about whatever nonsense you had to deal with at work

➸ worships the very ground his spouse walks on. he will proudly show you off and when you talk he looks at you like you’re a work of art in a museum. everyday he thanks his lucky stars that he met someone as perfect as you, even more that you agreed to marry him

➸ cried on your wedding day, he could hardly get through his vows the poor sweetheart

➸ will make you breakfast in bed, even if there’s no special occasion. if you bring this fact up he’ll simply kiss you on the forehead and state that to him, everyday he gets to wake up next to you is a special occasion

➸ was absolutely chuffed when he found out you were pregnant, he could not stop smiling for two whole days + he 100% told all of his close family and friends the good news (with your consent ofc)

➸ you couldn’t have asked for a more supportive partner during the pregnancy, he was incredibly accommodating to your new sensitivities to certain smells/foods, and you already know he was more than willing to go on late-night craving runs. whether it be day or night, you knew you could count on dae-ho to make sure you were as taken care of as possible

➸ he insists that you let him do everything around the house for you, he will not let you lift a finger especially when you get closer to your due date

➸ he definitely read every single parenthood book he could in order to be thoroughly prepared

➸ you just know dae-ho would be the worlds best dad

➸ he makes an effort with the kids, if you’re overwhelmed with work or even just stressed out about life he will gladly take the kids out, taking one thing off your plate

➸ he takes those pretend tea parties very seriously

➸ while he would be a great boy dad, lets not kid ourselves, kang dae-ho was born to be a girl dad

➸ goes to every single daddy-daughter dance

➸ he gets just as immersed in the bedtime stories as the kids do when you tell them, he’ll hunker down right next to the kids when you read stories

➸ definitely gets just as involved in christmas shopping for them as you are, hell, he might even be more involved

➸ takes santa claus/the tooth fairy/easter bunny extremely seriously. he’ll go the whole nine yards in making it look like any three of them stopped in the night before their respective events

➸ will happily dress up in group costumes for the kids if they need an extra

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thank you again anon for requesting this! i had lots of fun crafting up some headcanons for husband/dad! dae-ho and i certainly hope i did not disappoint! as always, any advice/constructive criticism on how i can improve my writing is not only appreciated but requested! thanks for reading :)

[vladtoly]

Thanos the Match Maker

Nam-gyu x Female!Reader

Requested: Yes

Proofread: No

A/N: Hope this is what you had in mind! I had to re-watch some of his scenes to get a feel for him again, so I hope I did it justice. Thanks for requesting!

You stared at the boxed meal in front of you, eyeing it warily before going back to your bunk. Surely, they wouldn’t poison all of you right? It seemed that their whole play was being ‘fair’ in the games, so poisoning had to be off the table. Even with that thought though, you inspected each piece of food before taking a bite.

While slowly eating, you let your eyes wander the dorms. Everyone was obviously rattled, most not even touching their food. A large group of them stood in front of Player 456 to interrogate him about the last games. Just for his own sake, you wished he had stayed quiet. You understood he was attempting to save everyone, but he was preaching to the wrong audience. None of these people wanted to leave without money, and it was very clear that no sum of it would be enough.

You looked back down at your food. Sighing, you stopped inspecting and just ate. If you died, you died, at least you wouldn’t be hungry.

Footsteps began to approach your bunk, catching your attention. You looked up just in time to see Thanos and his sidekicks in tow, Player 124 opting for leaning on your bunk railing. Your eyes met for a split second, you looking away when he gave a slight smirk.

“How can I help you boys?” You said, attention going back to your meal.

Thanos leaned forward, his elbows on the mattress as he rested his head in his hands to get a better look at you. “Couldn’t help but notice you alone. It’s not very safe in here, you may need a guy to protect you in the next game.”

Letting out a snort, you continued to pick at your food. “Not in the market for a bodyguard, thanks. I don’t need your help.”

“Who said I was talking about me, Senorita?”

Now that caught your attention. This guy didn’t like to be out of the spotlight, so this should be good.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. “And who exactly are you talking about?”

He slid back so he was fully standing, smacking a firm hand on Player 124’s shoulder. He seemed to know just as little about this interaction as you did, if his shell-shocked expression were to mean anything. “My boy here! Nam-gyu can protect you no problem.”

Nam-gyu quickly collected himself, going back to his usual expression as he leaned back onto the bunk railing. He leaned in close, his breath almost touching your face as he spoke. “We don’t know what the next game’s going to be. But what I can tell you now is that I’d make sure you’re safe, baby.”

You raised a slight brow at the pet name but felt your cheeks warm at it at the same time. However, you couldn’t let this guy win that easily. It’s not like he’s been a delight up until this point.

You met his gaze and cocked your head to the side. “Oh really? And how do you plan to keep me safe if we don’t know the game, hm?”

“Well,” he opted to sit on the edge of the bunk, resting his hand on the mattress. His face had moved closer. “I may not know what the game is, but if you stay close, I’ll personally make sure nothing happens to you. We may even have a little fun, who knows?”

Your gaze studied the rest of his face, pores and all. Then it moved to the rest of him, eyeing up if he really could protect you. You realized he was hitting on you, the goal was to get closer to you, which you admit was working.  But you wouldn’t mind some extra help next game if it was needed.

When you were content, you made eye contact again. “Fine. Meet me at my bunk tomorrow morning, before the next round.”

He chuckled, moving his hand off the mattress and onto your thigh. “Or you could come eat with us now, get to know each other better.”

You couldn’t deny how your stomach flipped at the touch. Yet you cleared your throat and slowly moved his hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, baby. Maybe I’ll come by in a bit.”

He seemed content with that as his face split into a grin and he finally stood up. When he turned though, he realized Thanos and the other player had already wandered off, probably during your conversation. He scoffed but made a point to nod to you before going in search of them.

You laughed lightly, before looking at your lap, where your half-eaten food still sat open.

Fuck it. Might as well have fun if you might die anyways.

----------

Squid Game headcannon/blurb requests are OPEN!

[rorysburrow]

NYE

Pairings ➼ Joe Burrow x Reader

Summary ➼ New Years Eve in the burrow household.

Word Count ➼ 1,201

Warnings ➼ None just pure fluff once again

A/N ➼ Hey guys I hope you have been enjoying my writing. My requests are open you can submit them in my bio where it says lets chat!

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

New Year's Eve in the Burrow household was nothing like the glitz and glam of red carpets or flashy celebrations. No, tonight was about something entirely different—a low-key, laugh-out-loud evening spent with Joe Burrow, where the only competition was between who could make the other laugh hardest.

It had been a long year for Joe—full of victories, hard work, and the intensity of a football season that demanded everything from him. But now, here he was, relaxing in the living room, wearing an old college t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, as comfortable as you’d ever seen him. The lights in the house were dimmed, save for the soft glow of string lights and the flickering of a TV in the corner where the countdown show was already running.

The clock was ticking toward midnight, but for the moment, Joe was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the coffee table, a stack of board games in front of him. The pile ranged from classic Monopoly to something a little less conventional—a trivia game that you had picked up on a whim.

Joe flashed you a mischievous grin as he picked up a card from the trivia game. “Alright,” he said, holding the card between two fingers, “this one’s easy. What’s the capital of Australia?”

You raised an eyebrow, already sensing a trap. “Canberra,” you said, smiling confidently.

Joe shook his head dramatically, as if you’d just made the biggest mistake of your life. “Wrong!” he said, holding the card up. “It’s Sydney!”

You leaned forward, crossing your arms. “Joe, are you serious? Everyone knows it’s Canberra.”

He just winked at you. “Okay, okay. You’re right. But I had to test you.”

You laughed, throwing a pillow at him. “I’m pretty sure the trivia game isn’t supposed to be about tricking your opponent.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” he replied, giving you a playful nudge. “The best games are the ones that have the most twists.”

As you both laughed, the excitement in the room started to build. The countdown show had begun in earnest, and the anticipation was growing. You kept your eyes on the screen, where the cameras were showing people all over the world celebrating, the energy contagious even from the comfort of your couch.

Joe, still trying to act like he wasn’t keeping track of the time, grabbed another card from the trivia game. “Okay, one more. This one’s a good one. Who’s considered the father of modern physics?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Einstein. Easy.”

Joe held the card up to his face and squinted at it. “Hmm, I don’t know. Are you sure?”

You shot him a look. “Joe, I’m very sure.”

He smirked. “Okay, I’m just messing with you. You’re right. But now I’ve learned something important.”

“What’s that?” you asked.

“That you’re unbeatable,” he said, leaning back with a satisfied look. “And now I’m gonna have to find a way to win at something tonight.”

You chuckled, enjoying the easygoing nature of the night. It wasn’t about the trivia game or the board games—it was about the moments, the playful teasing, the way time seemed to slow down when you were with him. The fire crackled in the background, sending a gentle warmth through the room as you both gathered around for the final stretch of the evening.

With the clock ticking closer to midnight, you both took a break from the games and leaned back on the couch, your feet tangled under a blanket. Joe reached for the bottle of champagne sitting on the coffee table, popping the cork with a flourish.

“You ready for this?” he asked, holding the bottle out toward you.

“Definitely,” you replied with a grin. “It’s a Burrow tradition, right?”

He nodded. “Exactly. A tradition of fun, friends, and good times.”

The bubbles fizzed as he poured two glasses, the sound of the champagne flowing adding to the atmosphere of the night. The TV countdown flashed 10... 9... 8..., and Joe turned toward you with a mischievous smile.

“Alright,” he said, raising his glass. “Before the clock strikes midnight, I’ve got one more challenge for you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Another trivia question?”

Joe shook his head, a twinkle in his eye. “Nope. A challenge of the heart.”

You were curious now. “A challenge of the heart?”

He took a sip of his champagne and leaned closer, his voice low and teasing. “I want you to make a New Year’s wish. Something real, something you really want for this year. But no wishing for the obvious. No wishing for world peace or to win the lottery. I’m talking about something personal. Something just for you.”

You met his gaze, a bit surprised by the depth of his request. It was rare for Joe to get serious, but when he did, it always carried weight. He was always thinking about the future, but in this moment, he was asking you to think about something even more important: what you truly wanted for the coming year.

You thought for a moment, then smiled and lifted your glass to his. “Alright. My wish is for more moments like this. More laughter, more silly games, and more quiet nights with the people I care about. Because this... this is what makes life good.”

Joe smiled back, his eyes warm and filled with affection. “That’s a good one,” he said softly. “I’ll drink to that.”

As the clock hit 3... 2... 1, you both shouted, “Happy New Year!” in unison, clinking your glasses together just as fireworks lit up the sky outside. The celebration was happening all around you, but in this quiet little corner of the world, it was just you and Joe, laughing together and making memories.

The fireworks outside reflected off the windows, casting colorful light across the room. Joe looked at you, his face lit up with that easy smile you loved. “Okay, now we’ve got a whole year ahead of us. What’s next?”

You nudged him, playfully. “I think we still have some board games to finish. But you better bring your A-game. I’m not going easy on you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I think we both know I’m going to crush you in Monopoly.”

“Oh, no chance,” you said, sitting up a little straighter. “You’ve been warned.”

The playful banter continued long into the night, with the two of you casually debating the best way to play the games, each of you trying to find new ways to outwit the other. As the hours passed and the New Year’s festivities continued outside, you both kept the vibe light and fun, basking in the comfort of being together.

Eventually, as the first hours of the new year slipped away, you both collapsed onto the couch, tired but content, your hearts full of the kind of warmth that only comes from spending a night with someone who knows exactly how to make every moment feel like magic.

And as you both drifted off to sleep, with the quiet hum of the world outside, you knew that this was exactly the way you wanted to start the year—full of laughter, love, and the feeling that the best moments were still ahead.

[celestiamour]

Hej, czy mógłbyś stworzyć grę fem-reader x thanos (gra squid), w której oboje mają ten sam klimat i są najlepszymi przyjaciółmi z dzieciństwa, ale thanos zakochuje się w niej i w końcu mówi jej o tym w pierwszej grze??? (Jeśli uważasz, że to głupie, pomiń) Miłego dnia/nocy 😁🙏

ft. choi su-bong (thanos) x gn! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ childhood best friend! reader┊0.6k words

contains: thanos is his own warning, mentions of bullying, canon-typical violence, drug use, love confessions, they have the same energy, this sucks I'm so sorry

➤ author's note: i forgot how to write!! please be patient with me!! (i hope i translated this right)

╰₊✧ let’s get one thing straight, you probably teamed up to steal lunch money from other kids and maybe even pushed them into lockers afterward: a troublesome duo who ended up in the principal’s office more than once and had to be seated far away from each other or else the entire classroom would erupt into chaos. your parents told both of you to stay away from the other as they were a terrible influence, but it just had you guys sneaking out in the middle of the night to hang out at a nearby park.

╰₊✧ that’s when he realizes you’re his first love probably, pushing you on the swing set at two in the morning with nothing but a dim street light to light up the night, barely in high school and yet determined to make you his. unfortunately, while he’s trying to figure out how to tell you or figure out how you feel about him so as not to ruin the friendship, you tragically move away for some reason and leave him broken-hearted.

╰₊✧ he wrote his first rap about this experience, and it touched hearts all around the world, probably launched his career, and remains in his top ten most streamed songs. 

╰₊✧ alright, now to the games, the second he laid eyes on you, it was like all the young love buried from years ago hit him like a ton of bricks. he audibly gasped as if he had just run into the queen of england, even making his fans turn their heads, jogging up to you to see if you remembered him. he’s so excited, he almost trips on his way over.

╰₊✧ on your end, you remembered him obviously, he’s made quite a name for himself and you’ve seen clips of his music videos/performances which you look into every now and then out of curiosity. you would be lying if you said he wasn’t even more handsome than the screens do him justice, his brightly-colored purple hair seemed to suit him so well and he’s grown so tall. you’re also pleased to see that little has changed about his attitude, still the same old su-bong you remember him to be.

╰₊✧ you two are probably near each other when the true nature of the game is revealed, and he offers you one of the colorful pills hidden in his cross necklace which you smack him for getting into drugs, but you can’t say you’re surprised. he becomes so carefree afterward that he blatantly pushes three other people over and watches them get shot for the fun of it, but he also does the contradictory action of hiding you behind him to make sure you don’t get shot. 

╰₊✧ the smile that splits his face when he hears you laughing and going along with his antics is worthy of being photographed when it hits him that this experience would be much like the times you both shared as kids. he finally reunited with his childhood best friend, and he’s going to make the most of the time you have together— death games be damned! 

╰₊✧ keeps you close throughout the voting process and confesses his love once he sees you press the blue button. the amount of time you both have left is uncertain, but if you both help each other out and make it out alive, then the leftover money will go to the future he dreamed of having with you. he doesn’t care if it seems unrealistic or too ideal, he’s thanos and nothing was ever impossible for him.

╰₊✧ of course, you say yes and become a force to be reckoned with!

[hvnlygrl]

hii can u do rafe cameron

can u pls do soft!rafe cameron or soft!jj maybamk where reader and him get into an argument and then he storms out and then the next morning reader gets her period, and when he comes home he just sees her lying on the bed eith a heating pad so he decides to make her a cookie skillet with nutella in it and ice cream on top of it and when he gives it to her she immediately starts sobbing and covering her face with the back of her hand telling him how shes so sorry and that she wished she never foughr with him and then he just comforts her and helps her eat while they watch a movie

i take it all back.

pairing — rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count — 1.3k

warnings — lotta cussing, reader gets a little mean, argument between rafe/reader, hurt/comfort.

synopsis — after a fight with rafe due to your hormones during that time of the month, he goes out of his way to make you feel better.

notes — sorry i kinda went in a little bit of a different direction with this i hope that's okay! but the general idea is still the same... thank you for the request! it's such a sweet idea <3

it had never bothered you before, the sound of rafe on his game in the spare bedroom, but for some reason the loud sounds of him on the headset with his friends were driving you up the wall while you tried to watch your show in the living room. 

you sighed out in annoyance when you heard him for what seemed like the 20th time in 5 minutes, “GO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? TOPPER GET HIS ASS!” 

you clicked the volume up on the t.v. in front of you, head beginning to ache from the loudness of the show mixed with the loudness from the game room. you were unsure of how to handle the situation. you didn’t want to ruin rafe’s fun on the game, and you surely didn’t want to start an argument with him but you couldn’t take it anymore. 

you paused the show, stood from the couch and stomped your way down the hallway. you didn’t bother knocking on the door since you knew he wouldn’t hear it, instead opening it as soon as you reached it. “rafe,” you called out. no answer. he continued clacking at the keys on the p.c., shouting orders at topper and kelce over the headset. “rafe,” you called out again, quite a bit louder this time. still no answer. 

at this point you were fed up. you were unsure of where the blind rage came from, but before you knew it you yanked the headset from his head. 

“what the-y/n? what the fuck are you doing?” he shouts at you, his eyes flitting back and forth between the computer screen and your angered expression. 

“can you shut the fuck up, dude? i’m trying to watch my show,” you grumble at him as if it's obvious. 

“woah,” he cocks his head back at your statement, “chill out.” 

now you’re really pissed. “don’t tell me to fucking chill out!” 

“babe, it’s not that serious,” he continues clacking at the keys on the game. 

“it is that serious. you try watching your favorite show and listen to me hooting and hollering from the next room. it’s fucking aggravating and i can't take it anymore right now.” 

rafe rolls his eyes. “i don’t know what you want me to tell you, y/n, it’s really not that serious. i’m doing my thing and you’re doing yours. you don’t see me busting through the door to get on your ass about the t.v. being too loud.” 

you can hear the oohs and ruh-rohs coming from the headset, only adding fuel to the fire. 

“oh my god, dude, can you just act like a fucking adult for five minutes? you don’t have to play fortnite every single night with your gay ass homeboys. maybe you could spend time with your girlfriend instead of being on the game from the second you get home until hours after i fall asleep.” 

“that is so not true and you know it, bruh.” 

“if you’re gonna play the game and not even interact with me, then just go do it at your own damn apartment. i’m not fucking dealing with this right now. i have a migraine and i don’t want you here tonight.”

rafe can't ignore the pang that shoots through his heart at your words. “seriously? you’re kicking me out?” 

“yeah,” you mutter softly before leaving the room and heading back to the living room. cramps begin overtaking the muscles in your stomach, only adding to your agitation. you breathe out shakily, your throat beginning to tighten as you watch him grab his bag and storm out. 

once the door slams behind him, a wave of guilt washes over you, your eyes watering as you smack yourself for kicking him out. all you wanted was for him to stop being so loud and now he’s on the way back to his apartment, pissed at you for embarrassing him in front of his friends and for sending him home.

you lie down on the couch, allowing the tears to stream freely as your thoughts get darker and crueler toward yourself. you sob deeply, arms wrapped around a pillow until you finally fall asleep. 

about an hour or so later you wake up, shuffling into the bathroom, you notice your appearance in the mirror; cheeks puffy and eyes swollen from crying. the sight only makes you feel worse. you sit on the toilet, letting out a harsh sigh when you notice the blood that pooled in your favorite pair of panties. after already feeling like a piece of shit both physically and mentally, here was mother nature three days early, ready to screw you over even more. 

you couldn't help but tear up again at the inconvenience, suddenly realizing what happened tonight. you wanted to slap yourself for being so stupid and not noticing the signs, but you knew that it was too late now. after heading to your bedroom to find a new pair of underwear and shorts, and spotting the dirty pair before throwing it into the wash, you head back to the living room. 

your heart beats in your throat as you pull out your phone to text rafe. 

after the conversation with him you felt a lot better about the situation, but you were still feeling pretty upset. you rummaged through the kitchen, checking the cabinets and the fridge and freezer for any type of food that would satisfy your cravings. of course, you had absolutely nothing that would help. you sighed as you shuffled back toward the living room, opting to just lie on the couch and watch your show until you fell back asleep. 

you knew the thought was dramatic, but you couldn’t help but wonder when your life turned into this; alone in an apartment that was too big for you with nothing you wanted and no one to share it with. 

and then you heard a knock on the door. despite it being his signature knock, you couldn't stop yourself from checking the peephole, heart fluttering when you saw the blonde on the other side of the door.

you quickly opened it, a soft smile on your lips. “what are you doing here?”

“did you really think i was gonna let you be alone on night one?” rafe raises a brow at you before revealing two grocery bags he’d been hiding behind his back. he had made a run to the local store for all your favorite sweets, chips, icecream, drinks, and anything else he could think of. he even bought you a heated stuffed animal that could be thrown into the microwave and used as a heating pad.

“baby,” your lips curl down into a frown, eyes watering at the gesture, “you’re too nice to me.” 

“of course i am,” he chuckles as he sets the items down on the coffee table, “you’re my girl.” 

you watch in awe as he grabs your favorite cup, fills it with ice and pours your drink into it. then he grabs the stuffed turtle (your favorite animal) and heads to the kitchen to throw it into the microwave for a couple minutes. 

“get comfy, babe,” he calls out to you, “get your show set up, do whatever you gotta do.” 

you smile at him sweetly. “you didn’t have to do all this, rafe.” 

“i know,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “i wanted to.” 

“thank you,” you whisper when he brings the warmed turtle over to you. you moan happily when you stick it onto your lower abdomen, the sensation immediately easing some of the pain. “i don’t deserve you.” 

“sure you do,” rafe huffs as he kicks his shoes off and gets comfy next to you, “how many times have you taken care of me? saved my ass without me even thinking to ask you for help?” 

you nod, “yea, i guess you’re right. i’m sorry about what i said earlier baby, i take it all back.” 

“don’t stress,” he holds his hands up, “water under the bridge, my girl.” 

you smile at him, admiring his features before turning your gaze back to the t.v. and snuggling in closer to him. “i love you.”

“i love you,” he parrots back, hand rubbing at your lower back in the spot that he knows typically bothers you. 

-> back to masterlist

taglist — @lanasb0ngwater

[grimmsbride]

imagine thanos trying to spit game.. unfortunately the moment that purple-haired bastard gets his eyes on you, they will never leave. they’re practically undressing you, noting how your sun-kissed skin looks particularly good in that otherwise gaudy uniform. the man is stuck wondering if you’re just pretty like this or pretty all over.

he’s quick to make a move, practically pushing through people to get to you. once he gets your attention with an obnoxious whistle and little hey senorita well you have to endure the next few minutes of useless flirting and rapping. somewhere in the midst he mentions your skin color and how it glows from the sun or how you’re probably as sweet as chocolate and he wants to take a bite. you could practically feel the strain of your eyes from how much you were rolling them. you didn’t know whether to be embarrassed for him or flattered, either way — it’s not like the man noticed as he was far too caught up in blabbing honeyed nonsense.

when the two of you make it past the first game, thanos makes an effort to be around, continuing his attempts in both english and korean; hoping you to win you over.

so.. along with playing games being run by murderous individuals you also have to worry about some pill popping rapper that thinks of rhymes faster then you can walk away.

fun, right?

small drabble about thanos while i watch the new season. he will be written for, trust — this was just something silly and unserious

[yuikomorii]

AYAYUI IDOL AU: Chapter 1

// I present to you… MY FIRST EVER FANFIC! It’s inspired by these headcanons and these posts. As mentioned before, in this story, the Sakamakis are simply regular idols with a vampire-themed concept; they’re not actually vampires or related. Since I noticed how much you all enjoy this kind of content and have been so supportive, I thought you might like a fanfic based on it. ☺️

I’m by no means a professional writer, and my style leans more towards the visual novel/otome game format. Even so, I hope you’ll like it! 💕

Voice announcement: Ladies and gentlemen, we have now arrived at our destination.

Before you disembark, please take a moment to ensure you have all your personal belongings with you. For your safety, mind the gap between the train and the platform edge as you exit.

We sincerely thank you for choosing our services and travelling with us. It has been our pleasure to serve you, and we hope to welcome you aboard again soon. Take care!

Yui: ( Eh? Is this…—! )

— eyes widen —

I’m here… I’m finally here!

Yui’s Monologue

I can’t believe my dream is actually coming true! All this time, this seemed like a childish wish but right now I truly am in Tokyo…!

Uuh… I’m getting a bit emotional, but can you blame me? It simply feels… surreal.

I never thought my father would agree to let me join a work exchange program in such a massive and dynamic city.

To be honest, I was half expecting him to say no, but it seems he believes in me more than I thought.

Knowing that he trusts me this much… it really makes me want to work even harder to prove he made the right choice.

Yes, that’s so. I will try my best to make father proud!

— takes big breath —

Yui: Nice to meet you, Tokyo. Let’s make this journey one to remember.

Place: Studio

Photographer: And~… pose! Ah yes, exactly like that! Keep on, keep on!

Ayato: ( Man, this shit is so tiring at this point. )

— smiles falsely —

Photographer: W-Wonderful…! Another one, thank you!

— keeps taking pictures —

Ayato: ( Can this woman stop blinding me with that flashlight already? It’s past 11 pm… )

Photographer: Now, a profile sho——

Manager: Hold on.

Pardon my intrusion, but I believe we already have enough pictures for today. Don't you think so?

Photographer: Eh? But we just got star— Oh my, it’s almost 12 am!?

G-Geez, my apologies. I guess the saying “time flies when you’re having fun” must really apply here.

— winks at Ayato —

Ayato: ( Gross! )

Manager: If more promotional pictures are required, we can extend the photoshoot to tomorrow. Watanabe-san, would it be possible for you to arrive earlier if that is the case?

Photographer: With such eye candy around, who could resist spending more time with him~?

Fufu, just kidding. I'll contact the director and get back to you with an answer as soon as possible.

Until then, have a good night! Bye-bye~!

— leaves —

Ayato: Haa… thanks goodness! One more photo, and I might’ve completely lost it.

Manager: I understand completely. Given your schedule, it’s clear you’re quite overworked. Nevertheless, it’s impressive how you still manage to perform so well.

Ayato: Heh… thanks.

— rubs eyes —

Manager: You look a bit tired, Ayato-san. Rest assured, the limousine should be arriving soon.

Ayato: Right, the limo is on its——

( Fuck! I can’t believe I almost forgot about it! )

Wait! Now that I think about it, I’ve got something else to take care of.

So… don’t mind me! Go ahead and take the limo; I’ll call for another one later.

Manager: Haa… Ayato-san.

You're not planning to do something that could get you into trouble, are you?

Ayato: O-Of course not! It’s just… no, it’s nothing important. Just a silly little thing I remembered I had to solve.

— tries to leave —

Manager: Ayato-san!

Ayato: Huh?

Manager: Do NOT let anyone see you, understood?

— Ayato nods and leaves —

???: You’re late.

Ayato: …!

Man, you almost gave me a heart attack!

Laito: My bad~. You came prepared at least, didn’t you?

Ayato: Yeah, yeah.

— puts cap and mask on —

Laito: Nfu, let’s go, shall we?

Place: Street

Yui: Uuh… come on! Why is no taxi in sight?

( It’s been two hours and I still couldn’t find my way to the Airbnb. )

( I knew Tokyo was huge, but I wasn’t expecting the transportation system to be this complicated… )

— looks at sky —

( It’s already late, huh? )

( I wonder if it’s safe for a girl to roam on these streets at this hour. Well, at least I hope it is, otherwise… )

Place: Private Night Club

Laito: Two Cosmopolitans. One for me, and one for that very fine lady over there, nfu.

Ayato: Another glass of Tequila.

Laito: Heh, another one? Is this the fifth by chance?

Ayato: I had a busy week, okay?

Laito: Ah, of course you did. After all, our Ayato-kun is the IT boy of this generation. Always swamped with brand deals, while the rest of us barely get a crumb~.

Ayato: …Not funny.

Laito: C’mon, don’t take it too seriously.

— pats his back —

I doubt any of us could care less about brand deals anyway. The idol job already pays well enough, and with barely any time for ourselves, why would we want to give up even more of our freedom?

Ayato: ( It’s not like it’s my choice though. )

Well, I can’t deny that the love I get is cool and all, but sometimes… hmm, how do I put it? It feels like people only like me because I’m an idol, y’know?

Laito: That’s to be expected, isn’t it? Fans often form a one-sided connection with idols simply because we’re constantly visible and accessible through the media, without really knowing who we are or what we’re capable of.

On top of that, you’re the visual, the face everyone admires. Who wouldn’t be drawn to someone who's not only stunning but also famous? It’s like the perfect package for embodying every girl’s fantasy.

Ayato’s monologue

Laito… he always knows what to say.

Seriously, this guy is so aware of everything around him to the point that it’s becoming unsettling.

And the worst part? He’s not just talking—he’s right, which is why it almost hurts to hear it.

At the end of the day, we idols are just puppets, carefully crafted to feed into the fans’ delusions. They don’t see us for who we truly are, but rather as a fantasy they can cling to.

And we, caught in the spotlight, are forced to live out that role.

Before becoming an idol, I was surrounded by people who kept me around because of my looks. At first, the amount of attention felt good, but as I mature, I realize just how hollow that really is.

I can’t help but wonder… if it weren’t for my appearance or status, would anyone actually treat me nicely? Would anyone be willing to accept me, flaws and all?

Heh… now I just sound stupid. As long as I’m an idol, I doubt I’ll get my answer anytime soon.

Waitress: Here we go, gentlemen. The Cosmopolitan and the Tequila.

Laito: Hello, earth to Ayato-kun, are you still in there?

— waves in front of his eyes —

Ayato: Yeah, yeah. I was just spacing out a bit.

Laito: Nfu, cheers.

Ayato: Cheers.

— they start drinking —

Ayato: Ngh…!

( My chest… it started aching! )

Laito: Hm, you good?

Ayato: Y-Yeah… I just— Ngh!

( It’s getting worse! )

I need some fresh air, that’s all.

— quickly puts on mask and cap —

I’ll be right back.

— quickly goes outside —

( Haa… Haa… what is happening…!? )

Agh… fuck!

( It hurts…! Could this be…—— )

— eyes widen —

( No… No, don’t tell me this is a real heart attack! )

Hnn… Ngh!

( What… what should I do now!? )

???: Quick! Please, drink this!!

— hands him water —

Ayato: Huh…?

— takes it and starts drinking —

???: A-Are you feeling better? I got another bottle in case you need it too.

Ayato: Haa… Haa… It’s okay now, all good.

???: Are you sure…? You really seemed in a lot of pain.

Ayato: Yeah… no worries.

( This girl… she just saved my life, didn’t she? )

By the way, uhm… thanks for that.

???: A-Ah, it’s nothing, really.

As far as I recall from my father, drinking water after alcohol can help reduce chest pain and lessen the severity of a hangover. I’m glad to see that it actually works.

Ayato: Heck yeah, I’m glad to see that it worked too, otherwise who knows how I would have ended up.

— the girl giggles —

???: You should be more careful though. Drinking too much alcohol can be very dangerous.

Ayato: ( Okay, mom. )

Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m not usually like that.

Moreover… why exactly did you help me?

???: Eh? What do you mean?

Ayato: ( Could it be that she actually recognized me? )

( My face is practically hidden behind the mask and cap, and we’re in the dark, so there’s no way she could have, right? But if she did… )

???: Uuh… I suppose it was out of pure instinct.

Ayato: Instinct, huh?

???: Yup. You see, I heard you struggling, so there was no way I could brush that off.

Ayato: Hmm… But wait a minute, what were you doing all alone at this hour?

( What if she’s a stalker then? )

???: Ah… uhm… T-That’s a bit embarrassing to say out loud.

Ayato: Oh, come on, you straight up saw me about to drop dead from drinking Tequila. There’s no way this could be more embarrassing than that.

???: Actually… today’s my first day in Tokyo, and I’ve been struggling for almost 3 hours just trying to get to my Airbnb.

I tried taking the subway, but there were way too many lines, and I got lost at some point.

As for taxis, every time I tried to flag one down, the driver just ignored me.

Ayato: ( Nevermind, I’m taking it back. This might truly be more embarrassing. )

Pfft, why didn’t you call for a cab then?

???: I couldn’t find any reliable number…

Ayato: Hmm… Alright then.

I just arranged one for you. You’ll just have to tell them your location and wait for them to get you there. There’s also no need for you to pay.

— lends her money —

???: E-Eh!? Thank you… thank you so much! But I’m sorry, I just can’t accept the money!

Ayato: Nah, it’s fine, seriously. After all, you’re the one who helped me first.

Just promise me you won’t tell anyone about what happened today. Understood?

— the girl nods —

Ayato: Heh, great. Well, I guess it was nice to meet you. Now it’s time for me to return.

???: W-Wait! I forgot to catch your name!

Ayato: …!

( So she really doesn’t know me? )

It’s——

( No… it’s too risky. )

Oh look, the cab arrived! You should hurry up!

???: But—

( He left…? )

Yui’s monologue

As the taxi started moving, I found myself looking back, almost subconsciously, hoping to catch one last glimpse of that boy.

Today had been exhausting, but despite the strange circumstances in which we met, those brief minutes spent with him were oddly comforting.

I wonder who he is and what his life is like. It feels a bit silly, I know, to be thinking so much about someone whose name I don’t even know.

But there was something in his presence that made me feel in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

Whatever it was, it stuck with me, lingering in my thoughts even after we parted ways.

My journey has only just begun, and yet I can’t shake the feeling that meeting him was no coincidence.

I really hope I get the chance to cross paths with him again.

[gotta-winwin]

Wahhhh so excited for vernon x reader!!!!!!

Can i request something like idol!jun x reader, i really miss jun 🥹🥹🥹 maybe reader is on another hybe group and him surprising him, or anything HAHAHAHAH

actor!jun x idol!reader headcannons

a/n: wasn't exactly like the prompt you gave, anon, but i hope you still enjoy! we're all in our missing jun hours sadly :(( but it feels nice knowing he's thriving in the element he loves.

your shared google calendar is a hot mess.

The two of you have busy work schedules, as you juggle upcoming comebacks, award shows, reality and variety filming, meetings with the higher-ups - the day literally never ends. Jun is the same, always trying to balance his filming gigs and promotional side quests. It’s rare for the two of you to have a day off - let alone ALIGN your days together. Trust that your shared google calendar is a battlefield filled with colorful agendas and very minimal white space. 

bad wifi is your everyday lifestyle. 

Curse Jun and his gift of choosing acting gigs where their filming locations are always in the ass-crack of nowhere. You’re both well accustomed to facetime with spotty service, delayed speech and glitchy faces. It’s turned into quite the game, as you both attempt to screenshot the worst photo of each other possible, while still maintaining your own image and reputation. It’s a pain to communicate, constantly having Jun reply to something you had said minutes ago, but you two make it work. 

dating rumors are a joke. 

With both of you being well into the social media spotlight, you’re prone to many, many dating rumors throughout your career. It’s Ateez’s Mingi one day, then TBZ’s Haknyeon the next, Jun doesn’t even bat an eye at this point. He knows who he is at the end of the day - your boyfriend. On the other hand, it’s not the first time he’s gotten an earful from you about dating rumors with his pretty costars, although he knows it’s all in good fun. All it takes is one sweet sentence to get you to fold: “it’s you I’m coming home to lao po, besides, can’t you see how forced that kiss is? I kiss you with much, much more fervor than that.” 

you see his friends more than you see him.

His friends run in the same circles as you do, all talented idols that often share your stage in performances. It’s funny to think you see them more often than you see him, although they’re always ready to tell you just how much Jun complains about your distance in their group chat, exposing you boyfriend to be the clingy lover he really is. They’ve aided you many times in sneaking away from your job to visit Jun, covering your ass so you can spend even just a couple hours with your boyfriend in China. 

planes and airports are the ideal date spot.

It’s not rare to have the two of you go on a “date” at airports, using the special time your schedules cross over to spend time with each other. The airport buffets become your picnics, the lobby fountains hear all your well kept wishes and the seating area has seen…one too many things. 

your jokes are the world’s jokes

Jun loves slipping little tidbits of your shared life into his work, nudging the writer of whatever project he’s starring in to add a couple lines referencing something only the two of you would know. He loves your shocked expression when the project finally airs to the world, his phone blowing up with loving texts as you swallow the idea that your lover has included you in his work. It’s just his talent - Jun somehow finds a way to bring you everywhere with him. 

your love is the world’s love

You would never admit it on camera, but most of your lyrics and songs are either written with or written about Jun. While everyone else is scrambling to figure out just how you do it, you and Jun can rest easy knowing it’s your shared secret, along with your secret romance. 

[fangdokja]

:D oooh, I love those things where Scara isolates the reader so that she becomes reliant on his ass. So basically, psychological torture, please?

Your body is chained, but your mind? Still free. Or is it?

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a mind game where love is a weapon and escape is impossible, you’ll learn that survival means surrendering to his twisted obsession. But as his control tightens, you’ll wonder: Are you his prisoner, or his willing prey?

♡ Book. World Ablaze (WA): For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem. Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 - Lover or Captor?

♡ Word Count. 10,821

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, psychological torture, manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, threats, BDSM, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, force feeding, uncomfortable food descriptions, control over food and water, implied kidnapping

♡ A/N. No problem. I genuinely enjoy writing all forms of torture. I’d say this is soft Scaramouche to be honest. But that’s just me. Since manipulation of circumstances pre-kidnapping is a classic (but also a traditional cliche at times), I decided to make some small fun facts on how psychological torture works in general. Also, do note that this has a different writing (especially formatting and plot progression) style from my usual works, but that’s the point… And, low-key got sick of editing this haha. But that’s nothing new. Either way, hope you guys enjoy :))

He watches you with an intensity that burns hotter than the static hum of the electro mist surrounding the enclosed space he calls home—your prison. His eyes, sharp like the edge of a newly forged blade, track every movement you make, every twitch of your fingers, every shallow breath you take. There is no escaping his scrutiny, no moment where his gaze isn’t a weight you carry as if he’s carved himself into your very existence.

“You’re trembling again,” he murmurs, his voice a lilt of mockery wrapped in silk, carrying an undercurrent of something darker. He’s closer now, the faintest scent of ozone and metal clinging to his presence. He’s always so near, yet somehow never close enough for you to strike—not that you have the strength anymore. His manipulation has bled you dry, turned your once vibrant spirit into a pale echo of itself.

“Have I scared you that much?” he continues, his tone like an echo of thunder in a storm, half-amused and wholly cruel. He kneels before you, tilting his head as if studying a particularly interesting experiment, and you wish, not for the first time, that he would lose interest in his obsession. But you know better than to hope; hope is a fragile thing here, something he’s crushed beneath his heel more times than you can count.

Your legs are bound, wrists tethered together with some unbreakable material that bites into your skin when you move too much. Not that movement helps. He’s seen to that too. The chains are just as much a part of his games as the room itself: walls painted in endless monotones, no windows, only a single dim light that flickers faintly, threatening to plunge you into complete darkness at any moment. He’s told you before that he’d like to see what the dark does to you—what he could do to you while you’re blind and helpless.

“Tell me,” he says now, his hand reaching forward to brush against your cheek. His touch is deceptively gentle, a lover’s caress that belies the brutality hiding beneath the surface. “Have you learned to appreciate me yet?”

You flinch but don’t answer. Words are a dangerous currency here. Silence earns punishment; speech earns worse. You’ve been caught in his web long enough to know the rules of his game are meant to ensure one thing: total control. But your defiance—the last ember of it—makes you cling to the belief that your silence is an act of rebellion, however small.

He chuckles lowly, the sound reverberating through the empty room. “Still so stubborn,” he muses, fingers now tracing the line of your jaw. “I admire that about you, you know. That fight in your eyes. But it’s exhausting for you, isn’t it? Fighting me? Fighting this?” He leans in, so close that you feel the ghost of his breath against your ear. “Do you think anyone’s coming for you? That they even remember you?”

Your stomach twists, a sick knot of despair and anger. His words are poison, injected carefully and methodically into your psyche.

“I erased you,” he whispers, his voice soft but cold enough to freeze your blood. “From their memories, from their lives. Your friends? Gone. Your family? They don’t even remember your face. Isn’t that a kindness, though? Sparing them the grief of losing you?”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, searching for the cracks he’s so meticulously created. “Do you hate me for it?”

You do. You hate him with a depth that frightens you. But you say nothing, your lips trembling as you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing it aloud. His expression shifts, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise perfect features, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

“Hate me all you want,” he says, his tone growing harder, sharper. “But you will love me. In the end, you always will.”

He stands, his shadow towering over you as he looks down, his smirk returning like a blade pressed to your throat. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he says, turning and heading toward the door. “But don’t take too long. I’m not a patient man.”

The door closes with a deafening finality, and you’re left alone in the dim, flickering light. Alone with your thoughts, your fear, and the suffocating realization that he’s right. He’s always right. The world has forgotten you, and all you have left is him.

And isn’t that the cruelest truth of all?

────────────

The room is a void—a cage designed not to hold your body, but to unspool your mind held by fragile thread. The walls are stark and featureless, smooth metal panels that offer no hint of escape. There are no windows, no visible doors, just the cold hum of fluorescent lights that seem to dim and brighten at random intervals, casting shadows that twist and crawl.

The air is heavy, oppressive, suffused with his presence even though he’s nowhere to be seen. You can feel him, though—lurking in the corners of your mind, a phantom stitched into your every thought. His voice crackles through the static-filled speakers embedded in the walls, sharp and invasive, like glass scraping against your skull.

“Lonely yet?”

You flinch at the sound, your knees drawing tighter to your chest. His voice is smooth and mocking, curling around your mind like barbed wire.

“I told you this is for your own good,” he continues, each word laced with a venomous sweetness. “Out there, the world would devour you. I’m saving you, little fool. But gratitude? That’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”

You press your hands over your ears, as if that could block him out. But his voice doesn’t come from the speakers anymore. It comes from everywhere. From nowhere. It vibrates in your bones, coils in your gut, whispers in the back of your skull until you’re certain it’s your own thoughts betraying you.

The silence that follows is worse. It’s his silence—calculated, suffocating, a predator’s patience as it watches its prey wear itself down. Hours stretch into days, or maybe longer. Time is meaningless here. The lack of human contact gnaws at your sanity, leaving only the relentless pounding of your heartbeat to fill the void.

Then, finally, his voice returns, and despite the fear it brings, a twisted part of you clings to it like a lifeline.

“Look at you,” he purrs, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “So fragile. So desperate. Do you see now? No one else will come for you. Only me.”

The words settle over you like ash, suffocating and final.

And then he’s there.

The walls don’t open. He doesn’t step through a door. He’s just there, as if he’s always been there, a seamless extension of the room’s nightmarish design. The dim, artificial light casts a sickly glow over his features, making him look less human and more like a living doll—perfectly crafted, flawlessly sculpted, and utterly devoid of warmth. His smile is delicate, a razor-thin line that glints with malice beneath its veneer of sweetness.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety hum that sends shivers racing down your spine.

He moves closer, his boots clicking sharply against the metallic floor. The sound is deliberate, each step a calculated reminder of his control, his dominion over this place, over you. His presence fills the room, overwhelming, suffocating.

“I wonder,” he continues, stopping just short of where you sit, “is it silence out of submission? Or defiance?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his gaze.

He crouches before you, his movements slow, fluid, and predatory. His violet eyes gleam in the half-light, shimmering with something dark and unreadable. They lock onto yours, pinning you in place, and the room seems to shrink further, the walls pressing closer until there’s nothing but him.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice a velvet glove hiding an iron fist.

Your head moves of its own accord, your body betraying you as your eyes meet his. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the sight of it is both intoxicating and nauseating.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your face. His touch is achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of tenderness, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you of his strength. Of your helplessness.

“You’ve been imagining things again, haven’t you?” he whispers, his tone almost pitying. “Seeing shadows where there are none. Hearing whispers in the dark. Poor little thing.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a scientist dissecting a specimen. The artificial light casts eerie reflections in his eyes, making them glint like shards of broken glass.

“Do you know what isolation does to the human brain?” he asks, his tone conversational, almost curious. “Deprive it of stimuli long enough, and it starts to turn on itself. Hallucinations. Paranoia. A complete collapse of the psyche.”

He leans closer, his breath brushing against your lips, his eyes boring into yours.

“But you’re not imagining me,” he says softly, his smile widening into something sharp, something cruel. “I’m as real as the blood under your nails, the bruises on your wrists.”

Your breath catches as his thumb brushes over your temple, the motion deceptively soothing. But then his fingers tighten, his nails digging into your skin.

“And do you know what the best part is?” he whispers, his voice dropping to a chilling hush. “You’ll beg for more. For me. Because I’m all you have left.”

The walls seem to close in entirely, the air growing colder, heavier, until it feels like you’re drowning in his presence. And through it all, his smile remains, a grotesque mockery of kindness, as he whispers again,

“Lonely yet?”

────────────

The camera in the corner of the room stares at you, its red light pulsing steadily like a heartbeat—like his heartbeat, if he had one. You can feel it watching, a cold, unblinking eye that absorbs every movement, every shallow breath. It’s not just the camera, though. The walls themselves seem to hum with an unseen energy, a constant reminder of the wires and devices hidden just beneath the surface, all tuned to you.

“You’ve always had a penchant for dramatics,” his voice crackles through the speaker embedded high above, sudden and sharp. You flinch, instinctively shrinking against the edge of the bed, the metal frame digging into your spine. “But let’s not make this more unpleasant than it needs to be. You know I’m only doing this for your own good.”

The static lingers, like the ghost of his presence, before dissolving into the oppressive silence that dominates your world.

———

Later, you find it—a book, an old one, its spine cracked and worn. A piece of the life you once had. The familiar weight of it in your hands brings a flicker of warmth to your chest. You don’t know how it got here or why he would allow you something so small yet so meaningful, but you don’t question it. You simply clutch it to your chest, savoring the moment.

But then, he arrives.

He stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his silhouette framed by the dim, flickering light. His eyes—those violet pools of cruelty and calculation—narrow as they land on the book in your hands.

“Where did you get that?” he asks, his voice calm, but there’s a cold edge to it, like a blade hidden in velvet.

“I—I found it,” you stammer, clutching the book tighter as if it might shield you from the inevitable.

He doesn’t move, but the air around him seems to shift, thickening with something unspoken. “Interesting,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his footsteps deliberate and measured. “You’re quite resourceful, aren’t you? Always finding ways to entertain yourself.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

When he reaches you, he kneels, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator cornering its prey. He plucks the book from your hands with deceptive gentleness, his slender fingers brushing against yours for a moment too long.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, turning the book over in his hands as though it were an artifact of immeasurable value. “A relic. A fragment of something that doesn’t exist anymore. Like you.”

His words sting, but before you can process them, he tightens his grip on the book. With a sudden, violent motion, he tears it in half, the brittle pages scattering like ash across the floor.

“Nothing from before matters,” he says, his tone cool, almost clinical, as he rises to his feet. “You don’t need distractions. You need me.”

———

That night, you try to sleep, but the room refuses to let you. The lights flicker intermittently, each burst of brightness searing your eyes through closed lids. A low, grating hum emanates from somewhere in the walls, setting your teeth on edge.

And then, the noise.

It starts as a soft, rhythmic tapping, like the distant sound of rain against glass. But it grows louder, more insistent, until it feels like it’s coming from inside your skull. You bolt upright, your breath ragged, your body drenched in cold sweat.

“You’re restless,” his voice coos from the speaker, smooth and mocking. “Didn’t I tell you to rest? Or are you defying me again?”

“I—stop it,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Stop what?” he replies, feigning innocence. “You’re imagining things again. Poor thing. You really should trust me more. I can help you.”

The noise stops abruptly, leaving an aching silence in its wake. You collapse back onto the bed, your body too exhausted to fight anymore.

———

The next morning, you stumble into the small, sterile kitchenette, your limbs heavy with fatigue. The stove is on—flames licking at the edges of a pan you don’t remember lighting. The smell of something burning fills the air, acrid and choking.

“Careless,” he says, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed. “You could’ve burned the whole place down.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“No excuses,” he snaps, his voice sharp as a whip. “You’re lucky I caught it in time. Do you see now why you can’t be trusted? Why you need me?”

You want to argue, to scream that it wasn’t you, that he must have done it himself. But the words die in your throat as his gaze pierces through you, cold and unrelenting.

────────────

The silence stretches into infinity, interrupted only by your own ragged breaths and the phantom echoes of his voice that claw at your psyche. You don’t know when he’ll speak again or if he’s watching, but the not knowing is part of the torment.

When his voice finally breaks the silence, it’s so sudden and sharp it feels like the snap of a guillotine.

“Still holding onto hope, are you?” His voice is soft, almost tender, a cruel mockery of comfort. “I admire your persistence. It’s… quaint.”

His tone is calm, calculated, each word chosen with the precision of a scalpel. It cuts through the fog in your mind, forcing you to confront the reality he’s woven around you.

“You think someone’s coming for you?” he continues, his voice dripping with incredulity. “How adorably naïve. Do you even remember what it’s like out there? The noise, the chaos, the endless parade of fools clawing at one another for scraps of meaning. I’ve spared you from that, haven’t I?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The lump in your throat feels like it’s suffocating you, and the weight of his words presses down on your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.

“Nothing to say?” he muses. “That’s fine. I prefer you this way—quiet. It suits you.”

———

You didn’t hear a door open. Didn’t hear the telltale click of boots against the floor. One moment you’re alone, and the next he’s standing there, a figure carved from shadow and disdain. The dim light paints him in stark relief, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the cold glint in his violet eyes.

“I’ve been generous with you,” he says, his voice low and steady, like the distant rumble of thunder. He steps closer, each movement precise, deliberate, as though he’s stalking prey. “I’ve given you time to adjust, to see the truth. But you…” His lips curl into a faint smirk, though there’s no humor in it. “…You insist on clinging to those foolish little scraps of defiance.”

You flinch as he crouches before you, his gaze leveling with yours. His expression is unreadable, a mask of icy detachment that barely conceals the storm simmering beneath.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “What exactly are you holding onto? A memory? A promise? Hope?”

He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies you with an intensity that feels like it could peel back your skin, exposing every raw nerve beneath.

“You don’t even know, do you?” he says, almost pitying. “You’re just… grasping. Blind and desperate. It’s pathetic, really.”

His hand reaches out, and you flinch again, but he doesn’t touch you. Instead, his fingers hover just above your face, as though he’s considering it, savoring the moment.

“You’re so fragile,” he breathes, his tone a mix of fascination and contempt. “It wouldn’t take much to break you, you know. A little pressure here…” His hand shifts, his fingers ghosting over your temple. “…And here.”

His other hand moves to hover over your throat, and your breath catches.

“But where’s the fun in that?” he muses, withdrawing his hands with a slow, deliberate grace. “Breaking you would be easy. No. I want you to understand.”

He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate whisper.

“I want you to know that every moment you spend here is a gift. My gift. And when you finally shatter, when you finally look at me with nothing but submission in those eyes…” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk sharpening into something vicious. “…That’s when you’ll understand. That’s when you’ll thank me.”

The air feels thicker, heavier, suffused with his presence. The room spins around you, the walls closing in, the ground tilting beneath you. And through it all, his voice lingers, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.

“No one else will come for you,” he says, standing to his full height, towering over you. “No one else can. It’s just you and me now. Forever.”

He turns to leave—or does he? The edges of your vision blur, the lines between reality and nightmare dissolving as his voice echoes through the void one last time.

“Stop fighting it, little fool. Stop fighting me.”

────────────

The first thing you notice when you wake is the cold. It bites into your skin, gnaws at your bones, wrapping itself around you like a second, crueler layer of flesh. The thin, threadbare shift you wear does nothing to shield you from it, the fabric clinging to your body with a dampness that reeks of mildew and despair.

The blankets are gone again. He always takes them when you displease him.

Your stomach churns with the memory of his last visit—the quiet menace in his voice, the way he tilted his head as he watched you scramble to piece together what was left of your broken dignity.

“You want comfort?” he had said, his tone laced with derision. “Earn it.”

You had begged—how could you not?—but he only smiled, a thin, sharp curve of his lips that cut deeper than any blade. And then he was gone, taking with him not only the blankets but the small, chipped bowl you had been using to collect water from the condensation that dripped sporadically from the ceiling.

Now, the thirst claws at your throat, dry and insistent. You press your lips together, trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible. Every breath feels like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh.

———

When he finally returns, it’s without fanfare. The door—a seamless part of the wall when shut—slides open with a faint hiss, and he steps inside, his violet eyes sharp and calculating. He’s carrying something this time: a bundle of what looks like clothing, though you’ve learned not to trust appearances.

“You look worse than usual,” he remarks, his gaze sweeping over you like a scientist observing a failed experiment. “Pathetic.”

You flinch at the word, but you don’t respond. Experience has taught you that anything you say will only feed his twisted sense of superiority.

He crouches before you, placing the bundle on the floor between you. It’s not clothing, you realize, but a single, thick blanket. It looks warm, inviting—an impossible luxury in this place.

“Do you want it?” he asks, his voice soft, almost coaxing.

You hesitate, your body aching for the warmth it promises. But you know better than to trust him.

“What do you want me to do?” you whisper, your voice hoarse from disuse.

His smile sharpens, a flash of white against the shadows of his face. “You’re learning,” he murmurs. “Good.”

He stands, taking a step back and gesturing to the far corner of the room. There, you see it: a tray of food, simple but sufficient—bread, water, a small portion of fruit. Your stomach growls at the sight, a humiliating reminder of your hunger.

“Eat,” he says, his tone light, as if he’s offering you a gift.

You don’t move. It’s too easy. There’s always a catch.

He chuckles, a low, mirthless sound. “Ah, still suspicious. How charming.”

He walks to the tray and picks up the cup of water, holding it up to the dim light as if inspecting it. Then, without warning, he tilts it, letting the liquid spill onto the floor.

“No!” The word escapes you before you can stop it, a raw, desperate plea.

He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Prove to me,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that you deserve it. That you can follow simple instructions.”

“What do you want?” you ask again, your voice trembling.

His gaze narrows, and he steps closer, the soles of his boots crushing the bread beneath them as he walks. He crouches before you again, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

“Crawl,” he says simply.

The word hangs in the air, a command and a taunt all at once.

Your body stiffens, shame warring with desperation.

“Crawl,” he repeats, his voice harder this time, the veneer of gentleness cracking to reveal the steel beneath.

You hesitate, and his smile returns, cruel and mocking. “Or don’t,” he says, standing and turning away. “But don’t think I’ll be so generous again.”

———

The air in your prison grows colder with each passing day. The concrete floor seems to suck the warmth from your body, leaving you shivering in the thin, threadbare clothing he’s allotted you. Blankets are a luxury, one he dangles before you like bait on a hook. Hygiene products—soap, a toothbrush, even clean water—are rationed out like rare treasures, rewards for obedience that always seem just out of reach.

He watches you from the shadows, a silent predator waiting for the moment your spirit cracks. The sound of his voice is worse than the silence. It’s a scalpel, peeling away layers of your resistance with surgical precision.

“You look uncomfortable,” he remarks one day, his voice lilting with mock concern. He steps into the dim light, his figure framed by the cold, sterile glow. “How long has it been since you last had a proper shower? Days? Weeks?” He smiles, the expression brittle and sharp. “I could help with that, you know. All you have to do is ask.”

You say nothing, your eyes fixed on the floor, but he sees the flicker of humiliation in your expression, and it feeds him.

“No?” He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Still so proud, even now. Admirable, really. But pride won’t keep you warm. Or clean. Or alive.”

────────────

When the door finally hisses open, the sound sharp and invasive, you don’t lift your head. But you feel his presence immediately, a dark, oppressive weight that fills the room. His footsteps are soft but deliberate, each one echoing like the tolling of a bell. And then he speaks, his voice low and smooth, a dark current beneath deceptively calm waters.

“You’re looking pale again,” he remarks, his tone laced with mockery that twists your stomach. You don’t answer, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, but he doesn’t need your response to continue. He never does. “Have you been refusing to eat? Or is it the water? You’ve always been so ungrateful, haven’t you?”

A shadow falls over you as he comes closer, and the sharp scent of ozone and something faintly chemical hits your nostrils. You flinch when his hand, cold and unyielding, grips your chin, forcing your face upward. His violet eyes gleam with a sick kind of amusement as he tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under glass.

“Thirsty?” he asks softly, almost gently, though there’s no mistaking the sadistic edge beneath his words. He reaches into the folds of his dark, flowing attire and retrieves a small, glass vial. It gleams in the dim light, the liquid inside as clear as crystal but no less threatening for its purity. “I brought you something special today.”

He crouches before you, setting the vial down on the floor with a deliberate clink. Then, with an almost theatrical flourish, he places a tall glass beside it, already half-filled with water. “Drink,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. “Go on. You must be parched.”

You hesitate, your body trembling as you glance at the glass. It feels like a trap—no, you know it’s a trap—but your throat burns with the dry, relentless ache of dehydration. It’s been days since he last offered you anything, the air in the room deliberately kept too dry, leeching the moisture from your body like some cruel experiment.

When you don’t move, his smirk widens, and he leans in, close enough that you can feel the chill of his breath against your skin. “Do you think I’d poison you?” he whispers, his tone almost tender, though the words slice into you like broken glass. “That I’d let you go so easily? Oh, no, little doll. If I wanted to destroy you, I’d make it far slower. Far more… personal.”

The implication chills you to your core, but the thirst gnaws at you with an intensity that borders on madness. You reach for the glass, your fingers trembling so violently you nearly knock it over. He watches with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving your face as you lift it to your lips.

The water is cold, colder than it has any right to be, and it slides down your throat like liquid ice. But then, the taste hits—metallic, sharp, and tinged with something acrid that makes your stomach churn. You gag, dropping the glass with a shattering crash, but it’s too late. The liquid burns as it courses through you, a searing pain that spreads from your throat to your chest, your stomach, your limbs.

He doesn’t flinch at the sound of the breaking glass. If anything, his expression grows darker, more triumphant, as he leans back on his heels, folding his arms across his chest. “How does it feel?” he asks, his tone almost conversational, as though he’s asking about the weather. “The sensation of your body rejecting what it so desperately craves? Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Your vision blurs with tears as you clutch your stomach, the pain radiating outward in waves. You want to scream, to beg, to curse him, but your voice catches in your throat, choked off by the bile rising within you. He watches it all with the calm detachment of a scientist observing a particularly interesting reaction, his head tilted slightly, his lips curved in a faint smile.

“Ah, but don’t worry,” he says after a moment, his voice softening in a way that’s even more sinister. “It won’t kill you. I wouldn’t waste such a useful tool on something as permanent as death.” He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch cold and clinical despite the faux tenderness in his movements. “No, little doll, this is simply a reminder. A lesson.”

He leans in closer, so close you can feel the oppressive weight of his presence pressing down on you. “You don’t survive without me. Do you understand that now? Every breath you take, every drop of water you drink, every bite of food that passes your lips—it all comes from me. And it can all be taken away just as easily.”

The pain begins to subside, leaving you weak, trembling, and utterly broken. He stands, brushing off his knees as though he’s finished with some menial task. “Rest, if you can,” he says, his voice light and mocking once more as he turns toward the door. “You’ll need your strength for the next lesson.”

The door closes behind him with a resounding clang, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room. Alone with the lingering burn in your throat, the taste of poison on your tongue, and the sick, suffocating knowledge that he’s right.

You don’t survive without him.

────────────

The silence he left behind had weight—a crushing, suffocating thing that pressed against your chest until your breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps. Days stretched into nights, and nights into something darker still, where time seemed to lose its grip and your mind unraveled thread by fragile thread.

But then came the voice.

At first, it was a whisper—a delicate breeze brushing against the edges of your consciousness. Soft, insidious, and almost gentle.

“Did you miss me, little doll?”

Your heart stopped, then hammered violently against your ribs. You spun toward the sound, eyes darting across the empty room. Shadows stretched unnaturally, pooling in corners like ink spilled across parchment.

There was no one there.

But the voice persisted, lilting and melodic, curling around your thoughts like smoke. “Poor thing,” it cooed. “You look so lost. So lonely. Didn’t I promise I’d always come back for you?”

“No,” you rasped, clutching your head, fingers digging into your scalp as though you could claw him out of your mind. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

The laughter that followed was low, rich, and agonizingly familiar. It reverberated through the empty space, vibrating against your skull like a tuning fork.

“Not real?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, my little doll, you wound me. But perhaps I’ve been too kind. Let me remind you.”

The world around you shifted—imperceptibly at first, like the faint sensation of vertigo. Then it hit. The walls groaned and shuddered, the fluorescent light overhead flickering wildly. The air grew heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. You stumbled, your knees buckling as the ground seemed to ripple beneath your feet.

When the flickering stopped, he was there. Or was he?

His face hovered just out of reach, a phantom etched in shadow and smoke, his violet eyes glinting like shards of broken glass. He was leaning in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath unnaturally cold.

“Tell me, doll,” he murmured, his voice velvet and venom, “do you still think I’m not real?”

You screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the silence. You clawed at the walls, at your face, your nails scraping skin as you tried to banish him from your senses. But the voice only grew louder, more insistent, wrapping itself around you like a shroud.

When he finally stepped into the light, the sight of him sent your stomach plummeting. His coat trailed behind him like the wings of some unholy predator, his silhouette framed in a distorted, sickly glow. He tilted his head, a parody of curiosity, and smiled.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, gesturing to the marks on the walls, the bloodied crescents under your nails. “What is it you’re trying to escape from, hmm?”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, your chest heaving. “You weren’t here,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I heard you, but you weren’t here. You were—”

“Everywhere,” he finished for you, his smile widening. “And nowhere. Isn’t it delightful? How fragile your mind has become?”

He took a step closer, his boots clicking against the floor in a deliberate, measured rhythm. Each sound drove a spike of dread deeper into your chest.

“But don’t worry,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost tender. “I’m here now. Let’s forget all about those nasty little thoughts, shall we?”

His hand reached out, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from your face. The gesture was achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of affection. His touch left a burning, icy trail against your skin.

“You look so distressed,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Have you been imagining things again? Seeing shadows where there are none? Hearing whispers in the dark?”

You wanted to scream, to lash out, but your body betrayed you, rooted in place as his fingers ghosted over your cheek.

“No need to answer,” he said with a sigh, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

And then the illusion shattered.

His hand wasn’t on your face—it was inside your skull. You felt the sharp, electric jolt of something foreign scraping against your brain, an icy tendril of invasive thought slithering into the deepest recesses of your mind. Memories warped and twisted under his touch, familiar faces dissolving into grotesque, melting horrors.

“You see,” he whispered, his voice echoing within you now, “there’s no escape from me. Not in the silence, not in the noise. I’m in every breath you take, every blink, every beat of that fragile little heart.”

You sobbed, the sound choking in your throat as the room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of distorted images. Blood seeped from the walls, viscous and dark, pooling at your feet. You felt it creeping up your legs, cold and sentient, wrapping around you like chains.

And still, he smiled.

“Did you miss me?” he asked again, his voice slicing through the chaos. This time, there was no room for denial. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against your lips as he whispered, “I missed you, little doll. And I’ll never leave you again.”

────────────

The tray lands on the table with a resounding clang, a sound that reverberates through the suffocating silence of the room. The metallic echo seems to burrow into your skull, as if the very air conspires to mock your helplessness. He stands above you, a silhouette of unyielding authority, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

"You should be grateful," he murmurs, his voice smooth and calculated, like a scalpel slicing through flesh. The faint trace of a smirk curls his lips, his tone dripping with condescension. "I went to such great lengths to prepare this. Just for you."

Your gaze falls to the tray, and the bile rises instantly in your throat. The abomination before you masquerades as food, a grotesque parody of sustenance that seems alive in the most horrifying ways. The slabs of meat glisten unnaturally, their surfaces marred by oozing black lesions that seep a thick, tar-like substance. A faint stench rises from them, sharp and putrid, a rancid blend of decay and chemicals.

Nestled beside the meat is a mound of gray paste, its texture like wet cement, flecked with jagged shards of something white—bone? Teeth? You can’t tell, and you don’t want to. The greens are no better: wilted, slimy, and crawling with tiny, wriggling creatures. The bugs move lazily, their segmented bodies glistening under the harsh fluorescent light, their sluggish movements taunting your growing horror.

“You’re staring,” he says, his tone lilting, almost playful. He leans in closer, his sharp features framed by the dim, artificial glow. "What’s the matter? Not to your liking? It’s safe, you know. Perfectly edible. Nutrient-dense, even."

You swallow hard, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Every fiber of your being screams at you to run, to scream, to do something, but you can’t. His presence roots you to the chair, your limbs heavy with the weight of his control.

“Don’t think I’ll let you starve, little doll.” His voice drops, the endearment laced with venom. He picks up the fork, prodding at the meat. The action elicits a sickening squelch as the black liquid pools beneath it, the viscous substance clinging to the metal tines like molasses. “Go on,” he urges, his tone soft but edged with malice. “Eat.”

Your shaking hands reach for the fork, but your grip falters. The metal feels impossibly cold, a physical manifestation of your dread. You stab at the meat, and its rubbery texture fights back, resisting your every attempt to cut it. When you finally manage to tear off a piece, the smell intensifies, a cloying wave of rot and iron that makes your vision blur with nausea.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You will eat every bite. I won’t tolerate waste.”

Your lips part reluctantly, and the moment the meat touches your tongue, the taste assaults you. It’s rancid, the flavor an overwhelming mix of decay and metallic bitterness. You gag instinctively, your body convulsing as you try to spit it out, but he’s faster. His hand clamps over your mouth, his grip iron-tight.

"Swallow," he hisses, his breath cold against your ear. The word is sharp, absolute. Tears stream down your face as you force the foul lump down, your throat convulsing violently around it. The moment it settles in your stomach, a heavy, alien weight, he releases you with a cruel smile.

“Good,” he purrs, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “But we’re not done yet.”

He picks up the gray paste next, scooping a heaping forkful. The gritty, slimy mass clings to the metal like glue, its acrid stench burning your nostrils. Without warning, he presses it against your lips, smearing the substance across your skin when you try to turn away.

“Open,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. His other hand grips your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and he shoves the paste inside. It coats your tongue, the texture gritty and uneven, punctuated by the horrifying crunch of the shards within. You don’t want to think about what they might be. You retch, but his unyielding gaze pins you in place.

“Chew,” he orders, his voice devoid of patience now. When you hesitate, his grip on your jaw tightens, the pain sharp and immediate. “Chew.”

You obey, the shards cutting into your gums as the paste coats your mouth in an unholy mix of textures and tastes. When you finally swallow, it feels like swallowing broken glass, the jagged edges scraping their way down.

“Such a good little doll,” he croons mockingly, his fingers stroking your cheek in a grotesque parody of affection. His eyes glint with dark satisfaction as he gestures to the greens. “Finish it.”

The slimy leaves glisten under the light, their surfaces writhing with life. The tiny creatures embedded within them squirm and twitch, their segmented bodies pulsing faintly. He picks up a forkful and holds it before you, the bugs wriggling and falling off the edges, their tiny legs scrambling for purchase.

“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and trembling. It’s the first word you’ve dared to speak, but it’s a mistake.

His expression hardens instantly, his smile vanishing. He grips your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force, and presses the fork against your lips. “You don’t get to say no,” he snarls. “You will eat. Every. Last. Bite.”

The greens and their crawling passengers are shoved into your mouth, the slime coating your tongue and the bugs wriggling against your teeth. You chew reluctantly, each bite filling you with a fresh wave of nausea as the creatures burst, their insides bitter and sickly. Some continue to move, their twitching bodies sliding down your throat even as you swallow.

By the time the tray is empty, you’re shaking violently, tears streaming down your face as your stomach churns with the unholy concoction. He watches with satisfaction, his smirk returning as he steps back.

“Well done,” he says, his tone almost congratulatory. He sets the tray aside and crouches before you, his fingers brushing against your tear-streaked cheek. “See? You can do as you’re told.”

You stare at him, hollow and broken, the taste of his twisted meal lingering on your tongue. When he finally leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, the oppressive silence returns, and you crumble, your body wracked with dry sobs.

The food sits heavy in your stomach, a grotesque reminder of your helplessness. You know he’ll return tomorrow with something worse. He always does.

────────────

The sterile air of the room feels heavier today, pressing against your chest like invisible hands. You can’t shake the unease, the gnawing sensation that something is wrong, even more so than usual. It’s in the silence that stretches just a beat too long, in the flicker of the overhead light that seems timed to your uneven breaths.

Then, the door opens, and he steps inside with the quiet elegance of someone who knows he doesn’t need to announce his presence. Scaramouche. His name alone sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

He looks the same as always—poised, meticulous, as if every strand of hair and every fold of his outfit had been arranged with precision. But today, there’s something different in his eyes, something colder, more calculating.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his tone almost conversational, as if you’re old friends catching up. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You don’t answer. You’ve learned by now that anything you say can and will be twisted, reshaped into a weapon aimed at you.

He sighs, a sound filled with exaggerated disappointment, and steps closer. The room feels smaller with each measured step he takes, until he’s standing just a breath away, towering over you like a shadow.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, tilting his head slightly, the motion almost childlike but laced with menace. “You haven’t been entirely honest with me, have you?”

Your heart stutters. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I saw the way you looked at me yesterday. The resentment, the defiance. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupts, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “And it hurt me. It hurt us.”

His words sink into your chest like daggers, each one meticulously placed to draw the maximum amount of guilt and confusion. You know he’s lying—there was no resentment, no defiance—but the certainty in his voice, the way he says it as though it’s an undeniable truth, makes you doubt yourself.

“Do you know how hard I work to keep you safe?” he continues, crouching down so his face is level with yours. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? And this is how you repay me? With distrust? With hatred?”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t you?” His smile widens, cruel and mocking. “Then why do you keep trying to hurt me? Why do you keep betraying me?”

Your mind races, desperately trying to piece together what he’s accusing you of, but there’s nothing to grasp onto, no crime to confess.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice trembling.

His eyes darken, and he leans in closer, so close you can feel the chill radiating off him. “No?” he whispers, his tone dripping with venom. “Then why do I feel like you’re lying?”

────────────

The first time you see him again, it’s through a haze of adrenaline and fear, your limbs trembling as you push yourself upright. The sound of boots pounding on the concrete echoes like gunshots in the cavernous space. Everything smells like oil and blood and something metallic you can’t quite place.

He bursts through the shattered doorway, his dark silhouette haloed by the dying embers of light spilling from the outside. His eyes, sharp as a blade’s edge, scan the room until they lock onto you, crumpled in the corner, battered and bleeding.

“I told you not to wander off,” he says, his tone more exasperated than angry. But there’s something underneath it—an undercurrent of urgency, of barely contained panic.

Before you can respond, he’s kneeling in front of you, his gloved hands moving with precision as he checks for injuries. His touch is cold, clinical, but his gaze burns with something raw and unspoken.

“You could’ve died,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to you if I hadn’t gotten here in time?”

The words hit you like a blow. You remember the men who dragged you here, their faces masked but their intentions clear. You remember their laughter, the way they circled you like predators, and the sickening certainty that no one was coming to save you.

And yet, here he is.

“Why…?” Your voice cracks, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “How did you find me?”

He pauses, his hands stilling as he meets your gaze. “Because I always find you,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re mine to protect. No one else cares enough to keep you safe, to pull you back from the brink every time you stumble into danger.”

You should feel grateful—relieved, even—but his words don’t sit right. They coil around your mind like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each repetition.

———

Days later, after he’s taken you back to the sterile confinement of your “safe place,” the cracks in the story begin to show.

You wake up screaming, your dreams plagued by shadowy figures and muffled threats. The first thing you see is him, sitting in the corner of the room, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Still having nightmares?” he asks, his tone calm but laced with faint condescension.

You nod, your throat too dry to speak.

He stands, walking over to you with measured steps. “I warned you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The world out there is cruel, unrelenting. They don’t care about you like I do. That’s why you need to stay here, where I can protect you.”

“But—” you start, the words dying in your throat as his gaze sharpens.

“But nothing,” he snaps, though his voice never rises. “Do you remember what happened? What they said they’d do to you? Or are you already twisting it in your head to make me the villain again?”

You flinch, the accusation stinging even though you know it isn’t fair. “I didn’t say that,” you whisper.

He leans closer, his presence suffocating. “But you thought it,” he murmurs. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it all over your face.”

The conversation leaves you shaken, his words gnawing at the edges of your mind. Had you misunderstood him? Was he right?

———

The next day, you notice something strange. The small, cracked mirror on the wall—the one you’ve stared into countless times, trying to find traces of the person you used to be—looks different. The crack is gone, the glass pristine, almost too pristine.

You press your fingers against it, your reflection wavering slightly. “Was this always here?” you mutter to yourself.

“It was,” his voice answers from behind you, making you jump.

You turn to find him leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed and an infuriating smirk on his face. “Are you doubting your memory now?”

“I…” You hesitate, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to think clearly.

“Maybe it’s the stress,” he continues, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “Trauma does funny things to the mind. Makes you see things that aren’t there, remember things that didn’t happen.”

He stops just inches away, his hand brushing against your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and imprisoning. “But don’t worry,” he says softly. “That’s why I’m here—to keep you grounded, to make sure you don’t lose yourself completely.”

———

Over time, the little inconsistencies pile up: a drawer that seems to shift its contents overnight, a diary you swore you wrote in that now sits blank, the faint smell of antiseptic that lingers on your skin despite not remembering any wounds.

“You’re imagining things,” he says whenever you bring it up. “Do you want me to get the doctor again? You remember what he said last time—about your delusions?”

The mention of the doctor shuts you down. You remember the cold metal of the examination table, the too-bright lights, the clinical detachment in the doctor’s voice as he listed off your supposed symptoms.

“You’re not well,” he had said, his tone devoid of compassion. “But with time, and the right care, you can recover.”

And who had been there to hold your hand through it all? Who had whispered reassurances in your ear, promising that he’d never let anyone hurt you?

Him.

Always him.

———

One day, he takes you outside—or what he claims is outside. The sky is gray, the air heavy with the acrid smell of smoke. There’s no one around, just endless stretches of concrete and metal, like the remnants of a city that never finished being built.

“This is what’s left,” he says, gesturing to the desolation around you. “You wanted freedom? Here it is. Go ahead. See how far you get.”

You take a hesitant step forward, then another, the silence pressing in on you like a physical weight. But the farther you walk, the more it feels wrong. The same twisted tree looms in the distance no matter which direction you turn.

“It’s a loop,” you whisper, realization dawning like a shard of glass slicing through your thoughts.

He steps up behind you, his breath warm against your ear. “It’s safety,” he corrects. “And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”

You sink to your knees, the weight of his words crushing you.

Because deep down, you know he’s right. There’s no way out.

────────────

The “gifts” arrive in silence, placed delicately where you can’t ignore them. They are always wrong in ways that make your stomach churn—a photograph from a vacation you can almost remember, the faces distorted into grotesque smears as if melted under the heat of his touch. A trinket you once cherished, now fractured or tarnished beyond recognition, its edges sharp enough to cut. A letter written in your own handwriting, the words rearranged into senseless patterns, like a code you’re too far gone to crack.

You don’t want to touch them, but you do, every time. They feel like a thread tying you to the world you left behind, even as the thread frays in your trembling hands.

Today, it’s a letter. A crumpled piece of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges, that wasn’t there when you closed your eyes to the oppressive dimness hours—or was it days?—ago. The words shift as you read, the ink bleeding into itself until sentences collapse into meaningless blotches.

“It’s all gone, you know,” his voice cuts through the silence, a dagger laced with mockery.

You whip around, the paper crinkling in your grip as you face him. He’s standing in the doorway—or at least, where a doorway would be if this room obeyed the laws of reason. His silhouette is backlit by a faint, sterile glow that gives him an otherworldly edge, making him seem more phantom than man.

His smirk widens as he steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his boots echoing against the cold floor. “Everything you had. Everyone you loved.” He pauses, tilting his head as if savoring your reaction. “I made sure of it.”

His words pierce through you, sharp and unrelenting, a scalpel carving away at your hope. Your hands shake, the letter slipping from your grasp and fluttering to the ground.

“I don’t believe you,” you manage to whisper, though your voice wavers under the weight of his presence.

“Oh?” His tone drips with amusement as he crouches before you, his violet eyes glinting with something dark and twisted. He picks up the letter, smoothing it out with a precision that feels mocking, before holding it out to you again. “Then tell me—what does it say?”

You stare at the paper, the lines of ink writhing like living things under his gaze. The harder you look, the more the words evade you, slipping through the cracks of your comprehension like grains of sand.

“Nothing?” he presses, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “How tragic. And here I thought this might bring you comfort.”

He straightens, looming over you as his smirk softens into something almost tender—almost. “But you don’t need those relics, do you? Memories are just burdens, after all. And I…” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it feels like a mockery of affection. “…am here to unburden you.”

You recoil, pressing yourself against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. His hand lingers in the air for a moment before he withdraws it, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

“You have me now,” he says, his voice calm, measured, but with an undercurrent of something that makes your skin crawl. “And isn’t that enough?”

———

You don’t answer. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, until he chuckles—a low, mirthless sound that vibrates through the room.

“No?” He turns his back to you, pacing with the languid grace of someone who knows they’ve already won. “Ungrateful to the end, I see. Typical.”

He stops near the far wall, his hand trailing across its surface as if feeling for a seam. The room responds to him, a soft click reverberating through the air as a hidden compartment slides open. From within, he pulls another “gift”—a locket this time, small and tarnished, the metal warped as though crushed under immense pressure.

He holds it up, letting it dangle from his fingers as he turns back to you. “Do you recognize this?”

Your heart clenches at the sight of it, the faint glint of its once-polished surface sparking a memory so vivid it feels like a slap. You don’t answer, but he sees the recognition in your eyes, and his smile sharpens into something predatory.

“You kept this with you always, didn’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, almost reverent. “So sentimental. So human.”

He steps closer, dangling the locket just out of reach. “And yet, it couldn’t save you, could it?” His smile falters for a split second, a flicker of something bitter crossing his features before his mask of cold amusement snaps back into place.

He drops the locket at your feet, the sound of metal striking the floor echoing in the silence. “Take it,” he commands, his voice suddenly hard, sharp enough to cut.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for it. The moment your fingers close around the cold, misshapen metal, his boot comes down next to your hand, so close you can feel the air shift.

“But remember,” he says, his voice low and venomous, “everything you touch, everything you remember—it’s mine now. Just like you.”

His words sink into your mind like hooks, tearing at your resolve as he turns and disappears into the void he came from, leaving you alone with the locket and the crushing weight of his truth.

———

You want to say no. You want to scream it, to hurl the word at him with every ounce of strength you have left. But the word sticks in your throat, a jagged shard of glass you can’t swallow or spit out.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He doesn’t need to. The smirk that plays at the corners of his lips tells you he already knows.

“You’ll see,” he murmurs, his tone almost reverent now, as though speaking of a truth so profound it defies comprehension. “In time, you’ll come to understand. I’m all you have. All you’ll ever need.”

He steps back, his boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that echoes like a heartbeat—your heartbeat, weak and faltering.

“Do try to appreciate my generosity,” he says over his shoulder as he moves toward the shadows. “These little gifts of mine… they’re not just for you, you know. They’re for me, too. A reminder of how far you’ve come.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the letter, the photograph, the watch. Alone with the fragmented remains of a life you can no longer remember.

The lights flicker again, plunging the room into darkness.

His voice lingers, though, soft and venomous, a ghost that refuses to leave.

“Gratitude, little fool. That’s all I ask.”

────────────

The room you’ve been confined to has changed again. Not in any tangible way—no new walls, no new objects—but in the oppressive way it seems to warp around you, making even its empty expanse feel too small. It’s as though the walls breathe, inhaling your will and exhaling despair. The only constant is him. Scaramouche, who looms like a god in a world of his own creation.

He stands before you now, framed by the stark artificial light, his expression unreadable. Every movement, every glance he spares is a study in calculated perfection, as though he’s rehearsed this scene in his mind countless times before bringing it to life.

“You’ve made progress,” he begins, his tone soft, almost kind. “I can see it in the way you’ve stopped resisting.” He kneels to your level, his hands clasped neatly on his bent knee. “But we still have work to do.”

You flinch as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist. His touch is light, fleeting, yet it feels like chains being wrapped around your bones.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice dipping into something more intimate, more poisonous. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate, your lips parting but refusing to form the words. The question isn’t innocent; you know that by now. It’s a trap.

Scaramouche’s smile deepens, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your stomach churn. “I see,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “You’re still clinging to it. That identity. That name. That life.” His gaze sharpens, cutting through you like glass. “How selfish.”

“I’m not selfish,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling.

“Aren’t you?” he counters, rising to his feet. He begins to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his every step deliberate and echoing in the oppressive silence. “You insist on holding onto a version of yourself that no longer exists. Do you know how exhausting that is for me? Watching you struggle, knowing you’ll never succeed?”

His words are a scalpel, precise and cutting. “Let me simplify things for you,” he continues, his tone lightening as though he’s offering a gift. “You don’t need a name. Names are for people who belong to the world, and you…” He pauses, turning to face you fully, his violet eyes glowing with an unearthly intensity. “You belong to me.”

The words hang heavy in the air, suffocating you in their finality. He kneels again, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Say it,” he commands, his voice velvet and steel. “Say you’re mine.”

You shake your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “I—I’m not—”

His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of his power. “Say it,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

When you don’t respond, he sighs, releasing you and rising once more. “You still don’t understand,” he says, his voice tinged with disappointment. “But that’s alright. I’ll help you. I always help you, don’t I?”

———

The next morning, you wake to find everything in the room gone—your blanket, the single chair you’d been allowed to sit on, even the thin mattress you’d been sleeping on. The floor beneath you is cold, unyielding, and utterly barren.

When Scaramouche arrives, his expression is one of practiced pity. He crouches down, inspecting you like a scientist observing a fragile experiment. “It’s painful, isn’t it?” he says softly. “To have everything stripped away. But it’s necessary. You have to learn that those things were only weighing you down.”

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice breaking.

“Because I care,” he replies without hesitation. “Because I want you to be free.” He tilts his head, his gaze softening in a way that feels like mockery. “Don’t you see? I’m saving you from the prison of your own mind. The sooner you let go of who you were, the sooner you’ll find peace.”

You don’t respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He rises to his full height, towering over you like a judge delivering a sentence. “I’ll leave you to think,” he says, his tone light but his words laced with menace. “But remember: the only way out of this is through me.”

———

Days pass—or maybe weeks; it’s impossible to tell. The walls seem to close in more each day, their featureless expanse a blank canvas for the chaos in your mind. You begin to question everything: your memories, your sense of self, even your sanity.

One day, Scaramouche returns with a new “gift.” It’s a mirror, small and oval, its edges gilded in a way that feels almost mocking. He sets it before you with a flourish, his smile unreadable.

“Look,” he says simply.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for the mirror. When you finally raise it to your face, you barely recognize the person staring back. Your skin is pale, your eyes hollow, your hair disheveled. You look…empty.

“Do you see now?” he murmurs, crouching beside you. “This is who you are. Who you’ve always been. The world out there didn’t care about you. It chewed you up and spat you out. But I…” He pauses, his gaze locking onto yours in the reflection. “I’m the one who picked up the pieces. I’m the one who’s here for you.”

Tears stream down your face, and you don’t even know why. His words are poison, but they seep into the cracks of your mind, filling the void with something dark and insidious.

“You’ll thank me someday,” he says, his voice soft and almost tender. “When you finally see the truth. When you finally understand that I’m your savior.”

He takes the mirror from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels both possessive and gentle. “But until then,” he says, rising to his feet, “you’ll stay here, where you belong. With me.”

────────────

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[uconnwbbcrashout]

last winter break

chapter iii: “i think i’m gonna kiss you”

paige x azzi

word count: 6.5k

content: swearing, some fluffy banter, and a healthy dose of angst

chapter list: here

author’s notes: after a long wait, it’s finally here!! i wanna apologize for the 100th time for how long this took me to write. as you can tell by the word count compared to chapters i & ii, this one kinda got out of hand. but i'm happy w/ how it turned out and i hope it's worth the wait!! :) enjoy!

Winter 2022-2023

AZ: hey, i saw the news

AZ: about your acl i mean

AZ: i hope you’re doing okay p

p (IGNORE): thanks. good as i can be yk

p (IGNORE): surgery went well and all

p (IGNORE): but hey

p (IGNORE): delayed not denied right ?

changed user’s contact name to “p”

AZ: right

AZ: you’ll be okay

AZ: i know it

p: i hope youre right

*****

p: did you see the schedule

p: we play you guys

p: dec 11

p: well i wont be but

AZ: i did!!

AZ: you guys don’t stand a chance btw

p: damn way to kick a girl while shes down az

AZ: sorry?

*****

AZ: happy birthday paige

AZ: you’re so old

p: shut up

p: thank you azzi

*****

p: happy bday az

p: yOu’Re sO oLd

AZ: ok i had that coming

AZ: but thank you :)

*****

p: just saw the clip

p: hope you and your knee are ok <3

p: rest up azzi

AZ: thanks p

AZ: looks like we’re both gonna be on the bench next week

AZ: we’re still beating you guys though

p: well see bout that

*****

AZ: told you so

p: i couldnt even play bro

AZ: and i could??

p: whatever

p: we beatin you in march idc

AZ: sure p sure

*****

Azzi sighs, stretching her thumbs again where they hover over the keyboard on her phone. She’s laid out on her parents’ couch, legs propped up on a pillow, feeling utterly ridiculous as she tries to muster up the courage to send a text to Paige. She scrolls back up through their conversations from the past few months for what must be the eighth time today, overanalyzing every word.

It shouldn’t be this difficult, really—it’s hardly the first time this year that she’s been the one to reach out and text Paige. And she’s literally just trying to ask her if she’s going to a party. It’s an extremely low stakes conversation topic.

And yet here she is, practically ripping her hair out at the thought of pressing "send."

In all honesty, it’s a pretty good way to sum up what this year has been—so much more difficult than it ever needed to be.

And to say it’s been a weird fucking year would be an understatement.

After a disappointing tournament run in March, Maryland’s team changes significantly, so much so that Azzi has a hard time keeping track of it all. Graduations, transfers out, transfers in, new freshman—they're basically an entirely new team by the time the season starts up again in the fall.

And then she meets a girl, Maya, late one night in February when she’s cramming for an exam in the student union. She’s on the track team—a sprinter—tall, and devastatingly pretty. She’s unwaveringly confident, too, sitting across the empty table from Azzi and striking up a conversation with her easily. They end up talking for so long that night that the cleaning staff have to kick them out.

Things just click after that.

It's nice. It’s safe. It’s fun.

It’s sneaking into team housing well past curfew. It’s study dates at their favorite coffee shop on campus. It’s stolen hoodies and cold winter nights, huddled together for heat. It’s good luck kisses and lingering hugs before away games or meets. It’s late-night FaceTimes when there’s hundreds of miles separating them. It’s flower bouquets and greeting cards left on kitchen counters.

It’s something that feels a lot like the beginning stages of love.

And, above all, it makes Azzi happy.

There’s just one persistent, unavoidable problem—there's never enough time. Differing practice schedules. Basketball games and track meets. Press conferences and weight training. Midterms and March Madness. Conference championships and long flights across the country.

And it’s unfortunate, really, because a big part of Azzi thinks things could’ve been different. That maybe in another life—one where they met at a different time—things might have stuck. Things might have been long-term, could have worked out.

But in this life, they don’t.

After that it’s fairly quiet. Some random hookups here and there over the summer. A couple dates that fizzle out by the end of the night.

In the end, nothing she really regrets, but nothing that's as real as those few months were with Maya.

And then she reinjures her knee in December, forcing her to be sidelined. An unfortunately familiar seat on the bench with her name on it.

And then, of course, there's this weird situation with Paige. One that Azzi herself more or less created when she first reached out in August after Paige tore her ACL. It isn't like texting a stranger, but it also isn't like texting the old best friend she once knew. It's something in between, some strange acquaintance-like relationship that leaves Azzi entirely confused as to what she should or shouldn’t say.

Even if it is a bit strange, and maybe not quite ideal, she has to admit that it's still nice to have Paige back in some capacity. And enough time has passed, enough people have come and gone, that Azzi's just starting to warm up to the idea of someday calling Paige her friend again. Just a little bit.

Oh, and maybe Azzi also still finds her to be incredibly attractive.

But that's hardly relevant.

Her phone vibrates in her hand, catching her so off guard that she nearly drops it on her face. Her heart starts pounding in her ears, her stomach fluttering with anticipation—

Damn, it’s just from Diamond.

Azzi groans, clicking the notification.

diamond: you text her yet

Azzi rolls her eyes at her friend’s impatience.

AZ: almost

diamond: you’re actually killing me here

diamond: gimme her number

diamond: i'm gonna text her if you don’t

AZ: absolutely not

AZ: i regret telling you anything

diamond: no you don’t

diamond: now quit stalling and text. her.

AZ: oh my god FINE

Azzi swipes out of their conversation and taps back into her one with Paige.

Here goes nothing.

AZ: hey, you going to that stupid party again this year?

She turns her phone off immediately and slams it face down into the couch cushions, bringing her hands up to cover her face.

Her phone chimes not more than 30 seconds later, and Azzi half expects it to be another text from Diamond asking for updates.

But it isn’t.

p: yo

p: the one at that football players house??

p: maybe. ion know yet

“Oh my God,” she mutters, fingers already flying over her keyboard.

AZ: dude

AZ: it’s literally tomorrow

AZ: how do you not know

p: dude

p: ima busy person

p: my time is valuable yk

p: wbu tho

Azzi tries to fight the smile that’s forming on her face. She thinks for a minute, deciding to answer honestly.

AZ: i was thinking about it

Azzi watches with bated breath as the three dots on the screen disappear and reappear several times.

p: then maybe i will

Azzi sighs, closing her eyes and pressing the side of her phone into her forehead.

I’m never getting a straight answer out of her, she concedes.

*****

If anyone were to ask Azzi, she would argue that a cropped cami tank top with a pair of ripped jeans is perfectly reasonable attire for a casual house party in early January. The below-freezing temperatures are simply irrelevant.

It, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Paige is likely to show up tonight. Azzi doesn’t think about how Paige had hugged her from behind and mumbled, “Looks so good, baby,” the last time she wore this shirt in front of her. She also doesn’t think about how Paige always seems especially distracted when she wears her hair up in a bun like this, blue eyes constantly straying to the lines of Azzi’s neck and collarbones.

She absolutely does not, under any circumstances, think about that. At all.

Azzi just likes to feel and look good is all. She’s got the former down easily, and she thinks she’s managed the latter, too, if the number of people who have come up to her tonight is any indication. Guys, girls, people she recognized and people she didn’t—it didn’t really seem to matter. It felt like there was an endless stream of drinks being offered, numbers trying to be given out, and suggestive conversations directed at her. It was flattering, sure, but none of them had the right tint of blonde hair, the exact shade of blue eyes, the correct build of muscle she had been searching for all night.

She downs the last of her drink, crushing the plastic cup in her hands and tossing it in the trash can behind her. She pulls her phone out of her pocket, checking the time. No texts.

Lifting a hand up to rub at her eye, she yawns and scans the room one more time, debating whether she should just call it a night at this point.

And then she feels it—the soft graze of fingers along her lower back, just above the waistband of her jeans. A warm, featherlight touch, then the familiar scent of vanilla and sandalwood and a low voice in her ear.

“Azzi.”

She spins towards her quickly, her breath catching in her throat at the proximity of Paige’s face to hers, just inches away. Azzi leans back a bit, mostly to give herself a chance to breathe, and feels the hand on her lower back slide to lightly press on the side of her hip.

Azzi drags her eyes over Paige then, unable to help herself, taking in the tech fleece pants hanging low on her hips and the black fitted T-shirt straining against the muscles in her arms. Azzi’s a bit surprised to see that she’s wearing her glasses—it’s not something she does very often. Paige is smirking, her blonde hair hanging loose around her shoulders, and Azzi swears she must have gotten taller since the last time she saw her.

She manages to catch her breath for a moment, flashing a smile that she hopes doesn’t reveal the nerves that she’s feeling. “Hi, Paige.”

Neither of them seems to know what to do after that because, honestly, what are you supposed to do in this type of situation?

To Azzi’s surprise, Paige makes the first move, stepping into Azzi’s space and snaking her other arm gently around Azzi’s waist. It takes Azzi a few seconds to respond before she leans into Paige and circles her arms around her shoulders. Azzi’s heart rate picks up even more when she feels Paige’s breath being released heavily against her, the tension leaving her shoulders.

“This okay?” Paige asks, her breath hot against the outside of Azzi’s ear. Azzi hums in agreement, settling her head to rest on Paige’s shoulder.

It probably should be awkward, and it is for just a second or two, but muscle memory kicks in and it ends up being more comforting than anything. It’s a hug after all, something they’ve done probably hundreds, if not thousands, of times over the years.

They could be there for a few seconds or a few minutes—Azzi really isn’t sure. At some point she feels someone bump into her as they walk by and that snaps her out of it, makes her realize that they are still at this party and people are definitely looking. She takes a step back and clears her throat, patting Paige’s shoulder once before dropping her arms to her sides.

“You look good, P,” Azzi admits, smiling softly.

Paige coughs and looks over her shoulder for a second before turning back to face her and—

Is she blushing?

She coughs again before saying, “Thanks. You do too, Az.”

Azzi smiles appreciatively, looking down at her hands. “Couple people here seemed to think so, too.”

Paige chuckles. “Yeah, saw ‘em all lined up for you.”

“You been talking to anyone else here?”

“Nah, not really,” Paige replies, waving her hand, and Azzi glances up to meet her eyes. Paige shrugs. “Only really came here for one person, you know?”

Azzi doesn’t have to ask her who that person is—the way Paige’s eyes are trailing across her face tells her everything she needs to know.

“Is that so?” Azzi crosses her arms in front of her, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“Mhm.” Paige glances around the room before leaning into Azzi’s space again. “Hey, wanna get outta here? We can go somewhere else or somethin’.”

“I guess I can swing that,” Azzi agrees, hoping she comes across as indifferent as possible.

“Aight, cool.” Paige pats her pockets, searching for her keys. “You take your car here?”

Azzi shakes her head. “No, I walked.”

Paige raises an eyebrow at her, an incredulous look on her face. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did,” Azzi tries again, patting her own pockets to prove that they're empty.

“You walked here,” Paige repeats, still disbelieving. “In this weather.”

“It was only, like, 20 minutes.”

“There’s no way.”

“It’s better for the environment!”

“You’re insane.”

“Oh my God, can we just take your car or not?” Azzi rolls her eyes.

“Always the passenger princess.” Paige remarks, looking smug. “But, yeah, let’s go.” Paige beckons for Azzi to follow her to the coatrack. Paige holds the door open as they pull on their coats, both of the waving their hands over their shoulders as some people call out to them.

The short walk to Paige’s car is quiet, the occasional crunch of footsteps on snow the only sound. Azzi slips into the passenger seat and clicks her seat belt on, watching as Paige does the same in the driver’s seat. Paige drums her fingers quietly on the steering wheel, and Azzi glances out the window to look back at the house they just came from.

“So, uh, where to?” Paige asks, breaking the silence.

Azzi thinks for a moment before turning to Paige with a grin.

“Slushies?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

*****

“There’s just no way he said that,” Azzi giggles, readjusting her feet where they rest on Paige’s dashboard. They’re parked outside of Azzi’s parents’ house, heat blasting through the vents, SZA playing softly through the speakers, conversation flowing freely, half-drunken slushies melted and abandoned in the cupholders between them.

“I swear it’s true!” Paige promises.

“He for real told you that you have ‘the shittiest shooting form he’s ever fucking seen’?”

“On God, he did,” Paige laughs, running a hand through her hair. “Coach can be ruthless when he’s pissed off, man.”

“And you wanted me to come to UConn because?”

“Oh, c'mon, Az. You know no one can stay mad at you.” Paige reaches out and pokes at Azzi’s cheek. “Not with that face.”

Azzi pushes her hand away, flustered. “Shut up, P.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Whatever.”

A comfortable silence stretches on then, the two of them taking a moment to enjoy each other’s presence.

Azzi glances down at her watch. “I should probably get going,” she admits regretfully, turning around and rummaging in the backseat for her coat.

“Lemme pull up for you,” Paige insists, putting the car in drive and turning into the driveway.

She feels Paige put the car in park again just as she manages to find her jacket. “Thanks,” Azzi starts, pulling the door handle—

It’s locked.

What the hell?

Azzi yanks on it twice to be sure before turning to level her a stare. There’s a mischievous glint in Paige's eye that she doesn't trust. “So, are you letting me out or what?”

Paige keeps smiling widely at her, not moving or saying anything.

“Paige.”

Azzi watches Paige nod her head towards the front of the house, and Azzi follows the motion to see Curry and Stewie poking their heads through the curtains, their barks echoing off the window. Azzi shakes her head and glances back at Paige. “What is it?”

Paige shrugs, bringing her hands up to rest on the wheel again. “You gotta at least let me see my kids, Azzi.”

“Are you inviting yourself inside my house?” Azzi feels her eye twitching.

“Please,” Paige begs, and then she honest to God pouts at Azzi. “Think I’m due a visitation.”

“You are actually so annoying.” Azzi leans her head against the cool glass of the car window, closing her eyes.

“Is that a yes?” Paige asks, her voice lifting excitedly.

“It will be if you unlock this.” Azzi pulls on the door handle repeatedly.

“Ha, let’s go!” Paige exclaims, pressing the "unlock" button immediately and sprinting out of the car. She’s on the front porch and jumping in place before Azzi even has the chance to close the car door behind her.

“Alright, chill out,” Azzi mutters, brushing past her and turning the key into the lock. Paige pushes the door open the rest of the way and stumbles through the doorframe, kicking her shoes off. She makes it about five feet into the house before she drops to her knees and starts petting and hugging the two dogs racing around her.

Azzi locks the door behind her, and she can’t help the smile that overtakes her face when she sees Paige laid out on the ground, Stewie and Curry clambering over her to lick her face.

“My kids,” Paige coos, cradling Stewie in one arm and scratching Curry’s chin with her other hand. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s home now.”

Shaking her head, Azzi tears her eyes away from the scene and flops onto the couch. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and makes herself comfortable.

Paige stands up after a few minutes and stretches her arms above her head, groaning dramatically. Azzi catches a glimpse of her shirt riding up and her boxers peeking out before she pulls her phone closer to her face, fighting the heat creeping up on her cheeks. Paige doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she luckily doesn’t say anything about it. She moves to peek her head in the kitchen and the hallway before she reenters the living room.

“Nobody home?” Paige asks, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Azzi grabs a throw pillow off the couch and hurls it at her, but Paige catches it easily. “Stop. They went to a family holiday party thing I think.”

“And how the hell did you get outta goin’ to that?” Azzi feels the couch shake as Paige hops over the back of it and settles in across from her.

She puts her phone down and looks at Paige more fully then. “Like you said, no one can say no to this,” she explains, flashing her signature dimpled smile and pointing at it with both hands.

“I was jokin’ when I said that,” Azzi thinks she hears Paige grumble as she hugs the pillow she’s still holding to her chest.

Azzi goes back to scrolling on her phone, and she sees Paige throw the pillow up in the air and catch it a few times in her periphery.

She hears a heavy sigh, but she ignores it, opting to respond to a few texts from her teammates instead.

Then there’s another sigh, somehow more emphatic than the last, and the push of a foot against her own.

“Azzi.”

Maybe if I ignore her for long enough, she’ll stop, Azzi considers.

“Azzi.”

Just pretend you don’t hear her.

“Azzi Fudd.”

When has that ever actually worked, though?

“Azzi, please.”

Oh my fucking God, why did I let her in my house?

She clicks her phone off and drops it at her side, glaring daggers at Paige. “What?”

“Dude, I’m bored,” Paige complains.

“Dude, you literally do not have to be here,” Azzi points out.

“Entertain me, please.” Paige is practically begging now. “Aren’t you supposed to do that for your guests?”

Azzi closes her eyes and throws an arm over her face. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re extremely annoying?”

“Yeah, you. Multiple times today, actually.”

“I was so right about that.”

“Okay, but can we do somethin’?” Paige asks again, kicking at her foot. Azzi kicks back, sliding her arm off her face.

“2K?” she suggests, gesturing to the controllers on the coffee table.

Paige’s eyes light up and she’s up in a flash, grabbing the remote to turn the TV on. “Fuck yes. Imma be the Lynx, though.”

“Whatever you want.”

*****

“Damn, you letting me win now, Paige?”

“Bro, ‘course not.”

“What’s your excuse this time?”

“Not my fault you keep distractin’ me, Az.”

“Not my fault you can’t keep your eyes off me, P.”

“Shut up. One more, I swear. Then we can quit.”

“Only if you win though, right?”

“Bro, just play.”

“Fine.”

*****

It’s many, many, games later—the clock on the wall having ticked over to the A.M. hours long ago—before Azzi has to tap out, eyes bleary and energy drained.

“Alright, I’m done,” Azzi sighs, tossing the controller on the coffee table and standing up slowly to stretch her back.

“Finally givin’ up?” Paige challenges, raising her eyebrows at her. Amazingly, somehow, she doesn’t look tired in the slightest.

“No, I’m not 'giving up.' I’ll literally fall asleep if we play one more.”

“If you say so.”

“Paige,” Azzi whines, pouting at her. “I just want to go to bed.”

“Aight, let’s be done then,” Paige agrees, setting her controller aside and standing up to stretch out.

“Are you awake enough to drive home?” Azzi questions.

“Me? Imma be just fine,” Paige assures her, moving toward the door. She bends down to pick up her shoes and pulls the curtain aside with a finger to peer outside. “Yeah, it’s no problem—oh, shit.”

Azzi strides over, reaching for the curtain to open it. “What is it?”

“Uh, well,” Paige starts, voice slightly muffled behind the thick fabric. “There’s a—”

Azzi grabs hold of the curtains, yanking them away to reveal the scene outside. Her jaw drops.

“—blizzard,” Paige finishes.

A fresh layer of snow, several inches deep, covers the ground. The wind lifts it up, blowing it around wildly, creating near whiteout conditions. Azzi can barely see Paige’s car parked in the driveway, a mere ten feet away.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Azzi mutters, staring disbelievingly out the window.

Paige furrows her brow, seeming to think something over for a minute. “Nah, I’ll still drive home.” She sits down on the recliner, untying the laces on her shoe.

“Like hell you will,” Azzi scoffs.

Paige looks up at her, pausing her movements. “Bro, chill. It’s, like, a couple blocks.”

But Azzi is persistent, moving to guard the door, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not letting you go out in that.”

“I can drive slow.”

“I don’t think you’re capable of that,” Azzi retorts, readjusting her arms. “Just stay, please. It’s too dangerous.”

“If you’re sure,” Paige concedes, tossing her sneakers behind her.

“I am.”

“Cool,” Paige stands, stretching her arms again. “I got the couch then.”

Azzi rolls her eyes, punches Paige’s shoulder playfully. “Don’t be stupid, P.”

Paige brings up a hand to rub at the spot Azzi hit, wincing in mock hurt. “Ow. Stupid ‘bout what?”

“You can just sleep in my bed. You are a guest after all,” Azzi points out, referring back to what Paige had said earlier.

Paige wiggles her eyebrows for the second time tonight, and Azzi considers punching her again, harder this time. “You want me that bad, huh?”

“Oh my God, stop. Look, I’ll take the couch, you take the bed? That fine?” Azzi offers, rubbing at her eyes.

“That’s dumb. You’re not gonna sleep in your own bed?”

Azzi throws her arms up in the air exasperatedly. “What do you suggest then?”

“I’on see why we can’t both just sleep in the bed,” Paige shrugs, not really meeting Azzi’s eyes.

How the hell did we get here?

“Whatever, sure,” Azzi relents, even though every fiber of her being is urging her to do the exact opposite. “I’m too tired for this. My family is gonna be home soon and I wanna sleep at least a little before they barge in.” She turns away and starts dragging her feet down the hallway to her room, hearing Paige padding quietly behind her. She pushes the door open with her shoulder and immediately goes to her closet, searching for something more comfortable to change into.

In the corner of her eye she spots Paige, shuffling about the room, eyes roaming over her pink bed sheets, the assortment of unicorn stuffed animals on her desk, the rainbow decals on her mirror. “Haven’t really changed much, huh?

Azzi grabs a pair of fleece pajama pants and a T-shirt, chuckling. “I don’t exactly live here anymore.”

“Good point.” Paige nods her head, running a finger along Azzi’s trophy shelf. Her eyes spot one item in particular and she takes it off the shelf. She flips the medal over to study the engraving on the back. “‘2018 Minnesota State Tournament: Class AAAA Champions’,” she reads with a scowl on her face. “Still can’t believe you guys beat us.”

Azzi walks up to her and snatches the medal from her, setting it back in its place. “Still can’t believe you’re not over it. This was, like, five years ago.”

“Aw, c’mon now. That last foul call was bullshit and you know it,” Paige grumbles.

“I think you’re just mad I dropped 30 points on your ass,” Azzi teases.

Paige frowns, crossing her arms. “No one was helpin’ me on defense.”

“Uh huh. Look, I’m gonna get dressed and stuff,” Azzi calls over her shoulder on her way to the bathroom. She pauses in the doorway and points a finger at Paige accusingly. “No touching anything else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paige promises with a mock salute.

Azzi changes into her pajamas and gets ready for bed as quickly as her fatigued body will allow, which is to say not very quickly at all. By the time she’s done, she’s so drained that she’s sluggishly dragging her body back to her room.

She’s rounding the corner into her room, dirty clothes from the party in hand, when she happens to look up. She chokes on air, clothing falling out of her hands, and stumbles to regain her balance.

Paige is sprawled out on her bed, hair splaying across her pillows, the light of her phone screen lighting up her face.

But none of that is the issue here.

The issue here is that Paige is wearing a sports bra and pair of boxers and that’s it.

The lines of her hips are visible, her abs pulled taut, and Azzi suddenly feels like she needs to cover her eyes, unless she wants to start choking on air again. “What the fuck are you doing?” she squeaks out, hands covering her face.

She hears Paige laugh. “It’s hot as hell in here. I’on know why you keep the temp at, like, 75 degrees all the time.”

“So you had to take your clothes off?”

“It’s nothin’ you haven’t seen before anyways.”

“Paige.”

“Azzi.”

Azzi leans against the wall, dropping her hands from her face but keeping her eyes screwed tightly shut. “Can you—God, can you at least put a shirt on or something?”

I’m not sleeping a wink tonight if she doesn’t.

She hears the bed creak slightly and assumes Paige must be sitting up now. “If I gotta.”

Azzi takes that as agreement and blindly feels her way to her closet, searching for the closest T-shirt she can find and pulling it off the hanger. She tosses it behind her in the direction of the bed.

“Okay, Imma get ready too then, I guess,” Paige is saying, the sound of her footsteps becoming more distant as she exits the room.

Azzi expels all the air out of her lungs, finally allowing herself to open her eyes. With shaky legs she makes her way to the bed, tucking herself under the covers. She takes a few more steadying breaths.

Pull it together, Fudd.

Paige is back sooner than Azzi is ready for her to be, but she stops a few feet into the room and gestures at her shirt. “This funny to you or somethin’?”

Azzi takes a moment to actually look at the shirt she unknowingly picked out for Paige and barks out a laugh, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

The shirt has "St. John’s – State Champs" written across the chest in bold letters, her old high school’s logo below it.

“Okay, I promise I didn’t mean to pick that one,” Azzi swears, unable to contain her laughter.

“I’on believe you,” Paige grunts, sliding into the empty side of the bed. “You know I’d get beat up if anyone saw me wearin’ this, right?”

“Good thing it’s just me then, huh?”

“Guess so,” Paige grumbles, pulling the sheets up to her chin.

“Don’t worry,” Azzi says, smirking. “Your secret is safe with me, Cadet.”

Paige glares at her before rolling over and turning her back to Azzi. “I’m actually done talkin’ to you. Night.”

Azzi turns her bedside lamp off, encasing the room in darkness, save for a few bands of a dim streetlight poking through her blinds. “Night,” she echoes, settling to lay on her back.

She wills herself to sleep then, waiting for the exhaustion she’s been feeling for the past few hours to finally take over.

It doesn’t come.

It shouldn’t be this difficult.

But Azzi’s mind is racing, all thoughts on her former best friend stretched out beside her. Paige, lying in her childhood bed, clad in one of Azzi’s old basketball T-shirts and a pair of boxers, the warmth radiating from her enough to scorch Azzi’s skin even from half a foot away.

“Hey, P?” Azzi whispers, her gaze still glued to the ceiling.

She sees movement in her periphery, Paige angling her head back slightly in her direction. “Hm?”

Azzi swallows hard, attempting to dislodge the lump forming in her throat.

There’s been one question turning itself over and over in her mind all day. A thought that wouldn’t leave her head no matter how hard she tried to shake it out.

God, this is such a bad idea.

“Did you have a New Year’s kiss this year?” she hears herself ask.

Everything is silent then, and Azzi can’t think of many other times in her life where she’s felt as vulnerable as she does now.

The quietness stretches on for an agonizingly long amount of time. It lasts for so long, in fact, that part of Azzi begins to wonder if Paige might have fallen asleep.

“Nah,” Paige mumbles, breaking the silence. She turns fully back onto her side to face Azzi, resting her hands together underneath her head. Azzi feels her heavy stare piercing through the darkness and shivers. “You?”

Azzi shakes her head, sighs, “Me neither.”

She moves to face Paige, mirroring her position, her heartbeat thumping wildly in her ears.

Azzi wets her lips, locks her eyes onto Paige’s.

Fuck it.

“Did you want to have one?” she breathes out.

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting. Maybe for Paige to shove her playfully or smile at her or something like that.

But Paige brings her bottom lip into her mouth, waits a beat, then nods her head.

Oh.

She wants this, too.

Azzi isn’t sure which of them is leaning in, but suddenly Paige’s face is just inches from her own, her breath warm against Azzi’s lips.

“Are you sure?” Paige whispers.

Am I sure I want this?

Absolutely.

Am I sure we should be doing this?

Well...

Despite her doubts, Azzi swallows and nods her head.

Paige is the one to close the gap between them, hesitant, at first, and gentle, just the soft press of her lips against Azzi’s own. A tentative reunion, two aching souls finally coming back home to each other.

And then the kiss turns needy, hungry, and Paige is bringing a hand up to cup her face, sliding the other down to Azzi’s waist. Azzi does the same, tugs slightly to bring Paige to hover slightly over her. Paige is kissing her hard now, pressing her into the bed, exhaling heavily, making Azzi’s heart flutter uncontrollably.

Azzi makes a decision then, pulls back just slightly and uses her tongue to part Paige’s lips, shivering when she feels Paige sigh against her mouth. The action seems to spur Paige on further because she’s shifting again, slipping her leg in between Azzi’s, applying just a hint of pressure, building up a low heat there.

Paige is relentless, kissing her with such fervor that it makes her head spin. Azzi feels a thumb dip below the waistband of her pants, caressing against her hip, and for some reason that snaps Azzi out of the dizzy haze she's found herself trapped in.

Azzi breaks the kiss, lightheaded, because if she doesn't do it now she thinks they might never stop.

Paige rests their foreheads together for a moment. She leans back, shifts her body off Azzi’s, her pupils blown out and her chest heaving.

“There,” Azzi hears herself say, breath uneven. “Happy New Year.” Then she rolls away from Paige, heartbeat still erratic in her ears, shaking hands pulling the covers back over herself.

She feels the bed shift a minute later as Paige wordlessly turns away from her.

Azzi brings her fingers up to touch her mouth, the sensation still lingering there.

It’s hours before sleep finally finds her.

*****

Azzi wakes to the afternoon sunlight hitting her square in the face, and she pulls a pillow over her head to block it out. Groaning, she blindly sticks an arm out beside her, feeling for a warm body next to her to shake awake.

Her hand comes up empty.

She shoots up in her bed, panic swarming her as she scans across the empty room. Her chest tightens, her throat constricts.

Fuck, she’s gone.

Tears are just starting to prick at the corner of her eyes when the sound of boisterous laughter bounces off the walls of the hallway.

Curious, Azzi follows the sound, finding its source relatively quickly.

The sight is strange enough to raise Azzi’s eyebrows—her dad and Paige, seated on opposite sides of the dining table, laughing over empty breakfast plates.

Paige notices her first, nodding her chin towards her in acknowledgement. “Hey, Az.” She pats the chair next to her. “Sit.”

Azzi doesn’t move, eyes moving skeptically between her dad and Paige. “Hi. What are you guys talking about?”

“Oh, it’s nothin’,” her dad says, but the snickering between the two of them afterwards is saying something completely different.

“This.” Azzi points a finger back and forth between the two of them. “This I don’t like.”

“C’mon, we’re just messin’,” Paige assures, still grinning devilishly.

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Azzi responds sarcastically, opening the fridge door and sticking her head in it, searching for something to settle her rumbling stomach. “So, what are we doing today?”

“Packing, I guess?” Paige replies.

Azzi picks her head up at that and closes the fridge. “Huh, why?”

“Got a flight to Connecticut in the mornin',” Paige shrugs, and Azzi’s heart drops to her stomach.

“You do?” she asks, failing to keep the sadness from creeping into her voice.

Paige looks apologetic, casting her eyes downward. “Yeah. I’m sorry. Forgot to mention it. Speakin’ of, I should head on out soon.” She stands, putting her dishes in the sink before clapping Azzi’s dad on the back. “Good to see you as always, Tim.”

He smiles up at her fondly. “You too, Paige.”

“Imma grab my stuff,” Paige says, brushing past Azzi into the living room. Azzi moves on autopilot, trailing behind her.

It takes Paige all of three seconds to get ready, having only really come here with her phone and the clothes she wore yesterday, which she must have changed back into at some point. Azzi watches her pull her sneakers on, shrug into her jacket.

“Guess this it then,” Paige starts, eyes looking anywhere but at Azzi.

Azzi wrings her hands together, trying to figure out where to go from here. “Well, uh, I guess I’ll see you around then, P.”

Azzi is going to leave it at that, moving her arms to give Paige a quick hug, but then Paige is grabbing her arm and pulling her in closer, lowering her voice. “Don't we need to talk 'bout somethin'?”

“Last time you said that you broke up with me.” Azzi pries Paige’s fingers off her arm.

Paige bristles at that, rubbing at the back of her neck nervously. “Okay, but still. We need to talk.”

“About?” Azzi asks, even though she already knows where this conversation is going. She looks at Paige expectantly.

“We kissed, Azzi. You don’t think we should talk ‘bout that?” There’s a crease between her eyebrows. “I mean, like, what does it mean, you know?”

There are two ways Azzi can play this. She can be honest, tell Paige that she lost hours of sleep over it, that it’s the only thing she’s thought about since she woke up, that it shifted her world off its axis. Can tell her that all those feelings she tried to push down have risen rapidly back to the surface, demanding all of her attention. Can lay it all out in front of them, knowing it could be months before the next time they see each other again.

And then there’s a second option.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Azzi is saying, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.

Maybe it's time for the ball to be in Paige's court now.

Paige shakes her head exaggeratedly, her face screwed up in utter confusion. “It doesn’t?”

“Not unless we want it to,” Azzi continues, making her expression as unreadable as possible.

“Well, do you?”

Azzi hums noncommittally, looking down at her nails. “Probably easier if we just forget about it, right? I mean, it was only one kiss.”

There’s conflict painted clear across Paige’s face, her mouth opening and closing several times like she can’t quite figure out how she’s supposed to respond to that. She bites her lip hard, so hard that Azzi is a little concerned that she’s about to draw blood.

“I—I, uh,” she stutters, and Azzi can’t remember the last time she saw her look this flustered. “No, yeah. For sure. Just a kiss.” She nods her head once, like she’s trying to convince herself.

“Good, I’m glad we agree,” Azzi replies, even if she doesn’t really mean it.

Paige scratches at the back of her neck again, clearly not anticipating the conversation to go like this. “Yeah. So...maybe I’ll see you in March or somethin’?” She offers a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

Azzi shrugs. “Maybe you will.”

*****

She doesn’t.

[isaadore]

JACKED AND KIND NICO HISCHIER

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ pairing nico hischier x reader

SUMMARY you convince nico to do a tiktok trend, even if it’s a little out of his comfort zone. word count 0.7k

warnings pure fluff, fem!reader, use of y/n

note i hope you guys know what trend i'm referring too 😇

MAIN MASTERLIST NH13 MASTERLIST

IT STARTED WITH a lazy morning and the familiar routine of scrolling through TikTok. One particular trend kept popping up: boyfriends effortlessly lifting their girlfriends while Sabrina Carpenter’s “Slim Pickings” played at the line, “Jacked and kind.” It was sweet and oddly endearing.

You couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect that would be with Nico.

It wasn’t like the world didn’t already know about your relationship. Between games, post-practice dates, and subtle Instagram posts, it was all out there. A quick, harmless TikTok would be a fun way to keep things interesting.

You walked into the kitchen, still in your pyjamas. You were immediately hit with the smell of coffee and pancakes. Nico was standing at the counter in his sweats, carefully stirring sugar into his mug. His hair was messy from sleep, and his movements were slow and relaxed.

“Morning, liebe (love),” he greeted, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile.

“Morning,” you replied, leaning against the doorframe. For a moment, you debated whether to bring up your idea. Nico was still half-asleep and probably enjoying the peace of a rare day off. Did you really want to disrupt that?

Then again, Nico always had a hard time saying no to you.

“So,” you started, dragging out the word as you stepped closer.

He turned, raising an eyebrow at you with a knowing look already on his face. “What’s that tone?”

“There’s this TikTok trend,” you explained, trying to sound casual.

He groaned softly, though his smile didn’t waver. “Of course, there is.”

“You’d just have to pick me up. Literally for two seconds,” you added quickly, holding up your hands like you were presenting a deal. “No weird costumes or anything. Just you being, you know, jacked and kind.”

Nico paused, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the counter. “And why do I feel like this will end with me looking like an idiot?”

“Because you’re dramatic,” you said playfully. “Come on, it’ll be cute!”

He sighed, shaking his head. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Pretty much.” You grinned, batting your eyelashes for good measure.

“Fine,” he relented, setting his mug down with a resigned laugh. “But only because I know you’ll keep bugging me until I say yes.”

“Thank you!” you exclaimed, already setting up your phone on the counter.

After breakfast, Nico followed through with the plan, though he grumbled a bit.

“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?” he asked, running a hand through his hair as you positioned him in front of the camera.

“Obviously,” you replied, stepping back to check the angle. “Okay, so when I point, you just pick me up. Nice and smooth, like it’s nothing.”

“I’m a professional athlete, Y/N,” he said, smirking. “I think I can handle lifting my girlfriend.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the warmth spreading across your cheeks. “Alright, Captain Confidence. Let’s see if you can back that up.”

The music started and the familiar beat of Sabrina Carpenter’s “Slim Pickings” filled the kitchen. You pointed right on cue, and before you could blink, Nico’s arms were around you. With a single motion, he lifted you off the ground like it was the easiest thing in the world, holding you securely on his shoulder.

“Jacked and kind,” you whispered, half-laughing as you wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

“Was that it?” he asked, his grin smug but soft. “That’s all you needed?”

You nodded, laughing. “Yup! Perfect! Put me down before I ruin it.”

He lowered you carefully, his hands lingering. “That’s it?” he repeated, tilting his head. “You were stressing about that?”

“It’s not about me. It’s about the aesthetic,” you shot back, picking up your phone to check the video.

The result was flawless. Nico looked effortlessly strong, the timing was perfect, and your quiet laugh at the end made it even better.

“See?” you said, holding the phone up for him to see. “Jacked and kind. TikTok is going to lose it.”

He shook his head, his cheeks faintly pink, but he was smiling. “As long as you’re happy, that’s what matters.”

“Always,” you teased, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Though Nico pretended to roll his eyes, you knew he’d secretly check the comments later to see what fans were saying.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ MAIN MASTERLIST ✷ NH13 MASTERLIST

[miamooooo]

can you write josh and reader being absolute freaks? freaks as in they love consensual non con😭😭

i was thinking of josh being a creep and stalking reader (and yes reader knows, she just pretends not to) and it ends with them having rough sex.

please it is totally fine if you are not comfortable with the whole idea ☺️🙏🏼, i will still read whatever u come up with!

genuinely didn't know if i wanted to write this in headcanon format or not so i’m sorry if it seems like its constantly switching up 😭 regardless though, i hope you enjoy!!

(warnings): nsfw, reader has female anatomy, cnc, fear play, knife play(?), stalking, physical aggression, reader is wearing a skirt, josh is creepy and mean asf, power imbalance, choking/gagging

when josh brought you to his parents’ secluded mountain for a weekend, you knew he was being absolutely serious when he told you to be prepared. you already knew the rules, because everything had already been discussed. he gave you the loose script and you both set up clear boundaries… but he didn’t tell you everything, obviously.. because where’s the fun in that?

he only tells you that he won’t go easy on you, and to be prepared.

so that’s what you were doing — cautiously walking through the secluded area in the woods, footsteps light and reluctant. josh didn’t tell you where he’d be, he wanted your reactions to be completely authentic when he popped out. the only knowledge of his presence was the red graffiti on an abandoned wooden sign that read: i’m watching you.

that was all you were getting from him. you were excited, but you couldn’t show how much you were enjoying it. you had to play your role perfectly.

josh was careful to stay out of sight, but he made sure that you could hear every occasional faint crunch of a leaf beneath his boots. the sounds weren’t loud, but it was purposeful and enough to make you feel on edge, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

he creepily watched you behind a tree, his eyes perversely travelling down to your legs and the way your short skirt swayed as you timidly wandered further through the trail ahead, and he couldn’t help but get slightly impatient with his own game. he was softly palming himself through his jeans, thinking about how easy it could’ve been for him to sneak up behind you in that moment and take you right against a tree, but he wanted to wait a little longer. he was so eager to already have his way with you.

your small and trembling voice and the way you clutched your hands up to your chest as you called his name was all josh needed to hear before he’s giving you the signal to run; the loud snap of a branch, that at first, caught you off guard, before you remembered that he was in fact starting to chase you.

you’re bolting through the woods, heart pounding so hard as you hear him right behind you. and when you turn around to see how far you are from josh, you trip over a rock.. or a branch… or maybe your own feet. you weren’t sure because that was the least of your worries.

you were in so much pain from the tiny pieces of gravel and sticks digging into your skin, but you’re barely able to process it because josh was right behind you, towering over your disheveled figure.

you’re so quick to try and scramble to your feet, panicked huffs coming from the depths of your chest, but it’s too late. he’s already kneeling down behind you, pinning your front to the ground and holding your arms behind your back so you couldn’t fight him — as if you really even could… or wanted to.

“oh man… you’re in for it now, sweetheart.”

josh thought you looked so pretty when you were all panicked and out of breath and completely vulnerable for him. his cock was already twitching in his pants at the sight of you, enjoying the way you whimpered and whined in protest.

“get off of me..!” you shakily cried out, though your words lacked the firmness that you intended. truthfully, you were so turned on, your panties soaking wet from how roughly josh was handling you in the dirt.

“relax, hon. it’ll be quick.” he shushes you, holding a firm hand on the small of your back to hold you in place as he pulled out a heavy-duty pocket knife with his other one.

he teases you so much, loving the way your body stiffened when he dragged the blade up the back of your thigh, flipping your skirt up and trailing it over the curve of your ass, softly pressing the sharp tip into your skin. it was enough to make you frantically gasp out, making you believe that he was actually gonna cut you. and he’s laughing softly to himself, enjoying how helpless you were.

he removed the knife from your skin, cutting your panties open so he’s got full access to you.. and to his surprise, you're already extremely wet.

josh was so impressed with you. he thought you looked so cute trembling and protesting out to him, even though the wetness between your legs told a different story. and of course he points it out, because he liked seeing you embarrassed and flustered.

“you sure you want me to stop, baby? looks like you’re enjoying yourself..” he teased you as he unbuckled his pants, pulling them down low enough to free his already hard and leaking cock.

once he's positioned properly behind you, he's lining himself up to your entrance, gathering a wad of spit in his mouth before letting it dribble between your cheeks and down your hole.. not that you needed it anyway.

when josh gets ready to fuck you, he’s so mean. he barely gives you time to adjust before he’s already plowing inside of you. his cock is buried so deep, hips slamming forward, balls slapping against your puffy clit while your pussy made the filthiest, squelching noises.

josh didn’t even care about the uncomfortable position you were in either; back arched wildly, ass in the air, one of his hands pressing the side of your face into the dirty ground, while the other held your hip firmly so he’s able to steadily pound into you. he didn’t care about all of your whining about how badly your knees dug into the hard ground to the point where you were sure to have cuts and bruises after. he didn't care because if you really wanted to, you could’ve said your safe word.

“mmh, it hurts? then say the word, baby.”

he’s huffing and groaning, getting off at the sight of you struggling; watching the way tears were starting to clump up in your pretty lashes from the pain, how you struggled to keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head after each thrust, or the way you tried to form a coherent sentence, constantly alternating between whether you wanted him to ‘slow down’ or ‘don’t stop.’ and josh really wanted to tease you, but he’s so distracted by the way your pussy spasmed and squeezed tightly around his cock.

“mmph, fuck.. josh!” you whined out, ready to give him another vague and slurred command again, but he’s instantly shushing you, removing his hand from the side of your face, to roughly shove his fingers in your mouth until their hitting the back of your throat.

“you can take it, honey. you wanted this, right? hm?”

you didn't need to say anything out loud for josh to know that this was exactly what you wanted. your eyes were rolling, saliva trickling down his hand as you sucked and gagged around his fingers, desperately pushing your hips back to meet his hard thrusts. he’s so obsessed with the way your ass hits his lower abdomen with every backward push of your hips. “f-fuck, yeah.. that’s it...”

your thighs were trembling as you got closer to your orgasm and josh noticed it immediately. he pulls his fingers from your mouth, wrapping his arm around your front to move it in between your legs, his saliva-coated fingers immediately finding your clit. he circled over the swollen bud, applying enough pressure to where you’re gasping out strangled moans of “yeah yeah yeah..!”

“c’mon, honey,” he urges, lightly tapping his fingers on your clit to see you jolt and gasp out some more. “i know you wanna cum.”

he’s groaning and clenching his jaw to suppress the growing moans in his throat as he watches you shake and cry and cream all over his cock, and it only makes him start to fuck you harder. “ffuck, yes- take it sweetheart. take every fucking inch.”

[multiheadcanons]

MERCS AND ANGER

scout: explosive like a firecracker. kinda boring from a distance but a danger in your hands. you really don’t want to be the guy he’s mad at, and probably not like a good friend of the guy either. otherwise the absolute grudge is really funny because he’s so creatively aggressive with how he insults people. and he doesn’t let shit go. it takes him a good long while before he’s ready to drop a feud. however, firecrackers, if you’re fast enough and ballsy enough, can be put out. you’ve maybe got a minute to take back what you say and all will be just fine. he might be annoyed with you for a couple of days, but you can bounce back.

soldier: explosive like a rocket. don’t give him an insult he has to think about. he’s gonna get madder that he had to think about it and he’s gonna come and kick your ass until he’s bored. and he will never get bored. has tried in incremental amounts to not get that mad anymore; nobody has a good time when he’s that mad. also a big shit talker, but the better term is “war decree”, because getting him angry is declaring war on him. and he is very frank with what the plan is when it comes to the attack. can, has tried, and actually has on two occasions involved the team in revenge plans. i don’t know how to quickly disable a rocket; so i would hope you do.

pyro: pyro will take their anger out on the battlefield. that’s when pyro gets weird and nobody wants to be around them at the base because they’re being weird on the battlefield. but at the base they don’t act any different. because normally the team does not anger pyro. sometimes pyro wakes up and is fueled with rage. at anything. at everything. sometimes they get so mad at themselves, and they don’t know why they get so mad. they’re just being themselves, as they were yesterday, and the day before, and the month prior. their imagination can buffer that with making the enemy team seem… squishier. fun to throw around because they just return back to their shape. they enjoy that. that’s really fun.

heavy: here’s the thing; heavy is a good and not messy guy, so heavy will make all efforts to discuss any problem he has with anyone, and does expect vice versa. if you’ve got a problem with him, his door and ears are open. he’s willing to talk about it. however, do not mistake that for weakness. i mean, come on. literally look at him. do you want to push him there if he’s willing to discuss it? really?

demo: demo will give you one (1) opportunity to course correct. after that you’re on his shit list. he’s got a physical list, a couple of pages, front to back, of peoples full government names, a glued on ID picture, and their most current address. not enough names on the list for a journal yet but he’s always willing to add. and getting on his shit list is permanent. you are not to speak to him. you are not to be within his eyesight. and if you are, there’s a problem. and you’ll get one (1) opportunity to course correct before it gets physical.

engineer: engie doesn’t get messy with his anger unless you take it there. and if you take it there, buddy that’s a game he loves to play. already has issues with people being in his space, so frankly if he’s mad at you, or getting to be upset with you, he will tell you, point blank “get somewhere away from me. immediately. don’t let me see you again today.” and within 24 hours he will be okay and ready to talk to you, and you can attempt to patch things up. but if you keep bugging him and keep bugging him and keep bugging him… he will absolutely have a conniption. he will yell. he will get in your face. however, that has nothing on his grudges. talk about a stew. he will sit on it. sit on it for days. process it while tinkering with his machines. and if he decides that what you did truly wasn’t forgivable? there is no one who can warn you about the storm coming your way. he makes your life miserable and you will never see him do it. first of all, anything you own with a wire is getting cut. batteries stolen, sockets with broken off fork teeth in them. he does not care if your whole house goes up in flames. he simply does not. so don’t ask. but also, he’ll disable your garage. he’ll put bleach in your engine. he’ll funnel your muffler into your AC if he felt justified in it. and you don’t know; nobody knows how he’s accomplishing it. and he won’t tell.

medic: medic, like pyro, takes his aggression out on the battlefield. except the doctor is worse because he’s just in general one to express his anger explosively. like you can’t miss the way his face will contort at you when you’ve pissed him off. petty things will earn a sorry soul the privilege to be a free fill of the doctor’s quota. he’ll go out of his way to find someone on a map so he can hack them to pieces. but when he’s just… angry, just wakes up angry; angry at himself because he knows if he wanted to he could change; he could have changed, he just didn’t want to, still doesn’t want to. some people call that regret. but he just gets mad. he pockets pyro those days. he pockets pyro when pyro is angry too. it’s always been a good time for him. he’ll feed into their delusions; yelling in their ear “don’t they look soft? don’t they look like they could stand some force?” and pyro gets so excited for it. they will rack up body after body after body, and normally they both would laugh. they would cackle. they would taunt their corpses. but pyro is the only one laughing. medic stands there and watches. and they go to the next one. and the next one. and the next one. and medic doesn’t laugh. but he’ll assure pyro he’s having fun. he’s having the time of his life.

sniper: sniper doesn’t really get mad. he gets annoyed, he gets irritated, and he talks mad shit about whoever he’s annoyed or irritated with; but he doesn’t ever get mad. because when he does he’s ready to fight and he does not care who is in the way. there’s no other way of putting it, he’ll beat the brakes off you and lord help whoever’s trying to hold him back because they will not be treated kindly either. so he has worked very hard to not make anger an immediate emotion.

spy: spy also does not get mad, because any situation he could possibly get mad at was a situation he didn’t predict and account for. and that’s on nobody else but him. spy does not normally get above extreme irritation before it becomes divinely gifted vitriolic annoyance. which he voices. loudly. to anyone that will listen. it is his sermon; you are a son of a bitch and should never be trusted again. and he spreads rumors like a motherfucker. and everyone spreads them?? it genuinely makes no sense when his teammates know this man is a liar. these men are just messy, because there’s really no way they could actually believe that scout’s hair was a well done toupee. THEY LIVE WITH SCOUT. THEY LIVE WITH SPY. THEY SEE WHAT THESE MEN DO EVERYDAY. they’re just messy and love gossip because there’s nobody else to talk to except for their scheduled monthly off day, which they normally get called in for anyway!

[lesson-in-ruthlessness]

Ruthlessness Is Mercy — KOTLC fanfic

Description: Flashbacks throughout Grady's childhood. Grady and Vespera finally meet. Grady is pathetic and sexy while Vespera is evil and sexy. This will probably be a series if yall like it. Neverseen!Grady series.

————————————————————————————————

It's ok to feel… troubled when you manifest as a Mesmer. The mind is something greatly idolized, and manipulation of it is scrutinized.

Grady laid on his bed as he flipped through the pages of his new, Foxfire-issued textbook, dramatically sighing each time he flipped to a new page.

Lots of diagrams, he thought as he studied a diagram of an elven brain, this isn't freaky at all!

He closed the book and looked at the title, hoping it would change the outcome of the results.

A Beginner’s Guide to Being a Mesmer.

Instinctively, he turned the book over so he couldn't see the title, hoping it wasn't real.

Grady was still dealing with the uprooting of his entire life. Ever since he manifested, his family wouldn't talk to him and his Foxfire peers would look at him as if his entire existence was a taboo.

He knew they were right.

His ability to entrance then control the wills and minds of others wasn't banned outright, simply anyone with it was virtually a pariah.

As his thoughts stirred, he had no idea what that bubbling feeling in his chest was, as he began to choke on his tears; thinking about everything he was losing.

Once you learn how to manage this daunting power, it will be like you never manifested in the first place.

———

“Finally, I get to meet you in person. You're as…mesmerizing as they say.” A pale gray elf with very pointy ears emerged out of the shadows.

Grady shuddered at her voice. He didn't know who was addressing him, all he knew was that his mission was being compromised. “That’s a thinking cap, isn't it.” Grady said, pointing to the head dress the elf was wearing. “It’s why I can't sense your mind.” He laughed starkly. “That is, unless I've officially lost it.”

“You’re rather clever, however not clever enough to know this is not a hallucination.” The elf said, appearing on the other side of the room.

“Two questions. How do you know who…and I'm assuming what, I am? What do you want?”

“There’s only so many Mesmers on the Nobility. Isn't it unfair?” She smiled a cold smile, “as for the second question, you'll just have to find out.”

“Once I figure out who…and where you are… I'm going to rip that thinking cap off your head. Then we'll see who's laughing.”

“You’re rather bold for someone who just started his job as an Emissary.”

“I've been here for a decade, miss whoever you are,” Grady said, observing the walls.

Mirrors, he thought.

“A decade is a rather short amount of time, especially for an elf.” She smiled, her image shifting to another mirror.

“You’re an Ancient, aren't you?” Grady looked around for a way out. “I’m asking one more time, what do you want?”

“Your help.”

—-------

“This is in no way a bad idea,” Grady whispered to himself as he stood on the Bramble field. “Get in their heads, get the ball. Like you have before. Two people is nothing.” He said that last part again, as if he was trying to convince himself of it. Then, he exhaled and said “game on.”

A whistle blew and Grady took off running towards the opposing team's bases.

Bramble was the one place in school where he wasn't an outcast. In fact, he was the opposite. Due to his ability and Bramble allowing abilities, he was the star player on the Foxfire Bramble team. He knew that for the most part, he was seen more as an asset, but it felt good to have a community.

He spotted two people running towards his team's base and exhaled again. “Change of plans. Go for one. This could be…” he hesitated for a moment. “Fun.”

He closed his eyes and locked in on the mind of one of the people, a girl, feeling his energy coursing through hers. It was almost a calming feeling as he felt their energy become one. Then, felt his take over hers. He opened his eyes and saw her, feeling her attempts to move. He let out another sigh as he focused his energy on launching her towards the other person running. Watching intently and with a slight feeling of horror, he made her tackle the other elf.

Once he saw a few elves run to the tackled boy to help, Grady ran for the ball.

————

“You’re going to ask me for assistance and not even give me a name?” Grady asked through his laughter.

“Why do you need a name?” The Ancient asked. “It's not in any of your Elvin History books, rest assured.”

“I am assured,” he said, walking towards a mirrored wall. “Very assured.”

Grady drew back a fist and punched a mirror, the glass shattering into a seemingly infinite amount of pieces.

He did it again. And again. And again, until he was standing in a pool of shards. He looked at his fists, which were bloodied.

Most elves aren't used to the sight of blood, let alone their own. However, between his time playing bramble and the Council giving him more…unsettling missions, he had seen his own blood plenty of times.

He looked around again for the Ancient, but couldn't find her. Then, he picked up a glass shard and wielded it like a knife. “This is the last time I'm asking nicely. What do you want with me?”

“And what are you going to do about it? You're practically defenseless.” She laughed another bone-chilling laugh. “Anyways, I want your help to change the world as we know it.”

“Very funny. You cannot demand my help without even giving me an actual face.” Grady waved the makeshift knife around.

And then, she stepped out of the shadows. Then, Grady ran behind her and stuck the mirror shard to her throat. “One more word,” he said through gritted teeth, “and I’ll slash.”

“You wouldn't do that. At the end of the day, you're still an elf. You're fragile.” She grabbed the shard out of his hand with ease and pointed it back at him. “You, however, would be quite the interesting specimen to study.” She grabbed his hand and carved a line in the palm.

Grady winced but through the pain, grabbed another shard with his free, less bloody, hand. This time, instead of holding onto it, he threw it at the Ancient. It got caught in her cheek and she smiled. She took out the bloodied shard without even flinching. “It makes sense that one like you has the capacity to be so… ruthless.”

“What do you mean ‘one like you,’” Grady asked.

Deep down, he knew the answer. He knew it was because— as far as elves went— he was essentially hardened to violence. He was almost human in that aspect. While he burst into tears at the sight of an animal being hurt and rush to help, he's the only elf he knew that would scrape and bleed and even scar. He's the only elf he knew that didn't really care that he did, of course he'd stop by a Healing Center and patch up, but in the moment, he'd wince but there would be no shock.

He had a theory on why he was like that as well. It was because of his damned ability, it was an inherently violent one to him. Even as a kid, he held the belief he was dangerous. Therefore, he didn't really care about what happened to him, only the people he was close to; if he ever met someone he was close to.

Despite knowing the answer, the Ancient answered “your history, Grady. The Troll incident. The Bramble championships.” She wiped her cheek and showed him the blood. “You made and Ancient bleed. You're as ruthless as you are ostracized. With your help, we could reshape the world. A world where you won't be judged for something you couldn't control. A world without being viewed as evil for something you were burdened with. Not something you desired.” She offered out her hand for a shake.

He observed her hand, which was as gray as the rest of her skin. “Before I accept your generous offer, what's your name?”

“Vespera.”

Grady shook Vespera’s hand with his cut one.

————————————————————————————

taglist: @nowjumpinthewater @camelspit (this was YOUR idea) @crescentpaws (it evolved a bit since we last spoke)

[kaiyunsim]

dreamer -

pairing : childhood bestfriend!yushi x gn!reader (no pronouns used)

summary : having a sleepover at your childhood bestfriend's place !

warnings : fluff, crack, short read, friends hanging out !

a/n : i love nct wish <3. hope you enjoy !

queueing : dreamer - laufey, no one noticed - the marias

- wc : 1.1k - not proof read ! -

it's a lazy saturday evening when you find yourself at tokuno yushi’s house, a familiar routine that’s been part of your friendship for years. he’s sprawled out on his living room floor, a pillow tucked under his chest, while you’re curled up on the couch with a fuzzy blanket thrown over your legs. the soft hum of a cheesy rom-com plays in the background, but neither of you are really paying attention to the movie.

yushi’s hair is a mess of dark waves, falling into his eyes as he props himself up on one elbow. "so," he says, breaking the comfortable silence, "what’s your snack of choice tonight? popcorn or instant ramen?"

"you’re asking me to choose between two staples of fine dining?" you tease, tossing a throw pillow in his direction. it lands near his head, and he grabs it dramatically, pressing it to his chest like you’ve wounded him.

"i need answers, not sarcasm!" he exclaims, but his grin gives away his amusement. "your indecision is delaying our feast."

"fine, ramen," you say, stretching your legs out over the couch. "but you have to make it."

he groans like you’ve asked him to climb a mountain. "you’re lucky i’m feeling generous."

you watch as he stands and heads toward the kitchen, his oversized hoodie nearly swallowing him whole. it’s endearing, the way he moves with a casual ease, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be. you’ve always felt that way around him—like the world slows down just enough to let you breathe.

he comes back a few minutes later with two steaming bowls of ramen, balancing them carefully as he kicks the coffee table aside to make room. he plops down next to you on the couch, handing you your bowl. "don’t burn your tongue," he warns, already shoving a massive bite into his mouth.

"hypocrite," you mutter, but you’re smiling. the warmth of the soup seeps into your hands as you cradle the bowl, the savory aroma filling the room. it’s nothing fancy, but it’s perfect.

"so," yushi says between bites, "what’s the plan for tonight? do we marathon terrible movies, or do i crush you at mario kart again?"

"excuse me? 'again'?" you nearly choke on your noodles. "you’ve never crushed me at mario kart."

"oh, the denial," he says, shaking his head in mock pity. "it’s okay to admit defeat, you know. it builds character."

"let’s settle this right now," you challenge, setting your bowl on the table. "prepare to eat my dust, tokuno."

his eyes light up with excitement as he grabs the controllers, handing you one with a flourish. "may the best racer win," he says, already selecting his character. you both know this is going to get competitive, but that’s half the fun.

the next hour is filled with laughter, shouted insults, and dramatic cries of "betrayal" whenever one of you launches a blue shell. yushi’s couch becomes a battlefield, your legs tangling with his as you both lean into the game, fingers flying over the buttons. at one point, he’s so focused on trying to overtake you that he leans too far and nearly falls off the couch, catching himself at the last second.

"serves you right," you say, nudging him with your foot. "that’s karma for stealing my item box."

"you’re ruthless," he says, but he’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes your chest feel warm. "i respect it."

after your victory—which you’re quick to rub in his face—the two of you collapse back into the couch, the controllers forgotten. the movie’s still playing in the background, but neither of you pays it any mind. the only light comes from the soft glow of the tv and the faint string of fairy lights draped along the wall.

yushi’s quiet for a moment, his head tipped back against the cushions as he stares at the ceiling. "hey," he says softly, "thanks for coming over. it’s been a weird week, and... i don’t know, it’s just nice having you here."

his words catch you off guard, but they’re not unwelcome. "of course," you say, nudging his shoulder lightly. "you don’t have to thank me, yushi. you’re kind of stuck with me."

he turns his head to look at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. "i wouldn’t have it any other way."

the warmth in his gaze makes your cheeks heat up, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. you clear your throat, trying to shake off the butterflies. "okay, enough sappiness. what’s next on the agenda?"

"pillow fort?" he suggests, his grin widening. "we haven’t built one in ages."

"you’re on," you say, already grabbing the nearest blanket. the next half hour is a chaotic whirlwind of pillows, blankets, and some questionable engineering. yushi insists on being the "architect," which mostly involves him balancing precariously on the arm of the couch to drape a sheet over the top. you’re in charge of "structural integrity," which basically means you’re holding everything together with sheer determination and a few strategically placed clips.

when it’s finally done, you both crawl inside, the makeshift fort lit by a single flashlight. it’s cramped but cozy, and yushi’s shoulder presses against yours as he settles in next to you.

"not bad," he says, surveying your handiwork. "i’d give it a solid 8 out of 10."

"excuse me?" you say, feigning offense. "this is at least a 9.5."

"we’ll compromise on 8.7," he says, grinning. "deal?"

"deal," you agree, rolling your eyes. "you’re impossible."

he nudges you lightly with his elbow. "but you love me anyway."

the words hang in the air for a moment, and you’re not sure if he meant them as a joke or something more. either way, your heart does a little flip, and you’re grateful for the dim lighting that hides the flush creeping up your neck.

"yeah," you say softly, "i guess i do."

he glances at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softens. "good," he says, leaning back against the pillows. "because i’m pretty fond of you too."

the rest of the night passes in a blur of quiet conversation, shared laughter, and the occasional sound of rain tapping against the windows. eventually, you both drift off to sleep inside the fort, your head resting on his shoulder and his hand brushing against yours. it’s simple and sweet, the kind of moment that feels like home.

and as you drift off, you can’t help but think that there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

[precure1ove]

Hello! Your writing is CRUNCHY in the best possible way. Could I request I request a short story with Idia and an introverted idol reader? Hope you have a nice day!

boyfriend's favourite dj

summary : after finishing with a recording, you call you're number one fan for his reaction.

characters : idia shroud

warnings : introverted reader?, reader is an idol, established relationship, idia is your number 1 fan, fluff

a/n : this request really got my brain thinking and i had so much fun writing it!! i haven't wrote idia much so thank you for requesting<33

“Alright, that's a wrap, well done everyone!”

The director’s voice booms throughout the studio, and you feel your muscles finally relax and legs slump forward to a nearby chair, graciously taking a water bottle that was offered to you. 

At last you were finished with recording the final part of a music video for a new song that you wrote for an upcoming anime. 

Chugging the cold liquid, you pause to exchange thanks and praises with the staff members, declining any invitations to go out and eat afterwards but nobody took offense to that, they already knew your answer anyway. 

Despite being well known in the idol community for being energetic and sociable that persona couldn't be further from the truth. 

In reality, you’re an introverted mess who would rather stay locked away in your room and play games all day. Unfortunately you’re an idol but it pays well at least and you had some fun.

Unlocking the door leading to your changing room to get into more comfortable and less ‘hey i’m a famous idol’ clothes, you check your phone to reveal a bunch of notifications from Blue Nerd.

Scrolling through them as you get changed out of the tight fitting costume, you laugh at his freak out at the announcement of the music video, the word ‘traitor’ being said multiple times.

Leaving the building after nodding to the receptionist and saying a few goodbyes, you press the call button, lifting your phone up to your ear as you pull up the hood paired with a mask.

“I’m going to the ramen place near my work, do you want your usual?”

You continue on your usual route back home, listening to the faded background noise of the song you just recorded playing and quiet noises of a finger tapping to the beat.

“Idia..? Come on, you better not be serious about ignoring me.”

A moment of silence passes as you anxiously pace down the streets, underestimating the lengths your boyfriend would go to.

Until a familiar grumble was heard closer to the speaker now, and a familiar voice speaks from it.

“Traitor. Is this why you weren't able to do our daily farming sessions..”

You sigh, energy returning whenever you speak to him.

“It was supposed to be a surprise, and you always take care of my account whenever I'm busy with being a super cute idol”

His laugh cuts through the speaker at the high pitch tone you usually use for talking with fans and live videos.

 Another silence passes between you but it wasn't the uncomfortable one you got when he had intentionally ignored you.

“So what did you think of the song?”

You ask, curious for his reaction since this song was one that you worked the most on during the past few months.

“It’s a bit different from what you're usually known for but I liked it. The beat was smoothing and while the lyrics were cheesy it was..nice.”

A wave of relief passes through you and a breath you didn't know you were holding escaped.

 He liked the song, it was good. Great actually.

“A-anyways you were on about ramen, does that mean you're coming over?”

Entering the shop, you pass a nod to the owner who was already getting started on both of your usual orders, being a regular has its perks.

“I haven’t seen you in forever and I know you're dying to ramble about my song”-and to not make this more love cheesy-”nerd.”

Idia groans again embarrassed, you could imagine his face blooming a pretty shade of pink to match his hair. 

“Will you stay on call with me, just until I get home?”

A loud gasp shot through the speaker then silence again until you hear a familiar game loading in the background. 

A new update came out for it and you haven't had the time to check it out so Idia will probably commentate it for you as he plays through it.

“Sure, sure, sure… just until you get h-home.”

likes & reblogs appreciated

masterlist⠀ — ⠀ request here