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abswife · 2 days ago

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best friend

you and your best friend ellie are spending the day goofing off like usual, but things take a turn when a tickle fight goes a little too far.

hello! i know it's been literal months since I've posted, and to that i have to say... woops! anyway, here's something i threw together in a moment of creative inspiration involving nerdy loser ellie! this might suck so let me know if it's not hot garbage and you want a part 2

cw// sesbian lex, top!ellie, bottom!reader, fingering, cunnilingus, so fluffy, like you might get a toothache this is so sweet, ellie being a big loser and sweetheart, reader is only described as having hair and is afab

word count- 3k

mdni i swear to god

“No, I’m telling you- a T-rex is nothing compared to a pterodactyl!” Ellie insisted, lightly nudging your leg with her sock-clad toes. You giggled at her, amused by her persistence to get her point across. But, despite her obvious knowledge in this particular field, you felt the need to be contrary. You shift back a little on her bed, leaning against the headboard.

“Mmm, I don’t know Els… a T-rex is pretty big.” You hummed, plastering a skeptical look on your face. She scoffed, offended by your audacity to doubt her.

“Well yeah, but they can’t fly! They have little nub arms, like, they couldn’t even grab you!” She curled her arms in front of her, making little swiping motions with them. “See?”

You couldn’t help but let out a bark of laughter at her- frankly- spot-on impression. You shoved her, making her topple back, almost falling off of her side of the bed entirely. She let out a little yelp, catching herself just on the edge. She spun back around with a mock look of shock.

“What? You didn’t like my impression? I’ll have you know I’ve been told no one can do a T-rex like me!” She shouted, clambering up onto her knees. Using the height advantage, she reached down to your ribcage to begin an assault of tickles. You screeched and tried to make a grab at her hands but she scrambled them around your torso, making it hard to get a grip.

“Els! Quit it!” You managed to say through your uncontrollable laughter. You thrashed, but she trapped your legs between her knees. A shit-eating grin adorned her freckled face as she continued her attack. You could feel your face getting hot from exertion but you refused to give in.

Finally, you managed to grab her wrists well enough to pry them from your body, immediately gulping down air while you knew you still could. However, Ellie quickly twisted her wrists from your grasp and grabbed onto yours instead, pinning them against the pillows next to your head. Instantly, you felt a shift in energy. Ellie’s smile dropped slightly as she stilled, eyes locked on yours. You tried to catch your breath, but it was hard with the way she was 1. still on top of you, and 2. looking at you like that.

You and Ellie had been friends for as long as you could remember. You were next door neighbors and, being two girls the same age, you quickly became each other’s besties. Even when Ellie and her dad, Joel, moved across town in middle school you stayed close. You were constantly at her house, it was practically your second home. Ellie was your favorite person in the world. She also happened to be your longtime crush. Ever since the 7th grade, when she started getting taller and grew into her features. You both knew you each like girls, but Ellie always had a crush on some other girl at your school. You didn’t want to ruin the relationship you had with your best friend by telling her you liked her when she obviously didn’t like you back. So anytime your hug lingered a little too long, or you accidentally brushed her arm or leg, you’d get tense and nervous.

You felt your face heat up more, the feeling worsening when you felt her breath fan across your face. Oh shit, was she getting closer? Your gaze flicked down to her lips, now merely centimeters from yours. When you looked back up to her eyes, she was staring at your lips. You let out a stuttering exhale, clenching your bound hands into fists.

“Els…” You breathed out, and her eyes snapped back up to yours. You pulled one of your hands free from her now slacked grip and rested it on her cheek. She whispered your name and once again briefly looked down to your lips. You slid your hand around to the back of her neck and pulled her down towards you. You watched her eyes slide shut, and then did the same right as your mouths met.

Her lips were slightly chapped, but her mouth was warm and soft against yours. You could feel her hand that still held your wrist tighten its grip, and you scraped your nails across her hairline. She pulled back for a moment to change her angle so she could kiss you deeper and you hummed, enjoying the way her mouth pressed fully against yours. She gave an experimental lick into the crease of your lips and your breath shuddered. You felt her finally release her hold on your other wrist to instead hold your waist, her pinky brushing just under your t-shirt. You reached your arm around her back, tugging her body closer to yours. You both let out a soft moan at the feeling of your bodies aligning as her hips slotted between your parted thighs.

She drew her face back and you opened your eyes. She looked down at you and lightly brushed stray hair on your temple away. She leaned back down to kiss the corner of your lips, then your cheek, then your jaw, and onward along the expanse of your neck. You tipped your chin back, encouraging her to keep going. Her plush lips left wet kisses across your throat, occasionally nipping at the skin and soothing the sting with her tongue. She sucked at a patch of skin below your ear and you bucked your hips up involuntarily. The hand that held your waist slid lower to push your shirt up slightly.

She paused her ministrations to ask, “Is this okay?” You quickly nodded and tugged her back down into a kiss, needing to feel her lips on you. You felt her hand under your shirt slowly creep up higher until it rested on your ribs, just under your breast. You slid your hand up to fully palm the back of her head and took hold of her hair. A groan slipped out of her and you squeezed her hips between your thighs at the sound.

Ellie muttered out a curse as she once again parted from you. “Can I take this off? Please?” She asked, fumbling with the hem of your shirt, desperation leaking into her tone. You nodded again, but she shook her head and leaned an inch closer. “No, need you to say it.”

You furrowed your brows and pouted, but quickly gave in. “Yes, take it off. Yours too.” You said, bunching the fabric of her own shirt in your fist. The corner of her lips turned up at your request and she leaned back down to give you a peck before sitting back on her haunches. She pulled your shirt up and you leaned forward, putting your arms above your head to make it easier for her.

As soon as your head and arms were freed from the fabric, you leaned back down and expected her to immediately remove hers. However, she sat with the shirt still in her grip, staring at your bare chest. You blushed, but you weren’t embarrassed. You could tell from the look on her face she liked what she saw. You grabbed her shirt and tugged on it. “C’mon…” You muttered, eager to get your own view. Without taking her eyes away from where they were fixated, Ellie swiftly pulled the garment up and over her head, exposing her small breasts. You mimicked her actions, staring unabashedly at her pink nipples.

Finally, she leaned back down to slide a calloused hand up your waist until she palmed your tit. She bit her lip and couldn’t seem to decide on whether to watch her own hands play with your tits, or watch your expressions. She pinched a nipple between her fingers and rolled, and your breath hitched at the feeling, biting your own lip. “God…” She muttered. She couldn’t hold herself back from kissing you again, and you held her face to keep her there. You whimpered into her mouth as she continued to toy with your nipples, and slid your hands down to do the same. You felt her breath catch when you pressed your thumbs down flat against them and flicked down. You both continued like that for a while, kissing and moaning into each other’s mouths as you played with the other’s breasts.

A particularly harsh pinch had you tossing your head back and bucking your hips up. This spurred her to reattach herself to your neck and grind down against you, earning her a high pitched noise from you. Ellie began her descent down your body, trailing her lips along your chest and the valley between your breasts. She made a quick detour to flick a nipple with her tongue, then suck it into her hot mouth. You arched your back, chasing the feeling as she continued her journey. Her hands gripped your hips as she sucked marks into your stomach. Your hands made their way into her hair, pushing it back from her face to see her better. Her fingers curled into the waistband of your sweats, just barely inching them down to plant kisses closer to your navel. You squirmed at the sensation, tightening your grip on her auburn locks.

Her fern green eyes looked up into yours, lips hovering no more than a couple inches from the skin of your hips. “You want these off?” She asked, voice raspy and dripping with lust. You whispered a soft ‘yes’, not trusting your voice enough to try for anything more. Seemingly satisfied, she nipped at your hips once more before sliding down farther to give herself room to fully remove your pants. She slowly tugged your sweatpants and underwear down at once before becoming impatient halfway through and practically ripping them the rest of the way off, slinging them off to the side.

You suddenly felt a wave of self consciousness and clamped your knees together before she could turn back to you. When she did, she frowned slightly. She planted her hands on your ankles and looked up to your face. “Baby,” She started, making your heart jump at the pet name, “lemme see.” You felt blood rush both up to your face and downward, and you wiped your sweaty palms onto the sheets below you. Her hands skated up your calves, coming to rest just below your kneecaps as she sat up higher. She pressed messy kisses to your knees, pushing her thumbs into the insides, trying to encourage you to open up. Despite your- admittedly misplaced- sudden insecurity, you slowly parted your legs, displaying your whole body for her eyes to feast on. And feast they did.

Another curse slipped from her peachy lips, gaze locked on your wet pussy. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” Ellie said, her eyes briefly flicking up to your face. She seemed to take herself by surprise, and a deep blush spread up from her pale chest. Her reaction was oddly adorable, and you breathed out a small giggle. That must have reassured her, as a shy smile appeared back on her face.

You reached your hand out towards her and curled your fingers in. “C’mere.” You said. Obediently, she crawled her way back up your naked body and let herself be pulled into a passionate kiss. Your fingers brushed her jaw, feeling the ends of her hair tickle your knuckles. She broke the kiss, but couldn’t stop herself from giving you one more peck, and then one to your cheek. “Will you take your pants off too? I don’t want to be the only one naked.” You requested, thumbs circling the apples of her cheeks. Her smile turned impish, and she twisted her head to press her lips to your palm.

“I can’t believe it. The past ten minutes you’ve been trying to get into my pants?” She jokingly questioned, making you laugh loudly.

“Believe it or not I have.” You answered, sliding a hand down to give her hard nipple a pinch. She gasped, holding a hand to her chest.

“Well, you could have told me!” Ellie exclaimed, then leaned her head down to litter your chest with kisses. Still softly laughing, you glided your hands up and down her back until she sat back. She twisted her body around to hook her thumbs into her pants and slide them down her legs, her underwear going along with them. As she stood back on her knees to face you again, you caught a glimpse of the patch of red hair covering her mound before she leaned back over you to continue worshipping your body with her mouth.

Ellie quickly made her way back to her previous stopping point, the stretch of skin right above your navel. She leaned back slightly and brought a hand up, gently pushing your thigh further out to give herself more room. She admired your glistening folds, and slid a single finger right down the middle, collecting your essence. You bit your lip, the anticipation driving you crazy. She finally pressed her thumb against the underside of your clit, rubbing up and down gently. The stimulation made your thigh twitch and your breath catch. Taking notice of this reaction, Ellie pressed down harder, making firm circles. This made your breathing pick up, and you reached a hand up to palm at your breast, needing something to focus on other than her unintentional teasing.

She used her index and middle finger to part your lips, spreading you out for her. Reaching her head down, she licked a fat stripe from your entrance to your clit. You breathed out her name, sweat beginning to form on your hairline. She shushed you gently in consolation just before diving back into you, tongue exploring. She suctioned your clit into her mouth while flicking it with her wet muscle, and you cried out. You were beginning to wonder if she had actually done this before and just never told you.

Your wondering was cut off when she used the two fingers she had been using to open you up to swirl broad circles over your bud and locked her gaze on you. “Can I finger you?” She asked almost too casually, too caught up in her excitement to be nervous. The eager look on her face almost made you want to deny her, but you were too needy yourself.

“Go ‘head Els.” You said. She grinned and messily smacked a kiss on your aching clit, running her fingers through more of your wetness. Slowly, she inserted her middle finger up to the knuckle, then pulled back until just the pad remained inside. The foreign feeling made you furrow your brows, both out of frustration and pleasure. She found a rhythm quickly and her eyes locked onto the sight of her lazily pumping in and out. Experimentally, she curled her finger upwards towards your front. This action had you clenching down, a whimper being pulled from your throat. Her emerald irises snapped up to your face, noticing how her actions affected you.

As she pressed a second finger in alongside the first, she bent down to keep licking you. The sensation was immediately overwhelming, and one of your hands shot down to grab onto her short hair. Once again, she curled her fingers up just as they bottomed out inside you and your hips jumped from the bed. Your brain told you the feeling was too much, but your body craved more. She found her rhythm again, slightly faster now. Her tongue laved over your bud, spreading your slick as it leaked from your hole. She hummed, and the vibrations caused your moans to increase in pitch. “Fuck! Like that- ah!” You cried out, encouraging her to continue exactly as she was. Thankfully, Ellie listened, pace never faltering as she fucked her fingers deep inside of you.

You could feel the warmth building up in your belly and knew you would cum soon. Fearing she would suddenly pull away or slow down, your grip on her hair tightened and you pulled her mouth flush to your pussy. Ellie moaned and let herself be shoved into you, opting to suck on your clit rather than lick. Your breath caught in your throat, back arching in a harsh curve as you felt your orgasm rapidly approach. Ellie dug her nails into the thigh she held as they began to shake around her head.

You let out one last pitchy whine as your high crashed over you. Your thighs squished her cheeks as they attempted to close, but she used both of her hands to push them back open, holding your hips down at the same time. Her mouth continued its assault, head moving side to side as she worked you through your orgasm. The feeling quickly became overwhelming, and your palm pushed against her forehead. “Els… too much…” You croaked out. She finally broke contact with your glossy pussy, opting instead to stare at the way your hole clenched around nothing.

“Fuck baby…” Ellie muttered, reaching up to run a thumb through your wetness, accidentally brushing your sensitive bud and making you jump. Panting, you grabbed her hand and pulled it up, wanting her to come up and kiss you. She seemed to understand this and made a slow journey back to you, leaving searing kisses across your body on the way. Once you were finally face to face you pulled her down for a proper smooch, hands cradling each side of her face. She brushed your hair back from your sweaty face as you tried to peck her on each of her freckles. She hummed a laugh and captured your lips in another soft kiss before pulling back and resting her head beside yours, nose nuzzling into your pulse point. You let out a heavy sigh, letting the aftershocks wrack through you as you rubbed her back.

“I love you.” She said, pressing her lips to your earlobe.

You smiled and tugged her hair to look her in the eyes. “I love you too.” You responded, thumbing her pouty bottom lip. She kissed your thumb, and held your face in one of her hands.

Her breath shuddered as your hand slithered down her torso, fingertips playing with the curly hair just above her pussy. “Your turn?”

#the last of us #the last of us part 2 #tlou2 #ellie williams #ellie tlou #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut

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taelophone · 2 days ago

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Soft Feminine˚࿔ ⋆˙⟡ — Luigi Mangione x Reader ⋆⭒˚｡⋆TWs: None! Its fluff of luigi fixing your childhood music box lol ˚｡⋆A/N: This was written as an allegory for something!! If you catch it please lmk id be so so happy <33

The slow silence filled the room, pardoned by the occasional shift of clothing or the clinks of Luigi sorting the things on your nightstand. It was a quiet night with your boyfriend, simply enjoying each other's presence while engaged in silent conversation.

His hands whirled around the slowly recovering nightstand, The lids to the foggy glass candle jars and the clutter slowly finding their native places as he worked his magic. Soon enough, your nightstand was clear, bothered only by your lamp, room spray, a mini succulent, and your flamingo-pink Laneige sleep mask.

When Luigi finished bringing order to your nightstand, he glanced at you momentarily. No reason in particular, just to bask in your features as you scrolled on the cyber-white hue of your phone.

He smiled, overcome with warm and fiery sparks of affection. He wanted nothing in the world to ever raise a finger at you in challenge— if so, he’d gladly break it just to deem himself your hero.

When he was done staring at you, he patted your head affectionately as you lay stationery in your bed, relishing in the warmth of your smile. He whisked away from your nightstand, making his way to your vanity as he began sorting that as well.

While you listened to the glass and metal clinking over by the far corner of your room, you turned off your phone to stare up at the ceiling. Today had been a long, long day.

You longed to continue to lay down and embrace your boyfriend with rampant lovelorn. Maybe even accompanied by some soft and quiet…music!

Music! Your music box! Oh, he can fix it!

“Lui, babe?” You spoke, shattering the fragile silence.

“Yes, my love?” He answered, tilting his head slightly in your direction but not taking his eyes off of the things he continued to put away.

“You’re an engineer, right?” You inquired, crunching your torso to bring your body up, sitting criss-cross on top of your soft comforter.

“Depends…what are you asking me to fix? I can’t do appliances” he joked with a light smile and a boyish giggle. Cute little cornball.

“Nothing too serious…I have a music box that I’ve had since I was like…a baby. Can you take a look? It broke sometime after I turned nine, but I never got it fixed” You murmured, shuffling over to the end of your bed and leaning over the foot of your bed frame.

With your brushes, blushes, and plushes sorted at your vanity, Luigi broke his structuring trance to take a look at the little music box you began to pull from under the depths of your bed. Aged with hospitality, pink with youth, and loved with adoration, the ballerina-esque porcelain wind-up contraption presented itself in your hands.

Gold embellishments, blush roses, and shimmery gloss drew attention to the little ballerina on the front of the design. Her figure was just like you, only donned with a white tutu and bodice as she sat with her ankles crossed.

“It’s really old so it might just be an age thing, but I really wanna see if it can be fixed. I loved it so much growing up I just don’t wanna let it go” you said with a nostalgic chuckle.

“It looks really pretty! Can I see?” He gently asked, walking over to the front of your bed and extending both of his hands to seek out permission for the piece.

You nodded, carefully and cautiously handing him your innocence with benign hands. He seemed to examine it, get a feel for the material under his fingertips before he carefully flipped open the little lid to reveal the swan and the woman standing atop a pink pedestal.

He gave it a few winds, listening for any potential clicks along the way as he was met with a suspicious amount of loosened compliance. Normally it would give some sort of pressure or noise if it was working properly, but he seemed to have already figured out the problem.

“Okay…I think I know what the issue is. I’m gonna have to take this apart, baby” he stated, closing the little box with a satisfying click. “I know what I’m doing, I promise, I just don’t want you to panic. I have to take it apart to see its anatomy, and that’ll give me a better understanding of what’s wrong…is that alright with you?”

Your eyes widened with slight fear, ‘what ifs’ flooding the pipes in your mind while your heart rate spiked. This was his job, yes, and he spent a good portion of his life assembling things and putting them together.

But there’s always a possibility, and there’s never a zero. It’s okay to be afraid of accidents, and it’s ok to keep an open mind, but where do you go if something goes wrong?

What if he breaks it further? Snaps the lid off with unmonitored strength, shatters the neck of the swan with a grip that went unchecked for too long, cracking the perfect porcelain.

Could you get it fixed then? Would your childhood pride be lost at the hands of the one you love the very most? How would you cope when the sound of shattered glass pierces your ears followed by a gasp of alarm?

“Love.”

You looked at him, half-aware of the grip you now had on your music box. The wrinkles in your knuckles as your fingers wrapped around the heavy relic.

You hadn’t realized how hard you had been holding on, to both your breath and your childhood. There was nothing to fear as long as it was in his hands— he would treat every part of you with the same tender and merciful hands he had held you with time and time again.

“Yeah…okay,” you nodded, handing him the music box with a silent swallow of anxiety.

His eyes softened. An empathetic and understanding wiggle in his brows as he leaned over, and kissed the top of your head with a hand behind your neck. Brief and intimate.

“Thank you for trusting me” he promised.

You smiled, nodding your appreciation as you crossed your arms.

“All of my tools and mechanical equipment should be in my closet in a white clear box. It should have blue painter's tape on the lid.”

“Awesome,” he said, placing the music box down on the empty vanity before he traversed into the depths of your closet. Rustling and jostling of clothes, shoes, perfume bottles, and unboxed accessories echoed through the silence, aches of impending doom and lingering hope gnawing at the side of your neck.

When he emerged with the clear box of tools, he sat them on the side of the white desk, flipping the music box upside down to see what type of screwdriver he’d need. When he had everything he needed, he took his time, hands cradling and supporting every inch of delicate glass.

Unscrewing each screw, tender love and hospitality possessed his hands as he took it apart. Piece by piece, little by little.

Everything was on display for him, unfiltered in its purest form. Now that he had seen each piece of the machine and what makes it turn, he quickly identified the problem and its solution.

With expert hands carrying endless wisdom, he reconstructed the feminine melodic music like he was the very man who invented the machine. And in no time, he had the ballerina and her swan spinning on her pedestal of high confidence again.

He wound up the handle, the now familiar pressure and sounds of approval reaching his ears with smug approval. He knew what he was doing, and he’d always be there to prove it to you.

“Done!” He smiled, flipping the music box closed and giving you a wave of nostalgia and gratitude.

When he approached your bed once more, he climbed on top of it and plopped himself down beside you. He kissed your forehead again, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as you beamed with joy.

“No way, thank you so much! I literally love you,” you gasped, winding up the machine, the familiar melody of Swan Lake ringing through chimes and twinkles as the little ballerina began to spin slowly in the confines of her box.

“Anything for you.”

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione x you #luigi mangione fanfic #luigi mangione thoughts #luigi mangione x y/n #luigi mangione x yn #CEO Shooter x Reader #the adjuster x reader

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fortunxa · 2 days ago

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「 ✦ pinks and neons ✦ 」

Jinx x ballerina!reader / modern AU

─── ballerina masterlist ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ // second position

summary: Your friendship was a delicate balance, like a tightrope stretched between two distant worlds. One night, Jinx led you away from the soft glow of your studio and into the neon chaos of her underground. But a hand lingered too close, a grin cut too sharp—and her storm broke loose. In the quiet aftermath, something between you began to shift.

contents: modern AU, opposites attract, harassment

author's note: posting two days in a row? diva.

Jinx still didn’t know how it happened—how someone like you, with your soft eyes and even softer voice, had become part of her world.

But it started with quiet evenings in the studio, watching you twirl and leap with a precision that made her mind spin. She would sit cross-legged on the scuffed wooden floor, doodling nonsense in her notebook, stealing glances at you as if afraid to blink and miss something, occasionally tossing out commentary that made you groan and smile in equal measure. You, in turn, would sit beside her as she tinkered with gadgets, your steady presence anchoring her in a way nothing else ever had.

You found yourself lingering after practice, not just because Jinx made you laugh, but because she made you feel—alive, seen. Somehow, the girl with the blue hair and reckless grin was both a storm and a shelter all at once.

You had learned to laugh more, to let yourself be carried by the unpredictable current of her energy. Jinx, in turn, softened her sharp edges for you, learning how to sit still, to listen, to care. You were still opposites, but in the way day and night needed each other or how silence made music more profound. You weren’t something yet, not exactly, but you were more than nothing—there was something blooming there, something unspoken but undeniable.

The city breathed in rhythms you were only beginning to share. Somewhere, between pristine ballet studios and street corners sprayed in neon, your lives had started to intertwine.

And so, nights in the studio gave way to walks along the city’s edges, where she would point out graffiti tags like old friends, and you would listen, laughing at the outrageous stories behind each one.

But tonight was different.

“Alright, ballerina,” Jinx announced, her voice crackling with excitement and swinging an arm over your shoulders as you stepped off the subway. “I’ve been playing nice in your world long enough. Tonight, you’re coming to mine.”

And tonight your worlds collided at an underground party.

Deep in the industrial district, tucked inside a forgotten warehouse, brought to life with neon lights and the pounding rhythm of heavy-bass music. It was a riot of color and sound—Jinx’s natural habitat. You, however, stood near the edge of the chaos, wide-eyed and out of place.

“Are you sure about this?” you asked hesitantly.

“Relax, you’ll be with me,” she reassured with a wink. “C’mon, live a little!”

She led you inside, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. You passed dancers, graffiti artists tagging the walls, and a makeshift bar. You tried to ignore the eyes that lingered on you—a soft, pink-dressed figure standing out in this world of spikes and leather. You stayed close to Jinx, who didn’t seem to notice or care about the stares as she grabbed a couple of sodas, handing one to you.

“See? Easy. Just stick with me, and you’ll have fun,” she promised. “I’ll make sure no one bites.”

You took a sip, trying to focus on her energy rather than the overwhelming scene. The party was wild, unapologetic, just like Jinx—a far cry from the orderly beauty of the studio. And you, for all your nerves, wanted to trust her.

The music pounded, electric and deafening, a rhythm you couldn’t quite follow—too fast, too rough. She grinned as she pulled you toward the center of it all. “Dance with me!” she shouted over the noise.

“I don’t know how!” The statement was so foreign to you. You laughed, only half-protesting, but she just spun you in a clumsy circle, her energy infectious.

It wasn’t long before you began to relax, your body finding its own rhythm amidst the chaos. For a moment, you felt free, unbound by rules or technique, lost in Jinx’s world.

But then the spell broke.

A man approached from the crowd, his steps slow and deliberate. He was taller than the blue-haired girl, broader, of course, with a slimy grin that made your skin crawl.

“Hey,” he said, his voice heavy with the slur of alcohol. “You look a little lost, sweetheart. What’s someone like you doing here?”

You came to a halt and stiffened, slightly out of breath. “I’m fine. I’m just… here with a friend,” you managed, your voice soft but firm as you took a step back.

The man leaned closer, his grin widening, and it almost felt like a wolf was snarling right down at you. “A friend? Come on, doll. Let me show you around. This isn’t your kind of scene.”

He reached for your arm, but before you could respond, a figure slid between you like a blade—sharp, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

Jinx.

Her grin was gone, replaced by a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“Touch her again,” she began, her voice low and cutting, infused with a subtle warning, “and you’re gonna wish you hadn’t.”

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What, you’re her bodyguard? What’s your problem?”

She smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “My problem?” she echoed, cocking her head like she was genuinely thinking about it. Then she leaned in, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “I don’t like people who don’t know how to take a hint. Makes me itchy. You don’t want to see me itchy.”

He straightened, frowning. “I was just talking to her.”

“Yeah? Well, now you’re talking to me,” she retorted, her grin all teeth. “Lucky you.”

There was something in her eyes—something wild and unhinged—that made him hesitate. His bravado faltered, but he tried to recover. “Look, I was—”

“No, no, I get it,” Jinx interrupted, nodding earnestly. “You see a pretty girl, you do the whole caveman thing. Real classic. But here’s the thing—” Her hand suddenly dropped to her side, where her fingers twitched like they were itching for a fight, wrapping around the neck of an empty bottle. “She’s not interested. And if I have to explain it again, I’m gonna get real creative.”

The man hesitated, clearly sizing her up, but her sharp confidence didn’t waver. When he finally muttered something about “crazy chicks” and stumbled off, she turned to you, her expression softening instantly.

“You okay?”

You nodded, though your hands trembled slightly. “I didn’t know what to say. He just—”

“You don’t have to explain,” she assured gently, her hands brushing your shoulders. “This was a bad idea. Let’s go.”

Without waiting for a reply, she laced her fingers with yours and pulled you toward the exit. You emerged into the cool night air, the noise of the party fading behind you. The sudden quiet was jarring, but it felt like a relief.

Jinx kept walking, unusually silent and unaware of the way she still held onto your hand. Or maybe she just liked it too much to let go yet, enjoying the feeling of your soft skin beneath her thumb as it brushed over your knuckles.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here,” she eventually spoke up, her voice uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I thought it’d be fun, but I didn’t think about… well, that.”

“It’s okay,” you said, glancing up at her. “I wanted to see it. I wanted to see… you.”

Her steps faltered, her blue hair catching the glow of a distant streetlight. A flicker of something you didn’t quite recognize flashed in her eyes. “You don’t need to do that. You don’t have to dive into my mess just to understand me.”

You just smiled, soft and warm. “I want to.” The statement is simple—too simple even. But you had said it so naturally, with so much conviction, that she couldn’t bring herself to argue against it. “And… Thank you for defending me, by the way,” you added, quieter this time, more sheepish than usual.

She laughed, a low, breathy sound. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep you safe, ballerina.” Jinx wasn’t the hero in anyone’s story—far from it. But, much to her surprise, she wouldn’t think twice about being the biggest, fattest hero the world has ever seen for you.

You started walking again, your pace slower now, the city stretching out before you. Her world was chaos, yours was order, but in this moment, you were somewhere in between.

“Next time,” she began, “we’ll stick to your studio. Just you, me, and some boring classical music. Deal?”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Deal, powder keg.” It slipped out teasingly, a way to get her back for “twinkle toes”, but her reaction wasn’t quite what you expected.

Jinx froze for a fraction of a second, her breath catching in her throat. Powder. The name clawed its way out of her past, dragging memories she didn’t want to touch with it—volatile, destructive, dangerous. You glanced at her, your doe eyes holding concern at her sudden change of demeanor.

You thought you had said something wrong—and in a way, you did, though you didn’t know what. But before you could take it back, she just tugged you closer, swinging an arm around your shoulders, the movement so familiar you relaxed instantly.

“Come on, ballerina,” she simply said, steering you down the quiet street. She didn’t correct you, didn’t explain the weight behind the name you had just so casually given her. Instead, she let it sit there, unspoken but not unbearable. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt as much as it should’ve—not when you said it. For once, the name didn’t feel like a weight on her shoulders. It felt… lighter, almost. “Let’s get you home.”

And somehow, tonight, the distance between your worlds felt smaller than ever.

��dedicated to my helpful softies .ᐟ.ᐟ

@jinxsbunny // @luckybunny555 & @ladey 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

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omgahgase · 3 days ago

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Charthur short

Charles breaks his bow and Arthur gets him a new very special one 🥰

hello there! sorry this lil ask took too long, and sorry that it's not short haha. i love the idea of arthur doing anything for charles bc He's In Love, so here's my take of their relationship before getting together. i hope you enjoy!

It’s a well-known fact in camp and by his friends and by just about anyone that’s asked Arthur for any help making anything outside his expertise of shitty knives:

Arthur ain’t no craftsman.

Yeah, he can chip away at a rock and wrap it around a stick then call it an arrow, and he can weave a basket—nothing else, though, that’s about as far as he can get without Jack or one of the girls aiding his helpless fingers—and, sure, he can tie up a piece of line to any broken branch and head on down to the lake with the world’s most God awful fishing pole, but the truth still stands.

If Arthur had to choose between crafting someone an item and not having it fall apart after its first use, or getting shot in the mouth…Well, then, Arthur’s making sure that bullet goes straight through his throat and out the back of his head.

So why, in God’s green Earth, is Arthur making a new bow for Charles after he broke his old one?

‘Because you love him,’ Arthur thinks, gentle in the same way his cheeks redden at the mere thought of Charles, in correction to Eagle Flies’ snarky, “I don’t know, you asked me for help,” that lights up a spark of irritation in Arthur’s gut, makes Arthur want to shove him off the log he’s perched on.

“This may be the most foolish thing I’ve ever done,” Arthur says, twirling the knife in his hand that’s speckled in his own blood.

He stares at the piece of chokecherry wood in front of him, the branch now thinner than when Arthur chopped it off and whittled it down to a poor, uneven shape that hardly resembles a stick let alone a bow. It took a little over a month to get the wood and then season it, this process he wanted to do himself because it’s special, Eagle Flies said, to put your emotions into a piece of Earth and ask the land if it’s okay to take a piece of its tree for his own desires—for Charles, his mind keeps saying. So he can’t screw it up unless he wants to start all over again. Arthur can’t afford mistakes, but his project laughs at him, it seems, and Arthur, finding himself comfortable in his frustration, wants to burn it.

“A fool in love is stronger than any beast or man he encounters,” Eagle Flies says, crafting improved arrows to Arthur’s right. He holds one up to his eye and stares down the line of it. “Your affection for Charles is deep, therefore, your actions are foolish.” He shrugs, and motions for Arthur to keep whittling. “Keep going. You're nearly there.”

“I almost lost a finger.”

“Your lover will thank you.”

Arthur feels his cheeks go from warm to uncomfortably hot. He tips his hat down over his eyes to hide the deep blush spreading over his face. “Charles ain’t my lover,” he mumbles, a correction to a hopeful assumption.

Eagle Flies only hums as he places his arrow in his pile and Arthur kinda wants to fire all of them into the distance just so his friend can feel an inkling of his annoyance. Arthur does understand that Charles will be grateful, however, no matter how shitty his new bow may turn out. Sadie gave Arthur the suggestion, said that it’ll take Charles months to construct a new bow while Arthur can figure something out and get a new one in his hands in less than that, and Arthur—with his squirrel brain that as of five months, two weeks, and six days ago (but, really, who’s counting?) hasn’t been able to keep Charles Smith out of his head—ran with it. He overestimated his abilities in the fine art of craftsmanship (and thinking with any logical parts of his brain when it comes to Charles) and damn near killed himself gathering everything he needed to make a bow.

Arthur sought out Eagle Flies not too long after Sadie planted the seedling of the thought in his head, asking him what it’d take to trade so he could get his hands on any materials ready for bow crafting. Eagle Flies, with a light in his eyes and a kick in his step, rattled off a list of items his tribe needed. Fresh berries from the West Grizzlies, wolf and cougar pelts, big game from The Heartlands, eagle feathers from the highest cliffs of Donner Falls. He even had to wipe out a few rowdy stragglers who were camped up too close to the tribe, something Eagle Flies said about his father not wanting to wander into outlaw affairs so Arthur best get the job done because it won’t be too suspicious if a Van der Linde boy does it.

After choosing his tree and setting it out to dry, Arthur spent the better half of the week hunting and gathering, putting his neck out on the line for anything that can make Charles a bow as good as the one he made himself, and by the time he had everything he needed in his possession, he was more bruised and bloody than a shitty bull rider at the state fair.

Arthur knows it’ll be worth it, though. If it means he can do something for Charles—and maybe crack a smile outta him, Arthur’s a greedy bastard down to his core and he needs to be on the receiving end of just one of Charles’ rare grins—then Arthur will gladly do it all over again.

He huffs, loudly, and gathers up the remaining incentive to keep going. Eagle Flies said he's almost done whittling, then all that's left is to string the sinew, and add little decorative designs along the shape of it because every bow is different, none is ever exactly the same. That’s what Eagle Flies told him when Arthur first started this journey.

‘Every bow is unique in its own way. Make it your own.’

‘But it’s not for me,’ Arthur had said. ‘I’m makin’ it for Charles.’

Eagle Flies only looked at him, wearing the same face Sadie wore when she gave him the idea. ‘Make it for him, then, but give a piece of yourself into every step. Put your emotions into your craft, and make it yours. Both of yours.’

‘Make it ours,’ Arthur reminds himself as he gets back to work.

---------------------------------

One month, twenty-six days, and seven hours. That’s how long it took him to make a bow.

Arthur has more scars on his hands now than he ever did before he set out to make this gift, which granted him the full understanding of the saying ‘putting in the blood, sweat, and tears’ into something you love. Arthur loves Charles more than he thinks is capable of a man like him, so why wouldn’t he put in all his effort?

He’d do just about anything for Charles, that’s been established a long time, maybe even back then in Colter when Charles suffered from a burnt hand and Arthur did everything in his power to make sure he didn’t injure it any further. That was the start of it all, Arthur believes, and now in the present time, Arthur isn’t tending to his wounds anymore, instead, he’s tending to the ache in his chest telling him to do grand displays of affection. Like crafting an entirely new bow when Arthur is the shittiest craftsman from here to Blackwater.

Arthur sucks in a deep breath to steel the jitters in his hands, his fingers clutching at the leather wrapping of the bow like a lifeline, and walks a little way down to the lake’s shoreline. Flat Iron Lake ain’t that much to look at it in the daytime, the heat of Lemoyne making the sand feel like hot rocks and the water like a warm bath, but in the evenings, when the sun’s setting just right, a blaze sparks across the horizon, makes the bright blue of the water’s surface turn a flower petal pink, then a dusky orange.

It’s pretty, hell, Arthur would even say it’s beautiful, but he won’t. Nah, the most beautiful thing about the lake is when Charles stands at the water’s edge, his features painted in the ever-changing color of the sky, his hair long and wavy down his back, the outline of his frame strong, sturdy like a mountain, and just as gorgeous. He just stares out into the water, soaking it in, eyes soft in the setting sun, and Arthur can’t think of anything prettier.

Arthur swallows down the nervous lump in his throat, then, “‘Scuse me, Mr. Smith,” he calls.

Charles turns, his fair falling in front of his eyes when he sees Arthur, and, suddenly, it’s only them. Call it Arthur’s tunnel vision—hell, even call him crazy if it fits—but at the moment Charles fully faces him, the barest hint of a smile on his face (is he surprised? Arthur hopes so), the lake, camp, everything around them falls away.

“Hello, Arthur,” Charles greets, meeting him halfway along the shore’s edge. He stops just shy of a foot away, and Arthur has to resist the urge to pull him closer. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on that stagecoach job with John?”

“Nah, Martson can handle it.” Arthur clears his throat, then, before his brain can tell him to high tail it back to his tent, he thrusts out the leather wrapping. “I got somethin’ for you.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit together quizzically before he looks down as if just realizing it was there, his lips going all pouty in that way he does when he doesn’t understand something. “What’s the occasion?” He asks, gingerly taking the wrappings and undoing the ties.

“No occasion, Mr. Smith. It’s just—well, I thought that um—” Before Arthur can stop himself, his mind going from overly polite to ‘Don’t say anythin’ stupid,’ his mouth kicks into overdrive and rambles a string of words in a single breath.

“I know you broke your bow last time you went huntin’, and it’s hard tryin’ to find somethin’ like that in any ‘ol store, so I made you a new one—it ain’t as pretty as your last one—shoot, it probably don’t work much better neither, but I made it—for you—so I hope it gets the job done.”

Arthur’s head swims woozy by the time his words fall free, and his gut churns with anticipation as Charles looks upon the bow, his expression hidden by the shadow of the descending sun. Arthur’s feet are leaden to the ground, his hands trembling a shake so violent he hides them behind his back, and after a few seconds of agonizing silence, of Charles tracing the curved line of his new weapon with a delicate finger and tweaking the sinew strings, he lifts his head. Arthur’s heart jumps into his throat.

“You made this?” He asks, marveled, eyes the softest shade of brown Arthur’s ever seen on him.

Arthur clears his throat, manages a croaked, “Yeah.”

Charles just continues to feel it, grips over the leather wrapping of the middle part, and then, as if in a trance, his eyes land on the engravings just above. His thumb runs over it, gently, as if the bison might disappear if he’s not careful.

“You did this too?” His voice is so deep, so soft as if he’s speaking to Arthur in a dream that Arthur almost misses his question.

“Yeah. Eagle Flies helped, a ‘lil. Actually, he’s the one who taught me how to make it. I didn’t—I wanted to do it right.” The ‘for you’ threatens to barrel roll from his lips but Arthur swallows it down, forcing it to the back of his throat. “Bison are important to your family. So,” he shrugs, trying to pass it off as nonchalant when his body’s buzzing like a hummingbird.

Charles’ eyes land on the second engraving, a buck that sits just below the leather, and something in the way he spoke, like a gentle rustle in the grass, shook Arthur to his core. “Is this you?”

Arthur nods, steps a little closer so he can brush his fingers over the buck too, just shy of Charles’ own. “The lines took the longest. Almost lost a finger while doin’ it.” Charles chuckles, endeared, and he’s smiling, a small barely there upturn of his lips that Arthur wants to sketch and keep in his pocket forever. “Eagle Flies said to make it special, to, y’know, make it my own. It’s yours, though, but I still wanted to have a ‘lil bit of myself there. So it’s—it’s kinda like ours—in a way, I guess.”

Arthur bites his tongue, stopping himself from saying anything else that will make his face redder than a fire ant’s ass. He hopes the flaming rays of the sun can cover his blush, but even his luck can’t make miracles.

“It’s beautiful,” Charles says, so earnestly that Arthur’s heart drops from his throat and does a can-can number in his chest. “It’s like you’ll be with me wherever I go.”

“I’ll go anywhere with you, Charles,” Arthur counters, baffled by the thought that he wouldn’t follow Charles to the end of the Earth. If he asked or not, Arthur’s with him.

Charles stares at him, then, equally as mystified. “You will?”

As if Arthur would be anywhere else. “Always.”

It’s Charles’ turn to surprise him, then, by lunging into Arthur’s person with the force of a bolder. He hugs him tight, squeezes around Arthur’s shoulders, and tucks his face close to his ear. He doesn’t say anything, not until Arthur’s body catches up to his brain and he wraps his arms around Charles’ middle, holding on just as close.

“Thank you, Arthur. No one’s ever given me something like this, or ever treated me this nice before.”

“I will,” Arthur says, his voice muffled by the fabric of Charles’ shirt, but still holding so much weight to it that Charles steps in until the entirety of their bodies are pressed together. “You’re my friend, Charles. I would do anyin’ for you.”

Charles sucks in a sharp breath. “Thank you.”

They separate far too quickly for Arthur’s liking, the sun nearly gone behind the mountains and the moon already high in the sky. Charles continues to stare at his gift as if he can’t believe it’s actually his like he can’t imagine someone going out of their way to give him something as heartfelt.

(In the back of his mind, Arthur vows to break that train of thought, to make Charles believe he’s not just put on this Earth to hurt, but to live, and, hopefully, to love.)

But still, even if Charles likes it, Arthur still has to say, “Sorry if it ain’t as good as your old one.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Charles scolds, his eyebrows knitting together. “It’s perfect.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “You and I both know my craftsmanship is shit. You don’t even know how it shoots.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Arthur. You’re more of a wonder than you think you are.” He smiles, then, closed mouth and so sweet that his cheeks bunch up under his eyes, and Arthur officially goes dumb. “Come. Practice with me while we still have light.”

He brushes past Arthur, up the little hill towards the small clearing near camp. When Arthur doesn’t move because he’s too busy reeling at granted something so small and special, something no one else in camp gets to see, Charles calls out to him.

“You coming with me, cowboy?”

Immediately, Arthur is next to him, standing so close their knuckles brush and a spark shoots out somewhere in the distance.

“Always.”

#charthur #arthur morgan #charles smith #arthur loves him so much it drives him crazy #charles loves him too he just doesn't know how to show it lmao #omgahgase writes #read dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic

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star2fishmeg · 3 hours ago

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CONGRATS ON 1K 🥳

Could I request Quinn Hughes helping reader through a stress breakdown + #13?

Thank you for requesting <3

FLUFF #13 "You came." "You called."

📞 dialling…

Quinn had never gripped his steering wheel harder in his life. Never had been so impatient and desperate to get back to his apartment before. He’d never burst through the front door, dumping his bags and almost tripping through his hallway like he had after he saw the notification back in the rink’s locker room. The second he opened his phone after practice and saw her name on the ‘missed call’ notification, his stomach dropped drastically, and all clothing and equipment was shoved into his bag without much care.

Following the sniffling, he peered into his living room, slowly and quietly stepping closer to y/n curled up on his sofa, as if she were trying to melt into the back cushions from how tight she had pressed herself against them, like she was trying to get as far away from her laptop that sat on his table behind her and curl up into a ball. He thought for a second that the way she had positioned herself, she didn’t want to look at the device she usually would be working from when he got home, her eyes red and wide, wet with glistening cheeks, choked sobs falling from her chest staggered.

Taking a seat next her, lips pulled into a compassionate frown, Quinn wrapped his arms around her body, pulling her onto his lap and holding her to his chest, “Sshh, I’m here, darling, I’ve got you.”

For some reason, one she could not explain, she cried harder, a lump in her throat that was cured by wails and uncontrollable tears as she melted into his hold, tucking her head into his collarbone and letting his voice and hands sooth her. His heart ached, a sting in his chest as her hand clutched his hoodie.

After allowing herself to fall into vulnerability, safe in his warmth, y/n sniffed, eyes bleary and grip on his hoodie loosening. Quinn’s hands remained soft, caressing over her back and placing gentle kisses to her head.

“You came?” she croaked, voice only loud in the silence of the apartment.

His hold tightened, wiping her cheek with his thumb and gazing softly into her eyes, “You called, why wouldn’t I come?”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I…I know not to call when you…you’re at practice but, but-” the words seemed to blurt out into breathless sobs, the kind that had her ugly crying where strings of saliva coated her lips, and she sniffed every few seconds to spare the embarrassment of getting mucus all over him.

“No, no. It’s okay, you can call me whenever you need.” He cooed, leaning back into the cushions.

He didn’t need to ask what she meant; they’d been together so long he just knew. She would never call him during practice unless it was an emergency. Not that he’d pick up until he’d re-enter the locker room, but y/n had a stone pride, a fear of asking for help and case of responsibility she felt obliged to even when she wasn’t. Being a hard-worker and carrying a weight were two different things and she couldn’t tell the difference, which led to situations like Quinn had walked in on. Y/n wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t out of desperation and the only time she ever called was when the weight of her stress crushed her into a mental and emotional collapse.

The sobbing gradually dulled into sniffing, y/n staring into space while he stroked her hair, “Do you wanna talk about it? Or I can run a bath with the candles? Or we can just cuddle and watch something?”

She didn’t ask a lot from him. Just to be held when she needed him the most and to let her hold him. And that intimacy was enough for her heart to slow into a peaceful rhythm.

“It’s too much, Quinn.” Her voice was strained, cheeks hot from her outburst. Yet, he didn’t know how long she’d been crying and panicking for until she called, and that pained him the most. “There’s so much work to do and so little time, but if I don’t do it, I’ll let everyone down and they’ll hate me and I’ll lose my job and-”

“-and you don’t have to do it alone. Why don’t we take a bath, cuddle on the couch and we can talk it through?”

She’d never met a gentler man in her life. She’d seen him tussle on the ice, throw a punch or two but that never made it outside the rink. He never raised his voice, never left any argument unresolved and his voice was always softer with her, whether he knew it or not. His arms, his warm and inviting arms paired with him knowing exactly what she needed without her saying a word broke away the distress chip by chip.

Shaking her head wearily, her lip quivered, “No, Q, you don’t have to go through all that, I can handle it, I swear. You’ve got your own things, I’m just overreacting, I’m fine, it’s fine. Yeah.”

“Y/n, look at me.” Quinn pulled her away from his chest, hand cupping her cheek and bringing her head to look him in his eyes. “Breathe. You’re not going to do this alone. I’m here for you and I love you, I will do whatever it takes to make you feel better, okay?”

She nodded, his thumb wiping away any excess tears. She swallowed the lump in her throat, breathing in for five seconds and exhaling for another five, just as Quinn taught her. Soft lips pressed to her temple, and she gave a small smile, leaning against his chest once again.

#≡megs1kcelly #≡qh43 #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader

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sweets-library · 3 days ago

Text

Far Far Away

Shouta Aizawa/reader. Hizashi Yamada & Reader hurt/comfort. wc: 6.2k.

READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. DO NOT READ THIS IF THEY DO NOT APPEAL TO YOU. 18+ content warnings: Time outs, light punishments, use of daddy as a title, themes of discipline and D/S dynamics, a lot of caregiving in general

a/n: ok i dont wanna give too much away in the content warnings but yall know what i mean when i say discipline and d/s dynamics. no spanking this time tho! everyone clap for y/n Ao3

“Hi, baby. How are you?”

His voice came through steady and low and it immediately made you feel a little more grounded. You closed your eyes, gripping the phone tighter, as if that would bring him closer.

“Hi, Daddy,” you murmured, softer than you meant to.

A brief pause. Not hesitation, but recognition. Shouta had always been good at reading you, even when you barely said a word.

“…Sweetheart,” he said carefully, “are you doing alright?”

You bit your lip. Of course, he knew. He always knew. Normally, you would fumble your way into a call like this, a little shy, a little unsure before you were able to call him that special title. But not tonight. Tonight, everything felt raw, like a wound you couldn’t bandage fast enough.

“Um… I’m okay. I miss you.”

The lie hung in the air, heavy and brittle. He let it sit for a moment, giving you space to backtrack, to admit the truth. When you didn’t, he pressed gently.

“I miss you too, baby. Have you been taking care of yourself? Did you eat dinner?”

The tenderness in his voice was too much. Your throat tightened, and you looked down, ashamed, even though he wasn’t there to see it.

“Yeah. I mean… not really. I...”

Your words caught, tangled in a mess of guilt and fatigue. Shouta stayed quiet, waiting. He always waited, never rushing you, no matter how long it took.

“I… I messed up,” you finally whispered, the words cracking as they escaped. “I keep messing up. It’s like when you’re gone, I just… I fall apart. I can’t do what I’m supposed to do. I’m so fucking useless. It’s pathetic, and I just-”

“Hey. Stop,” he interrupted, firm but not unkind. “You know better than to talk about yourself like that.”

The sharpness in his tone cut through your spiralling thoughts, snapping you back to the moment. You took a shaky breath, but it wasn’t enough to stop the tears.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out. “You’re going to be mad, and I deserve it. I’ve been so awful, and I-”

“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice softening just enough to break through your panic, “I need you to listen to me, okay? I’m not mad. I’m not going to be mad. But I need you to tell me what’s going on so I can help. Start from the beginning. Take your time.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and inhaled deeply, the way he’d taught you before.

“I haven’t been sleeping,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Work’s been crazy. Overtime, deadlines, and then I come home, and I just… I can’t turn it off. I keep working, or I just stare at my computer feeling guilty that it's not getting done.”

Shouta hummed quietly, encouraging you to continue.

“And I haven’t been eating right,” you added, the words spilling out in a rush. “I’m so tired I can’t cook, so I just order takeout, or I skip meals. And then I feel guilty because I’m spending too much money, and I know you wouldn't let me do this, and it’s just this cycle I can’t get out of.”

Your breath hitched, and you clenched your free hand into a fist, nails biting into your palm.

“And my chore chart,” you said, your voice breaking. “I stopped filling it out. I couldn’t keep up, and every time I looked at it, I just… I felt so useless. Like I can’t even do the basics.”

Silence. Not the cold kind, never with him, but the kind that felt like an open hand, waiting.

“Are you done?” he asked gently, after a moment.

You hesitated, then nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” he said. “First things first: I need you to breathe for me again. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

You obeyed, drawing in a long, shaky breath and letting it out slowly.

“Good,” he said, his tone softening even more. “Now listen to me. You’re not useless, and you’re not lazy. You’re overwhelmed. You’re tired. And you’re human. That’s all.”

“But-”

“No buts,” he interrupted firmly. “You’re doing the best you can, and that’s enough for me. Always.”

The tears came harder then, the weight of his words breaking through the fragile dam you’d built around yourself.

“Sweetheart,” he continued, his voice steady and calm, “where are you right now?”

“In the living room,” you sniffled, wiping at your face.

“Good. I want you to stay there, okay? I’m going to call someone to check in on you, just to make sure you’re alright.”

“No, you don’t have to-”

“I do,” he said, cutting you off gently. “Because I care about you. And because I’m not there to do it myself, as much as I want to be.”

The thought of him worrying about you, of him arranging for someone to come over, made your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. For the first time in days, you felt like you weren’t drowning.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Good girl,” he said softly, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “We’re going to get through this together. You’re not alone, no matter how far apart we are. Remember that.”

You breathed steadily, the sound of Shouta’s calm voice blending with the faint tapping on his end as he made the call. Reinforcements, you thought bitterly. Because you couldn’t handle yourself. The shame curled tightly in your chest, a weight pressing down. How ridiculous it was that he couldn’t even leave you alone without things falling apart. You swallowed hard, guilt prickling at the edges of your thoughts.

“Alright, kid,” Shouta said, breaking the silence. His tone was gentle but authoritative. “Hizashi’s finishing his show in about an hour. He’s going to come straight to you after. That gives us some time to talk, okay? Does that sound good?”

His steady control over the situation soothed you, unravelling the frayed edges of your nerves. This was why you needed him. With Shouta, you could let go, surrendering the reins that felt so heavy in your own hands.

“Yes, please, Daddy,” you mumbled, the words almost a whisper.

“Good. Put me on speaker and head to the bedroom,” he instructed. “Change into your pajamas.”

You obeyed without hesitation, the simplicity of his commands grounding you in a way your chaotic thoughts couldn’t. Shouta’s voice followed you as you moved, steady and guiding.

“Now brush your teeth,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “Take your time.”

You followed his instructions, the familiar rhythm of your nightly routine slowly easing the tension from your shoulders. Step by step, he walked you through it: brushing your teeth, washing your face, doing your hair. Each small task felt like a lifeline, pulling you out of the spiral you’d been trapped in.

By the time you sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water in front of you, your breathing had evened out.

“Alright,” Shouta said, his voice calm but purposeful. “Let’s talk about the chore chart.”

You sighed, the mention of it making your stomach twist. 'Chore chart' wasn’t quite the right name for it. It was more like a self-care guide, a list of small tasks meant to help you stay on track when Shouta wasn’t around. Taking pictures of your meals to send him, jotting down one thing you were proud of in your journal, tidying up small areas of the house, it was supposed to help. And it had, for a while.

But lately, it had felt like a mountain you couldn’t climb, a constant reminder of how far you were falling behind.

“Do you think it’s still helping you?” Shouta asked, his tone free of judgment. “Or is it starting to feel like too much? The point is for it to support you, not to add stress. If it’s not working anymore, we can scrap it.”

“No!” you blurted, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see you. “No, I like it. I do. I just…” Your voice faltered, and you took a sip of water to steady yourself.

“I got so busy,” you continued, “that I kept missing things. And once I got behind, it just… it felt awful. Writing down ‘forgot’ or ‘failed’ on every square, like I was disappointing you. Like you’d come home and see how bad I was doing.”

Shouta was quiet for a moment, the weight of his presence palpable even through the phone.

“Sweetheart,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm. “The chart isn’t a report card. It’s not there for me to judge you. It’s there to help you stay balanced, to remind you to take care of yourself. Missing things doesn’t make you a failure. It makes you human.”

You bit your lip, the tears threatening to return. “But it feels like I let you down.”

“You could never let me down,” he said simply. “You’re doing your best, and that’s all I ever ask of you. If the chart isn’t working right now, we’ll figure out something else. Together.”

The knot in your chest loosened, just a little. Shouta’s calm reassurances felt like a balm, soothing the ache of your self-doubt.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Good girl,” he said softly, his tone warm and steady, grounding you. “We’re going to take this one step at a time. I’m here for you, even when I’m not physically there. You’re not alone in this, understand?”

You nodded, wiping at your eyes, though the lump in your throat still lingered. “I understand.”

“Good. For starters, I want you to leave the chart as it is until I get back. We’ll rework it together to better suit what you need right now,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “Instead, I’d like you to text my personal phone throughout the day, the one I left at the agency. It's turned off and locked up so nobody will see it till I get back. Just send little updates about how you’re feeling and what you’ve been doing. That way, I can read them when I’m home, and we can go over what felt good or bad. It won’t be staring at you from the kitchen wall, and it won’t feel like a looming reminder. Does that sound easier for now?”

You paused, considering his words. It did feel easier, less like a record of your failures and more like a conversation. Something about the idea of texting him felt gentler, more forgiving. At least then, you wouldn’t have to see the evidence of your perceived shortcomings every time you passed through the kitchen.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think that’s better.”

“Alright,” Shouta said. There was approval in his tone, but it wasn’t smug or self-satisfied. It was simply… kind. Encouraging. “Now, I need you to listen to me carefully. You don’t have to agree to this. In fact, I don’t want you to if you’re not completely sure it will be good for you.”

“Okay,” you replied, your voice tinged with nervous curiosity.

“Do you want to agree on some punishments for this past week?” His tone remained steady, but there was a thread of hesitation, as if he was carefully weighing each word before saying it. “If you want to wipe the slate clean until I get back, that’s perfectly fine. In fact, I’d encourage it. But if you think it would help you feel less guilty and more grounded I’m willing to discuss it.”

Your breath hitched at his offer. A part of you had hoped for this, even though you hadn’t dared to bring it up.

“Yes,” you said quickly, your voice trembling with both relief and desperation. “Yes, please. I’m so sorry, and I want- I need to fix it. I need to feel like I’ve made up for everything I did wrong.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to make you wonder if you’d said too much. But when Shouta spoke again, his voice was as steady and calming as ever.

“Alright,” he said gently, though there was still a hint of caution in his tone. “If this is what you feel will help, we can talk about it. But you need to understand something first. This isn’t about punishing you for being human or for struggling. It’s about finding a way to help you let go of the guilt. If, at any point, it feels like too much, or if you change your mind, you tell me immediately. Understood?”

You nodded again, the weight in your chest easing just a little. “Understood.”

The discussion took up most of the time you had left, your voice trembling as you pushed for punishments that were harsher than you deserved. But Shouta, calm and steady as always, gently shut you down each time.

“No, sweetheart,” he said firmly when you suggested scrubbing the floors by hand. “Thats not going to solve anything. You’re not trying to wear yourself down or punish yourself into being better. You’re learning to take care of yourself. This isn’t about exhaustion; it’s about growth.”

His words carried the weight of authority, but there was no harshness in them. Still, each rejection left you feeling raw, vulnerable, until finally, with his guidance, you both settled on a plan.

“Alright,” Shouta said, his tone resolute but kind. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

You were to write 10 lines of positive affirmations in your journal every night till he’s home, a task designed to combat the negative thoughts you’d been drowning in. “And I mean real affirmations,” he clarified, his voice stern but compassionate. “No half-hearted ‘I guess I’m okay.’ I want to see sentences like, ‘I’m strong,’ ‘I’m capable,’ ‘I’m doing my best.’ Understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you murmured, the weight of his expectations settling on your shoulders.

“Good,” he said. “You’re also going to log off your work computer by six pm. No exceptions. And no screens at all after eight. That includes your phone. I’ll still call you at 8:30 but that is the only time it should be in your hand”

Your usual bedtime of a lenient 11 was now a firm 9:30. Shouta had been clear: this wasn’t a punishment so much as a safeguard, a way to ensure you were getting the rest you so clearly needed.

Finally, he brought up the hardest part.

“And I’m going to have Hizashi check in on you over the phone in the afternoons,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “He’ll make sure you’re staying on track and looking after yourself. It’s not negotiable.”

You swallowed hard, guilt bubbling up at the thought of imposing on Hizashi. “I don’t want to bother him…”

“You’re not bothering him,” Shouta interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. “He cares about you too, and he’s happy to help. You need to let people support you, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard, Hizashi can be a loudmouth, but he's patient, and he's good at picking people up. I trust him with my life and yours baby, do you?”

You nodded reluctantly, the logic in his words undeniable.

“And tonight,” Shouta continued, his voice softening just a fraction, “you’re going to take a 15-minute timeout in the corner while Hizashi’s there.”

The suggestion hit like a blow, your stomach twisting with embarrassment. “What?”

“This isn’t about shame,” he explained gently, anticipating your reaction. “It’s about reflection. I want you to think about how you’ve been treating yourself this week. Think about the fact that you could have asked Hizashi—or any of your friends—for help instead of letting things spiral. You’re not a burden, and it’s important you start believing that.”

“But why does he have to be there?” you asked hesitantly, your voice small.

“Because I want you to have someone there to bring you back down to earth if you start feeling overwhelmed,” Shouta said simply. “I’m trusting Hizashi to make sure this exercise is constructive, not self-flagellating. And, if you’re feeling brave enough, maybe you can talk to him about how you’ve been feeling. I know the guy talks a lot, but he can be good at listening too, if you let him.”

The knot in your throat tightened, but you nodded again, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

“You’re stronger than you think, kid,” Shouta said, his tone softening even further. “None of this because I’m angry. I’m doing it because I care about you, and I know you can get through this. One step at a time, remember?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, tears threatening to spill again. “One step at a time.”

Then a soft chime interrupted the moment, and Shouta sighed, his tone shifting to one of reluctant responsibility. “Honey, I’m so sorry, but I have to go. Duty calls.” His voice softened as he continued, “I’ll call Hizashi and fill him in on what we decided, okay? He’ll be there soon.”

The hour had flown by, leaving you wishing for just a little more time. The lump in your throat was hard to ignore, but you swallowed it down, trying to sound steady.

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I love you, Sho. I miss you so much.”

The line was quiet for a beat, and then he sighed deeply, his voice rich with warmth. “Sweet girl, I love you so, so much. You hear me? More than anything. And I am always proud of you. I’ll be home before we know it, baby. Just hold on for me a little longer.”

His reassurance wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing the ache in your chest.

“Hizashi will be there in about 20 minutes,” he continued, his tone regaining its usual calm authority. “Go ahead and start on your lines while you wait for him. You’ll feel better once you’ve written a few. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, baby. Same time, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite the heaviness in your heart.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

And then, with a quiet click, the call ended, leaving you staring at the phone, the room suddenly feeling quieter and colder without his voice.

You took a deep breath, glancing at the journal on the table. Even though he wasn’t there, his presence lingered in every word he’d said, steadying you. With a small nod to yourself, you picked up your pen and opened the journal, ready to take the first step forward.

Writing lines is hard. The pen feels heavy in your hand as you try to think of nice things to say about yourself. The first few are simple—things Shouta would remind you of, like “I work hard” or “I care about others.” But as the list grows, so does the weight in your chest, and by the time you’ve scratched out seven, you’re staring at the page like it’s mocking you.

The knock at the door jolts you out of your thoughts. Your stomach flips with dread, and you take a moment to steel yourself. Mortification burns hot in your chest at the thought of what’s coming next, but you can’t exactly keep Hizashi waiting.

You open the door, and before you can say a single word, the blonde sweeps you into his arms, wrapping you in a tight, warm hug.

“Baaaaby!” he exclaims, his voice bursting with its usual vibrancy. “Why didn’t you call me? Here I am, missing out on hanging with my favorite listener, and she’s sitting here all down in the dumps? That’s just cruel!”

Despite the dramatic delivery, the embrace is exactly what you need. The tension in your shoulders melts away as you lean into him without realizing it, letting yourself feel the comfort he radiates so effortlessly.

When he finally pulls back, his hands come up to cup your cheeks, squishing them gently until your lips puff out. His bright, expressive eyes scan your face, and while his pout is exaggerated, his concern feels genuine.

“Look at this face,” he says, shaking his head like he’s utterly scandalized. “How could you think for even a second that I’d be too busy for you?”

“Hi, Hizashi,” you mumble, still feeling small but lighter now, the edges of your lips twitching into a shy smile. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve got a lot going on…”

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head with mock indignation, sending his long braid swaying behind him. His glasses sit slightly askew from the dramatic hug, but he doesn’t seem to care as he flashes you a grin.

“Never too busy for you, babycakes,” he says firmly, his voice softening as he rubs your shoulders gently. “Now, come on. Let’s go sit down and get comfy. Sho filled me in, so we’ve got a plan to tackle this together, okay?”

You nod, the knot in your chest loosening a little more as he ushers you toward the couch. Hizashi’s presence is like a burst of sunshine in your quiet storm- bright, warm, and just distracting enough to make the heaviness feel less suffocating.

As he passes through the kitchen, Hizashi’s sharp eyes catch sight of your journal lying open on the table. With his usual flair, he sweeps it up dramatically, reading your lines so far with a gasp that’s clearly over the top.

“Heyyy, baby! Look at you, crushing it already! These are solid gold affirmations,” he says, giving you an encouraging grin. “I’ve got a few ideas to spice up this list, though. I mean, ‘I care about others’ is cute and all, but how about ‘I’ve got a killer sense of humor’ or ‘I light up any room I walk into?’”

You can’t help but laugh at his delivery, a perfect mix of genuine pride and playful bravado. He carefully sets the journal back down, tapping it lightly with his finger. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you finish these before bed. Just, uh, let’s keep it between us. Can’t have that strict old man knowing I cheated and gave you an edge, right?”

You smile back, but you know he’s full of it. You remember the time, not long after he’d learned about yours and Shouta’s dynamic, when he joked about you writing your lines in both English and Japanese. You didn’t even think Shouta cared if you made spelling mistakes, he just wanted you to work through it.

Still smiling, you follow him into the living room. Hizashi plops down onto the middle cushion of the couch with all the grace of a collapsing star. His long limbs sprawl out in every direction, and he rests his hands lazily on his knees, eyes glinting up at you mischievously.

“Alright, honey,” he says, his tone suddenly mock-serious. “Any last words before I throw you in the slammer?”

At first, the playful edge to his voice makes you want to giggle, but then the weight of his words sinks in. Your face flushes crimson, and the reality of the situation hits you; he’s actually the one overseeing this. You hadn’t realized that Shouta had implied Hizashi would be the one in charge of your time out. You thought he’d just be there for support, to keep you grounded and make sure you didn’t break down. Now, though? The idea of sitting in the corner under Hizashi’s watch feels like a whole new level of mortification.

You fidget with the hem of your shirt, your voice barely a whisper. “I, um… I didn’t think you’d actually…”

Hizashi tilts his head, his grin softening into something more understanding.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says gently, his voice laced with compassion. “You know this isn’t about me being strict or scary, right? It’s about taking a breather and giving yourself space to think. Shouta just wanted me here to make sure you’re okay and give you a hand, not to intimidate you or anything like that.”

His words ease the knot in your chest, and the tension in your shoulders melts away a little. Still, the thought of sitting in the corner, thinking things through under Hizashi’s watch, makes your face burn.

“Come on, babycakes,” he teases gently, taking your hands in his. “We’ll make this quick and painless. You do your time-out, I’ll brainstorm some killer affirmations for you, and then maybe we can watch a little something before bed. Sound like a deal?”

The room feels both too quiet and too loud, the hum of the air conditioning amplified in your ears as you fidget with the hem of your shirt. The embarrassment sits heavy in your chest, curling around your thoughts like smoke, but Hizashi’s easy grin cuts through it like sunlight breaking through clouds. His lighthearted nature softens the edges of your discomfort, even as the flush on your cheeks refuses to fade.

“Good,” he says with a playful wink, his voice warm and teasing. “Now let’s get this show on the road. Tell me, what are you gonna think about in your time-out?”

The question catches you off guard. You bite your lip and drop your gaze to your hands, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap. Shouta’s methods were always straightforward. He’d tell you exactly what to think about, have you repeat it back, and that was that. Being asked to decide for yourself feels unfamiliar, like stepping onto uneven ground.

“Um…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “I’m gonna think about… how I should have called you?” The answer feels small, tentative, and your voice barely rises above a whisper.

Hizashi hums thoughtfully, tilting his head as if considering your response. “Hm, close! But not quite,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. His hands rest on his knees, his posture open and unthreatening, but his bright eyes hold a certain focus that tells you he’s taking this seriously. “I don’t want you to get stuck thinking about what went wrong. I want you to focus on what you can do better next time. Think constructive, baby. What’s a way you could handle things differently when you’re feeling low? What else can you come up with?”

The pressure to answer makes your heart race, and you glance around the room as if the walls might offer you an answer. The warmth of the living room, the cozy throw blanket draped over the couch, the faint smell of coffee lingering from earlier, feels at odds with the knot tightening in your stomach. You take a shaky breath, trying to focus.

“I could… think about ways I could’ve reached out sooner?” you say finally, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

Hizashi’s face lights up with approval, and he leans forward slightly, his enthusiasm infectious. “That’s a good one, baby,” he says, his voice softening. “You’re getting there. And listen, you’re not alone in this, okay? I need you to really hear me on this; people love you. I love you. We’re here to help you out, no matter what, day or night.”

The sincerity in his voice is like a balm, soothing the raw edges of your self-doubt. You swallow hard, his words settling deep in your chest, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. Even as your thoughts swirl with guilt and hesitation, his presence feels steady, like an anchor keeping you from drifting too far.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling but resolute. You nod slowly, meeting his gaze for the first time since this started. “I’ll try.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, his smile soft and full of pride. For a moment, the weight on your shoulders feels just a little lighter.

Hizashi ruffles your hair with a fond smile before turning you gently by the shoulders, his hands warm and steady. “Alright, sweetheart,” he says softly, his voice both reassuring and firm. “Go think it over, and I’ll be right here when you’re ready. We’ll figure this out together.”

Your steps are slow as you move toward the corner of the living room, the weight of the moment settling over you like a heavy blanket. The familiar position feels strangely different with Hizashi there, the shift in dynamic making your heart race. Memories surface- Hizashi dropping something off at the apartment once while you were mid-time out, his gaze carefully avoiding you. Back then, he’d respected the unspoken boundary, probably at Shouta’s request, and you’d been grateful for the quiet discretion.

But this? This is different. This isn’t him passing through or pretending not to notice. He’s here, fully present, guiding you through this moment. You’d already come to terms with him knowing about your relationship with Shouta; it had been discussed openly, with your consent, and you trusted him completely. Still, the vulnerability of having him step into this role, even temporarily, makes your cheeks burn. Yet beneath the embarrassment, there’s a surprising sense of security.

You stop at the corner, place your hands behind your back, and lean forward until your nose gently touches the wall. The routine feels grounding, the familiarity of it giving you a strange kind of comfort. You take a deep breath, letting the quiet settle over you, broken only by the faint rustle of Hizashi shifting on the couch.

“Alright, perfect!” Hizashi’s voice breaks the silence, his tone playful but underscored with a steady firmness. “Keep that cute little nose right there until the timer goes off. If you need to back out, just say your safeword, okay? But other than that, no talking. Don’t interrupt me while I’m projecting good thoughts into that head of yours.”

A small, involuntary laugh escapes you, and you quickly bite your lip to stifle it. His energy is so different from Shouta’s, lighter, more playful, but no less earnest. You know he means every word, even if his delivery makes you want to smile. There’s a distinct sense of safety in the way he handles this moment, balancing humor with care, structure with warmth.

The initial embarrassment fades slightly as you focus on the steady rhythm of your breathing. Hizashi’s presence behind you, calm and unyielding, is a reminder that this isn’t really punishment. It’s a pause, a chance to reflect and reset. You trust him, just as you trust Shouta, and that trust anchors you now. Even in the quiet vulnerability of the corner, you know you’re not alone.

As you stand there, nose to the corner, your thoughts churn restlessly despite your efforts to calm them. Hizashi’s words echo faintly in your mind—focus on what you can do better next time. But it’s hard. The guilt gnaws at you, dragging your focus back to everything you feel you’ve done wrong. Why didn’t I reach out sooner? Why do I always let it get this bad?

You shift slightly, your shoulders tense as you try to redirect your thoughts. Hizashi wouldn’t want you stuck in this loop. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, and force your mind to pivot. Okay, maybe next time, I’ll text someone right away. Even if I feel stupid, I could at least try. But the moment you think it, the doubt creeps in. What if I’m just a burden? What if I bother them at the wrong time?

Frustration bubbles up, and you clench your hands at your sides, determined not to let the negativity win. Hizashi’s voice comes back to you, bright and steady: “People love you. I love you. We’re here to help you out, no matter what.” The words feel distant but steady, like a rope to grab onto in the storm. You latch onto them, even if they don’t fully sink in yet.

What if next time I… I write it out first? Maybe I could figure out what I’m feeling before it gets overwhelming. Or maybe I could reach out to someone before I even get to that point. The ideas are shaky and uncertain, but they’re something. You try to focus on them, repeating them in your head like a mantra, holding onto the hope that you can do better.

Gradually, your body starts to relax. The ache in your chest softens, replaced by a tentative clarity. The week’s weight—the guilt, the fear, the constant tightrope of holding yourself together—begins to loosen its grip. You realize, with a startling pang, how much easier this could’ve been if you’d let someone in earlier. It’s not a new revelation, but standing here, forced to confront it, the truth hits a little deeper.

The pearl of anxiety over Shouta’s safety still lingers, sitting in the back of your mind. It’s quieter now, though, like the volume has been turned down. For the first time in days, you feel like you can breathe around it again.

The sharp buzz of the timer jolts you, and you jump slightly, startled. You blink, disoriented, realizing how much time has passed. Your legs feel a little stiff, and you shift on your feet, grounding yourself. To your surprise, your eyes are dry. Normally, time outs leave you a mess of tears and raw emotion, but you’ve already had that release earlier with Shouta. Now, you feel steadier, like you’ve taken a step forward, however small.

You don’t move right away, waiting for Hizashi. You know he’d want you to wait for his cue, and besides, a part of you needs the moment to process. His voice cuts through the quiet, warm and familiar.

“Aw, good girl, com'ere,” he calls, his tone full of affection.

You turn, and the sight of him with his arms open wide melts the last bit of tension in you. You shuffle toward him, letting him pull you into a tight, comforting hug. For a few moments, you just exist in the embrace, soaking up the warmth and care radiating from him. It anchors you, grounding you in a way that words can’t.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “I’m proud of you.”

And for the first time in a long while, you start to feel proud of yourself too.

But then, the yawn that had been threatening to break free finally caught up with you, forcing your jaw open in an exaggerated stretch. The sound was loud in the quiet room, your exhaustion betraying you.

“Someone’s running on fumes,” Hizashi teased, his voice laced with amusement as he tilted his head. “Alright, superstar. Let’s knock out those lines, and then I’ll tuck you in so you can get the rest you need. Capiche?”

His lighthearted tone made you giggle, and with it came a sense of relief. That suffocating weight you’d been carrying for days felt a little lighter now, a little easier to manage. Even though your body still sagged with fatigue, your chest felt clearer, like you could finally take a full breath.

Hizashi’s grin softened as he reached out to gently cup your cheeks, giving them a playful squeeze. His touch was warm and grounding, somehow managed to settle your racing thoughts even further. It wasn’t just the contact, but the way he made you feel seen and cared for in such a simple gesture.

Without needing to say more, he guided you back to the table where your unfinished lines waited. You picked up the pen, but something had shifted. The task didn’t feel like a burden anymore. It felt manageable, almost comforting in its simplicity. Hizashi didn’t hover or rush you. He sat nearby, close enough that his presence kept you steady but far enough that you had the space to focus.

As you wrote, a realization began to settle in your chest. For the first time since Shouta had left, you felt okay. Not just okay even, but good. It wasn’t just about getting through the task; it was the knowledge that you didn’t have to do it alone. Hizashi had stepped in, seamlessly filling the gap, offering support without making you feel like a burden. His guidance wasn’t overbearing; it was steady, gentle, exactly what you needed.

You felt like you could handle things on your own now if you had to, but more importantly, you didn’t have to. That distinction was a quiet but powerful comfort. Someone had your back, even in Shouta’s absence.

As you finished the last line, you let out a small sigh, the words on the page feeling like a tangible victory. Hizashi gave a little cheer, clapping his hands softly in celebration.

“See? Told you you’d knock it out of the park,” he said, beaming at you.

You couldn’t help but smile back, your heart warming at his unshakeable enthusiasm. Hizashi was truly an amazing man, bright, compassionate, and endlessly understanding. You thought about how much he’d helped tonight, how he’d given you exactly what you needed without you even having to explain. Those thoughts swirled in your mind, filling you with gratitude and a quiet sense of awe. You knew you’d talk to Shouta about it when he got home, but for now, it wasn’t necessary.

For now, all you needed was to let yourself rest. The warmth of Hizashi’s presence was enough, his steady support wrapping around you like a blanket. You set the pen down, leaning back with a soft yawn as Hizashi moved to your side, ready to guide you to bed.

“Alright, let’s get you snuggled up,” he said softly, his teasing edge replaced with a gentler tone.

And for the first time in days, you let yourself lean into that care without hesitation, letting the weight of the world slip away as you breathed in the quiet comfort of knowing you were never truly alone.

#shouta aizawa x reader #hizashi yamada x reader #aizawa x reader #present mic x reader #aizawa/reader #daddy k!nk #the real kink is all the careing #idk what else to tag so thats gonna be it ig

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marshmellin · 19 hours ago

Text

What’s the Elvish Word for “Fine”?

Rated I for (angry) Idiots in Love: 5.8K words, Thranduil x unnamed/undescribed mortal woman, 2nd person POV, no use of y/n Rated mature for language only, "arranged marriage" in a political sense with consent between willing adults, they’re big mad but is it anger or just being stupid?

No beta, we die like Thranduil's first wife who is not mentioned

You rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Thranduil was sitting on Carasta’s desk. Sitting was the wrong term. Lounging. “Hello, wife.” He was in dark, silvery robes without his crown, his long legs propped up against a chair. With a far-too-broad smile on his face. Something stupid was happening.

If you enjoy this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

“It is infuriating that you keep putting up this long –” – slam – “ – infuriating – ” – slam – “ – show – ” – slam —. “I can not want you in the way you want me.” Cold blue eyes stared at you, waiting for the outburst, the anger he so desperately wanted to bloom across your face.

When Thranduil started to feel something – anything – stirring in his chest, he started a fight. You noticed the two of you fought often. More so now than at the beginning of your not-quite-a-marriage two years ago. You did not think it a coincidence, but what the hell did you know?

You’d thought you’d entered a partnership with someone civil.

Nodding almost imperceptibly, you kept your face still. “And what, exactly, makes you think I want you, Thranduil?” You let just a little sarcasm creep in.

He narrowed his cold eyes, evaluating you.

The issue was, however: You did want him.

In the last two years, you had come to want him very much, though you admit you are unsure how it started given his general demeanor.

Well, that’s a lie. He’s an elf. And he is particularly attractive for an elf, at that. His face alone gives his behavior a pass for the first three, maybe four encounters.

But this behavior was not one of his better looks and you’d have no issue turning this version of the Elvenking down for the rest of your very mortal life.

White hot fury flashed across his face. “You know what I mean. Constantly, you show it. And I can not — will not — respond the way you want!”

You leaned back in your chair. “I do not know what you mean, Thranduil” you said firmly, shaking your head exaggeratedly. “What is it that I show you?” --You weren’t showing him sex or physical affection, certainly so – “What is it that you claim to see from me that you can not respond to, Thranduil?”

The more you said his name, the angrier he would get, which is why you kept doing it. Thranduil all but snaked his way to gripping the desk across from you, leaning over your papers. Curtains of snow-white hair hanging between you as he glared down at you. Not exactly giving you "the high ground” so to speak, but the fact that he came this close to you meant he was already on his back foot.

“You…are….constantly…HERE. You ask after me, you bring me food, you manage to interrupt me during every letter I’ve written in the last four weeks. You bring me books you think I might like, you leave me letters about your work. I do not know how to respond to you. I have been alone in these chambers for centuries and yet you are HERE. I do not want this and I do not want you. And I do not know why you continue to make this arrangement so difficult by pretending.”

You blinked at that, tilting your head. Slowly. You were giving him time to suss it out on his own.

But his rage was icy, bathed in wine from dinner, and he didn’t seem to know how to do math in the cold.

You set the quill down and steepled your fingers, elbows resting on the desk as you looked up at him looming above you.

Fine.

“Everything you have just ‘accused’ me of is what spouses do, Thranduil. Husbands and wives. Partners. Bluntly, you bought yourself a wife, ThranduilI, through an even exchange: you have a skilled negotiator and queen, my uncle’s people have food and protection.”

Muscles in his jaw worked and he opened his mouth, “That is not–”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “Ah-aht, no, Thranduil. No. You said what you wanted to say both tonight and many other nights. And now you will let me do the same.”

The look on his face didn’t change, but his mouth snapped shut.

It might do him some good to shut up for a moment, even if it gave you heartburn to demand it.

“It weighs on my heart that someone asking after your wellbeing startles you so,” you said steadily, fingers tapping against the desk as if making an observation that it was raining outside – but the truth of it stung you.

It did hurt that he was so…that he thought someone making sure he ate was…

It was heartbreaking.

But, it was becoming increasingly clear, his heart was not yours to mend.

You sighed again. At this point you were sighing more often than breathing. “Thank you for this final, clear message that you take no pleasure in our” — marriage? Partnership? It had never been one — “contract. I will make my thoughts equally as plain: I have one job in Greenwood. It is to be your wife and queen. And in truth, it’s a shitty job, but I’m going to do it as best as I can, Thranduil. I agree, our quarters are not ideal and I will leave for another part of the palace within the week.”

Thranduil held your gaze. You cocked an eyebrow. You thought you saw another muscle in his jaw twitch, but you weren’t sure.

When he finally spoke, his tone was softer, which you had not expected. “I do not want to…put on a show….”

Your eyebrows shot up at that. You were done being lectured. “You purchased a fucking show, Thranduil. Now you are angry when it’s performed for you? Fine. That is your choice, and I am happy to stop acting like this is a working partnership.” You snorted and broke eye contact, reaching down to pick up your quill.

Head down, squinting at the parchment, you did your best to dismiss him. It had taken you an extraordinary amount of effort to say all of this to him, for several reasons, and you could not look him in the eye any longer.

Firstly, fuck him for coming in to your study, knocking books around and talking too loudly after you both just sat through an entrant for Arda’s Most Boring Banquet award and smiled as his queen was supposed to. King Amdír’s son Amroth wasn’t exactly the best conversationalist and yet, converse you had with the obnoxious Silvan.

And you were feeling quite unappreciated at this moment, considering you’d also negotiated an agreement for open trade of leather goods from Amroth’s father during the dinner. While Thranduil drank — a reminder that he is, at least, two glasses in — and muttered every time you stood near him at a respectful distance.

Secondly, this was the only time you had ever thought about your relationship with Thranduil as a contract that he did not seem to understand.

You knew what was being exchanged. The elven-ness of it all had been jarring at first, yes, but you knew from a young age you would enter a political marriage and you had been raised for one. Binding your family and your people to the largest local realm ruled by a nearly-immortal being was a solid strategy to ensure your great, great, great-grandchildren would be protected and fed -- and it was the equivalent of a 10-year contract to someone like Thranduil. You had no qualms about this, and you entered the agreement with him with open eyes, as equals.

Yet, you had not probed deeply into his understanding of it until today. Of what partnership meant to him. In any way.

Leaving behind a book he may find interesting? About a topic, if you recalled correctly — and you know you did — he discussed during dinner once and noted he wished to understand better.

That was too much after two years of knowing each other? Of knowing each other in any capacity? Even just as a member of his court, much less his wife?

If so, he had a very weak understanding of any kind of partnership, marriage or otherwise, and you truly had expected more from him.

Thirdly, you did not want to leave his chambers or stop asking how he was or stop bringing him books he may like or leaving notes about your day. As irritable and obnoxious and, honestly, unpleasant as Thranduil could be….

You found him endearing in those milliseconds he allowed himself to feel anything but anger. All together, he was many negative things, yes. But he was also protective of his family and his people, wise in how he negotiated relationships with neighboring kingdoms and the High Elves. He was well-read and, when he allowed himself to show it, he had this wonderful wit and charm that was…well, he was charming.

You had been charmed.

And over the last two years of this arrangement, you learned you wanted to be his wife in more than just contractual terms. You think you’ve fallen in love with him. And you know you want him to want you in return.

But.

He just said plainly that he did not want that. That he did not want you.

And if this is where you were, then this is where you were. Your options were limited, your contract signed, and your choices made.

You had not expected to find love here. Confirming it was absent didn’t change a damn thing, and at this point it did not sting. Your job was to negotiate contracts on behalf of Thranduil Oropherion, the Elvenking and to attend events as his Queen.

That was it.

Leaving him books or being pleasant was not part of the contract you signed.

Your thoughts drifted aimlessly, landing on the question of how you would like your new chambers laid out — since a large takeaway from this conversation was that spending time in the same room — palace — realm — continent — with you angered him.

The conjoined study layout here was not ideal. Thranduil had a tendency to shout profanities at his correspondence before replying in a more civil manner. You had grown accustomed to it — even smiling on occasion when he invented new ways to swear at Thorin or Celeborn — but perhaps it was best to avoid that distraction now that you were....

Well, if Thranduil is not near me, it doesn’t matter if the rooms are conjoined or not.

With a small sigh, you noted that request with an asterisk to return to later.

You were halfway through the next line when you realized he had. not. moved. At all. Not even an inch. He was still staring at the top of your head as you wrote, long hair falling into the space between you.

Why? This conversation, much like your illusions of ever having a civil working relationship, was over.

You set the quill aside gently as you looked up to meet his eyes. "Yes, Thranduil?"

“So, that is what it was, then?”

Furrowing your brow, you shook your head in confusion. “I don’t ... wait, what?” Your gaze met his. All the ice in his eyes had melted, but the rest of him moved stiffly as he leaned back, letting go of the desk.

“Fine.”

He spun on his heel, hair flaring around him, and walked out.

“Fine!” you shouted after him, half rising from the desk to make sure it carried to the next room.

You weren’t sure why you were shouting at him, but you’d make sure you’d be the one to shout last.

The next morning, you asked a courier to take your note to Thranduil requesting new chambers on the far side of the Halls. 'Note' was a generous term: it was a list of items for him to approve, signed with the first initial of your name.

Warm, it was not.

But the courier said he had been instructed “not to deliver messages to King Thranduil at this time, my lady. His majesty requests your presence in the throne room.”

You arched an eyebrow at that.

“Very well, thank you for letting me know.” You waved your hand to dismiss the courier.

“Ah,” he said softly, shifting uncomfortably.

Thranduil. Are you familiar with an old saying from the lowlands? Bite my ass? If not, then it is unlikely you’re familiar with that phrase’s cousin, Go fuck yourself. I am happy to teach you both.

“Your majesty, I would be honored to, um, guard you as you travel to the throne room,” he ended weakly, because guarding a queen while she walked in her own halls was a ridiculous thing to suggest.

Thranduil was doing something very stupid. You weren’t sure what, exactly, but you could sense it.

“I appreciate the offer, Lieutenant, but I am not going to the throne room today.” Thranduil had, at least, taught you a few tricks for leadership. Or, more accurately, intimidation.

The young ellon looked very torn, as if repeating hierarchy structures in his head and continually arriving at the conclusion that Thranduil was at the top. “Your maj—“

“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” Yes, the Elvenking was at the top of all of those hierarchies, but you rested just beneath him.

…Well…

The guard left.

So you used this opportunity to take the scroll he would not deliver to Thranduil, and went to look for Carasta, Thranduil’s private secretary. Walking from your section of your chambers through Thranduil’s, your goal was getting to Carsasta’s work table on the far side of the suite. You would provide him with the list of your requests. If Thranduil didn’t want to accept your request from Carasta, that was fine. You would find the nearest builder and take the walls down yourself, but you were not spending one more minute sharing your chambers with Thranduil than either of you wished to.

You rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Thranduil was sitting on Carasta’s desk. Sitting was the wrong term. Lounging.

“Hello, wife.”

He was in dark, silvery robes without his crown, his long legs propped up against a chair. With a far-too-broad smile on his face.

Something stupid was happening.

“King Thranduil,” you said, inclining your head.

“Melethnín,” he said softly, his eyes going wide. “What brings you here? I hoped you would join me in the main hall.”

My love? You cocked an eyebrow. “I am simply leaving a note for Carasta regarding my chambers,” you said evenly, reaching around Thranduil’s long form to place the scroll on Carasta’s desk. You didn’t even want to guess how he made it from the throne room to Carasta’s desk that fast.

Was he even in the throne room or did he know you’d ignore him?

“Ah, I am eager to read this,” Thranduil said happily, picking up the scroll and opening it.

It took everything in you not to snatch it from him. Even though he had been the original recipient.

Icy eyes skimming your notes, he tsked loudly. “Ah, melethnín, this is not sufficient. Not at all! I would not have you move so far from our shared quarters. Mmm, no, we shall draft a new plan together. It is only right for a queen to have a full suite for her study and work, verinya.”

My love. My wife.

So, something very stupid.

You sighed. “Thranduil. I am moving my chambers to the other side of the Halls.”

He shook his head, his face the picture of innocence as he rolled up the scroll and hid it away in his robes — where, you didn’t know, because his robes were almost skintight. “I do not want you to leave our chambers.”

“I’ll write another request, king.”

“I’ll intercept it, queen.”

“Thranduil.”

“Melethnín.”

A long pause.

“You asked me to leave you alone.”

He shook his head firmly. “No, I said you were always here.”

“You shouted that you wanted space.”

He cocked his head, arrogance on his face, as silver hair cascaded over his shoulder. “I did not. I acknowledge I raised my voice in a very unrefined way, for which I do truly apologize. But I did not demand space apart from you. And on either account, I find I have changed my mind, verinya.”

My wife.

“You will find I have not, veronya.” You spun on your heel and walked out.

You heard him raise his voice mockingly, calling, “I haven’t interrupted your day, have I, my love?” at your back as you left.

“No. You’re fine,” you gritted out loudly as you stomped out.

“Fine,” came the muted reply from three rooms away.

Two months later, and Thranduil had not stopped yet, though his tone had grown less mocking, at least.

He came to you for every meal — and he managed to carry on many thoughtful conversations despite the one-word replies you often gave. He brought you books — frustratingly, the titles were interesting, and he had clearly listened to you at some point to pick them out. He came to ask you questions while you wrote letters and arranged new trade agreements — his comments were obnoxiously helpful and pertinent.

Thranduil seemed to think that acting pleasant toward you was a punishment of some kind.

And it was, because it felt like a perverse game. He was showing you what you could have if you…if he….

Well, you weren’t sure what. Something you could not have? He had been very clear. And, you knew, he could be very petty.

Thranduil also seemed to be playing more than one game, particularly by calling you every pet name devised by Elves or Men — and you think you caught a Dwarven term of endearment or two in there as well, so clearly he was not aware of the origins of the term or he never would have uttered it in his halls.

And yet you did not know why he continued this game for so long. But you suspected the other shoe would drop at some point.

It was the second time that evening he had scooted his chair closer to yours, the two of you practically sharing a desk.

“May I suggest you add another clause here — we can’t be held responsible for orc raids. Transfer of ownership occurs when the wine leaves our barges, even if within our borders. I have spoken with Celeborn on this point already, and told him it was not up for discussion.” He tapped a long finger on the side of your paper and looked down, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Don’t let him go around us, melethnín.”

He kept breaking your heart with this game, and you were done.

“Thranduil, stop.”

The smile slipped from his face. “Ah. Of course. I’ll leave you to it,” he murmured gently, turning back to his side of the desk.

When did we pick sides of the same desk?

You sighed and stood, creating some distance between the two of you.

You were done. It was done now.

“You have made your point. I understand. You think it’s suffocating. That I am suffocating. I understand. I understood this two months ago when you told me that you would remain married to me — unwillingly — if I left you alone. And I have moved to limit our interactions since then. I understand what you want.“

You held back a scream, but did not manage to stop a snarl from escaping somewhere deep in your chest. “I will never send you a book ever again, on my oath to Varda and Manwë, I will never speak to you outside a royal function ever again. Please, just stop.”

Thranduil stood as well, rising fluidly and pausing to gently place his chair under his half of the — under the desk. He was, well, patient as he turned to face you, a surprising softness in his eyes.

“I changed my—“

“— yes, Thranduil, you changed your damn mind about the damn rooms. I heard you. I have not changed mine. I am not asking you to alter our marriage contract here, okay, this is a small thing. I want to move to my own study — per your request — and I cannot understand why you have fixated on this so strongly.”

He did not want you to leave this space. Yet he did not want you to stay in this space.

No option was good enough for him.

You crossed your arms. You had seen him be petulant before but two months? You finally met his gaze and it was exactly what you were expecting. Anger blossoming across his face, that one small muscle in his cheek that always twitched.

“Contract.”

“Fine. Contract.” You threw your hands up in frustration and started rummaging through the desk. “If you want to read the damn thing to ensure I’m following it, I’ll tell you right now there are exactly zero requirements around—”

“Carasta’s files are much more organized,” Thranduil said icily.

You looked up, letting the papers in your hands scatter to the desktop. “Marry Carasta then, goddamnit. I don’t care.” You were so tired it came out as a flat statement.

Taking a deep breath, Thranduil seemed to try again, looking for patience in himself you had never seen him find.

“I don’t want to be married to Carasta,” he said simply, managing to keep his voice steady. “I want to understand.”

You furrowed your brow even more. He wasn’t making sense.

“You aren’t making sense.”

A small growl escaped him. “What is it that you want? You…I didn’t understand what you meant by…” he huffed and managed to do so haughtily. “Was it a show or not?”

“Was what a show?” You looked around the room, as if expecting to spot the audience, and let your hands drop to your legs in a clapping sound. “The only person complicating this is you. I have stopped reaching out, as you have asked. Why are you fighting—“

“So it was.” He spun on his heel again.

Oh, I think the fuck not. You were absolutely not doing this for another two months. You were a patient woman but you had limits. Honestly, one limit. And you had reached it.

You snatched at his arm, grabbing a layer of his cape, which allowed him to walk several more feet before feeling any resistance.

“Stop. Oh, for fuck’s sake, just stop.”

“I am stopping,” he replied through gritted teeth, hair swinging as he jerked his head to look at you. “I am done.”

You imagined you heard the sound of the other shoe dropping on a marble floor somewhere far away.

You both stood still for a long moment, your hand holding the edge of his cape like an awkward flag between the two of you. His eyes were still white flame, staring into the distance, not meeting yours. The set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin said he wanted to argue again.

That he was feeling something.

Why? Done with what?

“What are you done with?”

Thranduil shrugged your hand off his cape and swept it dramatically behind him. “This. Because you...I thought you did not and then I thought you did, and now it is clear my first impression was correct and you do not. I have approached this incorrectly twice now. I will not attempt it a third. You have been clear.”

You cocked your head at him. The two of you hadn’t used a meaningful noun in quite some time during this argument. You knew that was the type of risk that had to be corrected immediately.

No one was ever on the same page the first time.

But you had a suspicion.

“Define ‘this,’” you all but whispered.

“Absolutely not. I am done speaking of it. I will not allow you to mock me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I’m not mocking you, I’m asking you a question. We have strayed so far from the start of this conversation that I fear we are saying the same thing and don’t know it.”

He glared at you. “That can’t—“

“Why has your behavior been so different the last two months?”

Thranduil shifted almost uncomfortably, but managed to keep venom in his tone. “You indicated this is the behavior of those who are partners.” A small pause, his voice turning sullen. “Of husbands and wives.”

It took all your focus not to move a single muscle in your face. “You indicated several times that you did not care for me to be your partner or your wife.”

“Yes,” he hissed, “But I changed my mind because I thought I had misunderstood before, and I do not know how to show that to you properly now.”

Thranduil started pacing, his long legs turning the study into two, maybe three steps at most before he spun again. His robes barely fit the space.

No. This— No. You felt a laugh somewhere deep in your chest, but you forced it down in case he misunderstood.

Which you both seemed to be doing often lately.

“Tell me, specifically, what you are trying to show me,” you asked cautiously.

This was not a time for miscommunication. You would stay here the rest of your mortal life if needed, but you would walk out of this room knowing what the fuck he meant.

Because you thought you already knew.

He shook his head, silver hair glinting in the firelight.

“Thranduil.”

He was still shaking his head, glaring at the hearth, nearly shaking in anger. But he hadn’t left or slammed any doors, which was a good sign.

One of the first things you had learned about negotiating, years ago when you first followed your uncle to his council meetings as a child, was that the party who named an honest, earnest number first was on their back foot. Yes, it was possible to put out an offer first and still make more from it than expected or hoped for — and sometimes, offering first was both a wise and generous way to proceed — but generally speaking, it took extraordinary skill or luck to argue for more after naming the first number.

So generally speaking, the party who moved first was not in the strong position.

Generally speaking.

But, you had an extraordinary amount of skill — that’s why you were in this room. At the same time, you hadn’t felt particularly lucky lately, but…you would still name a number first.

Fine.

“Melethnín.”

That got him to turn with inhuman speed, his face a mask of rage. “I said do not mock me.” His icy eyes locked with yours.

“I am not mocking you.”

His brow furrowed. “Then why,” he said quickly, crossing the study in two large steps to loom over you, “did you call me that?”

“Why,” you challenged back, “have you called me that for the past two months?”

Thranduil's pale eyes had not yet left your face, inches away now, searching you for any hint that you were lying or mocking him. His gaze did not waver and he finally leaned back, satisfied. “You do not know what it means. You are mocking me.”

A harsh chuckle at that. “I know exactly what it means and I am not mocking you.” You put a hand on your hip at the implied insult that you, the goddamn Queen of the Silvan Elves of the Greenwood, wife of the Elvenking, did not know the most basic endearment your people use to address their spouses and children. “Well, correction, now I am mocking you….you’re questioning my understanding of vocabulary? Well, how good is your Khuzdul, again, Thranduil? Zigil’ûl is a Dwarven term of endearment; I’m surprised you deigned to use it.”

He hadn’t noticed “silver stream” was not in Quenya? Even with the accents?

His eyes softened, but still anger flashed across his face as he stared down at you. “You have not answered why you are using an elven term of endearment to refer to me right now.”

You thought about pushing back. But something very fragile in his eyes made you pause. It felt like a risk but…you were willing to name a second number.

Fine.

A sigh. “I used this Sindarin term because it’s how I refer to you in my head.”

Thranduil cocked his head, looking at you curiously now, some of his rage fading. “How good is —“

“— I am fluent in Sindarin. We speak it fifty percent of the time we are together instead of Westron. Stop it, Thranduil.”

He did stop at that, at least for a moment, as thoughts started churning in his head. His pale eyes flicked around the room, looking at everything but you.

A surprising sign of vulnerability from a king who would lock eyes with Manwë himself and never blink, if given the chance. If able to take that chance by force.

“No.” Thranduil shook his head again, still refusing to meet your gaze, speaking to your bookshelf. “No, I will not stop until I understand. You said I had purchased a performance and that you would stop performing it. You just looked for the contract to show me what you were required to do as my wife.”

A pause as he turned his head toward you, but stayed facing the other direction — ready to run.

“But, if your past behavior was a performance, then…I do not understand why you would call me melethnín in the privacy of your own mind, especially now,” he ended with a noise between a sigh and an irritated groan, still not meeting your eyes.

You saw the issue now. He thought you showed care for him in the last two years because it was what was expected of you.

A performance.

Not because you actually gave a damn about him as a partner or as a husband.

And then, you pulled back from him. Because he asked you to. Because he did not understand that caring about him was something you genuinely wanted to do. Enjoyed doing. Thranduil had not wanted to be part of a show because he….

He thought you were being cruel to him. As you thought he had been to you for the last two months.

He was that wrong for two years?

You looked up to meet his gaze. Thranduil hesitated, seeming to have the same revelation, but finding himself much less confident in the outcome. “So, please explain it. Why would you call me your love today?” he asked again, his voice so soft you barely heard him.

Naming the third number in a row was too large of a request to concede, even for him. Even now that you understood. You needed an assurance of some kind first.

“A counter-question, first. Have the last two months been a performance on your part, Thranduil?” Some vulnerability entered your tone, too, though you wished it had not. “I will not allow you to mock me, either.”

A pause. “The first two days were, yes.”

You raised an eyebrow at that, but he met your gaze unflinchingly. “And then I found I…I preferred it. I enjoyed being closer to you and hearing your thoughts. And I noticed the quality of your contracts improved.”

You crossed your arms. “Mmhmm,” you grunted at that.

Thranduil cocked his head, his eyes soft now, his tone surprisingly sweet and earnest. “So if you’ll forgive those first few days, melethnín, then no, I have not been false to you once in these past months.” A brief hesitation. “Was it…Before. How you showed that you cared for me. Was that an act for you?”

You paused, considering carefully. “For the last two months, any modicum of patience I’ve shown in your presence has been an act. But no, nothing before the night…we last fought,” you ended simply.

“Oh.” A faint blush rose to his cheeks.

You both stood there, staring dumbly at each other.

Thranduil dipped his head in embarrassment. “It is rare, but I find even I need time to learn.”

You nodded slowly. He was telling you that he had misunderstood. Maybe he was telling you he loved you. But he remained frustratingly vague.

You were struggling between the urge to kiss him or punch him. You tried to calculate your odds at both and concluded you’d need to do it in a specific order for it to work. Kiss first, then punch.

A knee to the groin was the only way he won’t see it coming until it’s too late. But you also had a growing interest in that area…

No matter what you chose, you weren’t going to be fast enough. Maybe while he slept.

“So, to summarize,” you started slowly. And then your mouth shut gently. You opened it a few more times to speak but nothing came out, so you stood there with your hand on your hip, moving your mouth like a fish.

The politician and jackass in Thranduil got there first. “To summarize, you have been in love with me since the day we met, and over the last two months I’ve learned that there are certain merits to being the recipient of that love.”

You felt your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, and your mouth did open at that.

The arrogance.

“The arrogance. Absolutely not. Revise it.”

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth but he remained silent. This was him teasing you. You’d enjoy it thoroughly in any other context. “No, you do not get to be this way with me after all of that, Thranduil…”

The smirk grew as he leaned closer to you. “I will no longer answer to that name when you use it. You’ll have to try another, melethnín.”

Fine.

“Heconna.” Bastard.

He raised an eyebrow at that one. “Fluent, indeed. But I have time and I can wait for you to find the correct term.”

“Pellopë.” Jackass.

The smirk never left his face. “Yes, we’ve established that you know and use words in both Sindarin and Quenya that most Eldar would blush to hear. I’m sure this vocabulary is useful when you swear at local merchants and drink in their bars — a very queenly activity.”

He was still teasing you. He finally had come close enough to snake his hands low around your hips, craning down at you, nothing but a blend of absolute mischief and arrogance in his pale eyes. “Mmm, I’m happy to give you a hint, wife.”

This was the most surprising day you had experienced since coming to Greenwood. And you were going to use it to your advantage as much as you could.

Too many things were still unspoken.

You shook your head and pulled back — gently, you still wanted him badly and your resolve was weakening the more he leaned into you. Gods, he smelled good. “Absolutely not. Not until you revise it.”

He sighed, his long fingers splayed across your lower back as he nudged you closer to his chest in return. “To summarize: Your caring behavior toward me was never an act or obligation on your part, and neither was mine. We seem to," he hesitated a beat, "Love each other, though we are quite ineffectual at speaking plainly with each other.”

Thranduil reached out to tuck back a strand of your hair, his finger gently tracing the rounded shell of your ear as you fought to repress a shiver. “With this new understanding in mind, our marriage no longer needs to remain contractual alone, if you wish to become closer. As I do.” His fingers brushed against your face, trailing down your neck softly to trace your collarbone. His other hand kept you close against him. “Is this revision more to your liking, melethnín?”

You frowned, hands coming to rest on his chest. “Yes. But you owe me an apology for more than the last two months.”

“Yes,” he agreed softly, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “Would you like me to begin reciting my long list of sins now? Or would you prefer we kissed instead? I have a rather clear preference, but,” he shrugged over-casually. “I will make time for both.”

You hesitated. “Both.”

“Fine, verinya,” he murmured, gently tilting your head up towards his.

“Fine, veronya,” you whispered back against his lips.

// AN: I'd have to leave you on a cliffhanger, so:

Túra in Quenya means "big, or great," which would capture "fine!" well enough.

Dail in Sindarin means "lovely," which I imagine can be sarcastic af coming from Thranduil, the petty bastard.

The difference in these two languages, for purpose of these idiots in love, is snobbery. Quenya is high-brow, Sindarin is what all normal people speak. He says he loves her in common tongue but calls her wife as high-brow as possible to be a jackass. Mission accomplished, Thran-daddy.

// If you enjoyed this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

#thranduil oropherion #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x you #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #the elvenking #mirkwood #thranduil #thranduil x reader #thrandaddy

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yeonmuse · 2 days ago

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BLUE HOUR | Day 15

PAIRING lyricist/soloist Joong x stranger reader

WORD COUNT |

GENRE Smut, Escapism

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ‼️

SUMMARY wanting to escape the nuisance of his fame and clear his head Joong goes for a stroll through the sleepless city. What he hadn’t expected was he’d meet someone as daring as you.

MORE | Day 15 of the Groupie Love Series

Fame always came with a price, whether it was those that sold their soul or those that worked all on their own to get there, life was never easy. No matter how you achieved it it never became easy, the stress or anxiety never went away, and privacy the one thing you’d wish to have would slip through the cracks of your fingers.

Hongjoong knew that better than anyone, there had been many days where he wished he hadn’t entered the rock scene, yes he loved the music but the constant attention on him wasn’t exactly something he craved. Tonight was the one night where he had finally found some sort of peace, a heavy silence washed over him as he walked along the beach after what felt like hours upon hours of being on his feet performing. He had been walking for so long that the stars and the mood had begun to take the place of the sun and the clouds, blue hour had fallen upon the city.

“You look like you had a rough day.” Someone's voice draws him out of his inner thoughts, he mentally curses himself for not having realized their presence ahead of time but they had seen them now and it was too late to not acknowledge them.

“A tiring one for sure, this is the first time I’ve gotten peace in the last week.”

“You chose the perfect time then, blue hour, it's always beautiful when you catch it at the right time, there’s something surreal about it.” As he finally turned to fully acknowledge the presence of the woman beside him, he fell silent, she herself was also surreal.

“yn, I come here often around this time, and you are?” She didn’t know him? Though hongjoong was relieved to finally be talking to someone that had no idea who he was, after seeing you he couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed that someone as beautiful as you had no idea who he was.

“Kim Hongjoong.”

“Well hongjoong, there's more to the city than just the beach, if you’re looking for more to see. When life gets tiring and you need something to make you feel anything other than that.”

“If I take your word then how about you show me, lead the way.”

“You’ll let a complete stranger show you around the city?”

“I met completely strangers everyday and trust them with far more.”

“Well the Hongjoong, let me show you my city.”

Hongjoong honestly didn’t know what the fuck he was thinking letting a complete stranger show him around the city, knowing his managers would throw a complete fit but in all honesty he didn’t care in that moment. You were like some sort of beacon of light that attracted him to you, and the longer the night went on the more that attraction grew. He didn’t even know if what he had been doing at that moment was legal nor did he truly care. He watched from down below as you ascended the ladder of the apartment building and he wasn’t too far behind, he found howls staring at your ass as he climbed up behind you, how could he not when it was right there on display before him, that of course didn’t go unnoticed by you.

Once the two of you finally made it to the rooftop, Hongjoong was stunned to say the least, by the view of the city. Though he could easily access a view like this in a penthouse or plane, there was something different about seeing it this way, out in the open. Blue hour was a magical time. His gaze then shifts from the view to you, he wonders how you yourself even knew how to access a view like this, his wondering then turned into admiration as he once again drank in the view of you.

“You’re staring again.”

“Again?”

“You gonna pretend you didn’t stare at my ass the entire climb up here?”

“Can’t exactly resist when it’s in full display in front of me, besides it’s kind of a hard sight to miss.”

“Well which view is better then?” Hongjoong was taken back by your sudden boldness, though he was used to women throwing themself at him or acting desperate, she was the complete opposite, you hadn’t once tried to throw yourself at him, and perhaps that was the reason he found himself attracted to you even more.

“I honestly think I prefer the city.” He responds, simply wanting to tease you though that may have backfired on him in the best way possible.

“You prefer that view over this one?” You respond giving a full spin, stopping with your back facing him. Tension between the two was now building, this night had been turning into something he had absolutely not been expecting, but he didn’t hate it.

“This view is also very tempting.” He responds, his eyes now glued to you, you had him hanging on your every move.

“Tempting? Does it tempt you?” You respond finally turning to face him again.

“Should we head back down? You still have more to show me right?” He wanted to end things here, to change the subject because he knew if they got caught you’d be dragged into the life that he himself was growing tired of, but you were making that hard.

“Tell me then what’s so tempting about me?” He watched as you bent your body over the edge of the building, your arms resting on the concrete balcony.

“Fuck.” He mumbles under his breath at the sight.

“Are you tempted to touch it? Or was your mind going further than just a touch?”

“Yn I shouldn’t-“

“Touch me then, go on.” He fell silent, you were giving him a clear invite and as much as he wanted to refute, the way you looked bent over that balcony made any possible self control leave his body.

“Fuck this.” In less than a few seconds he had his hand around your throat and your body pressed to his as he kissed on your neck.

“Can I? Fuck, please say I can?” Hongjoong wasnt used to this, he had never in his life pleaded to fuck anyone mostly because it usually came easy, but here he was aching to have you, to taste you, hear your moans.

“Yes.”

He wasted no time then and there ripping through the fabric of your jeans , it was then that he had gotten the most satisfying view, your legs spread wide as he had you bent over. Once he lifts your shirt and unlatches your bra he lets out a curse at the way your breasts fall loosely from your lifted shirt. It made for all the more satisfaction once he filled you up from behind. His eyes traced your every curve. From the dip in your back to the curves of your waist, but the main visual was getting to watch the way his cock so easily pushed past your folds until he was completely bottomed out inside of you, your tight grip around him immediately pulling a groan from his lips.

“Fucking hell If you keep clenching so much you’ll be full a lot faster than you should be sweetheart.’’ Hongjoong groans as he rests his hands on your waist and his head falls back. His hand wraps around your throat from behind and the other rest easily on the small of your back.

He gazes down at you, eyes full of hunger, he wanted to ravish you, to make sure every time you walked the next week all you would think about was him and the things he was now doing to you. A complete burst of pleasure overwhelms your body and you’d have sworn you saw stars as Hongjoongs fingers meet your clit, he rubbed rough circles against you as he watched how his entire cock pushed in and out of you. He didn’t miss the way your legs trembled or you’d occasionally fuck back against him which needless to say brought a smirk to his lips.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, you keep sucking me in?’’ His gaze had lingered on you long enough to know that you were reaching your limit, too bad even when you surpassed that limit he wouldn't be done with you.

“Shit just hold out a little longer pretty.” He grunts, his nails digging into the skin of your hips earning a soft cry from you which set a fire in his eyes. As the two of you were reaching your climaxes it seemed his thrusts grew rougher, Each thrust getting less merciful, he pushed into you with feverish movement, and he didn’t let up until your cunt was completely full to the brim with evidence of his doing. The two of you came at the same time, he gave a proud smile at the feeling of your legs trembling under him.

He loved the way you seemed to fall apart completely, that. He now had you leaned against the balcony struggling to catch your breath, your hair a complete mess and makeup ruined, the remnants of this encounter lingering all over your body.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez hard thoughts #ateez hard hours #ateez hongjoong #ateez fic #ateez fanfiction #ateez smut #ateez ff #hongjoong #kim hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #ateez x reader #hongjoong hard thoughts #hongjoong hard hours

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paigesbasketball · 13 hours ago

Text

Echos of the Fallen

Chapter 1: A ghost in plain sight Shadow the hedgehog x reader Warnings: cursing/slowburn

Failure. Ghosts. Revenge.

If you had asked me to describe my life, those three words would sum it all up. Three words that captured the entire meaning of my existence. I wasn’t alone; I had a trusty team. Sure, I didn’t tell them everything, but I didn’t need to. They trusted me, and I trusted them enough. They were the closest thing I had to family, even if my real family had disappeared. My life took a turn for the worse once they were killed. I was put into foster care, bouncing from home to home… No mobian wanted a sad, broken girl who watched her parents get killed. The last thing my mother told me was to run. I was frozen as I watched a G.U.N. agent take her life.

When I aged out of the system, an old lady took me in and taught me to fight. She said she was too old to have kids, but she was fine with having me. I was quiet, did what I was told, and in return, she taught me how to defend myself. She would always say, “I will never leave a child in a world where they don’t know how to defend themselves.” Years with her taught me a lot. And when she died, I knew much more. She claimed that nobody should know who I really was if I wanted a fresh start. So that’s what I did. I went to a black site and bought a fake name and identity. As far as anyone knew, the old girl was dead—she died in a car crash. My "end" was my beginning. That’s when I found the closest people to my heart today… or what was left of it.

Scar: She's a high-level fighter, not better than me, who was kicked out of the agency for "playing too rough." I loved her from the start. Unless she trusted you, she played by no rules. I saved her from being homeless, so I guess that earned me her trust. Zero: A top-tier hacker who used his talents for the wrong reasons—greed. I don’t blame him; he was in a bad place, and he thought it was his last resort. Too bad the state doesn’t take fraud lightly. He did time, but got out on good behavior after helping the FBI. Once he was out of jail, I took him in. He started seeing me like a mother, and I made a promise to protect him. He was only 17. Viper: She was our supplier. I didn’t know much about her, but she had been jailed, and she knew everyone, though nobody knew her. She helped me out of a tough spot, and I’ve never had a reason to doubt her since. She was like that cool party girl who always knew what to do. Nova: She was our chemist. The weird part was she never went to school. I grew up with her in foster care, and when she expressed how much she loved chemistry, we clicked instantly. But she never went to school... She learned everything on the dark web. Part of me wishes she went to real school to make something of her life, but I knew she didn’t want to be normal. She hated normal. Her mother threw her into foster care because she was "weird." She didn’t like typical girl things, and her mother couldn’t stand it. Good thing we loved her for it.

September 28th, 5:00 PM

“Guys, come on, we’ve got 30 minutes,” I say, irritated. We have a mission to kidnap a G.U.N. agent for information—Carson Palo. A mid-tier lieutenant working for one of the higher-ups at G.U.N. The timing couldn’t be better—during the annual fall ball. G.U.N. hosts this event once a year, desperately trying to gain more money for their corrupt ways.

“Yo, Zero, we on the list?” I ask the finger-typing boy on his computer. He dramatically rolls his eyes.

“An art like this takes time, ladies,” he says with sass.

I roll my eyes. “You know what else doesn’t take long? Getting arrested,” I reply, matching his sass.

“Viper, how are we with G.U.N.?” I ask, turning to the cool-headed supplier.

“Looking good, Capt,” she says immediately.

At the Event

Scar and I make our way further into the event, both using fake names thanks to Zero. We spot our target, but not before I catch the eye of Shadow the Hedgehog. He stares at me, as though he’s never seen me before, and starts questioning the nearest person about my appearance.

I speak into my earpiece. “Girl, I think it’s time to wrap it up. A red-and-black hedgehog won’t stop staring at me. I think he’s getting suspicious,” I say, trying to get out of his line of sight.

Scar responds immediately. “Did you ever think maybe he finds you attractive? Or is growing old with multiple Chaos your thing?” she teases.

I roll my eyes. “First of all, Chaos are adorable, and second, I am not interested in anyone at the moment,” I say, scatter-brained, trying to move out of his view.

“Yeah, um... you trying to run from him isn’t working like you think it is. Just trust me, he’s hot on your tail, and looking hot, dare I say—”

I cut her off, “Get to the damn point.”

“Stop responding and listen. He’ll hear you. Keep walking until I say so.”

I follow her instructions, trying my best to avoid Shadow’s gaze. After a few seconds, Scar continues. “Okay, he’s seriously not giving up. I need you to distract him for, like... hmm... five minutes. Trying to seduce our target is hard, but I think I almost have it. The area you’re in is good. Turn around in three seconds.”

“Get me his name,” I whisper quietly.

I stop, take a deep breath, and turn around to be met with a handsome hedgehog staring back at me. Scar wasn’t lying.

Okay, five minutes. Four minutes, fifty-nine seconds…

“Hi, how may I help you?” I say to the grim hedgehog.

“Who are you? This venue is for G.U.N. agents only, and I haven’t seen you… ever,” he says, staring deeply at me, waiting for me to crack. Sadly for him, he wasn’t going to get that satisfaction.

“Well, I think the reason you haven’t seen me is because I’m new to the office,” I say smoothly.

“Wrong,” Zero’s voice cuts through the earpiece. “You don’t even work at G.U.N. Your persona is Danny’s wife.”

Shit.

“Hmph,” he mutters, looking at my name tag, which conveniently rests near my chest.

Fuck. I’m making Scar buy me an apple pie for this later... Two minutes remaining.

I slap him and raise my voice to draw attention. “YOU PERVERT STARING AT MY BREASTS! WAIT UNTIL I TELL MY HUSBAND ABOUT THIS!” I yell, playing the damsel in distress.

A few men rush to my aid and confront Shadow without even questioning who I am. Idiots... Men always want to be heroes without thinking.

One of the many reasons I prefer Batman over Superman. I wink at Shadow playfully as I make my escape out the back entrance. But a woman stops me.

“Ms., are you okay? Do you need to talk to someone?” she says, concerned.

I quickly form tears in my eyes. “N-no, I just need to be alone right now... T-thank you though. I just feel so violated.”

I rush out the door. It's been five minutes.

“Scar, I just put on a fucking performance. You better be done,” I say with venom.

“Yeah, I’m done. Calm your tits,” she says, letting out a snicker.

As I walk toward the van, I ask, “What’s so funny?”

Zero intercepts. “I don’t know what was worse—watching that ‘performance’ or watching an unscripted telenovela.”

He and Scar burst into laughter as I get into the van.

“Just erase me from the camera footage and shut up,” I say, taking out my earpiece.

“Is he out?” I ask Scar, curious.

“Like a light, thanks to this stuff Nova gave us.”

“Alright, time to do my favorite part. Interrogate.”

Back at G.U.N. (Shadow’s POV)

“Wow, Shadow, when I told you to flirt with a girl, I didn’t mean to violate them,” Sonic says, and Shadow shakes his head, brooding.

“I wasn’t looking at her breasts. I was reading her name tag because something was off about her. Yes, I admit, I initially followed her because I thought she was attractive, but I would never treat a woman like that,” he says, spitting with venom.

Sonic adds, “Ah, I believe you, buddy, but who was she? I’ve never seen her.”

Shadow rolls his eyes while sipping his drink.

“She said she was Danny’s wife.”

Sonic looks at him, confused. “What?”

“I didn’t further pursue after that,” Shadow says.

Sonic’s voice takes on suspicion. “Well, I don’t think Danny would care, considering he doesn’t have a wife.”

I nearly spit out my drink.

“WHAT!? Then who the hell was she, and how did she get past security?” I ask, confused.

“Well, wanna find out, buddy?” Sonic says with a grin. “An adventure with my buddy Shadow the Hedgehog sounds fun.” I scoff at the blue blurs enthusiasm.

All I cared about was one thing: Who the hell was that girl?

#sonic 3 #shadow x reader #shadow the hedgehog #catytuesdays #shadow #sonic the hedgehog

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