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ilium-ilia · 19 days ago

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ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter One: fall

tw: historical au, not specified ancient greece/rome aesthetics, violence, threats of rape, murder, ancient forms of torture/execution

There are whispers in the wind.

It arrives as a susurrus so faint that it nearly slips between your fingers like ocean water, leaving behind nothing but grains of sand for you to read. A vague redolence of smoke wafts on the early morning air where it burns your nostrils as you walk to fetch water, yet when you turn to face the sky you’re met with nothing but the same pale blue as you always are. It hangs high above you as you lower a wooden bucket into a well to fill your pitcher until it nearly overflows. It sloshes on your feet, but you can’t feel the discomfort over the sound of the gale swirling by your ears.

You’re not sure what the whispers say, you only know how it makes you feel. It leaves you with singing blood and twitching fingers. Something roars in the distance—it bellows loud enough to shake the earth like a mighty lion, forcing your bones to rattle with it. There’s something vaguely familiar about their words. Terribly sagacious, they know more than anyone living ever could, and though you have always been a good listener, their omen is something you simply can’t translate.

So you continue with your morning chores. Bare feet against smooth stone, you travel back to the palace with your arms occupied with your water pitcher while you focus on not tripping on your oversized chiton. Still shaking the fatigue from their bones, the other servants move lazily throughout the halls. Their eyes blink heavily, and their mouths open wide with yawns, but they still have the capacity to send grievous glares your way. Narrowed eyes and sly smirks, they ask you how your morning is.

You cannot answer.

But you are not petulant. There are no words left for you to speak, and even if there were, it would have no effect on your status. On the fact that you are a terrible creature—something meant to only be regarded with distaste. Your head stays high as you traverse through pale, cavernous hallways until you arrive at the chambers that house your emperor and lord.

His name is Herschel Shepherd and he sits at the edge of his bed waiting for you with sizzling patience. Half clothed and greying, he is not as virile as he used to be when you were a child. Soft around the edges, he stares at you with pale eyes while awaiting your services. You utter no greeting as you retrieve a small bronze water basin from beneath a mirror on the far side of the room—a thick bristle brush already sits in the bowl waiting for you. Emperor Shepherd says nothing as you place both the pitcher and bowl at his feet before kneeling in front of him.

He sighs. “Well. Go on, then.”

You fill the bowl with water from your pitcher, and then swirl the brush through the liquid before beginning to clean your emperor’s feet. This action has long since lost its humiliating connotation for you. When you were younger, the action left you feeling soiled, just as intented. Now, it is simply a chore; taking care of this man who can hardly bother to look at you with disdain anymore. Scrubbing his heels, rinsing his toes—nothing but a simple assignment.

You’re halfway through washing his left foot when he speaks again. “I’ll be dead by the end of the night.”

Pausing, you look up at your emperor with questioning eyes. There’s no bemusement to be found in his features; in fact, there’s nothing at all. Just those same stoic eyes that seem to stare right through you.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he humors blandly. “You’re mute, not deaf. I know you’ve heard the whispering and seen the wounded. I know you’ve heard that Emperor Price and his barbarians are closing in on the city, breathing down our goddamn necks for the last few months trying to suffocate us. I’ve seen you lingering where you shouldn’t be. I’d punish you for it if I was worried you’d go blabbering about it. Well, they’re here. We’re on our last breath of air.”

A wicked callosity quickly seeps into the pores of your skin as you stiffly return to your task. You’re not sure what to make of his words. This promise of destruction—of his death. A part of you wouldn’t care if this empire burned to a crisp with nothing but the memory of bones to whisper about its existence. Something to be studied by intellects of the far future. No one in this city has ever done you any favors. Though, you would miss your schedule, you think. Chores and all, you crave consistency. The routine.

As you move to clean his right foot, you think you might even miss this.

Though you would not miss him—Emperor Shepherd, so oddly named. Never has he shown the kindness and humility of someone nurturing a flock of sheep. He has only proven himself to be a butcher. No, worse than a butcher. A huntsman. Someone who slaughters and poaches just for the sake of seeing that sweet vermillion ichor. He maims. He shreds. He’s built his empire upon nothing but bone. It’s laughable to think he’s surprised that the corse is finally rotting and giving away beneath his feet.

“Tell me, girl, do you miss your tongue?” he questions.

You freeze.

You were only ten years old when he ripped it from your mouth. Even after over a decade you can still remember the way the marble flooring of the throne room dug into your knees as soldiers forced you to the ground. They had killed your father first. It was said he had spread perfidious propaganda and false accusations against Emperor Shepherd. His punishment?—to be tied to a horse and dragged along the streets. Both you and your mother were made to follow behind him as the bindings dug into his wrists, skin ripping from his flesh as the unforgiving streets tore into him. People threw rocks into the street for him to be dragged over, as if the stone wasn’t punishment enough. He died before you reached the palace—he gasped his last breath just at the base of the stairs—but they refused to cut him free. They kept dragging his mangled corpse until Emperor Shepherd could see your father for himself. Nothing but a limp pile of meat.

Next was your mother. Her punishment was worse—one that you never got to see, but you could hear plenty well. Shoved inside of a brazen bull, her screams contorted until she sounded like a dying animal as they slowly roasted her to death. Superheated bronze and charred flesh—you don’t think there was a body left to bury when they were finished. For someone they so desperately wanted to silence, the citizens reveled in her blood curdling cries until death ultimately consumed her.

Then, there was you. A trembling child who could hardly hold back her pules, Emperor Shepherd took pity on you. At least, he claimed as much. It didn’t feel like mercy when his blade cut through the wet muscle in your mouth while tongs pierced the tip of your tongue to hold you steady. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were forever seen as an outcast and forced to work as a servant to the man who stole your autonomy. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were made to wash his feet every day as if you should have been grateful for the second chance at life—as if your life was ever his to take in the first place.

Shaking your head, you continue to wash his feet. He chuckles at your claim. It’s dry and acidulous, just like he always is.

“You show such intrepidness for someone so pitiable,” he huffs. Suddenly, he snatches his foot out of your hand, forcing your neck to crane to view him. He does not wait for you to dry him off before placing his soles on the stone floor. “I’ll once again take pity on you, girl. Take today as a day of rest before this city is overrun. Emperor Price trains nothing but beasts. Do yourself a favor and sacrifice yourself before dusk, lest they rape you to death or sew your skin into their clothes. Not unless you’re brave enough to face those barbarians alive. Are you, girl? Courageous enough to face those brutes?”

Your teeth bite into the side of your cheek as you once again shake your head.

“Didn’t think so,” he hums. “Go. Let this be my last good deed.”

When you step foot back outside—far enough away from your emperor that you feel like you can finally breathe again—you realize the wind is still whispering. It’s louder now. What was once a gentle hiss in the air has now grown into small chatter. It chirps like a swarm of birds ready for migration; but they choke on the attar of smoke that hangs like a noose over this city.

How arrogant of Emperor Shepherd to think he commits a good deed by allowing you one day of freedom. As if he has any other choice than to cut you loose with John Price breathing down his neck.

The only sound strong enough to drown out the wind is the crashing waves of the ocean.

Brackish mist kisses the heels of your feet as you sit at the edge of the escarpment, legs dangling above the void. The palace has sat upon this cliff for what’s felt like eons; as if it was created when the world was. Always high upon a precipice, always looking down on the vast city that grovels at its feet. It’s given the impression that this building is important. Towering marble columns, statues of long lost gods and goddesses with forgotten names—the palace is fit for a king, and acts as a brutal reminder that it will always remain out of reach.

Or, that’s what it used to be seen as. Now, with you sitting behind the garden and staring out at the vast sea that crashes against the palisade below, it feels like a dead end. A terminus. Nothing but a corral to cage in the flighty livestock Shepherd has curated over his countless decades as ruler. The people feel it too. You see it in wide eyes and trembling hands; it lurks in rumbling stomachs that beg for food yet can’t seem to hold it.

The crying starts around midday when John Price and his warlords breach the edge of the city. They come with long pikes and horses strong enough to trample stone into gravel. The army is baronial and clad in a mix of leather and bronze armor that you can see from the palace—the glint of their swords is nearly enough to drown out the sun. Every man within their ranks roars and you swear you can feel the reverberation echo in the soil. They’re nothing but brutes. Animals. Barbarians. Your emperor had said as much himself, hadn’t he?

All defences crumble into fine dust within hours. The soldiers stationed at the city environs find themselves skewered like a hog on a spit, painting the road to the palace russet with blood and soot. They cut through the city like a hot knife through butter, rarely bothering any citizen; many of whom are locked inside of their homes as if a door would save them from an army. You watch them close in—from a distance they look like nothing but a line of ants. But those ants grow larger, and their marked prey couldn’t be anymore obvious as they slice directly towards the palace.

Shepherd does not bother with the theatrics. There are no grand speeches or lordly actions, he does not fight alongside the men who fruitlessly attempt to protect him—he simply sits upon his throne and waits. A dead man walking, he slumps as if he’s already in decay. Pallid and thin, you hardly recognize the man who stole your tongue from you all those years ago. You suspect he’s already been dead for quite some time; marked by John Price, there’s no room left for him to run.

When dusk hits, and the ocean mist has grown too cold for you to bear, you wander back into the marble palace while your heart is plagued with incertitude. Stepping foot into this building while an army marches towards it isn’t a good idea, but your curiosity pulls at your limbs. It whispers don’t you want to see the end? The end of this empire, the end of him?

Your mother always said your curiosity would be the death of you someday, but the promise of satisfaction is too great for you to ignore.

Chaos soaks every inch of the palace as servants flutter through the corridors like flighty birds from a forest fire. They’re nothing but wide eyes, quiet sobs, fists clutching valuables and loved ones—they pay you no attention. They never do, unless it is to sneer. You travel through the halls uninterrupted until you reach the throne. A lordly construct, a large chair carved out of marble sits upon a peak of stairs rising well above the floor. A dying emperor is slumped forward with dull eyes, and if he hears you enter through the side door, he does not show it.

You hide behind a pillar, obscured by numbra and poor torch light, hands against the cold stone, gaze peering around the curve of the structure just as the main doors burst open. Without guards to protect your hunted emperor, his life is cut short, quick and easy. There is no fanfare of conversation or shouting, or anything else that the old songs would have you believe. There is only a man—John Price—and his knife in Emperor Shepherd’s stomach.

The old man falls, frail body sliding down the stairs, hands gripping the blade in his gut and yanking it free. Ichor pours from him like the fountains in the garden and the city square. It spews like rust in the light, but he makes no effort to stunt the bleeding. Instead, he looks around, dull eyes soaking in the view of his once great empire, until his attention lands on you. Hands still against the marble, head peeking around the curve of stone—it is the first moment since the knife made its bed in his stomach that he looks upset.

“Stupid girl!” he spits, throat closing, airway blocked by terminal secretions. “I told you to run!”

These are the last words he speaks before a new knife runs along his throat, kissing the tender flesh, marring his vocal cords beyond recognition—then, he falls forward, face flat against the floor, his last breath left sputtering in the blood.

Despite the body at their feet, all eyes in the room turn to you. Pathetic little thing, you can only stare back. Countless men clad in armor with swords clutched in their fists look at you with bored curiosity, but none of them strike fear into your heart quite like him.

You recognize him instantly only due to the hushed stories you’ve heard from guardsmen. Taller than any man or beast, twice as broad as a working horse, and face obscured with a human skull—they call him Ghost. Eyes darker than the night itself pierce through you from the empty shell of the faceplate of bone as scarred lips grow tight beneath the decaying teeth. It’s held against his head with leather straps, and though it obscures his cheeks, you can still see the keloids that dance along his jaw, hairline, and chin.

They say he’s slain a battalion by himself. That he’s moved boulders three times his own size to cut down his enemies. Conversation alone would not have you believe such claims from the mouths of garrulous soldiers, but now that you behold him yourself, you think they may have been telling the truth after all. Even his hands are large—long, thick fingers that would make quick work of your skull, squeezing it tight, popping you like a melon.

Just as your heart leaps into the tightness of your throat, fearing the worst is about to fall upon you, you realize these men are just like everyone else—they look away from you without so much as a second thought.

It is then that the empire that you loved—the one that never loved you back—falls. Brick by vicious brick, John Price and his Ghost dismantle the order of things until all men loyal to the deceased Emperor Shepherd are either dead, or have re-sworn their allegiance to a new host. You watch them stomp around the palace, swords heavy on their hips, gazes hard and stony as they redirect servants and bark at soldiers to do their bidding. The city transforms overnight. New flags are hung upon homes. Strange men demand order.

But for you, nothing changes. The death of your emperor does not regrow your tongue. It does not make the other servants respect you. At the end of the day, you are still in your room—one so small it hardly houses a mattress on the stone floor, with a single small window for lighting—alone with nothing but the distant sound of the waves and new shrieking to lull you to sleep.

And in the morning, the sun still rises.

A blood orange hue seeps through your small crack of a window, faint smoke still lingering in the air, rusting the gold rays into something macabre. The stench of death hangs heavy over the city as you rise, peeking out into the garden. Untouched, the plants still thrive and the fountain sputters a prismatic spray of water as it always has. Birds play in the basin. Seagulls squawk in the distance.

Since nothing else has seemed to change, you begin your day like you always do. A trip through the garden, bare feet hitting against the smoothed stone, curious eyes that flicker to you only to avoid your gaze the next moment—if it weren’t for the different uniforms covering the soldier’s bodies, you could almost be convinced as if this was just another normal day. Dip a bucket into the well. Fill your pitcher until it’s overflowing. Tread the path you always have.

It isn’t until you reach Emperor Shepherd’s chambers that you realize something has shifted. Once pure white linens made of the finest cotton now lay strewn on the floor, marred with darkened bloodstains—red fading to hazel. Bronze and leather armor sits by the foot of the bed, laying against the wooden frame next to a sheathed short sword; the wooden handle is stained with fingerprints. In place of proper bedding, there are now animal pelts. Soft deer hide, wolf pelts, and other creatures you can’t quite name.

When you see the hulking beast curled up beneath these trophies, you freeze.

Laying on his side, back faced toward you with no chiton or blanket to cover the pallid skin, you blink as if that will get the figure to vanish. You tread carefully, hands clutching the pitcher so tightly the stonewear nearly shatters beneath your grip as you drink in the lines of scars that pucker on roughened skin. He glows too much to be your dethroned emperor. His skin is full of life and vigor—strength radiates from him with each rise and fall of his shoulders, breaths silent and even.

You’re nearly at the edge of the bed now. Quiet sunlight illuminates patches of dried blood on his skin. Speckles of high impact splatters dot the side of his bicep, even going as far as to curl over his shoulder before it trails toward his spine. His calf peeks out from beneath the swathes of blankets, revealing dried mud and gore along the ridge of his foot and up his shin. He is sordid. Messy. The antithesis of Emperor Shepherd.

Still, this act is brazen even for one of John Price’s famed barbaric men. Soiling a dead man’s bed with gore and filth, making the most intimate of spaces his own. But it isn’t until you recognize the skull face plate and leather straps sitting next to the yellowed pillows beneath the beast’s head that you realize just who lays before you.

Ghost.

“You’re more quiet than the others they’ve sent in the night.” He speaks like thunder. Not a crack, but a rumble. Deep in the sky, dancing between clouds, chasing the birds from their nests and people into their homes. You jump at the sharp tone to the point water sloshes out of your pitcher, running down your chiton, forcing the cotton to stick to your legs. Unable to clean yourself, you watch in horror while Ghost turns to face you, legs swinging over the side of the bed as he rises, opaque eyes piercing through you like an onyx blade. “Are your people so desperate to be rid of me that they sent a whelp like you to drown me in my sleep?”

His face is curious, and for a moment you find yourself lost as you look at him. A deep scar carves into the prominent but crooked curve of his nose, reminding you of the cliff that looks out over the coast by the garden. Somehow, without his mask, you do not find yourself capable of being truly terrified of him. He is a man, like any other. The same breed that stole your tongue and your parents—there is not much left to be taken from you.

“Well?” Ghost stands. Blankets and animal pelts slide off of him, revealing his naked body, but you’re too entranced by his eyes to look anywhere else. He stalks forward, forcing you to take a step back as you shake your head. “No? Then what’re you here for?”

You swallow, thick and clumpy, saliva like sand turning to mud in your mouth. With no tongue to speak with, you opt to show Ghost instead. Gingerly, you retrieve the water basin and bristle brush that you always used when washing Emperor Shepherd. He watches you, eyes glinting with enough curiosity to allow him to hold back his clenching fists as you pour your pitcher into the basin. Then, you carry it. It settles by his feet with a dull thud as you kneel, sitting on your haunches, heels digging into your rump as you wet the brush.

You look up at him, uncomfortably aware of the heavy cock hanging between his legs as he stares down at you. Fables have told you of the way men ravage women in war. How spearing men isn’t enough for them, that they desire the blood that drips between trembling legs after they’ve been torn apart with a meaty cock. If Ghost wanted to, he could do the very same to you. You wouldn’t fight. You rarely do anymore these days.

It has been made painfully clear to you what happens to people who fight.

“You think I’m dirty? Is that it? Bet Shepherd told you all ‘bout us. Called us beasts. Barbarians. Do you think I’m not capable of cleanin’ myself up?” he asks. Once more, you shake your head. Scoffing, Ghost turns, attention now drawn by his own chiton laying across the foot of the mattress—he snatches it, and lazily begins to dress himself, uncaring about the gore that still stains him. “You’re quiet compared to the others. Your people like to bitch ‘n moan ‘bout everythin’ beneath the sun.”

Though he doesn’t know it, he’s talking to himself. Or rather, a wall. That’s all you are. A statue brought to life by a cruel artist—one who forgot to give you the muscle to speak. You can only continue to sit there and watch as he pulls the cotton over his body, stained cloth obscuring plush muscle and rigid scars. When he brings his attention back to you, you’re exactly where he left you; hands gripping the brush, water dripping from the bristles, eyes focused on him, soaking up his words.

“I’ve just insulted your people. Do you still have nothing to say? Are you that pitiful?” he questions. When you shake your head again, he chuckles this time. It’s tense, like a rope pulled too tight, fraying in the center, ready to snap. “Maybe you just like hearin’ me talk.”

Though his tone is jocular, you can hear the tremors of something different in the vibrations of his voice. He’s frustrated; or maybe curious. An accomplished warrior, he’s gotten everything he’s ever desired. The death of his enemies, valiant conquests where he can pillage anything he wishes—but he hasn’t gotten you. Your voice. Your words.

His determination seeps from him as he paces around you, knees bumping against your back as he reaches down. A firm hand grasps your throat and then presses, forcing your head backwards, chin pointing toward the ceiling. You recall watching a servant’s throat being slit like this before—head held high, skin going tight so that it may kiss the blade properly.

“Shame. Always love makin’ the pretty birds sing in the night. Gonna miss that ‘bout home. Now, I’m stuck ‘ere, leading the lot ‘o you. Somethin’ tells me it’s not so easy with you though, yeah? Gettin’ you to sing nice and pretty for me?” His hand wanders, palm rising from your throat up to your chin, thumb pressing against your closed lips. When you make no attempt at replying, he pushes further, the pad of his thumb hitting your teeth. There is no taste. Still, you make no sound, and he huffs; bored. “Do you truly wish to bathe me?”

You blink, then nod as best as you can with your head knocked against his body. For a moment, you think you see him smile—or perhaps it's just the trick of the light. The odd angle your eyes are forced to view him through. Either way, he seems content with finally getting something worthwhile from you. Something besides a denial.

“Then you’ll do it properly. None of this sponge bath bullshit. I thought I was supposed to be the barbarian. Don’t you people have a proper bath house?” When you nod again, he pulls his thumb away from your teeth, allowing your chin to drop until you’re looking back at your lap. Your hands are curled so tightly around the brush it mars your skin with indentations—the faint dreams of lacerations. “Good. Take me there. Then we’ll see to it that you sing properly f’me.”

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*full story is currently up for early access, updates will be posted every sunday night (may be a different day depending on time zones)

#ilium writing #sr ilia #it;sw #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader

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demonslayerunhinged · 7 months ago

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Unhinged thinks

What if Sanemi is extra harsh on Tanjiro because he's jealous?

Sanemi's been trying to get Giyuu to fuck open up to him for so long and out of nowhere comes this scrub who somehow transformed Giyuu from a decorative object to a living, breathing human being who'll defend him without hesitation and was even ready to commit seppuku for him.

He's been playing the Trial Version of BefriendGiyuu while Tanjiro got access to the entire Game of the Year/Remastered/Director's Cut/21st Anniversary Water Breathing Collection complete with access to:

Giyuu's crib.

His past.

And the Buddy, Buddy Restaurant Hangout side quest.

He even unlocked the steam-0%-of-players Giyuu-san Bath Cutscene AND the Simmered Salmon with Daikon Invitation Achievement!

Sanemi's absolutely choking with envy like me when I see bastards pass that Stardew Valley Ginger Island cave, Simon-says minigame on the first try.

It's the same for Obanai too! I bet he cried in his bedroom after reading Mitsuri's letter.

Tanjiro hooked both their hoes easy! He came out the womb with testingcheats set to TRUE and used stats.set_skill_level Major_Charisma 10 to unlock the 'Best Friends' relationship level with Giyuu, Tengen, Muichiro and Mitsuri while Sanemi and Obanai are still at 'Acquaintances' playing on console against a PC blessed with an NVIDIA GTX graphics card and a 100gb CC folder.

It's gotta be painful knowing a literal child's got more rizz stats than you grown-ass men! Just look at the switch-up on both of them when Muichiro mentioned Tanjiro. The beef they have with him is real! 😂

Marinated for months in a bucket of brine, cooked well done, seasoned salt-bae-style with lots of seethe and glazed with a generous amount of thick, bitter sauce made from cold, lonely nights and bitchless tears.

For Sanemi, his own beef comes with a two-for-one promo because he had to deal with the little shit embarrassing him at the Hashira meeting in front of Giyuu, snatching up Genya and talking back to him!

It's no wonder he was out for blood, from his POV Tanjiro's a nosy, homewrecker who stole his brother AND his man!

Nah, Sanemi ain't gonna let that slide. My man grew up in the trenches so you know he's one of those messy, catch-me-outside bitches. I can tell just from this foul, 'seriously-fuck-you', backhanded punch he dished out here after he realized Tanjiro was tanking his swings 😭😭

We stan a petty Queen! 🙌🏼

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #sanemi shinazugawa #giyuu tomioka #kny tanjirou #kny anime #sanegiyuu #sanemi x giyuu #giyuu x sanemi #giyuusane #demon slayer anime #kimetsu no yaiba anime #just unhinged #sanemi #giyuu #unhinged thinks

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jesuistrestriste · 1 year ago

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30s art donaldson tired af from tashi working him to the bone. so tired that he just wants to lay down but is also very horny cuz when is that man not and he asks reader “can you please just sit on my face” in a really quiet whimper or smth idk (i really just want to read about sitting on art’s face lol)

when art showed up at your door, sweaty and tired and flushed all over, you knew that you wouldn't be able to resist his pleas for attention. the exhausted, slightly defeated look in his pretty blue eyes had you weak all over. it was just no use.

he looked like a kicked puppy.

or maybe just a really over-worked man.

but that was beside the point.

you ushered him inside, cupping his face and cooing at him in all the ways you knew that he needed you to. he pouted. he whined. you could practically imagine a tail tucked between his legs. his coach must have really chewed him out during practice. he had been on a downward spiral in terms of his ability to win for the last few months. it had been rough, to say the least.

he kicked off his shoes and stumbled over to your living room floor, sitting down on the carpet where he opted to stretch his hamstrings. you sat in front of him and ran a hand through his damp hair. he leaned into your touch instinctually, and then buried his face into your neck as his hands slid to hold your lower back.

you embraced him and rubbed his back, hearing him let out little noises of contentment as your palms caressed circles over his aching body. you pressed a kiss to his neck. he tasted like salt and self-doubt, which was not unusual for him after he had just freshly come back from the courts.

he moaned softly against you and then his lips were on yours with a tender ferocity that he always carried. his tongue was eagerly slipping past your teeth to lick at yours, and then he was pulling you closer and furrowing his brows.

"Please," he whispered against your lips as he tilted his head to change angles. his dick was already hard. that's how easy it was for you to get him worked up.

"What-" you pause, kissing him deeper, "What is it?"

his hands gripped your hips.

"Can you please just sit on my face?"

you felt your body warm up instantly at the sound of his whimpered plea, like a bucket of hot spring water had been dumped over you, and you nod slowly against his lips.

within thirty seconds, he was laying flat on his back on your floor, and the clothing on the lower half of your body had been removed and tossed aside to unknown places.

you crawled up his form, and he watched your every move with bated breath, letting his fingers ghost over your body as you inched your way up to his mouth.

when you finally hovered above him on your bent knees, pussy just inches away from his desperate tongue, he immediately shuddered underneath you and looked up to your eyes with a look that begged you before he could even get the right words out.

"C'mon, please.." he moaned pathetically, hands now grasping at your torso and trying to pull you down to him.

you smile, biting your bottom lip.

"Ask me again."

his hips lifted up from the carpet, bucking into the air and affectively jolting the both of you. it was an accident; he didn't mean to. it was just that his mouth was watering and he was too fucking aroused to think properly.

"Will you sit on my face? Please?"

and with that, you lowered your wet core down to his mouth and relished in the way that he immediately groaned into you. his hands tightly held the back of your thighs as his lips suckled on your clit and his tongue lathed sloppily over your slick folds. his tongue darted in and out slowly from your hole, trying with everything in him to taste all that he possibly could.

you rocked your hips over his face, smearing his chin and the tip of his nose with your slimy arousal, but he couldn't have asked for anything better. he loved this. he craved this with everything in him. he wanted you to sit on him like this for however long you could stand it. he could die like this and be happy.

your orgasm built quickly thanks to his expert knowledge on what and where you liked to be kissed and tongued, and he let you gush over his face until you were shaking like a leaf. he gulped every drop down.

at the tail end of your climax, you felt his body shake below you, his eyes rolled back into his head as he gasped and murmured muffled words into your sopping cunt. you arch your back and pivot your body to look down at his form, and your eyes are instantly drawn to the wet patch soaking and growing over the fabric of his gym shorts.

he made you cum a second time after that. and then a third. and a fourth. your hands stayed tangled in his hair through each one, and you called out his name every time the waves of pleasure rushed through you.

even though you wanted art to feel better about himself in terms of his tennis career, there were certain.. perks to him feeling down about it. making you cum let him feel like a winner again, so you were going to ride this low-point of his for as long as you could. you knew he wouldn't mind.

#hiii caityyy hehe <3 #🌸 - ask prompts #🩷 - thirsts #💌 - mutuals #sage's asks #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #art donaldson fic #art donaldson x you #mike faist #mike faist smut #mike faist x reader #challengers smut #challengers fic

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kpoptrashlord-007 · 2 months ago

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The Vessel;; JJK

Word Count;; 1.6k

Genre;; Yandere

Pairing;; Jungkook x Reader

Summary;;

Your world is turned upside when you wake up inside a small room. More akin to a prison than a bedroom, every passing moment evokes greater terror as the room shakes in a rhythmic sway. Things only go from bad to worse when a foreboding stranger lets himself in.

Warnings;;

Dark content, kidnapping and isolation, threats of violence / the implication, bodily fluids (blood, tears and vomit). Delusional JK. Reader incurs injuries including head trauma.

Notes;;

Day Six (Cabin) of the Halloween 2k20 Prompts!

Main Masterlist || Yandere Masterlist || BTS Masterlist || Halloween 2k20

You wake with a jolt, or rather with a lurch. Heavy lids fight to stay open as you flail free of your nightmare. There’s a pounding within your skull that threatens to split you in two. Reaching for anything solid, your nails hover over the dreary grey wall. Before you have a chance to deny your reality, the room once again rocks and dips.

Without any type of steady grip you’re a victim of physics. Headfirst you collide with the wall. Your vision darkens. There’s no sound except the pain, tangible and screaming. It blossoms outward from your fingertips. Fingertips smashed between your chest and the wall, fingertips warm with blood.

Fighting to remain conscious, you avoid assessing the damage. Your stomach is already resting within your throat, the airway threatening to constrict. Breathing deep, your head lolls against the wall. Ice-cold metal bites your skin; a silent reminder of the box you’re trapped within.

There’s an unnatural chill in the air, alongside the stench of iron and salt. A small gust whips into the room when the door swings open. Shivering, you cower into a ball, using your own body as a windbreaker. When the rush subsides you allow yourself to glance over your shoulder at the intruder.

In front of the door stands a man of average stature. Atop his head is a navy blue bucket hat. Water drips from its edges. While his face is pleasant, his eyes burn dark like a wildfire. The longer you stare at him, the wider his smile grows. It’s unnerving; there isn’t a hint of his motivations nor intentions, just blind adoration.

“Goooood morning, sunshine!” he sings, swaying in tandem with the room. “We’ve hit a rough patch but it’ll pass soon. Are you hungry?”

“Who… who are you?”

His expression is quizzical for a brief moment before it morphs back into a mischievous grin. “Are we roleplaying?”

When he steps into the room his boots clang against the steel floor.

Slow. Thud. Heavy. Thud. Deliberate. Thud.

Each step reverberates against the walls before settling within your chest.

“I’ll play,” he chimes, the song melodic compared to the harsh crack of his neck. “I’ll be the nice captain who saved a sorry wretch like you. How does that sound?”

He looms over you and you slink closer to the wall. Ice claws at your back, numbing your skin. There’s no more than a foot of distance between the bed frame and his legs. Water slides down his pants, leaving a glimmering trail on the grey surface. His coat is made of the same thin material. Discomfort rumbles within your gut.

“Where am I?” you whisper, lifting your gaze to meet him.

“Is that any way to talk to your captain, wench?” he teases, placing a gloved hand on the wall beside you. He carries the scent of the ocean with him. It fills your nose before seeping down your throat. “I’m starting to think you want to be punished. Is that it?”

It takes great effort to bite back obscenities and instead say, “No, sir.”

“Oh…” He falls to his knees before you. Reverence brightens his doe eyes. Moving his hand from the wall to your face, he caresses your cheek. You flinch away from his cold touch. “I might like that a little too much.”

It’s while he’s chuckling to himself, a flush heating his cheeks, that you snap. Your hand collides with his, batting him away. Without pausing to process the indignant shock creeping across his features, you raise your legs and kick him square in the chest. He tumbles onto his haunches. A sharp exhale breaks past his lips and he winces. Leaping off the bed, you curl your toes and slam the arch of your foot against the side of his body. Soft flesh contorts around your attack.

You don’t look back at him as he yells your name. Throwing yourself toward freedom, you yank on your prison’s door. Precious seconds are wasted pulling the heavy door open wide enough for you to slip through. Even so, there’s no clear evidence of his pursuit. No footsteps, no panting, no shouting – the room fades into silence the moment you’re free of it.

The moment your eyes catch the gleam of light reflecting off a staircase, you bolt toward it. Rolling down the stairs, cold, dry, salty air licks your skin free of all moisture. Wind howls above you. Somewhere in the distance comes the splash of water lapping against steel.

Climbing two steps at a time, the metal underfoot groans and shakes. What should take mere seconds feels like an eternity. Each clatter and bang ignites terror within you. Even outside the room your world shakes and rolls, and the worst possible scenario invades your thoughts. When you breach the surface, exploding forth from the shadowy depths of the lower deck, your nightmare becomes reality.

Dark clouds gather over pitch-black water. Tumultuous waves crash against the ship’s hull. No matter which direction you look, you’re greeted with more ocean. Vomit rises into your throat, searing your esophagus until you let it loose onto the grated steel floor. The sight of it sloshing around your feet, viscous and steaming, makes you hurl once more.

“Are you unwell?”

You spin to face him. That stupid doe-eyed expression is back on his face. Concern drips from his words as he repeats himself. It’s sickening, vile even. His hand reaches for you and you bare your teeth at him. He’s unhindered as he walks, indifferent to the constant, maddening pulse of the ocean.

“You’ve been acting out quite a bit since we started our vacation, honey.”

There’s a flash of lightning in the distance. As if to really drive home how absolutely fucked you are, it illuminates the sky and sea. There’s no land in sight, no birds in view.

Just miles upon miles of nothing.

“Maybe you should lie down.”

He’s closing the distance, creeping nearer and nearer. On wobbly legs you take a step back. He makes up the loss and gains new ground in a single stride. The deck is slick beneath your hesitant feet. You stumble and slip. Collapsing onto the ship’s railing, a deep-set chill settles into your bones. Before either of you have a chance to react, another wave rocks the boat. The force pushes you into the stranger’s awaiting arms.

“Let go of me!”

“Baby, I’m wor–”

“I’m not your baby,” you spit, slamming a clenched fist against his broad chest. “Let me go!”

Round eyes narrow. All traces of his jovial nature wash away. Rage bubbles to the surface in its stead. Shadows deepen in the dips and hollows of his face. A contorted smirk taints his youthful charm. He doesn’t allow you any room to breathe as he invades your space. When you’re chest to chest, he pushes you further, herding you to the edge. Greeted again by the icy railing, your back curves around the metal bar. The stranger leans down. His weight crushes you, pressing you down onto the railing without remorse.

“You want to go?” His voice is a cold whisper against your ear. A shiver tears down your spine. Paralyzed, your body refuses to fight. “Then go.”

His grip is iron-tight as it wraps around your knee. Mumbled protests depart your lips but they’re in vain – he’s uplifting your centre of gravity, sending you over the edge. Falling over the railing, the scream you produce almost sounds disconnected from your body, as if it were someone else’s fate to drown.

Your head bounces against the hull. Raw and scratched, your vocal cords give out and you trail off into a sob. Tears mix with seawater and blood. Yet when you look down, watching the scarlet drops disappear into the murky depths, you remain several feet above the ocean. It reaches for you, hungry waves lunging for you, but you’re suspended over it, dangling precariously like a worm on a hook.

“Do you still want me to let you go, honey?”

He loosens his hold to prove he’s ready to drop you should you ask. As if you ever would. But he’s waiting for a response, forcing you to play along with his allusion to free will.

“N-no.”

“Good.”

Using his other hand as support around your back, he gives your leg a sharp tug. Pain shoots outward from your hip – just another part of you that’s going to bruise and ache tomorrow. Once you’re slumped against the inner railing, he pats your head.

“Can you walk?” he asks, his tone saccharine. His teeth are on display as he smiles, giving you an encouraging nod when you stand. All the malice is gone and his faux innocence is back. “Let’s get you back to bed. You need to rest.”

“I want to go home,” you cry, nails digging into your biceps as you hold yourself.

“You’ve been talking nonsense this whole time,” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to draw you close. The back of his hand is warm against your forehead. He tuts before pressing a kiss against your temple. “I think you’re coming down with something.”

“I’m not s–”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

He cradles your head, oblivious to the wounds you’ve incurred, and peppers kisses across your face. Doing a one-eighty sweep you glance out at the sea. Vast and endless, water stretches beyond the horizon. You’re stranded on this boat with a madman. Pressing a final chaste kiss against your tightened lips, he guides you toward the lower deck.

If you enjoyed this, please consider liking, commenting, reblogging, and following!

Thank you! – ♡ –

#yandere #yandere jungkook #yandere bts #yandere x reader #yandere kpop #kpoptrashlord-007 #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x y/n #bts x reader #bts fanfic #kpop x reader #yandere male #yandere x darling #yandere x you #kpop fanfic

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b1eedthefreak · 2 months ago

Note

hiii dear! if you can, could you write something with daryl and a hispanic reader who has a very strong accent but never really cared too much about it, but once she hears some people from woodbury making fun of her she just goes really quiet and daryl gets worried?

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Voice

⌇daryl dixon x hispanic!reader

⌇summary: after woodbury moves into the prison, two girls make of reader for her accent when she speaks. daryl’s not having it

⌇warnings: accent shaming, microaggressions,

⌇word count: ~3.4k

a/n i love hispanic reader 🥲 when i was younger in elementary school, people used to make fun me and all the other hispanic kids because our english was very broken. writing this healed something in me i love this request

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You weren’t even trying to listen.

The laundry station behind Cell Block D was tucked away, shaded and quiet, a little pocket of peace where you could dunk your hands in cold water, hum your favorite songs under your breath, and let the scent of sun warmed cotton distract you from the apocalypse.

You weren’t looking for trouble.

But you heard it anyway.

Two women, stragglers from Woodbury, stood just around the corner from the wash buckets. Laughing. Whispering.

“Well, she’s sweet, I guess,” one of them said, voice high and breathy. “But I can never understand what she’s saying. It’s like, I need a damn translator just to ask her to pass the salt.”

You stopped wringing the shirt in your hands.

The other one let out a giggle, quieter but meaner. “It’s like Dora the Explorer but with cleavage.”

That one landed like a stone in your stomach.

“‘I’m goin’ to chursh!’” the first woman said in a voice that wasn’t yours but tried to be, a twisted, cartoonish mimic of your words. “I can’t take her seriously. Not when she talks like she’s got a mouth full of marbles.”

You were frozen in place, hands dripping water onto your shoes.

“Y’know what I bet,” the second one continued with a snort. “Daryl’s only keepin’ her around ‘cause he has one of them accent kink.”

Laughter. Louder this time. Thoughtless. Cruel.

You stood behind the wall for a long time after they left. Just stood there. Heart pounding, throat burning, hands clenched tight around a wet sheet that now felt far too heavy.

You’d always been proud of your voice. You spoke fast when you were excited, let your words dance when you were passionate. You’d never apologized for your accent. Not once.

But in that moment, all you could think about was how those women heard it and how they laughed.

By midday, your voice was gone.

Not physically. Your throat didn’t hurt. Nothing had happened to you.

But your words stayed buried in your chest. You only nodded when people asked questions. Smiled without speaking. Laughed without sound.

It was like something had been switched off.

And Daryl noticed.

You passed him in the hallway that afternoon, he was coming back from the tower, bow slung over his shoulder, a smear of dirt across one cheek, and he slowed down when he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking over your face. “Y’alright?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You didn’t even look at him when you said it.

It wasn’t until later that night that he finally cornered you in your cell.

You were sitting cross legged on the mattress, pretending to read, the pages too still beneath your fingers.

“You been real quiet today,” he said, stepping inside. “Scarin’ the hell outta me.”

You tried to smile. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m okay.”

“No, you ain’t.” He crouched in front of you, reaching to gently pull the book out of your hands. “Tell me.”

You looked at him then, really looked. And it nearly broke you.

Because he wasn’t just curious. He was worried. He hurt for you.

And that made the tears come faster than you could stop them.

“I heard them talking,” you whispered. “Those two women from Woodbury. In the laundry room.”

Daryl’s face changed. His whole body stilled. “What’d they say?”

You swallowed hard, but your voice cracked anyway. “They said I sound like Dora. That no one can understand me. That… that you’re only with me because you have an accent kink.”

The words felt like poison in your mouth.

Daryl’s lips parted like he was going to speak, but no sound came. He stared at you, disbelief curling into something sharper. Something angry.

You shook your head, tears slipping past your lashes. “I know it’s stupid. I’ve always loved the way I speak. I never thought it made me less. But now I keep hearing them in my head, and I… I haven’t said more than a sentence all day. I didn’t even realize until you said something.”

“Don’t call that stupid,” he said quickly, firmly. “Ain’t nothin’ stupid about it.”

You sniffled, blinking fast. “I just didn’t think I’d care. But I did. I do.”

Daryl reached up and cupped your jaw, his callused thumb brushing the tear from your cheek with the gentlest touch you’d ever felt.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low, gravelly, and steady like bedrock. “I love your voice. You hear me?”

You nodded, but he wasn’t finished.

“I love the way it rises when you’re happy. I love that lil’ lilt when you speak Spanish under your breath when you think I ain’t listenin’. I love when you stumble on English words and get mad at ‘em. I love all of it. All of you.”

You leaned into his touch, heart swelling. “Thank you.”

But he was already standing.

“Where you going?”

Daryl’s jaw was tight now, his shoulders tense. “Need to take care of somethin’.”

He found them near the common area, seated by the edge of a dinner table, whispering and giggling like teenagers at a sleepover.

They stopped laughing the second he walked up.

“You think you’re funny?” he said flatly, eyes locked on them.

“Excuse me?” one asked, tilting her head.

“You think it’s funny to talk shit ‘bout someone behind their back? To mock the way she talks?”

The other woman rolled her eyes. “It was just a joke—”

“Yeah?” Daryl stepped in closer, towering over them. “How ‘bout I make a joke outta your fake ass Southern drawl? Or that gawky ass laugh you do when you’re lyin’?”

The room went quiet.

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” one mumbled, uncomfortable now.

“No?” Daryl’s voice dropped, sharp and low. “You think I’m with her for a kink? You think I need a reason to love the smartest, kindest, most beautiful woman in this whole goddamn prison?”

Neither of them answered.

So he leaned in closer,

“Pinches putas.” With a bad accent, but still meant what he said.

Their eyes widened.

“Y’all need a translator for that? You talk ‘bout her again,” Daryl added, stepping back, “and we ain’t gonna have a conversation next time. Got it?”

He didn’t wait for a response.

When he came back to your cell, your eyes met his instantly.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over, cupped your face again, and kissed you. Long. Slow. Full of things he didn’t have the words for.

You exhaled into him, hands resting against his chest. “Did you…?”

“I did.”

“What’d you say?”

He smirked against your lips. “Called ‘em what they are.”

You blinked. “You really said it?”

“Loud and clear.”

Your laughter filled the room—and this time, it sounded like you.

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#daryl dixon #the walking dead #twd daryl #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl x reader #norman reedus #daryl dixion x reader #norman reedus smut #the walking dead fanfiction

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humaling · 4 months ago

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Stacking Seashells, Falling Hard.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: a seashell competition between you and finnick on a random saturday afternoon.

warnings: none! just finnick being absolutely smittened by you

word count: 1k

author's note: a little treat for the angst i fed last time

The sky stretches endlessly above you, a cloudless canvas of pale blue as the sun hangs high, pouring golden heat over the world. You sit beneath your pink sunshade umbrella, the fabric fluttering gently in the salty breeze. The sand beneath you is warm, almost too hot, grains of it pressing into your bare legs, rough and scratchy against your delicate skin. Beside you, a small metal bucket overflows with seashells—smooth and jagged, large and small—each one carefully collected and sorted. You take them one at a time, brushing your thumb over their textures before stacking them with careful precision in front of you. The fragile tower rises steadily, seashells balanced precariously on top of one another.

It’s a dull day, painfully uneventful. Since you’d rolled out of bed that morning, there’s been nothing to do. Your father’s busy brokering deals over the seafood he hauled in at dawn, your mother’s off with her amigas on a rare no-husband-and-kids day, and your brother—well, he’s probably sneaking around District 4, up to something he’ll deny later. That left you alone in the house, bored out of your mind, until inspiration struck: head to the beach and see how tall you could make a seashell tower before it toppled over.

So here you are—at the beach, under the relentless midday sun. The heat presses down on you, heavy and thick, but you hardly sweat. You’ve been shaped by this weather, conditioned to the sun's weight after spending countless childhood afternoons racing down these very shores, salt in your hair and sand between your toes. The heat is familiar, almost comforting.

These days, though, you prefer the quiet. You’ve grown to savor the stillness, finding a kind of peace in your own company. Stacking seashells, listening to the waves, breathing in the briny air—it’s simple, but it’s enough.

You’re so lost in the rhythm of it that you don’t hear the approaching footsteps, the soft shuffling of feet over sand. Your focus sharpens on the 32nd shell, fingers steady as you carefully place it atop the growing tower.

“Bet I can make mine taller than yours.”

A sharp gasp rips from your throat as something small and hard whizzes past your face, close enough to stir a lock of hair. Your stack crumbles in an instant, shells scattering across the sand with soft, hollow clinks. Your jaw drops, heart stuttering as you stare at the ruins of your hard work.

The intruder drops down beside you, elbows digging into the sand as he props himself up with an infuriating ease. You whip your head toward him, your glare cutting sharp enough to draw blood.

Of course. Finnick Odair.

"Bet you can’t," you shoot back, picking up a seashell and chucking it at him. He snatches it midair without even trying, the movement so smooth it’s almost irritating.

He flashes you a grin, teeth white and perfect beneath the sun's glare. His sea-green eyes dance with mischief, strands of damp bronze hair clinging to his forehead. His skin glows under the sun’s touch, tanned and lightly glistening with sweat. Dimples carve into his cheeks as his smile widens.

“You’re on,” he says, voice low and teasing.

And just like that, the quiet of your afternoon is gone.

The sun melts into the horizon, bleeding warm shades of amber and rose into the sky. The soft, golden glow reflects off the ocean’s surface, rippling light across the sand and casting long shadows behind you. The competition had been brutal—neither of you willing to concede, both of you clinging to victory like it was life or death. Your pride was on the line, and Finnick’s was too—though, truthfully, he stopped caring about winning long ago.

He had taken the lead early on, his hands deft and steady as he stacked shell after shell. But the higher the tower rose, the shakier it became. He lost his rhythm while you found yours, his 40th seashell barely clinging to the precarious stack while yours stood tall at 54, stable and impressive. His breath hitched as he placed the next shell, heart racing—not from the pressure of competition but from the way you looked under the soft afternoon light. The sun kissed your skin, warm and golden, highlighting the curve of your cheek as you sucked it in, brows furrowed in intense concentration. A loose strand of hair fell into your face, and Finnick’s fingers twitched with the quiet urge to tuck it behind your ear.

He leans back, stretching his spine with a satisfied sigh—only to watch in horror as his entire tower collapses, seashells clattering into his lap. His mouth parts in disbelief, frozen as the wreckage sprawls across the sand. You take one look at the disaster and your face splits into a triumphant, mischievous grin.

“Ha! Loser!” you crow, pointing at the scattered shells with a glint of savage satisfaction in your eyes.

Finnick groans and lets himself fall backward into the sand, arms flopping to his sides in mock defeat. A laugh bursts from your chest—bright and unrestrained—and the sound of it makes his heart stutter. Your own tower wobbles and topples over, shells tumbling down into a pile, but you don’t seem to care. You're too busy soaking in the sight of Finnick Odair brought to ruin.

He shields his eyes against the sun with a lazy hand, squinting up at you as you sit above him, framed by the fiery sky. The sunset bathes you in shades of peach and rose, and the wind stirs through your hair, making it ripple like silk. His chest tightens. You look… breathtaking. Otherworldly. Like some sea goddess born of foam and starlight. His heart squeezes painfully at the thought. He knows better than to say it out loud—knows it’ll inflate your ego beyond repair if you found out that Finnick Odair—Capitol’s golden boy, the one everyone wants but no one truly gets—is utterly, hopelessly in love with you.

But he is.

A slow, helpless smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, his irises dilating as he watches you. His gaze traces the soft curve of your jaw, the delicate slope of your nose, the faint salt-kissed sheen on your skin. He could look at you forever and never get tired of it.

“Fine,” he says, voice low and soft as the ocean breeze. His eyes glint with quiet affection. “You win.”

And in his head, he knows you’ve been winning for a long time now.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick odair x you #hunger games finnick #the hunger games

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cupofwyn · 1 year ago

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beach shenanigans w/ bf!dream⠀( a series )

▬⠀content יִ،⠀mark. renjun. jeno. haechan. jaemin. chenle. jisung.

pairing/s יִ،⠀bf!mark lee × gn!reader

genre/s יִ،⠀fluff.⠀established relationship.

warning/s יִ،⠀pure fluff.⠀bulletpoints.⠀lowercaps.

wc יִ،⠀0.72k⠀

a/n יִ،⠀i've had this prompt for a few weeks already, and im proud to say im making it a series! i hope you'll enjoy the series first starting off with mark ^^

prompt יִ،⠀"having a bf is like having a misbehaved child." and you think about it a lot when you see bf!mark running towards the white sand with his shovel and bucket in hand.

as a child, mark only experienced the coldness of winter

the city that he lived in, the country, canada, boasts a cold temperature every winter season

and when he had the chance to experience summer in his country, his summer break usually consisted of him going back to seoul with his parents

a city full of skyscrapers—opposite to what he wanted to see in his summers

everywhere he looked from social media, pictures sent by his friends

and even his parent’s pictures of going to the beach without him as he was already, what they liked to call him, "a fully-fledged adult"—he would be envious of them

he only experienced summer in the confines of the pool

he wanted sand

he wanted to dig in anything that was sand

mark was getting tired of thinking of snow as sand

it was cold, it melts, and is annoying to get rid of

but sand?

sand, for him, was a privilege

it was that serious for him

so when you invited your bf!mark for a summer beach getaway this summer break

his eyes sparkled in delight

he took you in a tight embrace, carrying you and swirling you and him around the room as he repeated a bunch of thank you's

and you giggled, happy to see him in this state

as soon as he saw the view of the beach, the smell of salt air, the crashing waves, and the white sand, he wasted no time

he got his sand-digging supplies on the backseat of the car when you were done parking the car

then ran giddily barefooted on the soft and warm ground of sand

“mark! wear your sunscreen first!” you yelled at him, and he immediately ran over to you, his feet running in place as he stood in front of you

“hot! hot! hot!” he complained

the sand wasn't warm. it was scorching hot with the sun confidently glaring from the skies

“you should've worn your slippers before going out to the sand.” you nagged at him as he patiently waited for you to apply sunscreen all over his face, neck, and arms

at this point, you're already asking yourself if this was a date or if you were just treating his inner child

“go get your slippers in the car.” you said to him

“on it!” mark went back to your car parked behind you

you chuckled, finding his enthusiasm adorable, and walked to the car, applying your sunscreen on the car's side mirror

the noise on the trunk of the car filled with shuffling and displacing of things, mark humming to himself a made-up tune

“where art thou thine slippers?” the lyrics went on, and you giggled

it took a while before mark called you out

“babe?”

“yeah?” you answered, now applying sunscreen on your neck

“i think i forgot to pack my slippers…”

that's why you had an ominous feeling ever since you saw him filling up his things

he prioritized his shovel and sand bucket first, after all

“that's because you're too busy packing your shoveling supplies.” you replied

“sorry.” he apologized, a bit down that he couldn't play peacefully on sand

“just use my slippers.” you suggested, wiping evenly the white cast of the sunscreen on your neck. “i'll be staying in the shade, so i don't really need them.”

mark then ran towards you

stopped, as he stood beside you

and you're startled

you turned to look at him, seeing him smiling ear to ear

“what?” you asked with suspicion

he was saying nothing and had only been looking at you silently with a big smirk on his face for a few seconds already

he then wrapped his arms around your waist and showered kisses all over your face

you giggled at this, gently pushing him away since you had just applied your sunscreen

“i just finished wearing my sunscreen, you dummy!” you complained

but he knew you loved it

because despite you pushing him away,

you were smiling and laughing

he tightened his embrace, pulling you in closer and gave a final peck on your lips, leaving you stunned

and flushed

“i love you, babe. thank you for lending me your slippers.” he grinned

and you chuckled

as you gave him a sweet kiss on his lips

“you silly. now, go heal your inner child.”

#세트 . 🏝 — beach shenanigans #nct dream fluff #mark lee fluff #mark lee oneshot #nct dream #nct #mark lee x reader #mark lee #mark lee imagines #mark lee headcanons #nct imagines #mark lee scenarios #nct dream x reader #nct fluff #nct x reader #nct scenarios #nct headcanons #mrk.lee #손가락 사이에 . ☕️

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 13 hours ago

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“Mom!, I’m Hungry”

Part 2 of “Dad!, Toothache.”

Synopsis: Karina visits again — just in time to invite you and your daughter to the market, where a surprise raffle wins you all a vacation. You’ve never packed with this much chaos, never traveled with this much laughter, and never felt so close to something that feels like a real family.

Word Count: 4,537

Karina X Male Reader

a/n: if both posts reach 200 likes, I’ll consider making this a series. ☺️🙏🏻

It had been exactly seven days since the graduation.

Since your daughter — in a room full of strangers — had cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted Hi, Mom! like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And Karina hadn’t stopped smiling since.

You found her smile again at your doorstep, this time holding a canvas tote bag, a plastic bottle of barley tea, and the faint scent of something floral and familiar.

“Hi,” she said, glancing down at your rumpled shirt and unshaven jaw. “Sorry if I’m interrupting your dad mode.”

You leaned against the doorframe. “You’re the best part of my dad mode.”

Her face flushed — just slightly — and you stepped aside to let her in.

Your daughter was sprawled out on the living room floor, coloring, when she looked up and gasped:

“Rina-unnie!!”

Karina crouched immediately, dropping to her knees like she always did — like she wanted your daughter to know she was never too high up to meet her eye to eye.

“Hi, baby. I missed you.”

“You saw me last week!”

“That’s practically a year in kid time.”

“Are you staying for lunch?”

“Only if Daddy shares his fried egg again.”

You raised a brow. “That’s my secret recipe.”

“Salt and oil,” Karina deadpanned. “A mystery to all mankind.”

Karina offered the idea gently, while sipping barley tea and picking lint off your shirt like she had any right to do that.

“The neighborhood market’s doing a summer raffle,” she said. “Buy three things and you get a spin.”

“We don’t usually go on Sundays,” you replied, drying dishes. “Too crowded.”

“Which is why it’s fun,” she grinned. “Come on. Let’s get some fresh air. She can wear her little bucket hat.”

Your daughter perked up immediately. “Bucket hat?! I wanna go!”

And just like that, your fate was sealed.

The market was buzzing.

Lanterns strung up between vendor tents, the air thick with the scent of fishcakes and honey-drizzled hotteok. Children ran past with balloons, old men argued over melon prices, and a young guy with a megaphone yelled:

“SPIN THE WHEEL! 3 ITEMS = 1 TRY! GRAND PRIZE: VACATION VOUCHERS!”

Karina bought a bundle of green onions, a melon, and — to your horror — matching cartoon socks for you and your daughter.

“You’re really going for it, huh?” you said, watching her pay.

“Some families wear jerseys,” she replied. “We wear ducks.”

You handed the raffle boy your three receipts.

The wheel was red and gold, slightly chipped, and creaked like it had seen better decades. Your daughter spun it with both hands — Karina knelt behind her, holding her waist steady, laughing the whole time.

The wheel clicked. Slowed. Landed.

“GRAND PRIZE!!” the booth guy shouted. “Vacation tickets! Two adults, kids under ten are free!”

You blinked.

Karina blinked.

Your daughter screamed.

“Does this mean we can go to the beach?!” she yelled. “Or a hotel?! Do they have a POOL?!”

“Wait,” you said. “This isn’t rigged, right?”

“Nah, man, you just got lucky,” the guy laughed. “Happens once in a while.”

Karina turned toward you, lips parted in shock.

Then:

“Wanna take a trip with me?”

You looked down at your daughter — beaming, hopping up and down — then back at Karina, already biting her lip like she was afraid she’d said too much.

“Let’s do it,” you said. “Let’s go.”

That Evening

Your daughter was passed out in the back seat, one sock on, one sock off, sticky from melon popsicle and dreams of hotel pools.

Karina sat beside you in the front, window cracked, summer breeze tugging at strands of her hair.

“You okay?” you asked quietly, eyes still on the road.

She smiled, soft and slow.

“Yeah. Just…”

“What?”

“I never win anything.”

You reached over, threading your fingers through hers.

“Maybe it’s not about winning.”

She looked at you.

“Maybe it’s just… what happens when you stay.”

She didn’t answer.

Just leaned over, rested her head against your shoulder — and whispered,

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

The Next Day!

The living room looked like it had been hit by a very small, very pink tornado.

There were socks on the bookshelf. Swim floaties in the laundry basket. A tiny toothbrush taped to the side of a lunchbox like it was some kind of emergency escape tool.

And in the middle of it all — you and your daughter, sitting cross-legged on the floor with matching expressions of utter defeat.

“Okay,” you said, holding up a tangle of swimsuits. “Do you need three?”

“I might!” your daughter argued. “What if one gets wet?!”

You stared at her.

“They’re swimsuits. They’re supposed to get wet.”

“DAD.”

She looked offended, as if you’d just committed a fashion crime punishable by tears.

You sighed and dropped the swimsuits back into the suitcase, which was currently 30% clothes, 40% unwrapped snacks, and 30% Things That Don’t Belong In A Suitcase (including a small stuffed elephant, a broken fan, and an unopened can of corn).

“This is hopeless,” you muttered.

“You’re hopeless Dad!” your daughter echoed helpfully.

You flopped backward onto the floor.

“Okay, that’s it. We live here forever. We’re never going anywhere.”

Just then — a knock.

A soft, rhythmic knock, like music to your disorganized, travel-worn soul.

You sat up slowly.

“No way…”

Another knock. Followed by—

“It’s me,” came a muffled voice from the hallway. “I brought ziplock bags”

You scrambled to your feet.

“SALVATION.”

She stepped inside with the calm, poised energy of someone who’d clearly packed for trips before. Hair tied up. Large tote bag slung over one shoulder. A clipboard (a literal clipboard) in her hands.

She took one look at the chaos, blinked slowly, then said:

“…You two are unwell.”

Your daughter threw herself into Karina’s arms. “Help us! Daddy packed my school folder instead of sunscreen!”

Karina held her, nodded solemnly.

“This is worse than I imagined.”

You stood there sheepishly, a sock stuck to your shirt and a juice box in your back pocket.

“I tried. I even made a list.”

Karina walked over, peered at the list in your handwriting.

“Okay, but why is ‘emergency corn’ on here?”

“It felt important.”

Your daughter stood frozen, a pair of pajama pants dangling from her fingers like they might bite.

“What’s she doing?” she whispered.

Across the room, Karina was hunched over the open suitcase, hands moving with terrifying precision — fold, tuck, roll, press. Fold, tuck, roll, press.

You peeked over her shoulder.

“Did you just… fold three shirts into one cube?”

Karina didn’t look up. “It’s called military packing. Efficient. Compact. Extremely satisfying.”

“She’s doing magic,” your daughter mumbled in awe.

Karina handed her a perfectly rolled set of socks, rubber banded like a sushi roll.

“Put this in the shoe compartment,” she said calmly. “And no, sweetie, we don’t bring four hairbrushes. One is enough.”

Your daughter clutched the sock bundle like it was treasure.

“Yes, commander.”

You were rifling through the pile near the edge of the bed when your hand landed on something soft. Thin. Light blue.

You pulled it up and stared.

A sundress. Flowing, delicate, sleeveless. Lacy edges that looked like they belonged in a movie scene where someone walks through a flower field in slow motion.

“Uh…” you held it up. “Did we pack this?”

Karina turned from where she was rolling toothpaste into a zip bag. Her eyes flicked to the dress, then to your face.

“That’s mine.”

You paused. Swallowed.

“Right. Sorry. I just… wow.”

She blinked.

“Wow what?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. “Just wow, like… wow, good packing. Efficient. Lacy.”

Karina smirked. “Lacy?”

“Nope. Didn’t say that. Definitely didn’t say lacy.”

You turned back to the suitcase and nearly packed a towel into your own hoodie sleeve.

Behind you, Karina was still smiling.

Then it continues with the goggles next.

Then the floaties.

Then the snorkel mask that was definitely too big for her.

Your daughter paraded through the living room, arms outstretched like a superhero, flippers smacking the hardwood.

“I’M READY!!” she yelled. “I’M OCEAN GIRL!! FEAR MY POOL POWERS!!”

You ducked as a rogue pool noodle flew past your face.

“I don’t even remember buying that,” you muttered.

Karina didn’t flinch. She was kneeling calmly on the floor, unbothered, sorting tiny bottles of sunscreen and aloe into a clear pouch labeled in neat handwriting:

Just in Case.

“You’re too calm for this,” you told her, stepping over a trail of floaties.

“I was a camp counselor in college,” she replied.

You paused. “That makes… so much sense.”

“So does labeling everything,” she added, tapping a small container of mosquito patches. “Trust me. No one’s crankier than a bug-bitten child in wet socks.”

Your daughter flopped onto the couch with a snorkel still in her mouth.

“I’M STILL READY,” she announced.

Karina nodded approvingly.

“And fashionable, too.”

Later, When Everything’s Packed

The room is clean. The bags are zipped. The corn has not made the cut.

You and your daughter sit on the couch, exhausted but proud.

Karina stands near the door, tucking her clipboard back into her tote like a final boss who just beat a mini-game.

Karina stood by the window, sipping water from the glass you handed her earlier. The moonlight painted soft lines across her face, her profile calm but unreadable. There was something about her in moments like this — after the chaos, after the laughter — something so deeply still.

You rubbed the back of your neck, hesitant.

“Hey, Karina…”

She turned, glass halfway to her lips.

“Yeah?”

“You, uh… wanna stay for the night?”

She blinked.

“It’s pretty late,” you added quickly. “I mean—almost midnight. And we’re leaving early anyway. No point in you going home just to come right back.”

She didn’t say anything at first.

“You can sleep in my room,” you said, almost too fast. “I’ll sleep out here. With… um, Cloudie.”

Karina raised an eyebrow.

“Cloudie?”

You gestured toward your daughter.

“She renamed the stuffed elephant last week. His name was Greg. But she said that was too boring.”

Karina laughed, quiet and warm. She looked down at the girl on the couch, fast asleep with a chubby arm around the formerly-named Greg.

“You sure?” she asked, voice soft now. “I don’t wanna intrude.”

“Mhm, no worries”

Karina looked at you.

Something in her eyes shifted — gentler than surprise, but deeper than acceptance. Like she’d been waiting for you to say it.

Like she’d always hoped to be part of the kind of home you were still learning how to build.

She set her glass down.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll stay.”

You nodded. Looked away so you wouldn’t smile too obviously.

“I’ll get you a towel, and some clothes.” you mumbled.

As you walked to the hallway, she called after you —

“Hey.”

You turned.

She was still standing there, bathed in the soft glow of the living room light.

“Thanks for letting me in,” she said. “Not just tonight.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled.

“You’re welcome Karina, you’ve helped me more than you can imagine.”

THE NEXT DAY!!!!

You stepped out of the van and immediately regretted not wearing jeans.

The sun was high, the sky was offensively blue, and the resort looked like it had been plucked straight from a travel brochure. Palm trees swayed dramatically. Birds chirped like they were on payroll. Somewhere in the distance, a steel drum version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star was playing from a speaker.

You adjusted your linen button-up — slightly wrinkled, thanks to a rushed morning — and glanced down at your khaki shorts.

God, I’m a dad.

Then the back door slid open.

“RINA-UNNIEEEEEEEE!!!”

Your daughter launched out like a rocket — already in her one-piece swimsuit, floaties on her waist and shoulders, goggles tight around her head, and—

You blinked.

“…Is that a second pair of floaties?”

She landed on the concrete with a thud and a squeak of her flip-flops.

A pink swim cap flopped out of her bag and rolled onto the floor like a fallen helmet of shame.

“Put on your swim cap,” you said automatically, picking it up.

“No!!” she wailed. “It makes my forehead BIG and UGLY!”

“Your forehead is perfect,” Karina said, stepping out of the van.

You turned to agree — and then your words died somewhere between your lungs and your soul.

Karina stood there like a still frame from a film.

Hair loose and kissed by the breeze, that pale sundress swaying around her calves — fitted at the waist, light fabric catching the sunlight just enough to flirt with the idea of being see-through. She wore sandals and a woven straw tote over one shoulder, skin glowing like she invented vacation.

And the neckline?

You almost dropped the swim cap again.

“Wow,” you said, because you were a man of limited vocabulary in the face of death.

She turned toward you, tilting her head, barely smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you choked out. “Just. Wow.”

Your daughter tugged on your sleeve.

“Daddy. You’re staring.”

Karina smirked. “Let him. It’s vacation.”

You coughed. Adjusted your collar. Pulled your sleeves down for no reason whatsoever.

The lobby was cool, sweet-smelling, and blissfully quiet — until your daughter yelled:

“CAN I SWIM YET?!”

The receptionist smiled politely.

Karina leaned down beside her.

“Let’s wait until we get the card, okay? Then we’ll put sunscreen on so your cheeks don’t get mad again.”

Your daughter pouted. “My cheeks don’t get mad.”

“Sweetheart, last time they looked like two tomatoes in a boxing ring.”

Karina straightened, looked at you with a tiny grin.

“You’re wearing the shorts.”

“What shorts?”

“The ones you avoid wearing because they make your knees feel self-conscious.”

You covered your knees with your hand. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that.”

Karina leaned in.

“You look good.”

You tried not to die on the spot.

Two beds. One huge window. A view of the pool glimmering in the sun.

Karina set her tote on the dresser, walking toward the balcony while your daughter made a beeline for the bed, climbed up, and flopped face-first into the sheets.

“I’M NEVER LEAVING THIS PLACE!”

You collapsed onto the edge of the second bed, exhaling for the first time in hours.

“Glad we manage to get the voucher..”

Karina opened the balcony door, letting warm air drift in.

“Yeah I guess things are going your way now.”

You watched her for a moment — the way the sundress moved with her, soft fabric against sunlit skin, bare shoulders glowing in the light — and forgot how to speak again.

“Dad!” your daughter said, lifting her head from the pillow.

You blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Can we go swim now pleeeaaase?”

Karina turned back, laughing.

“Let me change, and we’ll go down.”

“Yay!!”

Your daughter scrambled up — floaties still on — and ran into the bathroom to get more sunscreen on her cheeks.

Karina paused beside you.

“You okay?”

“You’re asking me that after walking in here looking like the poster girl for every dream I’ve ever had?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

“Shut up.”

You didn’t.

“Seriously,” you murmured, watching her take a step closer. “You look…”

She waited.

You breathed.

“Beautiful.”

The smile softened.

“Took you long enough.”

And before you could get another word out — your daughter yelled from the bathroom:

“DAD!!!! WHERE’S MY SHARK GOGGLES? I DON’T LIKE THE MERMAID ONE”

The water shimmered like glass, sunlight dancing across the surface in ripples. Laughter echoed from the shallow end — small, bright, and unmistakably hers.

You stood at the edge of the pool, arms crossed, barefoot on warm tiles.

Watching.

Karina was in the water, hair tied up, a navy one-piece suit with a tie around the waist that made your brain short-circuit every time she reached up to fix her hair. She held your daughter under the arms, guiding her gently across the pool as floaties bobbed around her.

“Good job!” Karina said. “Look how far you swam!”

“I’m a shark now!” your daughter screamed with delight.

Karina nodded solemnly.

“A dangerous one.”

You smiled. You hadn’t seen her this happy in weeks.

And Karina?

She looked…free.

You leaned your weight to one side, just content to watch the two most important people in your life laugh together, splash together, belong together—

“DAD!”

You barely turned your head before splash!

Two pairs of hands had yanked you in.

The water swallowed you whole, clothes and dignity and all.

You resurfaced coughing, gasping, blinking water out of your eyes.

“Did you just—?!”

Karina floated beside you with a devilish smile.

Your daughter was already paddling away.

“You looked too dry,” Karina said innocently.

“You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know you like me.”

You blinked at her.

She smiled wider.

And ducked under the water before you could splash her back.

After the events of being blindly waterboarded

The air was warm and still. The sky turning pastel. A soft breeze swept through the balcony where the little electric grill was set up. You were outside now, flipping skewers of meat with one hand and steadying a plate with the other.

Inside, your daughter sat on the carpet cross-legged, watching cartoons, humming to herself between bites of sliced fruit. Her floaties were off, hair damp, cheeks sun-pink and glowing.

Karina stepped onto the balcony beside you, wearing your hoodie — the sleeves pushed up, her hair still towel-damp and slightly curled from the swim.

“Smells amazing,” she murmured.

“Don’t jinx it.”

She leaned against the railing, eyes on the sky, the beach visible in the distance through palm trees.

“She had fun today.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “She really did.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“I never really get to cook for her,” you said. Your voice was steady, but there was something in it — like honesty bubbling up from deep inside your chest. “I always worked through dinner. Night shifts. Fast food. I don’t think she’s ever had, like… a proper family meal.”

Karina said nothing at first.

She just watched you flip the skewers with care — brushing the glaze over the meat, turning each one like it mattered.

“But today?” you said, looking at her. “Today I saw myself. Like — the version I wanted to be. And I didn’t expect that. But I’m not complaining.”

Karina’s eyes met yours.

She stepped closer, her hand brushing yours as you both reached for the same plate.

You stilled.

The smell of grilled food between you. The hum of your daughter’s cartoon in the background. The setting sun turning the world golden.

She looked at you like the rest of the world had melted away.

“You’re already that version,” she whispered. “She just sees it first.”

You didn’t think. You just leaned in.

So did she.

And for a moment, the space between you disappeared—

“DAD!! IS IT DONE YET?!?!”

Your daughter’s voice cut through the moment like a megaphone.

You jumped, nearly knocking over the tongs.

Karina stifled a laugh and stepped back, cheeks flushed.

“Saved by the shark,” she murmured.

You exhaled. “She’s got brutal timing.”

As the sun ended its shift, the moon clocked in — casting its cool, silvery glow across the world, like it had something to prove.

The lights in the room were low. The glow of the TV flickered across the sheets. A blanket fort had been attempted, then abandoned halfway once everyone realized the remote didn’t work under a blanket.

Popcorn was shared. Laughter was had.

Until you made the fatal mistake.

“I’m not stealing,” you said mid-chew. “I’m protecting your corn.”

Your daughter looked at you like you’d betrayed the entire bloodline.

“That was MY roasted corn.”

“It was about to roll off your plate.”

“You stabbed it with a fork and ATE IT.”

Karina choked on her popcorn trying not to laugh.

You tried to play it cool. “You’ll survive.”

Your daughter stood up dramatically — floaties long gone, but her sense of theatrical betrayal stronger than ever.

“I’M NOT SLEEPING BESIDE YOU.”

“C’mon—”

“NOPE. I’M SLEEPING NEXT TO RINA-UNNIE. YOU SLEEP ON THE OTHER SIDE. FAR.”

Karina blinked. “Wait, what—?”

“You’re the wall now,” your daughter declared, pointing dramatically. “Daddy is BANNED.”

You held your hands up. “That corn was 60% off your plate—”

“WALL, RINA UNNIE, BE THE WALL.”

Ten Minutes Later

The beds, once apart, were now pushed together — a lumpy mega-mattress of pillows and compromise. Karina sat cross-legged in the middle, adjusting her ponytail, still in your hoodie and a pair of soft shorts.

Your daughter was tucked on one side, huffing into her pillow like a woman wronged.

You flopped onto the opposite edge of the bed, sighing loudly.

“I miss when she loved me.”

Karina whispered, “You ate her corn.”

“I’d eat it again.”

Your daughter: “I HEARD THAT.”

Karina giggled, the sound quiet and warm. She pulled the blanket higher around your daughter, brushing her bangs back with gentle fingers.

“Don’t be too mean to him,” she said softly. “He’s trying.”

Your daughter grumbled. “He can try by not being a CORN THIEF.”

You turned to Karina, mock whispering.

“She’s never letting this go.”

“Nope,” she said. “You’re stuck with me tonight, Corn Criminal.”

Your breath caught a little.

The way she smiled at you then — teasing but soft — like this was the most natural thing in the world: sharing a bed, being in the middle, folding herself into your life.

Movie Night Begins

She dimmed the lights. Your daughter picked the movie: some animated tale about magical dumplings and talking dragons. You all settled in, popcorn back in rotation (Karina served your daughter first — trust had to be rebuilt).

Halfway through, your daughter wriggled closer to Karina’s side.

“You smell like sunshine,” she mumbled.

Karina blinked. “Is that good?”

“Mhm,” she yawned. “Like… not my dad.”

“Good to know,” Karina whispered, amused.

You, from the other side of the bed:

“Rude.”

“Not as rude as stealing corn.”

Karina snorted so hard she had to cover her mouth.

Your daughter slowly drifted to sleep, curled under Karina’s arm, clutching her old rabbit plush.

And after a while — only the soft buzz of the TV, the occasional breeze through the balcony window, and the gentle rhythm of breathing filled the space.

Karina looked over at you, her voice barely above a whisper.

“This okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

Your hands brushed under the blanket. Neither of you pulled away.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmured.

“At what?”

“At…being part of us.”

Karina turned her head to the side, watching your daughter sleep between you both.

“She made room for me,” she said. “You both did.”

There was silence.

Then:

“And I’m not giving it back.”

You smiled softly.

The movie faded into credits. The night folded into itself.

And in that small shared bed, across the invisible lines drawn by toddlers and trust, you and Karina fell asleep holding hands — careful not to wake the girl who unknowingly stitched you together. and everyone was silent, even the bugs outside.

The sun wasn’t fully up yet.

A soft gold glow slipped between the curtains, draping everything in early morning hush — the kind of quiet that only exists in hotel rooms and homes where people are loved enough to sleep soundly.

Your daughter woke first.

Groggy and warm, she blinked up from her side of the bed, nose scrunching as she adjusted to the light. She yawned dramatically, one hand reaching for her rabbit plush, the other rubbing her eyes.

Then she turned.

And saw you.

Fast asleep.

Wrapped completely — absolutely and undeniably — around Karina.

Your arm was draped across her waist, hand resting just beneath her hoodie. Your legs tangled slightly beneath the blanket. Your chin nestled against her shoulder, breathing steady and soft.

And Karina?

Still asleep, turned slightly toward you, one hand resting lightly over yours.

Your daughter stared.

Mouth wide.

Eyes huge.

She looked left.

She looked right.

Then—

“Hehehehehe…”

She carefully slipped out of bed.

She grabbed your phone from the nightstand with the stealth of a trained ninja.

Turned it on.

“Starting to think Dad stole my corn on purpose…..”

Click.

She stared at the screen, admiring her work like a true artist.

Then whispered, “Blackmail,” like she’d heard in one of her cartoons.

Karina stirred just slightly, brow furrowing, but didn’t wake. You mumbled something incoherent — something that sounded suspiciously like “sunshine smells good” — and tightened your hold around her waist.

Your daughter clutched the phone to her chest, proud.

“Rina-unnie’s my mom now for real,” she whispered.

And with that, she padded toward the couch, mission complete.

Thirty Minutes Later

You woke up slowly.

Warmth. Soft skin beneath your hand. The smell of coconut shampoo and sleep.

You blinked.

And realized you were very much holding Karina like she was yours.

Your breath caught.

You started to pull away—until she shifted, murmured, and leaned into you without opening her eyes.

“Five more minutes…”

You froze.

And stayed.

Until—

“GOOD MORNING, DAD and RI- no! MOM!”

Your daughter stood at the foot of the bed with the smuggest look in toddler history, waving your phone in the air.

“I have PICTURES.”

Karina’s eyes flew open.

You groaned.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. And I did.”

She opened the gallery and turned the phone.

The photo: you, absolutely out cold, holding Karina like she was your entire world.

Karina, asleep, peaceful, beautiful, your hands gently wrapped in each other.

And you both?

Smiling.

Even in your dreams.

Karina blinked at the screen. Then looked at you.

“Well,” she said, cheeks pink, voice still hoarse from sleep. “Guess it’s official.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“We’re doomed.”

Your daughter cheered.

“NOW KISS!

“CMERE!” you said.

Karina chuckled but she followed joining the fun.

And that’s when you realized that, it’s these little moments you wouldn’t trade for the world.

#spotify #kpop #aespa #aespa x reader #aespa karina #karina #karina x reader #yu jimin x reader #karina fluff #aespa lockscreens #Male Reader #Karina X Male Reader #Spotify

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pankowcrumbs · 2 months ago

Text

Cold War X Eddie Munson

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

There are a few things in life that are constant: Hawkins will always be cursed, Steve Harrington will never stop running his hands through his hair like he's in a shampoo ad, and Eddie Munson will always find a way to piss me off within five minutes of entering a room.

Today was no exception.

We were all sprawled out at the Harrington house Steve had once again volunteered his painfully suburban living room for a movie night that quickly devolved into chaos. Nancy was perched next to him, her legs tucked under her. Robin had claimed the armchair and was currently nursing a Capri Sun with the intensity of a war general. And Eddie Munson local menace, self-proclaimed rock god, and my personal migraine was lounging across the carpet like he owned the place.

I was on the floor too, cross-legged with a bowl of popcorn that Eddie had already reached into twice without asking.

“Do you ever wash your hands?” I asked, slapping his wrist away the third time.

He grinned, a mouthful of popcorn crunching loudly. “Only when I need to impress someone.”

“So... never then.”

Nancy snorted. Robin muttered something about needing a bucket of bleach. Steve looked vaguely horrified.

“That’s funny,” Eddie said, licking salt from his fingers like a cretin, “coming from someone who dips their fries in ketchup and mayonnaise mixed together.”

I turned slowly. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Satan.”

“You’re calling me Satan when you wear fingerless gloves in July?”

“Oh, here we go,” he muttered dramatically, throwing himself backwards onto the rug like a fainting Victorian lady. “Another attack from the Queen of Condescension.”

“Better than being the King of the Unwashed.”

Robin let out a loud “ohh!” as if she were on a playground.

Eddie sat up on his elbows and smirked at me like he was enjoying this which, to be fair, he probably was. Our friendship, if you could even call it that, was less “friendly” and more “a never-ending Cold War with occasional snacks.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice maddeningly calm, “you spend an awful lot of time looking at me for someone who claims to hate me.”

I laughed. Loudly. “Please, don’t flatter yourself. I’m looking past you. At the wall. Which is arguably more interesting.”

“The wall doesn’t bite back though,” he said with a wink.

Steve groaned. “Please stop flirting.”

“Who’s flirting?” I asked, offended.

“You are,” Robin said, sipping her drink. “It’s like watching two cats hiss at each other while holding hands.”

I scoffed. “We’re not holding hands.”

“Metaphorically, you are,” Nancy said kindly, as if she were explaining basic grammar to a child.

Eddie gave a smug little shrug. “Metaphorical or not, I’m still winning.”

“In what universe?”

He leaned forward, elbow on knee, eyes locked with mine. “This one. You’ve been playing games for months, sweetheart, but it’s a white flag, and you might as well start waving it right now.”

The room went still.

Robin let out a low whistle. Steve looked like he might actually slide under the sofa to escape the tension.

I raised my eyebrows slowly. “Oh, honey,” I said sweetly. “The only thing I’ll be waving is your decapitated head in front of your weeping uncle.”

Robin choked on her Capri Sun.

“Good Lord,” she muttered, dabbing at her shirt with a napkin.

Nancy was laughing. Steve had his hands over his face like he was trying to block out the visual.

Eddie, to his credit, looked equal parts horrified and impressed. “Bit dark,” he said, voice quieter.

I grinned. “What can I say? You bring out the poet in me.”

There was a beat. A charged, electric moment where we just looked at each other; Me, arms crossed and daring him to say something else, and him, clearly considering his options and wisely choosing silence.

Robin broke it first.

“I swear, if you two don’t kiss by the end of the month, I’m locking you in a cupboard like it’s some kind of cursed Narnia.”

Nancy nodded. “Honestly, I’ll help.”

Steve pointed at me. “You’re both just so loud about your feelings.”

“I don’t have feelings for him!” I snapped.

Eddie raised a brow. “You don’t?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Great! Me neither!”

“Perfect!”

“Fantastic!”

“Why are we yelling?” Steve asked helplessly.

It wasn’t always like this. I mean, yes, Eddie and I had always been… a lot. But it started as mutual annoyance. He was loud, obnoxious, always turning every conversation into a bit, like he couldn’t stand silence. I liked quiet. I liked order. I didn’t like him swaggering into our group like some rock ‘n’ roll tornado and rearranging all the furniture in my mental house.

And yet.

There was that one time we got paired for trivia night at the Hideout. Everyone had low expectations and fair enough, considering Eddie started the game by insisting our team name should be Satan’s Interns. But we’d won. By a lot. And somewhere between bickering about horror films and stealing chips from him, we’d laughed. Genuinely. A lot.

Another time, he’d found me crying behind the arcade after a fight with my mum. No sarcasm, no teasing he’d just sat beside me, quiet for once, and handed me a slightly crumpled sweet from his coat pocket. Told me his uncle always said sugar helped. It hadn’t. But the thought had.

Of course, the next day he was back to calling me “Princess Judgey” and throwing popcorn at my head during movie night.

It was infuriating. It was him.

Back in the present, everyone eventually drifted back into the film. Robin changed the subject. Steve passed around sweets. Nancy asked something about final exams.

But I could feel him watching me.

Eventually, I turned.

“What?”

Eddie was leaning against the side of the couch, head tilted. “You always this quick with threats, or am I special?”

“Definitely not special.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You ever thought about why you hate me so much?”

“Yes. Frequently. I keep a list.”

“I bet you do.”

I looked at him then. Properly. His curls were half-tied back, the rest framing his face like a chaotic halo. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, rings glinting as he fiddled with a stray string from the rug.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Then why do you always act like such an arse?”

He grinned. “Because you rise to it every time. It’s fun.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Says the man who stage-dived off a table during karaoke.”

“I was moved by the spirit of Freddie Mercury.”

I smiled in spite of myself.

He leaned in, just slightly. “You know,” he said, voice low, “it wouldn’t kill us to get along.”

“I’m not sure we’re built for it.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I reckon we could try.”

Our eyes met again. And for a second, the teasing faded. The smirks softened.

Then Robin threw a cushion at our heads.

“Oh my God, will you two just admit you fancy each other already?” she cried.

Nancy giggled. Steve let out a long, suffering groan.

Eddie didn’t move. Just looked at me, grinning. “Well? Do you?”

I lifted my chin. “Not even a little.”

He smirked. “Liar.”

Maybe I was.

Maybe he was too.

But whatever this was whatever we were it was messy, and stupid, and loud.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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orchidsarchives · 1 year ago

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More soft Jason ideas since you deserve it and your wonderful and supper cool Girldad!Jason BRRROOOOOOO Oh my goddddddd ok like- - Jason is the kind of dad who always has music playing in the house, he mindlessly sways and hums along as he makes morning (or night-time) pancakes for you and his little girl. She'll come running up to him, her thick black hair tangled over her face, and pull on his pant leg. He'll sweep her up into his arms, her small head fitting perfectly against his chest as she watches him make breakfast, still somewhat asleep and aloof. He'll start bopping along to the music with her little hands around his neck, filling up the kitchen with shrieks of laughter and he peppers her soft cheeks with kisses. - I feel like you and him would like in a beach house, somewhere away from the city and his old job as Red Hood. Your daughter would bring home buckets of pretty rocks and sea glass that Jason keeps in jars along the living room windowsills. He has to dump some back onto the shore every time he sees her washing the new rocks and shells on the front porch. - After long summer days of playing and wrestling in the waves, you would all curl up for a post-beach nap. Smelling like salt with the prick of the sun settling into your tired bones. Your daughter would fit perfectly between you two. Jasons hand behind his head with his other wrapped firmly around you and his little girl. - Get's his daughter obsessed with reading just as much as he is. Would build her book-shelf after book-self as her collection of story-books and middle grade fairy books expands. - Helps his daughter roast marsh mellows during the beach bonfires you guys have when Roy and his daughter visit. Your daughter and Lian are best friends- playdates once a week kind of thing. - When she's little, he'll always have his daughter on his knee during big family dinners. He let's her eat anything off of his plate, keeping his arm around her as he talks with Dick. - Overall, just- every-time he falls asleep next to you he feels like crying into your shoulder, unable to thank you enough for bringing such a precious perfect bundle of laughter into his life. Huge 'my wife showed me how to love and my daughter showed me how to forgive energy lmao.

I want night time pancakes with Jason and my little baby girl wtf!!! Also, thank you so much for sending this in. I love it and I literally fail to understand how you pull up with the most amazing scenarios every time, I’m actually in love with your writing!! You’re amazing! Anyways lol!! I’m gonna be honest, I don’t want to have biological children but for Jason… I’d do it, no hesitation. He’d be the most amazing girl dad, I love him so so so much.

I’m not sure if people have already said this before but can you imagine him learning how to do your daughter’s hair!! He has a YouTube hair tutorial playing on the TV as your daughter sits in between his legs. He’s got bobby pins in between his teeth and hair ties around his wrist. He’s using a small comb to gently brush through her little curls.

He’s learning how to braid her hair and he’s having some difficulty, but he’s a persistent man, and like he always tells his little girl, practice makes perfect! He will sit there for days, hours upon hours, trying to make the most flawless set of Dutch braids. Once he’s succeeded at his craft, he’ll admire his work and will tell his daughter to go show you his skills. And oh my goodness, how adorable does she look showing off her father’s braiding skills!!

I also saw a quote on Instagram earlier today and it said that “tenderness is in the hands” and I immediately thought of Jason. There is no one with gentler hands than Jason. His fingers may be rough and his knuckles might be permanently bruised from his past, but when he interlocks his hands with his baby girl, they are the most delicate and warmest hands she has ever felt.

He will run his fingers through her hair, as she lays her tiny head against his chest and he’ll read her favourite stories. She’ll take his hands out of her hair and just play with his fingers. Trace little shapes on his palm, measure her small hand against his big, calloused ones. It’ll melt Jason’s heart and he’ll feel like crying. There will be days where he needs to stop reading and take a minute to appreciate the tenderness of the moment, without completely crumbling.

Also, I kind of hate to say it, but it’s so true. Jason would totally try to heal his daddy issues by being the best possible parent.

He’d treat his daughter like an actual princess and not just in terms of materialistic things. He’d be there for her in every circumstance; he’d be the best moral support and the best cheerleader anyone could ask for.

If your daughter plays any sports or plays an instrument, any thing really, he’d always be there to encourage her and comfort her when it started to become tough. He’d attended every game, every practice, every performance. Like I said, the best cheerleader.

Basically long story short, I’d die for soft, girl dad Jason.

#fem!reader #jason todd #red hood #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd headcanon #red hood headcanon #batfam

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bluesidez · 9 months ago

Text

Gym Rat Miguel Part 14

content warning: mentions of vomit/vomit related terms, more angst

word count: 3.4k (shoutout to the BETAAAA @slushycoookie)

Prev | Next ✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮ Masterlist

It was cold.

So cold.

The last thing he remembers was the prickles of the concrete through his pants.

Everything kept replaying in his head as if he were watching it unfold before him again. He still felt the way you pushed him, parts of his body flashing from where you shoved. The expression on your face was scorned and burned into his memory. The corners of your lips were deep, your eyes lost all color, your hands were trembling despite the steady tone in your voice, and you fought to keep the tears from running. It pained him.

He hurt you again and it was all a misunderstanding, again.

How was he so bad at this?

Miguel felt scared as he failed in opening up his constricted throat, but he couldn't stop it.

He kept thinking that maybe you would come back, maybe you were just around the corner waiting, but it feels like it’s been forever since you ran out of his room.

He needs to call you.

He needs to see you.

He needs to be near you.

Why can’t he?

“Miguel.”

A harsh hand shocks his shoulders, shaking him until the pivots and brick of the wall behind him scratch across his skin.

“Hey. Listen to me. Can you hear me?”

A frantic voice reaches the end of his ears, but it sounds far away. Was it his name? Were they talking to him?

It’s still so cold. His feet feel numb and his fingers won’t move.

The voice stops calling him and the hills in the wall are back in their rightful place, digging into his skin.

He wonders if you’re cold too.

The breath is knocked out of him, his eyes focusing on the ground under him. The air comes back into his lungs just as fast, the wind aiding him.

When did it start raining?

“Miguel,” he’s shaken again, but he can look up this time.

Peter squats in front of him with a worried face, orange bucket knocked over by his side.

“Did you just pour that on me?” is all Miguel thinks to say, his voice scratchy and almost gone.

“I panicked, ok? It was either this or the ambulance. It’s so weird to just drag your body back inside. Come on, get up before our RA actually does his job.”

With more strength than Miguel thought he had, Peter yanks him up and supports his weight, counting even steps as he guides him to their dorm room. The blood is slowly flowing back to his fingertips and the difference in temperature makes the hair on his skin rise.

One guy walks past the two of them with a look of curiosity, but the sense to not ask. Miguel starts to register how this looks.

Peter gets the door open fast and drops Miguel on a beanbag.

“You know, I didn’t expect for your party to turn out this wild. However, I also would have expected you to crash out back here. Or there. Or just, not in front of the dorm.”

Miguel’s body slumped and the events of today came crashing back onto him. He laughs, feeling the tears of his face mix with the water dripping from his hair.

He did have a party today and he did fuck up today. Majorly. The heels of his palms dig into his eyes as his body jerks, unable to keep up with his sobbing.

His roommate panics, “Did I say something wrong?”

Through what feels like a torturous hour, Miguel tells Peter what happens.

He was devastated.

It’s like a punch in the gut to repeat the words you said to him. They were like a betrayal, salt to the wound that was the finicky air between you both. He should have done more to communicate with you but instead he was leaving things up for chance.

You didn’t leave room for if’s or maybe’s and he stood there like a bumbling idiot, fighting to have you hear him.

On top of that, today was still his birthday. The party that one of his oldest friends gave to him sucked. A pack of gum would have been a better gift and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why Xina did this.

Through this same hour, Miguel can’t stop crying. He can’t stop thinking about you and he wants to tear his heart out.

It’s not until his head hits his pillow that he has serenity, body tired from the day.

He thinks he’s called your number over seventy times. After the tenth call, the line didn’t connect. By the twentieth, there was only one ring and an automated tone.

By the thirtieth call, he’s trying not to freak out. By the fortieth call, he’s checking instagram to reach you there, but of course, you’re nowhere to be found.

By the fiftieth call, he’s sending message after message to the brick wall that is your number. At sixty, he’s considering digging up your school email from last year.

At call seventy-one, he’s wondering if carrier pigeons still exist.

It’s almost noon and Peter threatened to put his phone in a box if he didn’t stop trying to call you. Miguel hasn’t really moved since last night, not because it hurts, but because the warmth of the bed still felt like you were with him.

He hasn’t gotten up to eat or workout which is not the norm. He wasn’t hungry and his limbs felt extremely heavy.

Peter left to go find him something quick and easy, but Miguel isn’t sure if would be able to stomach it.

His phone buzzes, and a small part of him perks up hoping that it’s you.

Gabriel’s picture lights up the screen, a silly photo of him with his crooked goggles on inside of the water. The hope in him dies a little more.

He presses the green button and buries himself further into the sheets.

“What is up! I’m guessing you had a wild night last night since you didn’t call anybody.”

“I-“

“But before you tell me everything, I’ve got to catch you up. First of all, a squirrel stole my Aki-way sandwich. I knew Alvin and his brothers were giving their species a run for their money, but what did he say fuck me for? Then, it’s been a freaky ass club trying to get me to join in on their sexcapades. Dana said I could have eye candy, but the people in there honestly give me the heebie jeebies. Oh! I am now a godfather to several tiny doodles. My roommate’s dog unfortunately went on the prowl.”

Gabriel paused.

“Miguel, what’s wrong? You haven’t given your obligatory one to two sentences to break up my yapping.”

“Break up.”

“What?”

“She. She broke up with me.”

The silence was so long that when Gabriel started laughing, Miguel’s nerves jumped in his skin.

“That is actually so funny, like seriously. You got me,” Gabriel focuses the blurry screen back onto his face. “Are you crying?”

Miguel dropped the phone on his bed and sat up, bringing the collar over his shirt over his eyes and back down.

“Miguel, I thought you were joking. Please tell me you’re joking. This isn’t haha funny.”

“Why would I ever joke about this?” Miguel picked the phone back up, voice raw.

“Well, what happened? I don’t understand! You were so excited to see her yesterday. And- and you guys just had your anniversary.”

“I know that. God, I-I know that.”

“And I’ve never seen you this head-over-heels for anybody, not even for that girl that entertained you for like a week in high school. Did you do something?”

“Gabriel, please let me talk.”

His brother made a face as if milliseconds were too long of a time to think.

“This semester has been tough on both of us and we, no I, haven’t been making time to see her. It’s either studying or class or something else that gets in the way.”

“That’s not enough to warrant a break up. You’re not that shallow and neither is she.”

“She thinks I cheated on her.”

Gabriel sits up and tilts his head with a frown, “Huge bomb to drop out of nowhere. She’s all you can talk about sometimes, as in you can’t think about anything else besides her. And if school is causing you guys to not meet up, when do you have time to cheat?”

“I don’t! Even if I were to be in an alternate world where I’m this sleazy, terrible boyfriend, I wouldn’t have time. I go to the gym, I go to class, I go to the library, I go to my dorm. It’s because Xina is always-“

“Pause,” Gabriel put a hand to the screen. “Stop the fucking music.”

“What.”

“What do you mean Xina?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?”

“Xina. As in the one who kicked me out of your room when we were younger?”

“Yes.”

“As in the one who didn’t give you the time of day for years, but became friendly once you beat her highest test scores.”

“Yes.”

“As in the one who completely flipped the dynamic of your friend group.”

“That’s-“ Miguel falters, but Gabriel keeps going.

“The one who was at our house constantly, especially when she found out that your dad owns the biggest tech company ever.”

“She didn’t-“

“The one who mom conveniently likes.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“The one who’s been pining after you for years.”

“No, she has not. Why do people keep saying that?”

Gabriel barked out a laugh again, harsh. “Miguel, I love you, but you can’t be this much of a dumbass.”

Miguel clicked his teeth as Gabriel continued, over this conversation.

“Do you see the connection I’m making here? Or should I spell it out further. Because it’s so clear to me what’s happening and you don’t even have to finish the story.”

“The story is that my girlfriend just dumped me because she thinks that I’m cheating on her with Xina-“

“But why, Miguel? Why does she think that?”

“I,” he takes a breath and thinks back to what you told him while you were hurt, vulnerable on this same bed. “I have been spending a lot of time with her, but only because we share classes. And because she’s my friend. I don’t want to be with her.”

“Does Xina know that?”

“Of course she knows she’s my friend. I have no reason to not be her friend.”

Gabriel made a noncommittal noise.

“What the fuck does that mean, Gabriel?”

“Don’t get pissed off at me because I’m not gonna coddle you for being an idiot.”

Miguel wanted to end the call, but he knows it’s only going to rile Gabriel up more.

“It’s so blatantly obvious that Xina likes you. Not as a friend, but as someone to date, whether it’s superficial or not. I’m not sure how you went so long without noticing, but here we are. Every time you’re with her, you entertain her, and now that you have, shit, had a girlfriend, she’s realizing that it’s too late.”

The knot that was lodged in his throat earlier was unfurling. Maybe it’ll finally come up, but he’s not sure as what yet.

“I made it clear that I,” the words get gargled in and thrown back out, “had a a girlfriend. And even when I didn’t have one, Xina never gave me exact words-”

“Oh my god, Miguel. She didn’t have to! You’re friendly, you’re considerate, you’re caring, and she’s used that to her advantage. Please, open your eyes.”

It’s not that he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to believe that someone he knew for this long would hurt him in this way.

“She was with me every chance she got. In classes or studying or going to the gym or just relaxing.” Purposefully taking his time.

“Out of everyone I introduced her to, she was only weird to my girlfriend.” When she wasn’t the center of his attention.

“She took my phone-”

“Crazy work, by the way. The phone and the weirdness.” Gabriel chimed in.

“-to silence my notifications, to block my girlfriend’s number. And I didn’t realize it, because I trusted her.”

“And that makes a lot more sense,” Gabriel laid down in his bed, face as stern as his mom’s. “Glad we got here. So what are you going to do now?”

He didn’t even mention what Andrew told him, about how he mistook his friend for something more. Is that how others saw them when they were walking around campus too?

Is this how you felt when you saw his phone?

Miguel sat up and hung his legs over the bed, “I want to puke.”

“Hold it in, big boy. This isn’t a marathon.”

“It feels like it.”

Miguel snatched his phone and went to the bathroom, stomach rolling like converse in a dryer.

“You need to find a way to talk to everyone, especially your girl. You need to explain yourself and the situation,” Gabriel’s voice echoed off the tiles. “You’re good at talking, no matter how long it takes you to realize things.”

He chuckled listening to his brother, sliding to floor. The room was hot and saliva was building on his tongue.

“I don’t think she wants to see me.”

“Maybe give it a week? Try the middle of the week if you can’t wait that long.”

He doesn’t know how he can reach you besides showing up outside of your door or your class. Isn’t that creepy?

Maybe he can catch you in the cafe.

“Gabri?”

“Yeah, Mig?”

The noise from his throat enters the air before his words do. All he sees is the white of the toilet and the fuzzy brown of the hamburger bath mat Peter insisted on buying.

“I didn’t think you were serious!” Gabriel shouts over his gagging.

Nothing was even coming up, just bile and the buildup of his feelings since yesterday.

“I’m turning you down,” Miguel can feel Gabriel grimacing without even looking at him. “You’re really lovesick. What are you going to do when you guys get married?”

His stomach lurched again.

“Will I even make it that far?” An image of you at the alter flashed by, and when he lifts the veil, the look on your eyes as you stood in this bathroom is painted on your face.

You might leave him at the alter. Forget the alter, you might not ever look at him again.

He coughed and heaved over the bowl.

“I hope you don’t do this when you actually talk to her, Miguel.”

“Shut. Up.”

In the brightly lit bathroom laid out on the floor is how Peter found him. By this point, Gabriel was practicing his instrument under the guise of calming Miguel down.

He leans over him with his hands on his hips, “Don’t tell me you got into my Twisted Teas without me.”

Gabriel paused his music to let out a sharp laugh.

“No,” Miguel groaned and put an arm over his head.

“He’s been crashing out for the past forty, almost fifty, minutes,” Gabriel says. “But now that you’re here, I’m gonna clock out. Let me know what you decide to do Miguel.”

Peter holds a bag up and smiles, “How does some warm, yummy potato soup sound?”

Miguel bolts up and gags.

“Not a fan favorite, I see.”

By Sunday, he’s able to get up with heavy eyes do some light walking around the park, the autumn sun a nice change of scenery.

He wonders how you’re faring.

A part of him hopes you’re not like him: sick, exhausted, and aimless. Another part of him, as crazy as it is, wishes for you to yearn for him as much as he’s yearning for you, to feel what he’s feeling, to care as much as he does.

He’s seeing you everywhere.

In the leftover box of cookies left on his desk, he thinks about how much time you could have spent on writing the messages.

In the figure of you both showcasing a night where you looked at him an aura of comfort.

In the brown bear keychain on his backpack that mocks him.

In the stickers on water bottle that he picks at while he walks.

In the lockscreen of you that he took of you as you were laid under him. You were in his hoodie, under his blanket, and staring up at him like he was giving you the world.

Perhaps he hit his head somewhere between Friday to today.

His throat is still throbbing from the crying, from running out after you in the chilled night without his keycard, but his head is clearer.

Now, he’s ready to think about how to approach you.

By Tuesday, everything seems to be blurring together. The only thing that has stayed consistent is the gym.

The gym gives him peace in a way that the right corner of his dorm doesn’t. It doesn’t change, only giving to him what he gives to it.

Maybe that’s what happened with you and him. You’re only giving him the pain that he gave to you.

He doesn’t want to go to class, but he can’t afford to not go.

So he drags himself to the computer lab.

Sitting down, he tries to think about what he wants to say, rolling the words over in his head.

“Miguel!”

Irritated is the first feeling that sits within him and the smell of that nutty sweet vanilla wasn’t helping.

“Dude? All of a sudden you don’t answer your phone?”

“You would know a lot about that, huh?”

Xina laughs and shakes the mouse at her computer, “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t have the patience for you to act like everything is ok.”

“I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about. Did you do some extra partying without me?”

“Xina,” Miguel turned to her, eyes tired. She was wearing another bright set today and the words that Gabriel, Tempest, Lyla, and Winston were telling him echoed through his mind. “What was the point of the ‘party’ you threw for me?”

“You’re upset over that? A simple college party?”

“That’s not what that was. You didn’t throw that for me. So please tell me why you’ve gone so far as to push my girlfriend away?”

“What?” Xina’s face switched like a light. “You must be joking.”

“Xina, I know you went in my phone and blocked her number. Why did you that?”

He’s giving her the floor to answer. To tell the truth.

“Of course this is about her. I, I just can’t”

“You-you can’t what, Xina?” the pitch of his words match her, head shaking incredulously.

“I can’t believe one girl is about to ruin an almost two-decade friendship because she can’t stand the fact that you have friends that are also girls.”

“You’re not serious.”

“No, you,” she points a nail at him, “are not serious. This is so fucked.”

“What’s fucked is that you’re avoiding my question, when all signs lead back to you.”

She stares at him, lips tight, “And you’re sure of it.”

“Who else would it be?” he motions to the space around him, “We’ve been tied at the hip this entire semester.”

“So this is seriously happening. Right here. Of all places.”

“You don’t get it, Xina. All of these years, I was the one who defended you. When everyone told me to leave you alone, I stayed by your side because I knew the real you. This,” he moves his hands up and down, “is not you.”

The face that Xina wears sours. For a second, Miguel wonders if, even in this situation, he was still wrong.

“So why aren’t you fighting for me anymore?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Miguel-”

“I’m not going to fight for someone who is willing to hurt me in this way. I’m not fighting for someone who won’t even give me the truth when I’m begging for it.”

She pats at her cheeks, a useless action to stop the tears that start to hit her sweater. Her eyes find Miguel’s and she searches for something, anything, but his face is still.

“Understood.”

Just as quickly as she came in, she left.

Once again, Miguel was left questioning what he did.

divider by: cafekitsune + adornedwithlight + strangergraphics 🩵

taglist: @ghost-lantern @miguelhugger2099 @emelie-s-h @lake-lili

@obsessed-with-miguels-ass @scaleniusrm @superiorspiderass @lexluvswriting

@flordelalunas @froggygal @vmpz8sauceee @famouscattale @nixinluv02

@jada-of-arcadia @spideykid22 @what-the-jams @julia4today @tojishugetiddies

@samjinxx @sleeklyalisha @the-pan-liquid @prongs-lover @kikaaauu

@urlocallocachica @wanderlustingcastaway @peachey-pie @ch3rry-bl1ss @girl-of-multi-fandoms

@love-kha1 @manlikemilesmyguy @sillysillygoofygoose @monticellohoe @kodzuminx

@lauraolar14 @bruhhvv @m4dyy @farrowroyale @cl3stevu

@ohara-whore @muneca-lemon-steppa @alexa4040 @amelialysm @snails-doodles22

@questionable-behaviour @babygotl01292003 @calig0sto @tatatida @haveclayeveryday

@corpsenightmarebride @earth2fae @maiyart @feegrh32 @darkstarlight82

@ladysimp @sonicbutbutter @relatednative @slowlyshycomputer @nuetralcolorsenthusiast

@maxlinpetersen @beyondstarlight @Madeofstar-dust @leoeloo @just-simpins-blog

@poisamm @thequeenreaders @tinybirdhidedout @aly29a2001 @mimi-sanisanidiot

@snakelore @pigeonmama @darkstalight82 @prettygirleli @koikohib

@jayskookies @xo-zeze @planetxella @thedevax @stressed-cherry

275 notes · View notes

boopiemadz · 10 days ago

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popular reader x loser Travis going to the beach but like she’s insecure and he’s all like” but why your so pretty babe “ and stuff and kids on the beach and it’s all cute . (I’ve been reading wayyyyy to much angst) also I’m loving this series

!Populargirl X !LoserTravis

"You taste like cherry and sea-salt." (blurb)

(collection masterlist)

You’d half-suggested going to the beach while tangled together on his bed the night before.“If it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” you said, soft, cheek against his shoulder, “we should go to the beach. Like, the one with the little snack shack and no one from school.”

Travis hummed, running his fingers through your hair.

“Yeah?” he said. “I’ll bring snacks.”

“You better bring a Slurpee.”

“Red or blue?”

“Blue,” you said instinctively. “Always blue.”

You assumed he’d forget.

But the next day, he picked you up right on time. The car seats were sticky with the summer heat, you had saved a spot on the shore as he headed to the snack shack. A few minutes later you see him walking toward you, holding two oversized, half-melting Slurpees. One red, one blue.

You blink. “You remembered?”

He shrugs, passing you the blue one. “Felt like if I didn’t, I’d get dumped.”

You grin. “You’re not wrong.”

The beach is quiet. It’s the kind of place that’s always been too boring for tourists but perfect for people who like things a little bit slower. But to you, today, it feels like magic.

You wear the lilac bikini - the one with the small bows at your hips and the U-shaped top that always makes you feel almost confident, until the moment someone might actually see you in it. You haven’t taken your cover-up off yet, waiting for the right moment.

Travis lays the towel down, squinting toward the water.

“Wanna sit close to the waves?” he asks.

“I’ll burn.”

He glances at you, then down at your legs.

“You just put sunscreen on. You practically emptied the whole bottle.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, but you don’t move or take off the shirt. Not yet. Your blue Slurpee cold in your hand, trying to hide how your heart is already racing.

About twenty minutes in, you’re still sipping slowly, eyes on the horizon, when a tiny voice interrupts the quiet.

“Excuse me!”

You both turn.

A little girl, maybe five, stands in the sand in front of you with a crooked ponytail and the tiniest pair of pink sunglasses you’ve ever seen. She’s holding a bucket upside down and pouting fiercely.

“My castle fell over.”

Travis blinks. “It did?”

She nods solemnly. “The tide ate it.”

He leans forward like it’s serious. “Well, that’s not very fair.”

“I worked on it for like ten minutes.”

“That’s at least twenty in beach minutes,” Travis says.

You watch, stunned, as he stands and kneels in the sand beside her.

“I’m Travis. This is…” he looks back at you. “My girlfriend.”

Your heart does something weird at that. Girlfriend. Said so simply.

The girl narrows her eyes. “I’m Ava.”

Travis gestures toward the ground. “Want help building a better one? I know how to make a moat.”

She giggles. “Okay!”

You sit back on your elbows and sip your Slurpee, watching them - your boy and some stranger’s little sister, laughing over wet sand and soggy seaweed crowns like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You feel it then, low and real in your ribs: the kind of love that doesn’t demand attention. That just is.

Later, when Ava runs back to her mom with a bucket full of sea foam and a story about how Travis saved her fairy kingdom, he plops back down beside you, chest rising and falling, hands covered in sand.

“She offered to knight me,” he says.

You hand him the red Slurpee. “I think you earned it.”

He takes a long sip and leans back, grinning. “You gonna take that shirt off, or…?”

You stiffen.

His smile drops immediately. “No pressure. Just - it’s hot. And you keep tugging at the sleeves.”

You pause. Stare out at the water.

Then: “I just… I don’t know. I thought I’d feel okay in it. At home, I liked how it looked. But now I’m here and I feel like everyone’s staring.”

“They’re not,” he says, gentle and certain. “And even if they were, they’d be thinking who is that goddess and how did that loser pull her?”

You glance over at him.

“Goddess?”

He grins. “Sea goddess. Salty and beautiful and terrifying.”

You snort, but you tug the shirt off anyway, slow. You keep your eyes on the horizon.

When you finally look at him, he’s just… staring.

“What?”

He swallows. “Nothing. You just look like... beautiful, or well- gorgeous.”

Your face floods with heat. “You’re so cheesy.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

You’re lying on your backs on the too-small towel, your heads close, your Slurpees nearly empty. The sky’s gone pastel. There’s music faintly playing from someone’s radio down the beach, and your leg is pressed against his like a question.

“Your mouth’s blue,” he murmurs.

You look at him. His mouth? Cherry red.

You grin. “Yours is so red.”

“Want me to fix that?”

You raise a brow. “What, like you want to kiss it away?” You say sarcastically.

“Exactly.”

You roll toward him. “You’re ridiculous.”

And then you kiss him.

It’s slow and a little sticky, tasting like ice and sun and artificial fruit. His hand finds your hip. You smile into his mouth. When you pull back, he stares.

“Your mouth,” he whispers.

You sit up and grab your compact mirror. One glance confirms it-purple. An uneven, vivid mess of blue and red mixed together.

“Oh my god,” you groan. “We look insane.”

Travis is giggling. Like, actually giggling.

You shove him back into the sand.

He pulls you down with him.

You leave the beach pink-cheeked and windswept, sand in your shoes and hair tangled from the salt.

He drives with the windows down, your hand resting on his leg, your lips still stained purple.

And when he glances at you at a red light - grinning, warm, sunburned - you realize something kind of terrifying:

You’re already falling. But this? This is the part where you fall deeper.

And maybe- you don’t want to stop.

A/N-

This was the CUTEST req EVER!! ty anon for this 😘😘 If you have anymore reqests PLS send them my way, I feed off these fr.

#yellowjackets #bleh #viral #yellowjackets fandom #travis martinez #fanfiction #travis martinez fanfic #travis martinez x reader #yj #travis #popular reader #x reader #travis martinez x you #travis martinez / you #inbox open for anything #inbox open #req!#amazing req #fluff

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cryoculus · 1 month ago

Text

— TRACK 05: INHERITANCE ⟢

a tropical island getaway in the middle of the tour is just the thing everyone needs, but work will always come before play. at least, that's what you keep telling yourself.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 6.8k words

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; i'm barely active on tumblr and it Shows LMAO T T so sorry, i spent most of my time on twt if you wanna chat!! also, i actually finished this entire series on ao3 very recently, and i was SOOOO EMOTIONAL AAJAHSDJSDF but i'm still going to gradually upload chapters here so no worries :3c

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

The tarmac shimmers in the heat as the plane touches down, wheels kissing the runway with a gentle thud. You blink against the sudden glare. The sun here is relentless, poured straight from a bottle of gold. Palm trees sway in the distance, lazy and unbothered. Even the wind seems drunk on salt and sunlight.

On the island of Lethe, everything smells like sea spray and sunscreen and something floral you can’t place. The airport buzzes with the usual traffic. Someone in a bucket hat is live-streaming on the arrivals ramp. Another is dancing barefoot to music leaking from their phone speakers.

You’re with the band, cutting through the buzz as a unit. Backpacks slung over shoulders, dark glasses pulled low. Someone across the terminal clocks your group, whispers something, lifts a phone.

Cipher smirks. Phainon rolls his eyes. Mydei just keeps walking.

The road to the Mnemosyne Music Fest winds along cliffside bluffs and past dense groves of olive trees. On the horizon, the sea glitters like it’s holding its breath. But several minutes later, the bass starts to reverberate. Softly at first, more a feeling than a sound, like thunder rolling beneath the ground. You lean your head to the window, watching the festival bloom from the island’s center like a mirage made of strobe lights and smoke.

By the time the shuttle pulls up to artist check-in, the bass has settled into your chest like a second heartbeat. You barely make it two steps off the shuttle before someone with a neatly-pressed suit and a headset materializes with the speed and grace of a professional chaos-wrangler.

“Flamechasers?” she asks, already checking her tablet. “Perfect. My name is Delia. Welcome to Lethe.”

Delia starts walking, and you all instinctively follow.

“Now, I know you’ve heard it already, but humor me, it's tradition. Lethe is an island built for forgetting. People come here to lose themselves—no clocks, no headlines, no consequences. But Mnemosyne is the exception,” she says, glancing back with a grin.

Then, Delia sweeps an arm toward the sprawling festival grounds ahead, where towers of scaffolding shimmer with silk, and sound bleeds like perfume into the sun.

“That’s the joke, right? Mnemosyne, from the ancient Lethean word for memory, is the one thing this island lets people keep.”

She turns to face you, her grin widening. “You’re here to be unforgettable. Let’s make sure of it.”

Once Delia has made sure you’re all settled comfortably in the hotel reserved exclusively for artists, the band drifts toward one of the outdoor lounges. The salty breeze ruffles papers and hair alike as you settle into plush chairs, the distant hum of festival prep buzzing beneath a lazy sun.

Phainon flips open the music festival brochure the front desk handed out, reading aloud with a touch of skepticism, “Three days of music, madness, and memories. Sounds almost too good to be true.”

“Three days of heatstroke and schedule slips, more like,” Aglaea mutters behind her sunglasses, already tapping furiously on her tablet.

Tribbios fans herself theatrically with a laminated itinerary. “Speak for yourself. I packed three outfit changes per day.”

Garmentmaker’s voice hums quietly, crisp and matter-of-fact. “Based on current environmental variables and historical festival data, probability of human overheating is approximately 87.3%. I’ve allocated a portion of my processing capacity to monitoring your collective risk of heatstroke. Please notify me before spontaneous combustion.”

Cipher lets out a bark of laughter. “See? This is why you’re my favorite glorified thermostat.”

“Flattery detected. Logging under ‘suspicious behavior.’”

Sometime later, you slip away from the lounge, claiming the heat’s making you dizzy. No one questions it, not with Cipher trying to stack drink umbrellas on Phainon’s head and Aglaea muttering war crimes into her tablet.

The path curls around a sun-drenched courtyard, quiet except for distant basslines and the soft rustle of palm fronds. You find a little pocket of shade under a trellis dripping with bougainvillea and sink onto a low wall, thumb already flicking your phone awake.

You scroll past missed emails, a dozen unread group chats, until you land on the one that matters.

Me: you weren’t kidding

Me: lethe is as unreal as people say it is

Hyacine: called it. what’s it like?? tell me everything.

Me: like someone turned up the saturation and forgot to turn it back down

Me: everything smells like limes and suncream

Me: we haven’t even played yet and i’m already overstimulated in three languages

Hyacine: you have NO IDEA how jealous i am btw

Hyacine: you get to go to mnemosyne for free

Hyacine: actually you get paid for it wtf

Me: cause that’s...my job???

Hyacine: btw, how are you?

Hyacine: my inbox has been suspiciously quiet since you guys played in carmitis

Hyacine: last time that happened was back in aidonia

Hyacine: and you already told me That story

You hesitate. The breeze tousles your hair, carrying the sharp tang of sea salt. You glance back toward the lounge, where you can just see Mydei’s silhouette through the open archway. He’s half-reclined, sunglasses perched like armor, listening the other members’ nonsense with his usual impossible calm.

Me: we’re okay? mostly?

Me: this isn’t another aidonia sitch don’t worry

Hyacine: but something happened, right?

Me: ...you can tell? through text??

Hyacine: i’m your best friend, of course i can

Hyacine: so are you gonna spill or do i have to pry the truth from your cold dead hands

Me: morbid

Me: but

Me: it’s mydei

Hyacine: 🙄🙄🙄

Hyacine: what did the big brooding blonde do this time

Me: not what he’s called

Me: but i don’t think i can stomach having to immortalize it in our text history

Me: you free for a call?

Hyacine: for gossip? ALWAYS

You slip back inside just long enough to grab your keycard and disappear down the corridor. Past the opulence and the endless designer sandals slapping against imported tile. The second you shut the door to your hotel room behind you, the world narrows.

Cool air, drawn curtains, the hush of ocean outside. You kick off your sandals. The carpet’s soft beneath your toes. Your phone’s already buzzing in your hand. You sink onto the couch, phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder, and for a moment, your breath catches. This couch is too similar. Or maybe it’s just you.

“Okay,” Hyacine’s voice crackles to life in your ear. “Talk. Now.”

You let out a quiet, stunned laugh. “Hi to you too.”

“No time for pleasantries. You dropped the it’s Mydei bomb and then asked for a call. That’s the equivalent of yanking a fire alarm.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, blinking up at the wide Lethean sky through the sliding doors of the balcony. The silence stretches.

“It wasn’t… anything, really. It was after the show in Carmitis. He came to my hotel room. Late at night.”

“Oh,” Hyacine says, voice low and alert. “That kind of late?”

You close your eyes. “There was wine. We were on the couch.”

The pause that follows makes you think of the gears turning in your best friend’s head, and when they finally do click, she says your name like a mother reprimanding her difficult teenager.

“Please tell me you at least used protection.”

Okay, you expected Hyacine to be surprised—maybe gasp, maybe tease you into oblivion—but you didn’t expect her to jump straight to scandal. The implication alone makes your face burn, shame rising hot in your chest like a swallowed sun.

“Hyacine, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, voice dipping, toes curling hard into the rug beneath you. “He said the others were being unbearable at the afterparty, so he just helped me work on that demo. The one I accidentally dropped in the cloud? Mydei hasn’t let me live that down since.”

“Late at night. With wine. In your hotel room. On a couch.”

You wince. Out loud, it sounds... awful. Incriminating in a way you didn’t account for.

“We didn’t—” You catch yourself, struggling for precision. “Nothing like that happened, okay? We might have been a little tipsy on that absurdly fancy pomegranate wine he brought. But we were working. Seriously. Believe it or not, the track actually sounds cleaner now than it did before he heard it.”

Hyacine exhales, not quite convinced. “But it’s not the song that’s got you all tangled up, is it?”

Leave it to Hyacine to go straight for the jugular.

You sigh. “You know how in some moments, it’s not a kiss, but it might as well have been?”

The memory tightens in your chest. It’s been days, and still the look in his eyes flashes back at the worst times. The glint of something more than just mere interest.

If things were different—if you weren’t you, and he wasn’t him—would you have leaned in? Would he have?

But wishing on hypotheticals doesn’t change the aftermath. It just leaves you aching over answers you’ll never be brave enough to chase.

Hyacine doesn’t say anything at first. You hear the faint rustle of her moving around, probably flopping back against her bed, earbuds crackling a little in your ear.

Then: “Okay, not to be that person, but... I’m gonna be that person.”

You brace for impact.

“He was an asshole to you at first, but people change, yes?” she starts with an infuriatingly chipper tone. “Mydei’s hot, he clearly respects your music, and he brought wine. If the universe handed you that moment on a velvet cushion, why didn’t you take it?”

You bite your lip. “Because it’s complicated.”

“In essence, all things are complicated,” she counters. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

You pull your knees up tighter to your chest, pressing your forehead against them for a second. The air in the room suddenly feels heavier, like the pressure’s changed.

“It’s not just that he’s in the band,” you say quietly. “It’s that we work together. We live out of the same tour bus, share the same stage. If something gets messy between us, it’s not just awkward, it could wreck the whole dynamic.”

You let the silence sit. Just for a beat.

“I know where I stand with them now. I’ve worked hard to be part of this. I can’t risk blurring the lines just because... he looked at me like that.”

“What if you don’t take that risk, and regret it anyway?” she asks gently.

You shut your eyes. Because you already do.

Hyacine doesn’t push—thank gods for that. The silence stretches, soft and companionable, like it always has between the two of you. You let your head rest back against the pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Somewhere below your window, the music festival continues its slow, decadent unfurling. Bass thudding like a distant pulse.

You think about the reporter.

The one who found you in Carmitis. The way his words had curved just a little too knowingly when he mentioned your name. That flicker in his eyes like he was connecting dots you didn’t even know were on the page. He hadn’t published anything. Maybe he won’t. Maybe it was just curiosity. But still, the memory leaves a cold smear down your spine.

You don’t tell Hyacine.

You want to, so badly, but the words wedge behind your ribs like splinters. She’d understand. She always has, but something about it makes the whole thing feel too real. As if saying it out loud would crack open a dam you’re not ready to deal with.

So instead, you say nothing. But you pick at the thread on your sleeve again, unraveling it loop by loop.

Maybe Hyacine hears the shift in your breath, or maybe she just knows you too well, because she speaks up gently. “You don’t have to decide anything right now, you know.”

You smile, small and grateful, even if she can’t see it.

“I know.”

The next time you all regroup, sunlight slants through the hotel’s breezy conference alcove, hitting floral shirts, mesh tops, and damp hair still drying from quick showers. Everyone’s changed and freshened up. Cipher’s traded her cargo pants for iridescent shorts, Castorice looks like a model in soft cream linen, and even Phainon’s sandals somehow make him look annoyingly editorial.

Aglaea is already standing at the head of the table, tablet in hand, expression sharp beneath wide sunglasses. Her hair’s up. Her patience, clearly, is not.

“Alright, listen up,” she begins, tapping the tablet with an acrylic nail. “Here’s the rundown for the next seventy-two hours. Don’t make me repeat this.”

A low ripple of amusement hums from the group.

Aglaea swipes once, then continues. “Day one—that’s today—you’re free until sundown. That means: no obligations. Use the time to explore, hydrate, and pretend you’re normal people. Tonight, however, there’s a private beach party for all artists on the lineup. Attendance is expected. You don’t have to mingle, but you do have to show face.”

“Do we have to swim?” Cipher asks. “Because I packed exactly zero waterproof mascaras.”

“Gods, no,” Aglaea replies. “But wear something stylish enough to get you photographed and breezy enough to run from said photographers.”

She taps again.

“Day two, that’s performance day. You’ve got one of the evening slots. Prime time. There’s a morning tech run if you need it, and I recommend it, even if you’re hungover. We want this smooth.”

Murmurs of acknowledgment rise. Garmentmaker makes a few whirring noises that you chalk up to them taking note, Castorice nods, Anaxa lets out a disinterested huff.

“Day three,” Aglaea concludes, “is another free day. You can all enjoy the festival as you see fit, but don't go off-grid. Keep your phones on in case we get a media request or photo op. Festival ends at midnight. We fly out next morning.”

She turns off the tablet with a brisk snap.

“Questions? Complaints? Attempts at rebellion?”

Silence.

Then: “Can we drink tonight?” Phainon grins.

Aglaea deadpans. “Just don’t die. Or embarrass the label. That goes for all of you.”

The moment she dismisses the meeting, the band fans out like schoolkids at the final bell.

“Three hours before sundown,” Tribbios calls after you all, already tugging her sunglasses into place. “Don’t make me track you all down in a city like this.”

Cipher doesn’t need to be told twice. She loops her arm through Anaxa’s and flashes a grin sharp enough to slice. “C’mon. Come be strange with me.”

Anaxa sighs in that long-suffering way only he can manage, but he doesn’t resist. Garmentmaker glides after them without a word, tablet spinning lazily beside them, every step as serene as it is otherworldly. Just like that, you’re left standing in a rare pocket of silence at the edge of the dispersing group.

Until—

“You coming?”

You glance up. Phainon’s already a few steps away, Castorice beside him, her blouse catching the breeze like something out of a magazine shoot. He’s looking over his shoulder at you, one hand casually tucked in his pocket.

“We were thinking of checking out the temple district,” he says. “Apparently one of the priests only speaks in riddles.”

You blink. “Wait, actual riddles?”

Castorice’s smile is easy, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “The cryptic, needlessly poetic kind. It’s a Lethe thing.”

You hesitate for half a breath, then shrug. “Yeah, alright. Why not.”

Lethe is absurd. Half its architecture is classical marble, half neon graffiti. You pass fortune-tellers beside frozen daiquiri stalls. Women in lamé bikinis lounge beside old men reading epics aloud on street corners. The air smells like citrus and incense and something archaic.

By the time you reach the temple, you’re sweating through your tank top, clutching a paper fan from a stall labeled Cooler Than Thou.

The temple itself is a hush of cool stone and shadows. The so-called riddle-priest waits on a raised dais, draped in a shawl of peacock feathers and wearing mirrored sunglasses that reflect the whole room back at you. Somehow, they radiate gravity and absurdity in equal measure.

Phainon volunteers first.

The priest inclines their head. “A path you seek, yet stand in place. What moves not, yet takes you far?”

Phainon pauses. “Memory?”

A slow smile. “Accepted.”

Castorice steps forward next.

“You have me now, though not before. A key to locks, a cost to more.”

She hums for only a moment. “Experience.”

“Accepted.”

Then it’s your turn.

You step forward, palms a little clammy on the fan’s cheap plastic handle, and the priest looks at you like they already know every answer you might give, and every question you haven’t admitted to yet.

“A bridge I build not, yet I cross. I linger only where you look.”

You freeze.

For the smallest sliver of time, you’re not in the temple at all. You’re back in the dim golden haze of the Carmitis hotel room. Mydei’s eyes are on you—amber catching low light, his hand hovering just barely over the curve of your knee. That pause between heartbeats. That sense of almost. Not a kiss, but close enough to burn like one.

Your breath catches.

“…A thought,” you murmur.

The priest bows low. “Accepted.”

Later, you find yourselves perched on temple steps, sipping neon drinks from hollowed-out lychees. The Lethe skyline glows faintly rose-gold in the distance. Phainon’s doodling something in the corner of a map. Castorice has her chin on her hand, watching the crowd drift past like tide foam.

You exhale. “Okay, that was weirdly existential for a daytime activity.”

“Mm.” Castorice hums. “That’s Lethe. The longer you’re here, the less you know if you’re dreaming or reminiscing.”

You don’t say it, but you feel it—that slippage between memory and moment. Between that hotel room in Carmitis and the faint touch of golden eyes across a wine-soaked haze.

Somewhere across the island, Cipher is probably bribing a street vendor for an authentic peacock feather fan. Anaxa’s likely watching with half-lidded boredom while Garmentmaker documents the chaos, snapping a photo every five steps. You like to imagine Tribbios and Aglaea are letting themselves have a little fun too before everything shifts back into gear tomorrow.

Mydei’s nowhere in sight.

For now.

The sun bleeds low over the horizon by the time you’re back at the hotel. Your skin smells like stone and sun, and your feet ache in that oddly satisfying way—proof you were alive somewhere interesting. The others filter in with various souvenirs: temple charms, mystery bruises, melting popsicles.

Right on schedule, the private beach party unspools beneath a sky rinsed in pink and lavender. String lights loop from palm to palm.

Everyone looks a little too good. Which is to say: perfectly Lethean.

You arrive with the others in staggered pairs and groups, dressed to match the heat. Somewhere down the shore, Cipher is doing cartwheels in the surf while Anaxa stands with his arms crossed like a chaperone from a gothic novel. Garmentmaker’s already dancing with a crew of avant-garde performance artists in strobe-lit body paint.

There are faces you recognize immediately. Chart-toppers, cult favorites, artists you used to stream at 2AM in your bedroom. Some you never thought you’d see in the wild. But the one who draws your eye most effortlessly is her.

Thalia.

Lethe’s hometown icon, synth-pop darling, and unapologetic glitterstorm in human form. She’s draped across a beach lounger like it’s her rightful throne—sunkissed legs crossed, rhinestone-framed sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a high braided ponytail flicking with every turn of her head. The kind of beautiful that looks staged even when it isn’t.

A handful of other artists orbit her, laughing too loud at stories you can’t hear. You spot three names from the festival roster among them, nodding along like she’s reading the stars.

The band begins to splinter off eventually, like light hitting a prism.

You sip something peach-colored and questionably alcoholic, drifting from group to group. The music is good, the ocean breeze better. Someone compliments your outfit; someone else tries to guess what band you’re in or if you’re an up-and-coming solo act. You don’t mind either. For a moment, it’s easy to just be—a body in motion, part of the pulse.

Then you feel it.

It starts as a flicker at the edge of your awareness, something quiet but undeniable, like gravity shifting beneath your feet.

You turn, and he’s just... there.

Mydei stands at the edge of the crowd like the universe pulled back a curtain just for him. His linen shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, ocean breeze catching the hem and fluttering it around his waist. But it’s the tattoos that strike you like a match.

They’re sprawling. Red ink, the shade of fresh embers, winding from his shoulder across the hard plane of his chest and down both arms. Ornamental and sharp-edged, they curl like flame and bloom like battle scars. You wonder, for one irrational heartbeat, if they burn when he’s angry.

Then there’s his face.

Hair windswept. Golden eyes locked on you like they’ve found the answer to something that’s evaded them for years. He’s not smiling, exactly, but there’s a pull at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t push through the crowd. Somehow, people part without realizing it, until he’s in front of you, close enough that your breath hitches.

“You looked like you were trying not to be found,” he says.

You laugh quietly. “Was I?”

He tilts his head. “If you were, you’re terrible at it.”

Gods, he’s beautiful up close.

“So,” you murmur, “are you checking in on me? Or did you just get bored?”

“No. I just got curious,” he says, gaze still locked to yours.

Before you can ask what that means, a new voice slices into the space between you.

“Oh hell, you two are even prettier up close.”

You blink, caught off guard. But when you turn to face who it is—

It’s Thalia.

The synth-pop goddess herself, holding a drink garnished with something bright and sugary. Her braid swings as she plants herself beside you, sunglasses pushed to her forehead and eyes full of something you can’t name.

You open your mouth, half a greeting, half a question, but she speaks first.

“I’m not trying to crash,” Thalia says, holding up her hands. “I was actually looking for Aglaea. We’ve worked together a few times. Strict, terrifying, brilliant? That one?”

“Uh,” you manage. “She’s probably inside.”

Thalia hums. “Of course she is. Anyway! The Flamechasers, huh? Didn’t know you were all so unreasonably hot in real life. I’m kind of a big fan.”

You laugh in disbelief. “Seriously?”

She grins, then taps her phone awake and flips it around. There, clear as day, is the last thing you ever expected to see.

Flamescapes.

Your old fan account.

The carefully captioned photos, the dissected lyrics, the theories that caught fire in the comments. The username you buried when you joined the band. It all rushes back like a storm surge, and your mind isn’t sufficiently barricaded.

Your lungs forget how to pull air, but Thalia beams like she’s just shared a fun little secret.

“I’ve had notifs on for years,” she says, all sparkle and sincerity. “Best account for anything Flamechasers. Whoever runs this? Genius. Like they see things no one else does.”

You feel something seize in your chest. Then twist. Then splinter. The background noise distorts, laughter smears into static. Thalia’s perfume turns cloying. The heat bears down harder as your fingers twitch at your sides, desperate for something to grip.

Beside you, Mydei lingers like a presence you just can’t filter out.

You don’t meet his gaze—you can’t—but you feel the air shift, the way it always does when he’s focused on you. As if he’s picked up on every frayed edge you’re trying to hide.

You force a smile. “Yeah,” you say, tight and paper-thin. “I’ve… heard of them.”

Thalia pouts. “I was supposed to go to the Okhema stop, but it sold out in five minutes. Five. Aglaea wouldn’t even pull some strings for me. Can you believe that?” She flicks her braid over her shoulder with a huff. “So when I heard you were playing for Mnemosyne? I was ecstatic. Plus, you’ve been making waves lately, haven’t you, Diana?”

You nod. You smile again. You lie with your eyes.

But Mydei sees the cracks.

He’s been still at your side this whole time, but now his gaze ticks toward you, calm but alert. He doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you without pressing, and in the pause between Thalia’s last word and your answer, he leans ever so slightly closer.

“Want to get some air?” he says, gently. A soft out, offered like a secret.

You blink, and it’s like the noise catches up all at once. “Just a sec,” you say, somehow managing a smile. “Sorry, I—one moment.”

Thalia barely notices, already caught in another conversation. “Sure, babe! I’ll be right here!”

And then you’re moving. Mydei walks beside you, not too close, not too far, cutting through the crowd with easy steps that people naturally make space for. He doesn’t touch your elbow or press a hand to your back. He just makes room. By the time you’ve stepped into the quieter curve of a colonnade, the shadows cool your skin. You pull in a breath that doesn’t catch halfway.

Still buzzing, still overheated, but much clearer.

He waits until the silence stretches comfortably, then glances at you.

“You looked like you needed an exit.”

You nod, exhale slowly. “Thanks.”

The quiet that follows is softer now. Quieter in your chest, too. The chaos feels like it’s behind a pane of glass. You lean a little against the cool stone behind you, letting the salt air thread through your hair. Then Mydei glances sideways, casual but with a thread of thought behind it.

“Do you want to go for a swim?”

“What, now?”

He shrugs. “It’s Lethe. Time doesn’t really apply here.”

You smile despite yourself. “The sea’s probably rough. High tide.”

“There’s a pool,” he offers, tone easy. “Mine’s private.”

You stare at him for a beat. “You got a suite with a private pool?”

“Guess they liked my face.”

You scoff, pretending to be betrayed. “So that’s where the budget went.”

“I’ll let you borrow it,” he says. “Limited-time offer.”

There’s a beat where you should laugh, or tease him back, but you just watch him. He’s not pushing, not even leaning in. Just offering, like he has been all night. Still, as you murmur, “Alright. Why not,” there’s a quiet twist in your stomach that doesn’t come from nerves.

You wonder, without wanting to, if this will end where you think it might.

If he is thinking about that too.

If you’d stop him.

You don’t have the answers. But you follow him anyway.

Mydei’s suite is bigger than it has any right to be.

Sleek walls bathed in soft gold light, a minibar that could pass for a full kitchen, and floor-to-ceiling glass that folds open onto a private pool glowing faintly under the Lethean moonlight.

You’re in the water now, floating with your arms lazily outstretched as you stare up at the sky. The salt’s long gone from your skin, replaced with the quiet lull of chlorine and soft-lit luxury. Whatever had coiled in your chest earlier is unwinding, inch by inch, tension pulled out like thread.

Inside, through the open partition, Mydei’s propped up on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees. You can hear fragments of sound every now and then—reverb, a bit of static, a clipped vocal he’s likely trying to stretch into something new.

He’s not watching you, but he’s here. Still present, still easy in his body, but tuned into something else. Something that sounds like warmth, if you had to name it.

The part of you that walked here wondering if this night would turn into something else—the part that imagined steam and lips and skin—has gone quiet now. Not because the idea’s disappeared, but because he’s shown you something else instead.

He noticed you needed out. He gave it to you without a question.

Now he’s in his own little world, looping chords and catching melodies like fireflies, like maybe he’s trying to make something soft enough that it’ll reach you without asking why you needed it. That makes the guilt punch harder. You sink a little deeper into the pool, eyes closing briefly against the burn behind them.

Mydei doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know it was you. That the account Thalia flashed like a fan badge of honor was your second skin for years. That you lived and breathed his band long before you ever stood on their stage. That every lyric you used to decode, every candid you posted, every piece of art you uploaded at 3AM was a shrine to this—to him.

He’s sitting there, completely unaware, just trying to make you feel better.

You turn onto your back again, arms floating wide, as if the water could hold more than your body.

If you tell him, you don’t know what it’ll break. But not telling him at all?

That’s starting to hurt too.

You don’t notice the soft shuffle of bare feet across the deck. Your mind’s tangled in its own shadows—guilt gnawing quietly beneath the surface—when the water beside you stirs gently, not from your own movement.

Then—

A soft clink on the side table. A warm, calming scent curls through the night air.

Mydei crouches by the pool’s edge, setting down a small tray with careful hands. Two delicate porcelain cups, steam still rising in thin tendrils. A shallow dish of fresh-cut fruit, each piece skewered with quiet care. Biscuits arranged with almost embarrassing precision.

Your eyes flicker briefly to the absence of his shirt, revealing the strong lines of his torso and the tattoos etched across his skin, but you barely register it.

“You looked like you hadn’t eaten,” he says, almost sheepish. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just guessed off the room service menu. Hope chamomile isn’t too boring.”

You blink once. Twice. Your heart stutters in a way that has nothing to do with panic this time.

“I didn’t even hear you—”

He gives you a look. “You were somewhere else.”

You don’t deny it. Instead, you drift closer to the edge as he straightens, placing his laptop on a small table by the lounger. With a few taps, music spills into the quiet: a low, beatless blend of synth and strings, ambient and soft. The kind of thing that would normally play in some high-end spa, but here, it just feels thoughtful.

Mydei dips his feet into the water, one knee bent casually as he leans back on his hands.

You prop your chin on your arms at the edge of the pool and stare up at him, heart feeling heavy and oddly full all at once.

“You’re being really nice,” you say, quiet.

He glances down at you, one brow raised. “Is that a crime?”

“No. I just didn’t expect it.”

“Didn’t think I had expectations to live up to.”

There it is again. That calm intuition of his that doesn’t pry but always seems to hit close enough that you flinch. Mydei doesn’t press or try to unravel you and what happened during that conversation with Thalia. He’s simply making space. Offering warmth without asking for anything in return.

You curl your fingers around the edge of the pool and smile faintly.

“Chamomile’s not too boring,” you say. “It’s perfect.”

He doesn’t answer, but he does smile back. Then, he leans closer to pluck one of the skewers, handing it down to you like this is normal.

But you don’t feel normal at all.

You chew slowly, the fruit sweet against your tongue, and watch the way the ambient light plays across his profile. There’s a calmness to him here, under the low glow of the moonlight, face half-shadowed, eyes soft. The same hands that wrote half of Heaven on the Horizon rest open beside him, steady and warm.

The silence should be awkward. But it’s not.

It’s safe.

“Are you always like this when someone’s freaking out?” you ask lightly. “Or is this special treatment?”

He gives a small laugh. “Only when I don’t know why they’re freaking out.”

You almost flinch. He doesn’t say it like an accusation, more like a soft truth laid out in the open. Mydei doesn’t press—he never does—but the silence that follows settles beneath your sternum and stays there. You glance at the laptop’s idle screen, noticing the way he hasn’t touched it since you started talking.

Your voice is quieter when you ask, “You were close to him, weren’t you?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know who you mean.

“Hephaestion,” Mydei says. “Yeah. I was.”

Something in his voice shifts—just a fraction, but it pulls your chest tight. You can feel it coming now, and maybe that’s why your stomach’s already twisting.

“Do you want to know?” he asks quietly. Level and honest.

You don’t answer right away, but you nod.

Maybe it’s time someone told you the entire story, not just fragmented half-truths.

“Do you ever talk to him?”

“Sometimes. Not often.” He leans back in his chair, eyes still on the horizon. “Things got messy. Not between us, exactly. But… label pressure, timing, everything else.”

You stay quiet. Let him choose the pace.

“He didn’t leave because of the fights. Or because he hated where the sound was going.” Mydei finally glances at you. “Caenis told him to end it. His relationship with his girlfriend. Most of the execs said it was bad for our image. That it would mess with the trajectory we were building.”

A bitter little breath escapes him, it almost sounds like a laugh.

“He didn’t. When she got pregnant, the label wanted it covered up, wanted him to walk away, and he told them to go to hell.”

There’s no drama in the way he says it. No fire. Just fact. You can barely breathe.

“So he left?” you ask.

Mydei nods slowly. “They made it impossible for him to stay. He knew if he kept fighting it, we’d all go down with him. So he took the hit. Walked out, gave up everything, and didn’t even ask us to back him. What Cipher accused Aglaea of in Aidonia wasn’t the entire truth. She was just as forced to watch him go as the rest of us.”

You feel the ache of it settle in your throat.

You don’t realize how tight your hands have curled until you loosen them underwater. There’s something too familiar in what he’s saying. In the secrets people carry and the cost of telling the truth. Suddenly… you understand why Mydei didn’t pester you for answers.

Because he knows what it's like to carry something that isn’t yours alone to share.

As he gathers his thoughts, you tilt your head up toward the night sky. Like some cosmic joke, however, that damn demo that brought the two of you together in the first place starts playing on his laptop. Why he has the chaotic version downloaded, you have no clue, but the moment feels to fragile for you to call him out.

Surprisingly, Mydei comments on it first.

“Before he left, Hephaestion wrote one last song. Left the lyrics in the studio like he had no plans on finishing it at all,” he tells you quietly, sinking further into the water.

“That was the original sheet we built this one from. This song.”

It sinks in slowly, like warmth spreading from a bruise.

Of course.

Of course it was this song.

No wonder you’d been able to slip into it so easily, like it already knew you. The way the lyrics opened up under your hands like they’d always belonged there…

Because it was a song about standing tall in the wreckage. About shedding shame. About no longer asking for permission to be who you are. You’d thought you were the one giving it shape. But maybe, all along, it was giving you something too. Something you didn’t know you needed. Maybe that’s why it still hits you in the chest every time you hear it.

Because Hephaestion started it, and you finished it.

Two people, years apart, writing their way toward the same truth.

“He never said goodbye,” Mydei adds quietly. “But he did leave those lyrics behind.”

Then, softer, as if the memory still stings:

“I think that was his way of saying it.”

You stretch your fingers out beneath the surface, slow and careful, like touching light through murky glass. The silence between you sharpens.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, turning just enough to see him in the corner of your vision. “For trusting me with that.”

Mydei doesn’t answer right away. He stays half-submerged beside you, arms draped along the ledge. But you catch it—the subtle dip of his head. The shift in his breathing.

“I know it probably wasn’t easy,” you add. “And you didn’t have to. But… I’m glad you did.”

He exhales, a soft ripple across the water. “You’ve never asked for anything just to be nosy. Felt like maybe you’d get it.”

And you do. You really, truly do. Not just the story or the loss that comes with it, but the silence that followed. The price of choosing someone you love when the world demands you prove your loyalty elsewhere.

You drift a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough to feel the heat of him through the cool of the water. “I didn’t know I was part of something bigger when I touched that song,” you say. “But now it feels like… I was supposed to be there. Like I was meant to hear what he left behind.”

Mydei tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded in the low light.

“You were,” he says. Simple. Certain. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Your throat goes tight. You blink up at the sky, hoping the stars can hold the tears back.

Maybe the song saved you both.

Maybe not every inheritance is a burden.

Some are a kind of trust left behind in the dark, waiting for the right hands to carry it forward.

The silence settles again, like the world’s caught its breath along with you. But then, your phone buzzes from the edge of the pool, the sound sharp and sudden against the hush. You flinch, water rippling outward from your movement. Mydei lifts a brow as you reach for it, droplets skimming down your arm as you fumble with the screen.

TRIBBIOS.

You swipe to answer.

“Hey,” you say, still a little breathless.

“Finally.” Tribbios’ voice is all exasperation and edge. “Where are you? Do you have eyes on Mydei? He’s not answering his damn phone and Aglaea’s having a minor spiral.”

You glance at him. Still in the pool. Still right here.

He raises both hands like guilty as charged and mouths, Sorry.

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to sound like you’ve been through something tectonic. “He’s with me.”

“You’re what—” Tribbios stops herself. “Okay. Good. Just get back soon. Please. The celebratory cheers for all Mnemosyne artists is coming up soon.” Before you can answer, she adds, “And tell Mydei if he ghost-schedules one more vanishing act, I’m replacing his shampoo with glitter glue.”

Then she hangs up.

You stare at the phone for a beat.

“…Should I be worried?” Mydei asks dryly.

You shake your head. “Only if you enjoy showering.”

He huffs a laugh. And just like that, the spell breaks, but the truth stays between you anyways. You pull yourself out first, water sheeting down your skin, cool night air grazing every inch of you. You pause just long enough to shake the water from your hair before noticing—

Mydei’s gone still behind you.

He’s not being obvious about it, but his hands are braced on the edge and he’s blinking at the stone tile like it holds some deep philosophical truth. It’s only when he finally climbs out after you that it occurs to you:

He is very deliberately not looking at you.

The realization catches you off-guard. You’re both used to leather and layers, always half-armored even under stage lights. But this? Bare skin, damp curves, nothing to hide behind? This is new. And judging by the tension in Mydei’s shoulders, he doesn’t know what to do with it either.

His gaze flicks up as he grabs two towels from the nearby lounge chair. He offers one out, almost too quickly. “Here. You’ll get cold.”

You reach for it, brushing his fingers in the exchange.

“Thanks,” you murmur, clutching it to your chest before starting to dry off.

But even with your back turned, you can feel him still fighting not to stare.

And truthfully?

You don’t entirely mind.

“I’m gonna go find my shirt before Tribbios sends a drone,” Mydei mutters.

You nod, wrapping the towel tighter around yourself, heart thudding with something that’s not quite leftover emotion. As he walks away, damp hair sticking to the curve of his neck and towel slung haphazardly over one shoulder, you wonder—

Just how much longer can you pretend the water between you is purely metaphorical?

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

#honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #mydei x reader #mydei hsr #mydei x you #mydei #cryoculus

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