#around here but that sounds like a challenge.

[anticipatedexhale]

Come on! Get ready!! they're taking you on a date <3

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, vander, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi.

☆ ◞ summary: how cute ! They decide to take you on a date(character)!

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader. Pure fluff, and yeah that's it!!.

Mel Medarda.

Date Spot: A high-end art gallery followed by an exclusive rooftop dinner.

Mel enjoys sophistication and luxury, so she’d choose an art gallery showcasing Piltover’s finest works, followed by a private, candlelit dinner overlooking the city.

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Mel’s hand rests lightly on your arm as you step into the gallery, the warm glow of chandeliers casting a golden light over the polished floors. The air smells faintly of expensive perfumes and freshly polished wood. As you approach a painting, Mel pauses, tilting her head thoughtfully. “This one,” she murmurs, gesturing to a striking abstract piece, “is about the illusion of control. It’s fascinating how it challenges our need for order.”

You can’t help but watch her as she speaks, the passion in her voice drawing you in more than the painting itself. She notices your gaze and arches a brow. “What? Do I have paint on my face?”

You laugh and shake your head. “No, I just like listening to you.”

Her lips curve into a soft smile. “Careful, darling. Flattery like that might make me keep you out all night.”

Later, as the two of you settle into a cozy corner of a rooftop restaurant, the city’s lights twinkling below, she raises her glass to you.

“To beauty,” she says, her voice low and warm, “both the kind we can see, and the kind we feel.” The candlelight dances in her golden eyes, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world has faded away.

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Jayce Talis.

Date Spot: A lively Piltover festival.

Jayce loves excitement and fun, so he’d take you to a bustling festival filled with games, food stalls, and music, making sure it’s a night full of laughter.

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The sound of laughter and cheerful music fills the air as Jayce leads you through the vibrant streets of Piltover’s annual festival. The scent of roasted nuts and sweet pastries wafts by, and colorful lanterns hang above, casting a warm glow.

“Alright, pick a game,” Jayce says, grinning down at you. “I’m winning you a prize.”

You point to a ring-toss booth, and he confidently strides up, paying for a few tries. His first attempt misses completely, and you can’t hold back a laugh. “Hey, that was a warm-up!” he protests, grabbing another ring.

After a few more tries (and some playful banter about his aim), he finally lands one, earning a stuffed animal for you. He hands it over with a triumphant smile. “See? Told you I’d win something.”

As the night goes on, the two of you share sugary treats and dance to live music under the lanterns.

When the fireworks start, Jayce pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “This is nice,” he says softly, his usual confident demeanor giving way to something more tender. “I should take nights off with you more often.”

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Viktor.

Date Spot: A quiet observatory on the outskirts of Piltover.

Viktor values intimate and meaningful experiences, so he’d take you to an observatory where you could stargaze and talk without distractions.

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The observatory is quiet, perched on a hill overlooking Piltover. Viktor leads you inside, his hand brushing yours briefly before pulling away. “I thought you might like this,” he says, his voice soft. “It’s one of the few places where you can actually see the stars clearly.”

As you step onto the balcony, the night sky stretches out above you, a canvas of glittering stars. Viktor adjusts a telescope, his movements careful and precise. “Come here,” he says, motioning for you to look.

You lean over, and he places a hand on your back, steadying you. Through the lens, you see a cluster of stars glowing brightly. “It’s beautiful,” you whisper, straightening up to look at him.

He smiles faintly, his golden eyes reflecting the starlight. “It reminds me of you,” he says after a pause, his voice quieter now. “Brilliant, even in the darkest places.”

For a moment, you’re both silent, the world around you fading into the stillness of the night. Then, Viktor hesitates before reaching for your hand, his touch tentative but warm. “Thank you for being here,” he murmurs. “It means more than I can put into words.”

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Vi.

Date Spot: A rooftop boxing ring overlooking the Undercity.

Vi would take you somewhere personal to her—a rooftop she knows where you can spar, laugh, and share a moment under the stars.

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“Trust me,” Vi says, a teasing grin on her face as she leads you up a narrow staircase. “You’re gonna love this.”

When you reach the top, you’re greeted by a makeshift boxing ring set up on a rooftop. The view of the Undercity sprawls out below, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows.

“You brought me to fight?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

She laughs, tossing you a pair of gloves. “Not fight. Spar. Big difference.”

The two of you step into the ring, and she takes it easy on you at first, showing you how to throw punches and block. But soon, the playful competition begins, and before long, you’re both laughing too hard to keep going.

As you sit on the edge of the ring, catching your breath, Vi nudges you with her shoulder. “You’re tougher than you look,” she teases, her eyes softening.

“And you’re not as intimidating as you pretend to be,” you shoot back, grinning.

She leans in, her expression turning serious for a moment. “This was nice,” she says quietly. “I don’t let a lot of people in, but... I’m glad I let you.”

The vulnerability in her voice catches you off guard, and you reach over to take her hand. The two of you sit there for a while, the sounds of the Undercity fading into the background as the stars twinkle above.

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Caitlyn Kiramman.

Date Spot: A picnic in the countryside.

Caitlyn prefers thoughtful, intimate moments. She’d plan a private picnic on a grassy hill outside of Piltover, where the two of you could enjoy some quiet time together surrounded by nature.

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The sun is warm, and the breeze carries the faint scent of wildflowers as Caitlyn sets the picnic basket down on the blanket she’s laid out. You watch as she carefully arranges everything—fresh bread, fruit, cheese, and a bottle of wine.

“I know it’s not as exciting as a big event,” she says, glancing at you as she unpacks, “but I thought we could use a little escape from the noise.”

“It’s perfect,” you assure her, settling down beside her.

She smiles, the tension in her shoulders easing as she pours you both a glass of wine. The two of you spend the afternoon sharing stories, laughing, and enjoying the food. At one point, Caitlyn leans back, her hat shading her face from the sun, and looks at you with a rare, relaxed expression.

“You’re good for me, you know,” she says softly. “I spend so much time chasing leads and solving problems... I forget how nice it is to just be.”

You reach over, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You deserve it, Cait. You work so hard for everyone else.”

Her cheeks flush slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she takes your hand in hers, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice almost a whisper. “For reminding me what’s really important.”

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Jinx.

Date Spot: An abandoned fairground in the Undercity.

Jinx would take you to a forgotten fairground she’s decorated herself with colorful lights and strange contraptions. It’s chaotic, but it’s her way of showing you a piece of her world.

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“Ta-da!” Jinx shouts, throwing her arms wide as you step into the abandoned fairground. Strings of mismatched lights are strung haphazardly between rusting rides, and strange, homemade decorations dangle from the stalls.

“You... did all this?” you ask, looking around in awe.

“Of course!” she says, bouncing on her toes. “You’re always saying I don’t do normal dates, so here it is. Jinx-style.”

She drags you toward an old dart booth, where she’s set up bottles and targets. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got!” she says, handing you a handful of darts.

After a few rounds of chaotic (and hilarious) attempts at hitting the targets, Jinx pulls you toward the Ferris wheel. It creaks ominously as she climbs inside, patting the seat beside her.

“Don’t worry, it won’t fall,” she says with a mischievous grin. “Probably.”

As the wheel lurches to life, you can’t help but laugh, holding onto the metal bar as the two of you rise above the fairground. The view is a mix of the Undercity’s flickering lights and her makeshift decorations below.

“See?” Jinx says, her voice softer now as she looks out over the scene. “It’s not fancy or perfect, but... it’s ours.”

You glance at her, her usual manic energy replaced with something quieter, almost vulnerable. “I love it,” you say, reaching over to take her hand.

Her cheeks flush slightly, and she looks away, a nervous laugh escaping her. “Good,” she mutters, squeezing your hand tightly. “’Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

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Vander.

Date Spot: A cozy dinner at The Last Drop after hours.

Vander would want to keep things simple and meaningful, opting to cook you dinner in his bar after closing. He’d light a few candles and make sure it’s just the two of you.

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The Last Drop is unusually quiet, the usual crowd of rowdy patrons gone for the night. Vander moves around the bar with practiced ease, a worn apron tied around his waist as he stirs a pot on the stove in the back.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you say, leaning on the counter and watching him.

He glances over his shoulder, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “It’s no trouble. You deserve a good meal, and I figured it’s about time I cooked for you.”

The table he’s set up in the corner is simple but thoughtful, with a few candles flickering softly and two plates waiting. When he finally brings the food over—a hearty stew and fresh bread—you can’t help but smile at how much care he’s put into everything.

As you eat, Vander leans back in his chair, watching you with a content expression. “It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to just sit down and enjoy a meal like this,” he admits.

“Well, you should do it more often,” you say, nudging his foot under the table. “You’re always looking out for everyone else. Let someone look out for you for a change.”

He chuckles, reaching across the table to take your hand. “You’re already doing that,” he says quietly. “Just by being here.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten, and as the two of you sit there, the world outside the bar fades away.

[lizziesangel]

can you do another one shot of introverted reader and extroverted qb Rafe and he just follows her around and still crushes on her and then he like asks her out or something you can make this in your own way

finally part two!! ⟢ part one

as the self-defense unit wraps up, you and lana grab your things and head toward the locker rooms. the air between you is lighter now, the drills and awkward encounters behind you—for the moment, at least. lana nudges you with her shoulder, her mischievous grin already in place.

“did you see what happened to jason in the middle of class?” she asks, barely containing her laughter. “i mean, secondhand embarrassment doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

you stifle a laugh, glancing over at her. “what did he think was going to happen? asking mia out in the middle of the drills? who even does that?”

lana throws her hands up dramatically. “exactly! like, dude, we’re learning how to escape a chokehold, and he’s over here trying to escape the friend zone. bad timing, jason. bad. timing.”

you snort, unable to hold back your amusement. “and then mia’s face? she looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.”

“she didn’t even say anything! she just shook her head and walked away!” lana cackles, practically doubling over as she recalls the moment. “poor guy stood there for a solid ten seconds, looking like he’d just been hit by a bus.”

“it was funny,” you admit, “but also kind of sad. like, imagine building up all that courage just to get publicly rejected.”

lana shakes her head, still giggling. “i mean, yeah, i felt bad for him. for, like, half a second. but you have to admit, it was iconic. mia didn’t even blink.”

you laugh, the image replaying in your mind, but then lana’s smirk takes on a different edge. she gives you a sly look, and you immediately know you’re in trouble.

“speaking of moments,” she begins, dragging out the words, “what’s going on with you and rafe cameron?”

your laughter dies in your throat, replaced by a groan. “oh my gosh, lana. nothing is going on.”

“nothing?” she echoes, raising an eyebrow. “girl, he was staring at you like you were the answer to all of life’s questions. and don’t even try to deny it—i saw it.”

you roll your eyes, trying to play it cool. “he wasn’t staring. he was just… focused on the drill.”

“focused on you,” she corrects, wagging a finger at you. “i mean, i can’t blame him. you two looked like the cover of some YA romance novel over there, all wrist grabs and lingering eye contact.”

“lana, oh my gosh, stop.” you shove her lightly, your face burning. “it’s not like that.”

“oh, but you wish it was?” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows.

“no!” you insist, laughing despite yourself. “you’re so annoying.”

lana grins triumphantly, but before she can press further, you narrow your eyes and shift the spotlight. “okay, let’s talk about you and topper, then.”

her smug expression falters. “what about me and topper?” she asks, feigning innocence.

you mimic her earlier teasing tone. “oh, nothing. just that you were blushing a lot while you two were partnered up. and don’t even try to deny it—i saw it.”

“i was not blushing,” she huffs, but her face betrays her, turning pink at the accusation.

“you so were!” you shoot back, laughing. “and don’t think i didn’t notice how he kept leaning in to talk to you, all ‘are you okay? is my grip too tight?’”

“okay, first of all, he was just being polite,” lana retorts, crossing her arms. “second of all, you’re deflecting.”

“am i, though?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow. “because it sounds to me like someone has a little crush.”

lana groans, throwing her head back dramatically. “fine! whatever! he’s cute, okay? but he’s also topper thornton, which means he’s probably, like, ninety percent annoying and ten percent tolerable.”

you smirk. “sounds like someone’s trying to justify their feelings.”

“and it sounds like someone’s avoiding the fact that rafe cameron was basically undressing them with his eyes,” she fires back.

the two of you dissolve into laughter, your playful banter echoing down the hallway. for all the awkwardness of the class, you can’t help but feel grateful for moments like this—light, ridiculous, and completely you.

it’s been a week since the self-defense class, but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about rafe cameron since then. not that you’d admit it to lana.

she’d never let you hear the end of it. right now, though, you’re trying to focus on your spanish class, scribbling notes as señor martinez drones on about verb conjugations. lana is sitting to your left, doodling absentmindedly in her notebook, while rafe is on your right, leaning back in his chair with a bored expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else.

you try not to notice how close he’s sitting. or how his cologne lingers faintly in the air. definitely not noticing.

“señor cameron,” señor martinez suddenly says, breaking through the hum of your thoughts. you glance up to see the older man staring pointedly at rafe, his thick-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. “por favor, conteste esta pregunta. ¿cómo se dice, ‘i like to play football’ en español?”

rafe blinks, his posture straightening slightly. you can tell from the way his brow furrows that he has no idea what the answer is. he shifts in his seat, his gaze darting toward you briefly before landing back on the teacher.

“uh…” he starts, clearly stalling. “yo… gusta… uh…”

you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to laugh at his obvious struggle. he looks genuinely panicked now, scratching the back of his neck like it’ll somehow help him come up with the right words.

without thinking, you lean slightly toward him and scribble on the edge of your notebook: me gusta jugar al fútbol.

sliding the notebook closer to him with your left hand, you tap the words lightly with your pen before sitting back, acting like nothing happened. rafe’s eyes dart to the paper, and then to you. he catches on quickly, his lips twitching into a small, grateful smile.

“me gusta jugar al fútbol,” he repeats, his pronunciation a little off but passable. he looks up at señor martinez, who nods approvingly.

“muy bien, señor cameron,” the teacher says before moving on to the next victim in his line of questioning.

rafe exhales quietly, and you feel his shoulder brush yours as he leans closer, whispering just loud enough for you to hear. “thanks. i owe you one.”

you shrug, keeping your eyes on your notebook. “you’ll survive.”

“yeah, because of you,” he says, his tone teasing but sincere. you can feel his gaze lingering on you, and your cheeks warm involuntarily.

lana, who has been unusually quiet, suddenly clears her throat dramatically. “i see you two are getting along nicely,” she whispers, her voice dripping with mock innocence.

you nudge her under the desk with your foot, shooting her a warning look. “focus, lana.”

“oh, i am,” she replies with a grin, glancing pointedly between you and rafe.

you and lana walk out of spanish class, your bags slung over your shoulders as you weave through the bustling hallway. the faint smell of old textbooks and cleaning supplies lingers in the air, blending with the hum of chatter from other students.

“so,” lana says, adjusting the strap of her bag and glancing at you, “are we pretending that señor martinez’s lecture didn’t put the entire class to sleep?”

you snort. “you mean only you? i saw you zoning out halfway through.”

“hey, i was conserving my energy,” she defends, holding up her hands. “that conjugation nonsense was not giving what it needed to give.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head as the two of you make your way toward your lockers. the conversation shifts to weekend plans, lana animatedly describing some pop-up event she wants to drag you to, when someone passes by on your right.

it’s him.

“hey,” he says, his voice breaking through your conversation like a gentle ripple. he’s walking just slow enough to catch your attention without completely stopping. “thanks for earlier. you saved me with that spanish sentence.”

he flashes you a smile—not the usual cocky smirk you’ve seen him give other people, but something softer, genuine. the kind that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“oh, uh, no problem,” you manage to say, your voice steady despite the warmth creeping up your neck.

he gives a small nod, the corners of his mouth tugging upward just a little more, and then continues walking past you, blending into the crowd.

lana waits until he’s out of earshot before turning to you, her eyebrows raised and her grin positively devious. “okay. what was that?”

you roll your eyes, trying to play it cool. “he was just saying thank you.”

“mmm, sure,” she says, drawing out the words. “because guys like rafe cameron totally go out of their way to say thank you for help in class.”

“it’s called being polite,” you counter, though your voice wavers slightly, betraying your attempt at indifference.

“polite?” lana mimics, her voice dripping with mockery. “girl, he smiled at you like you just solved all his problems. that was not polite; that was something else.”

you shake your head, biting back a smile. “you’re ridiculous.”

“am i?” she teases, bumping her shoulder into yours. “or am i just really good at spotting crush vibes when i see them?”

you groan, quickening your pace to escape her relentless teasing, but the fluttery feeling in your chest doesn’t go away.

a few days rolls by, and it’s time for PE again. the memory of last week’s self-defense unit still lingers in your mind, though you’ve done your best to push it aside. unfortunately, lana hasn’t let you live it down.

“back to the battlefield,” she says dramatically as you walk into the gym together, her water bottle swinging in her hand. “do you think coach davis will make us pair up the same way as last time?”

you glance at her, trying to gauge whether she’s genuinely curious or just looking for an opportunity to tease you again. “i don’t know,” you reply, keeping your tone casual. “probably. he seems like a ‘stick to the plan’ kind of guy.”

lana smirks, nudging you lightly. “good news for you, then.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, feigning innocence as you open your water bottle and take a sip.

“oh, nothing,” she replies with a sly grin. “just that a certain quarterback might be looking forward to this more than you think.”

“ooh, look,” lana adds in a whisper, nudging you with her elbow as you make your way toward your spot. “there’s your favorite partner.”

you glance over instinctively and spot rafe standing with the rest of the football team. he’s tossing a basketball between his hands, chatting with topper and a couple of others, looking relaxed and completely at ease.

you try not to linger too long, but as if sensing your gaze, he looks up and meets your eyes. his lips curve into a small, knowing smile, and you quickly look away, your heart doing an unintentional somersault.

“stop it,” you mutter to lana, who’s practically vibrating with excitement at your reaction.

“i’m not even doing anything,” she says innocently, though the smug look on her face says otherwise.

you roll your eyes, but before you can fire back, coach davis claps his hands together, gathering the class’s attention.

“alright, folks!” he booms. “we’re picking up where we left off last week. same pairs, same drills, new moves.”

lana shoots you a triumphant look, barely able to contain her laugh. “told you.”

“shut up,” you mutter under your breath, your cheeks already warming as you glance toward the corner of the gym. sure enough, there’s rafe, standing with the other football players, tossing a basketball between his hands and looking entirely unbothered by the world around him.

when your name is called, followed by rafe’s, you take a deep breath and start walking toward him, feeling Lana’s smug gaze on your back the entire way.

“guess it’s us again,” he says, stopping in front of you. his tone is casual, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“lucky me,” you reply, trying to sound neutral as you set your water bottle on the floor, though your voice comes out a little more sarcastic than you intended.

he chuckles, his hands resting lightly on his hips. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

“ready for round two?” he asks, his tone teasing but warm. there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe amusement, maybe anticipation—but you don’t dwell on it for long.

“i’m ready if you are,” you reply, trying to match his confidence.

this week’s drills involve more complex moves—blocking, evading, and redirecting. rafe listens to coach davis’s explanation but keeps sneaking glances at you, like he’s more interested in your reaction than the actual instructions. you catch him once, and he quickly looks away, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.

when it’s time to practice, rafe takes his position in front of you, his hands raised slightly. “alright, let’s see what you’ve got.”

you narrow your eyes playfully. “don’t go easy on me.”

his grin widens. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

the first few attempts are clumsy, just like last week, but this time, there’s an unspoken ease between you. the tension feels lighter, replaced by a strange sort of rhythm. when you stumble on one of the blocks, rafe catches your arm instinctively, steadying you without a second thought.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice soft.

“yeah,” you reply quickly, brushing it off. “just lost my balance.”

“good thing i’m here, then,” he says, his grin returning. he’s teasing, but there’s a sincerity in his tone that makes your stomach flip.

as the drill continues, you notice how his confidence contrasts with the careful way he moves around you, never pushing too hard, always adjusting to your pace. it’s almost… considerate. by the end of the session, you’re both slightly out of breath, your cheeks flushed—not just from the exercise.

rafe is surprisingly focused, following coach’s instructions and helping you figure out the movements without making it awkward—well, mostly. he adjusts his stance a couple of times, his hands hovering near your arms to guide you, but he never oversteps, which you appreciate.

“alright, now try shifting your weight forward,” he says, watching as you attempt to push him off balance.

you give it your best shot, planting your feet and leaning into the motion, but he barely moves, his footing solid.

“okay, not bad,” he says, grinning. “but maybe try using a little more…” he pauses, clearly searching for the right word.

“force?” you supply, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah, that.” he nods, his grin widening. “don’t be afraid to go for it.”

you try again, this time putting more effort into the movement. to your surprise, he actually stumbles back a step, his expression shifting to mock surprise.

“whoa—okay,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “you’ve got some hidden strength there.”

you laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “yeah, sure. i’m terrifying.”

“hey, i’m just saying,” he replies, his tone teasing. “remind me not to mess with you.”

lana, paired with topper a few feet away, catches the exchange and immediately starts making faces at you behind rafe’s back. you shoot her a glare, mouthing stop while trying not to laugh.

“what’s so funny?” rafe asks, glancing between you and lana.

“nothing,” you say quickly, straightening up and avoiding his gaze.

laa smirks, her voice carrying just enough for you to hear. “oh, it’s definitely something.”

you groan inwardly, already dreading whatever teasing lana has planned for later. for now, though, you focus on the drill, pretending not to notice the way rafe’s smile lingers just a little

the end of class rolls around, and as everyone starts clearing up and heading toward the locker rooms, rafe lingers near you, casually adjusting the strap of his gym bag. lana notices, of course, and shoots you a knowing look before wandering off toward the door with topper trailing behind her.

you sling your water bottle over your shoulder, about to follow, when rafe steps a little closer. “hey,” he says, his tone casual but with just a hint of hesitation.

“hi,” you reply, glancing up at him curiously.

“so, uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, his usual confidence slipping for just a moment. “are you going to the game tonight?”

you blink, caught a little off guard. “the football game?”

“yeah,” he gives a short laugh, as if there’s any other game he could be talking about. “i mean, it’s kind of a big one. with a rival school and all that.”

you chew on your lip, considering. “ah, i don’t know. i haven’t really thought about it.”

“oh, come on,” he says, a teasing edge creeping into his tone. “i’m playing tonight.”

“i know,” you say with a faint laugh. “you’re the captain.”

there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe amusement, maybe something else entirely. “right. so… you’ll come?”

before you can answer, lana reappears, practically materializing out of thin air. “we’ll be there!” she announces brightly, cutting off whatever excuse you were about to come up with.

your head snaps toward her, eyes wide. “we will?”

“yeah,” lana says, completely unbothered by your subtle glare. “wouldn’t miss it.”

rafe’s grin widens, his gaze flickering between you and lana. “great. see you tonight, then.”

just as you’re about to protest—or at least question why lana is suddenly speaking for you—topper walks by, overhearing the last bit of the conversation. he stops, turning to lana with a raised eyebrow.

“you’re going to the game?” he asks, his tone curious but laced with something else, something like amusement.

lana tilts her head at him, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “why? you don’t want me there?”

topper stares at her for a second, then shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. “no, i didn’t say that.”

“good,” lana replies breezily, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “because we’ll be there.”

topper blinks, momentarily at a loss for words, before recovering with a lopsided grin. “cool. yeah. that’s… cool.”

you glance between them, unsure whether to roll your eyes or laugh. meanwhile, rafe is still standing next to you, watching the whole exchange unfold with an amused look on his face.

“see you tonight,” rafe says again, this time directing it more toward you. his voice is quieter, as if it’s just for you, and there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach flip.

“yeah,” you manage, your voice a little softer than you intended. “see you.”

rafe’s grin widens, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes your chest tighten. “great. see you then.”

as he walks away with topper, lana nudges you with her elbow, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“you’re welcome,” she says, grinning.

“oh my gosh, did you see the way he was looking at you? you’re so going to that game.”

“lana,” you groan, but she’s already steering you toward the door, topper trailing behind like a lost puppy.

“oh, and topper?” lana calls over her shoulder. “you’d better actually play well tonight if i’m showing up.”

topper laughs, running a hand through his hair. “don’t worry, i’ll make it worth your while.”

“you’re welcome, by the way,” she says, grinning.

“for what?” you ask, even though you already know where this is going.

“getting us prime seats to watch your boy play tonight,” she teases.

you groan, shaking your head. “he’s not my—”

“oh, save it,” she interrupts, laughing. “i’m just saying, this is gonna be very entertaining.”

you shoot lana a look, but she just grins, completely unfazed. “you realize your boy is going to be there as well.”

“ahhh, this is going to be so much fun,” she says, and for some reason, you can’t help but smile too.

you and lana are in her room, sorting through her closet to find something suitable for the football game. clothes are strewn across her bed, some tossed on the floor, and lana is holding up a navy sweater against herself in the mirror.

“what about this? casual but cute, right?” she asks, turning to you.

“it’s cute,” you say, trying not to laugh at the chaos around you. “but are we really dressing up for a football game?”

lana shoots you a look. “first of all, yes. second of all, you need to look extra cute. for a special reason.”

lana holds up a cropped sweater, frowning. “do i go with this? or the green one with the little buttons?”

“the green one,” you say without hesitation. “it makes your eyes pop.”

she nods thoughtfully, tossing the sweater onto a growing pile of rejected options. “okay, green it is. what about you? you can’t just show up in your usual jeans and hoodie. this is a game. there’s a whole vibe.”

before you can respond, lana’s younger sister amalia bursts into the room, a bundle of energy as always. she’s clutching a bowl of popcorn, her hair in a loose braid. at fifteen, she has that untamed curiosity that makes her impossible to ignore.

“what’s going on in here?” amalia asks, plopping down on the floor and grabbing one of lana’s discarded sneakers.

“getting ready for the game,” lana says, tossing the sweater onto the bed and grabbing a scarf.

amalia plops onto the corner of the bed, narrowly avoiding a pile of jeans. “so, like… are you going because you actually care about football, like, someone specific?”

“amalia!” you gasp, laughing, while lana groans.

“obviously, we’re going for the game,” lana says, dragging out the last word like it’s painfully obvious.

“sure you are,” amalia says, smirking. she looks at you. “so, which is it? topper or rafe?”

both lana and you freeze mid-motion, slowly turning to look at her. “what?” you say in unison, your voices dripping with confusion and maybe a hint of panic.

“oh my god, it is true.” amalia’s eyes widen, her tone full of mock scandal. “i mean, i heard you talking on the phone,” she says nonchalantly, taking a bite of her granola bar.

lana’s face contorts into a mix of horror and disbelief. “you were eavesdropping?”

“no!” amalia says defensively, though her grin betrays her. “i just walked past your room, and i heard you say something about rafe. or was it topper? honestly, you were talking so fast, i couldn’t tell.”

“besides, we have thin walls. i can hear every conversation you have.”

you bury your face in your hands while lana groans loudly, tossing a sweatshirt at the younger sister. “you’re the absolute worst, you know that?”

she giggles, dodging the sweatshirt. “what? i’m just curious! so, which one is it? rafe or topper?”

“neither,” you say quickly, trying to sound as calm as possible. “we’re just going because… we have nothing better to do.”

amalia doesn’t look convinced, her eyes darting between the two of you like she’s trying to crack a code. “uh-huh. sure.”

you bury your face in your hands. “can we not do this right now?”

“oh, come on,” she says, grinning. “i have to live vicariously through you guys. my life is so boring.”

her older sister snickers. “you’re fifteen, amalia. you’re supposed to have a boring life.”

amalia rolls her eyes. “whatever. you’re lucky mom and dad aren’t here, or they’d totally make me go with you guys.”

lana points to the door, her tone firm. “okay, get out. now. before i tell mom you stole her granola bars again.”

amalia gasps dramatically, clutching the half-eaten bar to her chest. “you wouldn’t.”

with a huff, amalia stands and heads for the door, but not before throwing one last grin over her shoulder. “fine, but if you don’t tell me what happens tonight, i’m stealing your makeup.”

“go away, amalia!” lana yells, and the door slams shut behind her.

“you’re such a snitch,” could be heard from the other side of the door.

as the silence settles, you and lana exchange a look, and then burst into laughter.

“she’s impossible,” you say, shaking your head.

lana smirks, reaching for her eyeliner. “she’s also not wrong about you and rafe, though.”

you grab a pillow and throw it at her. “shut up!”

the stadium lights flood the field as you and lana make your way to the bleachers. the energy in the air is palpable, the crowd buzzing with excitement as the game is set to begin. the school colors are everywhere—navy and red banners, painted faces, and a sea of matching shirts.

lana’s decked out in navy, her outfit effortlessly stylish, while you’re in red, wearing your school hoodie with pride. she loops her arm through yours as you weave through the crowd.

“this is so chaotic,” lana says, laughing as you dodge a group of cheerleaders running toward the sidelines.

“you’re the one who wanted to come early,” you tease.

“early means we get good seats,” she replies, tugging you along.

as you near the edge of the bleachers, a familiar figure catches your eye. rafe is standing by the fence near the field, already in his uniform, looking every bit the golden boy quarterback he is. his helmet is tucked under one arm, and he’s talking to a teammate, but the moment he spots you, his face lights up.

he steps away, jogging over. “hey!”

“hi,” you reply, a little breathless from the crowd.

“i, uh, saved you and lana some seats,” he says, gesturing toward a spot near the middle of the bleachers, right in prime view of the field.

“oh, thanks!” you say, genuinely surprised and a little touched.

“of course,” he says casually, but there’s a flicker of something in his tone that makes your stomach flip.

meanwhile, lana has already found her focus—topper is lingering a few steps away, looking effortlessly cool in his jersey. she doesn’t waste any time sidling up to him, her voice light and playful as she says, “topper, is this your game face, or do you always look this serious?”

topper smirks, tilting his head at her. “you tell me. think it’s intimidating enough?”

“intimidating? not quite,” she teases, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

you glance at her, rolling your eyes slightly but smiling. she’s clearly in her element, and for a moment, you’re distracted by their banter.

“hey,” rafe says, drawing your attention back to him.

you look up at him, his expression softer now. “yeah?”

“so, i was thinking…” he starts, trailing off for just a second before giving you a teasing look.

you arch an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. “really? you were thinking?”

his grin deepens, and he nudges your arm lightly with his elbow. “yeah, shut up. i was thinking…” he pauses again, this time looking a little nervous, though he hides it well. “if i win this game tonight, would you… wanna go out with me?”

you blink, caught completely off guard. his words hang in the air for a moment, and you can’t help the way your lips curve into a smile.

“seriously?” you ask, your voice soft but full of amusement.

“dead serious,” he replies, his eyes locked on yours, a mix of confidence and vulnerability in his expression.

your smile widens, warmth blooming in your chest. “well… i guess i’ll have to cheer extra loud, then.”

his grin stretches across his face, brighter than you’ve ever seen it. “i’ll hold you to that.”

before you can say anything else, lana suddenly appears at your side, her cheeks slightly pink from talking to topper. “come on, we need to grab those seats before someone else does.”

rafe nods, stepping back but keeping his eyes on you. “i’ll see you after the game?”

you nod, your heart still racing. “good luck, captain.”

“thanks,” he says, his voice warm, before jogging back toward his team.

as you and lana make your way to the bleachers, she nudges you with her elbow, her grin mischievous. “sooo… what was that about?”

you shrug, trying to play it cool, but the smile tugging at your lips gives you away.

“uh-huh,” she says, her tone dripping with satisfaction. “you’re so coming to every game from now on.”

you laugh, feeling a little giddy. maybe you just might.

the game has been intense, and the crowd is on edge. the scoreboard has been a back-and-forth battle, but now, as the clock winds down, rafe's team is trailing by just a few points. the stands are buzzing with nervous energy as the players huddle on the field.

you’re perched on the edge of your seat, your eyes glued to rafe, who is looking more focused than ever. he’s been carrying the weight of the game ever since their second best star player was taken out with an injury. it’s clear that he’s frustrated, his jaw clenched as he scans the field, but there’s something else in his eyes: determination.

topper stands beside him, clearly trying to keep up with the intensity, but it’s hard not to notice that rafe’s doing most of the work. he’s calling the plays, directing the team, and every move he makes looks calculated—almost like he’s pushing his limits, but you can see in the way he carries himself that he’s not going to give up.

the clock is ticking down, seconds slipping away like sand in an hourglass.

“come on, come on!” lana mutters beside you, her voice almost lost in the roar of the crowd. you glance at her, her eyes fixed on rafe and topper, and then at the field. the tension is so thick you could almost cut it with a knife.

rafe takes the ball, his eyes scanning for an opening. he’s got no choice now; it’s all on him. he fakes a pass to topper, sending the defenders rushing toward him, then in one swift motion, he dodges a tackle and charges down the field. the crowd rises to its feet, the energy growing with every step rafe takes.

you can’t help but hold your breath as you watch him break through the last line of defense, topper sprinting beside him, staying just close enough to act as backup. rafe’s legs move like they’re made of steel, his eyes locked on the end zone.

with seconds left on the clock, he passes the ball to topper, who’s just a few yards from the end zone. topper catches it and pivots, leaping into the air just as a defender tries to block him. time seems to slow as the ball arcs through the air and lands perfectly in topper’s hands. the crowd erupts as he crosses the goal line, securing the game-winning touchdown.

you can barely hear yourself think over the deafening roar of the crowd. you jump up with lana, both of you screaming and clapping in excitement. rafe’s face lights up as the team floods onto the field to congratulate topper, but he’s still scanning the crowd for someone.

you catch his eye, and for a split second, everything else fades away. his grin is wide, the exhaustion and tension melting off his face, replaced by sheer triumph.

“looks like you’ll be getting that date after all,” lana says, her voice full of teasing as she nudges you, but you barely hear her. all you can focus on is rafe’s smile, the way he’s looking at you from across the field.

you can feel your heart skip a beat as the final whistle blows. the game is over, and against all odds, rafe’s team pulled through.

lana cheers next to you, but you’re still staring at rafe, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips. he winks at you, the energy of the win still buzzing in his movements.

it’s official: rafe cameron just won the game—and, if you’re being honest, you think he just might’ve won a little bit of your heart too, especially when he was looking right at you after winning the game.

MASTERLIST

CURRENT TAGLIST⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@maybankslover ⟢ @honeyluvsatj ⟢ @zazidot ⟢ @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 ⟢ @lunaleah ⟢ @maybanksangel ⟢ @wtfdudesblog. ⟢ @niktwazny303. ⟢ @outerbanksloverp4l ⟢ @slut4you ⟢ @maybanksgirl69 ⟢ @hstbsl06 ⟢ @percysley

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

PUSH AND PULL

a/n: Hey! Sorry it's been a long time, but rn I have a lot of exams… While I finish them, here's something I've written before.

jude bellingham x gf!reader

warnings: they fight but happy ending! long af

summary: In love, mess is inevitable—especially when you're as stubborn as Jude and you. A fight breaks out, and with it, comes chaos. But instead of facing it like adults, you both become kids again, unable to stop poking at each other and pushing each other's buttons. Whether it's a teasing remark, a too-close-for-comfort touch, or a pointed silence, you both dance around your feelings, caught in the tension of unspoken frustration. However, when the stubborness between you becomes unbearable, one kiss shatters the walls you’ve both carefully built.

The flat was a battlefield of silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the sharp-edged, suffocating kind, where every creak of the floorboards sounded like an accusation. Jude sat sprawled on the couch, legs wide, one hand gripping the remote. The TV played highlights from some old match, but you could tell from the way his eyes lingered on the screen without focus that he wasn’t watching.

You also sat on the couch, cross-legged, your laptop balanced on your thighs. With the television humming faintly in the background, you pretended to be engrossed in your laptop, fingers brushing aimlessly over the keys. Your hair fell over one shoulder, hiding the way you glanced at him every so often, wondering if he would break the silence. He did not. What he did, was catching you once, his dark eyes locking with yours for a brief moment, before you both looked away as if burned.

The tension in the room was suffocating, as if the air itself refused to move. Neither of you dared to take the first step to break the silence, which stretched between you like an invisible wall. The funniest part was that, in a house so vast, the two of you had ended up in the same room, sharing the same couch, barely a few inches apart. It was almost ridiculous. Tho, you didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. Internally, you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

The fight from last night sat heavily between you. It was the kind of argument that left no room for winners, only wounds. You weren’t even sure how it started. He neither. A jab here, a poorly timed comment there, and before you knew it, the words turned sharp, biting into places neither of you wanted exposed. And now, all that was left was this: icy silence and the simmering frustration of two people who loved each other too much to let go but were too proud to make the first move.

Jude turned up the volume on the TV—just a notch higher than necessary. A small, petty move, but you caught it. You gritted your teeth and opened another tab on your laptop, pretending to type while your jaw clenched.

He leaned back, draping an arm casually across the back of the couch, his shirt hitching up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. A silver of his abs. You noticed—of course, you noticed—but you stubbornly refused to let your gaze linger. He was doing it on purpose, you were sure of it. The smug bastard.

To be fair, you weren’t entirely innocent either. You’d been wandering around the house all day without a bra, and you were well aware of how his eyes occasionally darted toward you before he quickly looked away. It wasn’t overt, nothing you could call him out on, but you could feel his awareness of you, just as you were hyper-aware of him.

In retaliation, you slammed your laptop shut, regardless of the tabs you had open. The noise echoed through the room, over the loud volume of the TV, and for a moment, Jude’s eyes met yours. There was a challenge in his gaze, a slight arch of his eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything. Then, as if nothing, you opened the device again.

After a while, your boyfriend, decided that now the couch was not as comfortable as it was minutes before and went to the kitchen. In there, Jude’s movements were deliberate, exaggerated in a way that felt almost taunting. He opened the fridge with more force than necessary, the door creaking loudly, and lingered there for what felt like forever before finally pulling out a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap with unnecessary force, the crack of the seal piercing the silence.

“You could’ve done that quieter,” you muttered, not looking up from your screen.

He snorted, the sound low and derisive. “You’ve been so sensitive later.”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t respond. Instead, you tapped harder on your keyboard, the clatter of the keys a pointed counter to his earlier disruption. It was petty, childish even, but you couldn’t help yourself. If he was going to be difficult, you could be too. You knew he hated that, and when you turned back, you caught the briefest twitch of his lips, as if he was holding back a smirk.

The audacity of him almost made you snap again.

The minutes dragged on, and the uneasy rhythm of your coexistence continued. Jude eventually moved to the living room, sprawling across the other end of the couch. His long legs stretched out, nudging your thigh as he adjusted his position. It wasn’t accidental—you could tell by the faint smirk that tugged at his lips when you glared at him.

“Can you not?” you snapped, shifting slightly away from him. Honestly, even when you were angry, you still liked the warmth of his contact, but you knew that pulling away would bother him.

“What? I’m just sitting,” he said, his tone infuriatingly casual. But then he moved his leg again, deliberately pressing it against yours, skin against warm skin. This time, you didn’t move, choosing instead to act as if you didn’t notice at all.

“Sitting doesn’t involve invading someone else’s space.”

He didn’t respond, but the smirk on his face only deepened, as if he found your irritation amusing. Leaning further back into the couch, he made himself completely comfortable, clearly unbothered.

You turned your focus back to your laptop, though you weren’t sure why you bothered. It wasn’t like you were getting any actual work done.

When he grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels, the sound of the TV growing louder with each change, you shot him another glare. He didn’t acknowledge it, his gaze fixed on the screen as if he couldn’t feel the weight of your annoyance.

“Are you trying to be obnoxious, or does it just come naturally?” you asked, your voice sharp.

He finally turned to look at you, annoyed, raising an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk.”

The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, but neither of you said anything more. Instead, you both retreated into the silence, your mutual frustration simmering just below the surface.

By early afternoon, the passive-aggressive dance had reached new heights. You were in the kitchen, making yourself a coffee when he got up moments later, brushing past you as he headed to the sink. You could have moved, made it easier for him, but you didn’t. Neither did he. Your shoulders bumped, and you felt a spark of irritation—at him, at yourself, at the situation.

“Excuse me,” he said finally, his tone clipped but low, his breath brushing your temple as he reached over you for a glass. You stepped aside, not because you wanted to but because your pride wouldn’t let you linger there like some lovesick fool.

He filled the glass with water, the sound of it cascading against the sink somehow louder than necessary. His presence so close to you was suffocating, but you refused to move too far. He stood there for a moment with heavy eye contact after taking a sip, leaning against the counter like he was waiting for you to react.

You didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it, appearing uninterested. You saw him glance at you from the corner of his eye, and for a fleeting second, you thought you saw amusement flicker across his face. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

The rest of the afternoon passed in much the same way—sharp glances, clipped words, and small actions that seemed designed to provoke the other. When Jude left his empty glass on the coffee table instead of taking it to the sink, you picked it up with exaggerated care, your movements pointedly loud as you placed it in the dishwasher. When you adjusted the thermostat without asking, he changed it back moments later, the beep of the controls echoing like a challenge.

This repeated a few times.

Neither of you said what you really wanted to say. The words hovered in the air, unspoken but undeniable, like a ghost haunting the space between you.

As the night deepened, the tension between you became almost unbearable, thick and suffocating in the dimly lit room. You lay curled up on the bed, your fingers mindlessly scrolling through your phone, the glow of the screen illuminating your face. At the other end of the mattress, Jude sat hunched over his own device, the faint light from his screen carving sharp shadows across his features. His face was drawn tight, his brows furrowed in a way that made the lines of worry and frustration painfully obvious. You couldn’t help but wonder if you looked the same—tired, distant, and weighed down by the silence hanging between you.

You despised this chasm that had grown between you, the quiet hostility that lingered unspoken in the air. The silence wasn’t a comfortable one—it was filled with an unrelenting tension, an undercurrent of anger and hurt that felt alien and wrong. This wasn’t what you had envisioned. It wasn’t what you wanted. You loved him, even now, even through the haze of pain and frustration that churned within you. That love was still there, steady and unwavering, but it felt harder to reach, buried beneath the heavy layers of everything left unsaid.

Jude shifted slightly, his movement breaking the stillness. His fingers brushed against your arm, light as a whisper, a touch so brief it was almost nothing—but it wasn’t nothing. The contact jolted through you, surprising in its warmth and its ability to remind you of what once felt so natural. For a moment, you both froze. The touch lingered, suspended in time, carrying more weight than such a small gesture should. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, he pulled his hand away, retreating back to his side of the bed.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

The bed had grown colder as the hours ticked on, the tension between you and Jude acting like an invisible barrier, keeping you both firmly planted on opposite ends of the mattress. Sleep came to you first, though not peacefully—it was the restless kind, with the occasional shuffle and murmured sigh as your body sought the warmth that your pride kept you from asking for.

Jude stayed awake longer, his phone abandoned on the nightstand. His gaze flickered toward your sleeping form, the soft rise and fall of your shoulders pulling at something deep inside him. Even in sleep, there was a tightness to the set of your jaw, a lingering sign of the frustration that had consumed the day. He wanted to reach out, to smooth the lines away with his thumb, to press a kiss to the crown of your head like he always did when you argued. But the memory of your sharp words, and his own stubbornness, kept him still.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted off into a restless slumber.

Next morning, the dim light of morning crept through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room. Jude stirred first, his body stiff and warm under the tangled sheets. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, until he became acutely aware of two things: the faint scent of your shampoo and the fact that his arm was draped securely around your waist.

His heart thudded once, heavy and slow, as the realization hit. Sometime during the night, you two had moved closer, the invisible wall of your argument forgotten in sleep. Your back was pressed against his chest, your legs loosely intertwined, his nose buried in the crown of your hair. It felt impossibly natural, like the way you used to fit before the fight. His hold on you was firm but careful, as if even his sleeping self knew you were something precious, something not to let go of.

Jude’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles before his pride crept in, whispering to him that this was just a fluke. He wasn’t supposed to be happy about this, was he? You were still angry—still caught in the push and pull of your unresolved tension. But damn it, holding you like this felt good. Really good. It felt right. He allowed himself one more selfish second to savor the moment before you stirred.

Your soft murmur pulled him from his thoughts. You shifted slightly, pressing closer to his chest, your body melting into his as if seeking his warmth even in sleep. His heart ached, and a wave of affection so fierce it startled him coursed through his chest. He wanted to kiss you, to tell you he was sorry for the things he said, the things he didn’t say. But pride anchored him in place, so instead, he lay there, pretending he didn’t feel anything at all.

You woke to the steady rhythm of his breathing and the unmistakable weight of his arm around you. For a moment, still caught in the haze of sleep, you sighed contentedly, nestling closer to the warmth behind you. It felt safe, familiar, and so achingly right that it made your chest tighten.

But then, reality crashed in like a bucket of cold water. You froze, eyes flying open, as you realized exactly where you were—and who you were with. The fight, the tension, the stubborn refusal to bridge the gap between you—it all came rushing back, drowning out the soft thrum of happiness that lingered from waking in his arms.

Still, you didn’t move immediately. Instead, you let yourself linger for just a moment longer, feeling the solidness of him behind you, the warmth of his breath against your neck. Your heart ached with love, raw and unrelenting, a stark contrast to the frustration still simmering beneath the surface. How could you feel both so intensely at once?

You wanted to turn around, to meet his gaze and let the love you felt show on your face. But the pride that had fueled your argument held you still. You couldn’t be the first to crack—not after last night. So, you did what you always did: you pushed the feelings down, buried them under a layer of indifference, and carefully shifted away.

You swung your legs out of bed, avoiding Jude’s gaze as you reached for your robe. He remained lounging on his side, his dark eyes tracking your movements.

“Morning,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. It wasn’t quite warm, but it lacked the sharp edge from yesterday.

“Morning,” you replied, fastening the belt of your robe with deliberate nonchalance.

As you padded to the kitchen to start the coffee, Jude followed, his footsteps soft but noticeable. He leaned casually against the counter as you worked, his arms crossed over his chest. The silence between you hung heavy but was no longer suffocating—just thick with the remnants of stubborn pride.

“You’re not going to make me a cup too?” he asked, arching a brow when you filled a single mug. A smirk tugged at his lips.

Yep, that early in the morning.

You turned, lips also twitching. “Last I checked, you have two hands and know where the mugs are.”

That smirk persisted, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t mocking—it was teasing. “Wow. So generous this morning.”

You shrugged, raising your mug to your lips. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

Jude shook his head, stepping forward to grab his own cup. You moved to lean against the counter opposite him, your mug cradled in both hands. He stood closer than necessary, the distance between you shrinking inch by inch as the minutes passed.

“You were hogging the blanket last night,” he stated suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me? I was hogging the blanket? You’re the human furnace who takes up three-quarters of the bed.”

He scoffed, setting his mug down. “Three-quarters? Dramatic much? You sleep like a starfish.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it—a real, unguarded laugh that felt like a balm to the tension still clinging to the edges of the morning. Jude’s lips quirked into a grin, the kind that softened the sharp lines of his face and made your heart skip despite yourself. You rolled your eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

The teasing was lighthearted, a refreshing shift from the icy tension of the previous day. But underneath it, the stubbornness remained—a silent promise that neither of you would be the first to openly admit you wanted peace.

Jude leaned against the counter, his coffee in hand, watching you with that maddening smirk. It wasn’t just his expression; it was the way he stood, as if the entire kitchen belonged to him, as if he were perfectly at ease and you were the one who had to figure out how to navigate the unspoken rules of this little game.

“You’re staring,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow as you sipped your coffee calmly.

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Can you blame me? You’re kind of hard to miss.”

“Oh, please,” you retorted, setting your mug down and crossing your arms. “I’m not in the mood for your cheesy one-liners. They are not working.”

“It wasn’t a one-liner. It was an observation,” he replied smoothly, taking a step closer. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, “And besides, it’s not my fault you look cute when you’re grumpy.”

Your jaw tightened, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, twitching upward for just a moment before you caught yourself. “I know you miss me, but this is not the way of fixing things.”

“Miss you?” he shot back, leaning closer, his proximity making your heart stutter. “I woke up with you cuddling against me so…”

You rolled your eyes and turned away, feigning nonchalance as you began to tidy the already clean counter. “That’s not how... forget it,”

The morning passed in a steady rhythm of petty jabs and fleeting touches that neither of you could resist. When you walked past him to grab something from the pantry, his hand brushed lightly against your lower back—just enough to make your skin tingle. You shot him a look over your shoulder, but he was already looking elsewhere, as if the contact had been incidental. You knew better.

Later, as you stood by the sink rinsing your mug, Jude joined you, crowding your space under the guise of washing his hands. The sink was large enough for both of you, but he leaned in anyway, his arm brushing against yours, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“Do you mind?” you asked, tilting your head to glare at him.

“Not at all,” he replied with a grin, his voice laced with mock innocence.

You huffed, turning to move away, but his hand darted out to catch yours. The suddenness of it made you freeze, and for a moment, you just stared at each other, the air thickening between you. Jude’s thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a simple, unassuming touch that sent shivers racing up your arm.

But just as quickly, he released you, his smirk returning as if to mask the moment of vulnerability. “Don’t trip over your own stubbornness,” he said, stepping back.

You bristled, turning sharply to face him. “Me? Stubborn? That’s rich coming from you.”

The tension that had been simmering all morning suddenly flared, sharp and electric. That was what you both needed. “You’ve been impossible since yesterday,” he shot back, his voice rising just enough to match yours. “I’m not the one slamming laptops shut and stomping around like a child.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you took a step closer, your chest brushing against his as you jabbed a finger at his chest. “And I’m not the one deliberately trying to piss the other off!”

Jude tilted his head, his smirk fading into something darker, more serious. “Oh, you think I’m the one pushing buttons here? Newsflash, love—you’ve been just as bad.”

“Love?” you repeated, your voice dripping with incredulity. “Don’t you dare—”

Before you could finish your sentence, Jude’s hands moved, quick and decisive. One slid to the small of your back, the other cupped your ass firmly, and in one smooth motion, he pulled you against him and lifted you off the ground. A startled gasp escaped your lips, but it was swallowed almost immediately as his mouth crashed against yours.

Finally, you thought to yourself, something you would never say out-loud.

The kiss was hot and demanding, a clash of teeth and tongues that mirrored the intensity of your earlier fight. Jude’s lips moved against yours with a ferocity that left no room for argument, his grip on you possessive and unyielding. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your hands finding purchase in his neck as you pulled him closer.

For a moment, you forgot everything—the fight, the pride, the stubbornness. All that existed was the heat of his mouth on yours, the solidness of his body pressed against you, and the way his hands gripped you like he never wanted to let go. It was messy and desperate and so painfully raw that it left you breathless.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were red and swollen, his breathing uneven as he stared at you with a mix of frustration and something deeper, something softer. “You argue too much,” he said, his voice rough and low.

You blinked at him, your chest heaving as you tried to process what had just happened. “And you—”

“No no, shhh,” he interrupted, his mouth crashing against yours again. This time, the kiss was slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. It was an apology, a truce, and a declaration all rolled into one.

When he pulled back this time, his hands lingered, one sliding up to cup your cheek while the other stayed firmly at your waist. His thumb brushed lightly across your skin, and the intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. His chest was heaving, just like yours, as if the kiss had stolen the air from both of you.

You stared at him, the heat of his touch grounding you even as your heart raced. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence thick with everything that had just been said without words.

Finally, you broke it, your voice soft but steady. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “For… being difficult. For letting it drag on like this.”

Jude raised a brow, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. “Oh, so you can apologize,” he teased, though the smirk on his face softened at the edges.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched despite yourself. “Juuude, don’t ruin the moment,” you warned, your tone light.

“I’m not,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Keep going, come on, I want to hear you say how wrong you were.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and you swatted lightly at his chest. “Don’t push it.” But then your smile faded, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “I really am sorry, baby.”

His teasing faded as he looked at you, the sincerity in your voice settling over him like a balm. “Yeah, well,” he began, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer. “I’m sorry too. For being a stubborn ass. And for… picking fights when I should’ve just talked to you.”

You tilted your head slightly, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders. “We’re a real pair, aren’t we?”

His thumb traced circles against your hip, his touch impossibly warm. “We’re kind of great, though,” he whispered, his voice almost teasing. “When we’re not driving each other crazy.”

You let out another soft laugh, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re not wrong.”

The air between you shifted, the playfulness giving way to something deeper. Your lips hovered over his, your breaths mingling as the tension built again, electric and magnetic. You kissed him this time, slow but deliberate, pouring every ounce of affection and apology into it. His grip on your waist and ass tightened, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the way his heartbeat echoed yours, fast and unsteady.

When you finally broke apart, his lips were slightly swollen, his eyes dark and half-lidded as he gazed down at you. “You’re a tease, you know that?” he muttered, his voice husky.

You smirked, the heat still thrumming through your veins. “Only for you.”

“Lucky me,” he murmured, his tone both teasing and sincere. Then, without warning, he bent slightly, sliding his hands down to your thighs and hoisting you up effortlessly. A surprised laugh escaped you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you out of the kitchen.

“Jude—what are you doing?” you asked, though your tone betrayed more excitement than protest.

“Making up properly,” he replied, his voice low and rough in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “No more interruptions.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you leaned into him, your hands threading through his hair as he kissed you again, his lips stealing every thought from your mind. Whatever tension had lingered between you melted away completely, leaving only warmth, laughter, and the undeniable pull of each other.

[fangbanger3000]

we need to talk about The Silence and The Song

as per my last post, i have received a lot of encouragement to go public with this, and the more disappointed people i have in my dms, the angrier i get. so i will.

the silence and the song is an ancient arlathan au DA fic on ao3 by luxannaslut, and it is partly, if not entirely, written by an ai. i have no wish to be involved in any kind of fandom drama or witch hunting or bullying, but as a writer myself there are few things that piss me off more than watching people steal the work of others because they can't be fucked to write. it's disrespectful to your fellow writers, it's disrespectful to your readers, and it's disrespectful to the authors of the works the ai is stealing from.

ai is a plague that has no business being in creative spaces and you must do better.

the writing pattern

there was something very odd and monotone about the sentence structure of tsats that i couldn't quite place, so i fed chatgpt a prompt along the lines of "two people in a fantasy novel hate each other, but they secretly desire one another, and they kiss", and the screenshots above are the results. the third one is an excerpt from chapter 40 of tsats. the writing pattern is identical and it doesn't seem like the "writer" has even bothered to pretend they wrote it. if you're going to use ai, at least be sneaky about it. you know, paraphrase a little.

nonsense descriptions

"her nimble fingers worked with quiet precision" (ct. 1), "his grip firm but tender" (ct. 33), "her gown pooling around her like embers" (ct. 1).

fingers don't make sound, so what does quiet precision mean? as opposed to what? her joints cracking with every movement? how is a grip firm but tender? what does that mean? since when do embers pool?

the entire fic is littered with these adjectives that contradict each other or just straight up do not make sense, because all an ai does is generate descriptive language with no understanding of what the words it's spitting out actually mean. i could spend hours picking out examples from the seven billion pages worth of text, but i quite frankly have better things to do and would simply challenge you to try getting through a chapter or two without noticing the pattern.

repetition at structure-level

all the scenes in this fic are described in pretty much the same way. they open with purple prose vomit of the surroundings; solas is standing somewhere looking "unreadable as ever"; ellana's fiery golden molten fire copper ember ginger red hair is flowing this and that way; there's some dialogue with whoever is present and it leaves ellana feeling different variations of "something she couldn't name". this is, once again, a blatantly obvious sign of ai. below is the result of me feeding chatgpt the line "write me a scene from a fantasy novel where a woman with red hair is sitting on the ground in a magical garden at night", and side by side with that is the opening scene of the fic. make your own judgement.

repetition at word-level

this one speaks for itself. we fucking get it. her dress is orange, her hair is red, mythal's presence is heavy in the room, solas looks unreadable, compassion is sitting on her head like a crown, solas' ears are betraying him and ellana's move with every thought she thinks. we get it. the issue here is that an ai remembers the info you feed it, but not necessarily the info it shits out. if it's being told to write scene after scene of an elven woman with a gown that looks like fire doing xyz, it's going to do so with no regard for how many times the reader has already been informed of these details.

lastly: the breakneck speed

359,6k words in four weeks by a person who allegedly is employed and married and hasn't pre-written anything? no. any writer will tell you that this simply isn't possible. it absolutely infuriates me to see how much praise this "writer" gets for posting up to three full chapters in a day without anyone calling bullshit. i am pulling out my hair, you guys.

why i'm not going to live and let live this one

perhaps i would be less angry if the fic was some silly bullshit court intrigue Y/A stuff, but this is a text that handles very heavy and triggering topics such as SA, coercion, domestic abuse, and other things of the same vein. to sit back and put your feet up while having a robot write these extremely sensitive and very real human experiences with words it has stolen from texts written by actual persons is fucking heinous. the "writer" should be deeply ashamed of themselves and i'm sick and tired of watching people eat up their bs.

and on that note: the amount of people in my dm's telling me that they feel stupid and naive for not clocking this has infuriated me more than anything else. you're not foolish for this. being fed ai-generated bullshit is not what is supposed to happen on any creative platform and much less a fandom-centred one, so of course no one approaches a fic through that lens. fandom and fic writing is supposed to be about passion and the only person in this situation who needs to do better and change their behaviour is luxannaslut. polluting our creative spaces, wasting the time of your readers, and minimising the effort of actual writers who are working hard to provide content for us all to share and enjoy is vile and so, so lazy. i beg of you: do better.

[soleilpinto]

Hexes and Heartbeats (Ollie Bearman) ִ🪄 ࣪𖤐ִ ࣪

“Don’t flatter yourself, Bearman,”🔮 〜 ⁺ ̥ ＊

Synopsis: Y/N Browning, Slytherin’s top student, and Ollie Bearman, Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain, have always clashed. But when McGonagall pairs them up for a project, their rivalry turns into something unexpected. As they spend more time together, Y/N learns that letting someone in might not be so bad after all.

Genre: Slowburn, Fluff, Enemies to Lovers

AU: Hogwarts!au

Pairing: Ollie Bearman x Fem!Reader

Warnings: If being an asshole is a warning I’m putting that in.

Note: To be completely honest this was a random idea that came up because I was looking for F1 x Harry Potter fics and couldn’t find any, so I made my own? Anyways, I hope you guys nerd out to this because I miss the Hogwarts rabbit hole I used to go through in 2020. As always, don’t forget to like + reblog if you enjoyed!

The Great Hall buzzed with excitement as the Gryffindor Quidditch team entered for dinner, their victorious faces beaming from yet another win.

You couldn’t stop the sneer that tugged at your lips when your eyes landed on Ollie Bearman, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain.

Of course, he was the first to stand up and wave at the crowd, soaking in their adoration like a smug, self-satisfied lion.

Ollie Bearman. The perfect Gryffindor.

Everything about him annoyed you—from his flawless posture to the way he casually tossed his messy brown hair as though it were some kind of trademark move.

He wasn’t just a Quidditch captain, he was the golden boy, the darling of every Gryffindor. His confidence was unshakable, and it rubbed you the wrong way more than you cared to admit.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to your dinner, not sparing him another glance. But it wasn’t enough to escape the sound of his laughter as he shared a joke with his teammates, their boisterous voices filling the room.

You hated it.

You hated how effortlessly he commanded attention, how everyone just adored him for no reason other than the fact that he was a Gryffindor. You hated how he walked around like he owned the place.

That was when your friend, Isla, nudged you.

"He's looking at you," she whispered with a mischievous grin.

You narrowed your eyes, knowing exactly who she meant.

Ollie Bearman, no doubt enjoying the fact that you were sitting there fuming over his mere existence.

You didn’t even have to look up—he was probably grinning that cocky grin of his.

“I don’t care,” you muttered, stabbing your fork into your food. “He’s just some Quidditch-obsessed Gryffindor who thinks the world revolves around him.”

“Careful, Y/n," Isla teased, her tone mocking. "You wouldn't want to lose your cool in front of the Quidditch King."

You scoffed, too irritated to respond. Ollie Bearman had somehow managed to turn Quidditch into his entire identity.

He had that perfect, shiny Gryffindor arrogance—an arrogance that made you sick.

Later that evening, you found yourself at the Three Broomsticks with a few friends, attempting to unwind after a long week of academic stress.

You hadn’t expected to see him here. But of course, Ollie Bearman and his teammates stormed in, laughing and talking too loudly for your liking.

They sat at a table near yours, and you had no choice but to overhear the conversation. Ollie’s voice carried through the air, boasting about his latest victory.

“You should’ve seen the look on their faces,” Ollie said, grinning ear to ear. “We were unbeatable today. Another win for Gryffindor!”

The table around him laughed, and your irritation bubbled over. You couldn’t take it anymore.

"Must be nice, winning at a game that involves no real strategy," you called out, your voice cutting through the room.

Isla shot you a look of warning, but it was too late. The challenge had been thrown down.

Ollie’s gaze shifted to you, that familiar, infuriating smirk spreading across his face.

“Well, if it isn’t the Slytherin genius,” he drawled, his voice dripping with that all-too-familiar arrogance. “What’s the matter, couldn’t handle being in second place in the academic race?”

A flare of heat rose to your cheeks, but you didn’t back down.

“At least I don’t think winning a game with a broom makes me important,” you retorted, leaning back in your chair with a challenge in your eyes.

“Perhaps if you spent a little more time in the library and less time with your broomstick, you’d understand how real success works.”

A few of his teammates snickered, but Ollie didn’t miss a beat. He stood up, crossing the room toward you with a confident swagger.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure books are very important in your world,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned casually against your table.

“But in the real world, we have to do things to prove our worth. Not just sit around and read about them.”

You clenched your jaw, your eyes narrowing. “I’d rather be doing something productive than pretending a game about flying on a stick matters. You’d never understand the importance of intellect, Bearman.”

His eyes flashed with amusement, but there was something else there too—something you couldn’t quite place.

“We’ll see about that, won’t we, Browning?”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of sharp words, unspoken challenges, and ever-present tension between you and Ollie.

The rivalry was no longer just about House pride—it had become personal, a battle between two personalities that seemed destined to clash.

The days after the confrontation at the Three Broomsticks felt like a storm was brewing. Every time you crossed paths with Ollie Bearman, that same, infuriating smirk was plastered on his face.

As if you hadn’t already made it clear you couldn’t stand his presence.

You tried your best to ignore him, to focus on your studies and maintaining your position as the top student of your year. But every time you heard his laugh or saw his arrogant grin, the heat of frustration flared up again.

It was a cold afternoon when you found yourself once again in a situation where you had no choice but to deal with Ollie.

Professor McGonagall had just announced that the students of your year were being assigned to work together for an extra-credit project on magical creatures.

The task? Track down and document a rare and dangerous magical beast deep in the Forbidden Forest. The catch? Every pair had to be carefully chosen by the professors—and, of course, in their infinite wisdom, McGonagall had paired you with none other than Ollie Bearman.

You had tried to argue, but McGonagall had simply raised an eyebrow and told you, “This will help you learn how to work with someone outside your usual circle, Miss Browning.”

You had to bite back the sarcastic remark that was already forming on your tongue.

It wasn’t the first time you��d had to work with someone you didn’t like, but it was the first time you’d been forced into a group with Ollie.

When you met him at the edge of the Forbidden Forest the next morning, he was already waiting, leaning casually against a tree, looking like he had absolutely no concerns in the world.

His Gryffindor confidence was on full display, and you could already feel the annoyance bubbling in your stomach.

"Finally decided to show up, Browning?" he teased, pushing off from the tree and smiling like he knew he had won some small victory just by getting there first.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Bearman,” you snapped back, brushing past him without making eye contact. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He smirked, but for once, it wasn’t filled with that usual arrogance. There was something else in his eyes—something more playful, like he was daring you to rise to the challenge.

“I’m just here for the creature,” he said, “but I have to admit, working with you might make this a little more interesting.”

You turned to face him, glaring. “Let’s just get one thing clear. If you get in my way, Bearman, I will leave you here. I don’t need some Quidditch-obsessed Gryffindor to get this job done.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your defiance.

“You sure about that? I seem to recall your strategy didn’t go so well in the last encounter with a magical creature. Maybe you could use my help after all.”

Your teeth clenched. You remembered that disastrous incident in the classroom last week when Ollie had pointed out, in front of the whole class, that your spell had backfired, causing your potion to explode. He had never let you forget it, using it as ammunition in every argument ever since.

“You really are full of yourself,” you muttered under your breath, but Ollie seemed to enjoy pushing your buttons.

“Only because I know I’m better than you,” he shot back, his grin widening as you shot him a glare.

With no other choice, you set off into the woods, Ollie following closely behind, still full of his usual swagger.

As you ventured deeper into the forest, the atmosphere grew more oppressive, the shadows from the tall trees stretching across the path, thickening with every step.

You could hear the distant rustling of magical creatures in the underbrush, but Ollie seemed oblivious, happily whistling as though he was on a leisurely walk in the park.

“Stay focused,” you snapped, reaching for your wand. “This isn’t a game, Ollie.”

He finally stopped whistling, giving you a mock salute. “Aye, captain.”

You bit back a retort, knowing that any attempt to argue would only fuel his insufferable attitude. But despite your frustration, there was a small part of you that begrudgingly admired how easily he navigated the forest.

It was clear he had an innate sense of bravery, charging forward with little fear of the dangers lurking behind every tree.

Suddenly, a rustling sound interrupted your thoughts. You immediately raised your wand, ready for whatever creature might appear. But Ollie’s reaction was even quicker.

He darted ahead, using his quick reflexes to grab something darting out of the brush before you could cast a spell.

In a fluid motion, he captured a small, silver-winged creature in his hand, holding it out to you with a grin.

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You blinked, stunned for a moment.

The creature he held was delicate, shimmering with magical energy. It was a rare species you had studied in class, but had never seen in person.

For a brief moment, you felt something other than annoyance toward Ollie. He had done something impressive. Something that actually required skill.

It wasn’t enough to erase all the bitterness you felt toward him, but it was a crack in the armor of your dislike.

“You’re not as useless as I thought,” you muttered, lowering your wand, though your tone was still clipped.

Ollie gave a soft laugh. “I can be more than just a Quidditch captain, you know. I do have a bit of brain in this head.”

You shot him a skeptical glance, but a small smile tugged at your lips. “Don’t get cocky, Bearman. We still have a long way to go.”

The journey continued with more shared silences and subtle exchanges of respect. Neither of you was willing to admit it, but something was shifting—an uneasy truce beginning to form as you ventured deeper into the forest, side by side.

As the day stretched on, and the deeper you and Ollie ventured into the Forbidden Forest, the more you realized just how much you were beginning to notice him.

Every sharp turn he made, every instinctual move to keep you safe—whether it was spotting a dangerous creature or grabbing your arm to pull you out of harm’s way—you couldn’t deny that there was more to Ollie Bearman than the smug Gryffindor captain you had loathed for years.

It made you uncomfortable, to be honest. You had built an entire narrative in your head about who Ollie was: arrogant, reckless, and obsessed with Quidditch.

But seeing him here, out in the wild, working as a team with you—granted, begrudgingly—you realized that you hadn’t really seen him at all.

“So,” Ollie began, breaking the silence, “what do you actually think of Quidditch, then? I know you think it’s pointless, but I’m curious. If you were the captain, what would you change?”

You turned to look at him, surprised at the question. It wasn’t like Ollie to ask about your opinion unless it involved him somehow proving he was better than you.

Still, you could see a shift in the way he looked at you—a more curious, thoughtful gaze.

“I think Quidditch is just a distraction,” you said, your voice guarded.

“It’s just... a game. People treat it like it’s the most important thing in the world, but at the end of the day, it’s just about winning and losing. There’s no real value in it beyond that.”

Ollie’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t seem angry. Instead, there was a spark of interest in his expression.

“So you think there’s no skill involved? That I’m just some distracted player?”

“No,” you corrected quickly, shaking your head.

“I didn’t say that. There’s skill, of course, but I don’t think it’s worth putting everything into. There’s more to life than flying on a broomstick and chasing a ball around.”

Ollie stopped walking, and for a moment, he was silent, almost as if he was processing your words.

You glanced over your shoulder, but his eyes were fixed on the ground, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The forest felt strangely still around you, the usual rustling of leaves replaced by the weight of the moment.

“You know,” Ollie finally said, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “sometimes I think you’re a little bit too serious for your own good. But I get it. You’re a Slytherin. You’re supposed to think everything else is beneath you.”

You bristled at his words. “I don’t think anything is beneath me. I just know what I want, and I don’t waste time on things that won’t get me anywhere.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your defensiveness. “Is that why you’re so... intense? So determined to always be the best at everything?”

The question hit a little too close to home.

You frowned, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

Ollie chuckled, that easy, carefree laugh that always seemed to get under your skin.

“Fine, fine. But you know, if you ever decided to relax a little... maybe you’d see there’s more to life than books and grades.”

You shot him a sharp look. “And maybe if you focused on something other than Quidditch, you’d realize there’s more to the world than winning games.”

Ollie’s smile faltered just a bit, but it was enough for you to notice. He took a deep breath, eyes scanning the forest around you, and then gave you a sideways glance.

“Well, I guess we’re both just trying to prove we’re right about something,” he said softly, his tone a little less playful than before.

“Maybe that’s what makes us so similar.”

You blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, still walking, but there was an odd sense of understanding in the way he held himself now.

“We both care too much about proving ourselves. You do it with your studies, I do it with Quidditch. We both put so much into what we’re passionate about... maybe that’s why we clash so much.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of you wanted to argue, to maintain the rivalry that had always defined your relationship, but another part of you—the part that had seen Ollie’s vulnerability for the first time—wanted to admit that maybe, just maybe, he was right.

Before you could say anything, a loud, eerie screech echoed from deeper within the forest.

The sound was enough to make your heart skip a beat, and Ollie’s expression shifted instantly into something more serious, more focused.

“That’s our cue,” he said, his voice now all business. “Stay close. It sounds like the creature we’re after.”

The next few hours passed in a blur of action. You and Ollie worked seamlessly together, your skills complementing each other in ways you hadn’t expected.

He was quick on his feet, fearless in the face of danger, while you used your knowledge of magical creatures to help guide your strategy.

There was a trust that had developed between you during the hunt, one that neither of you would acknowledge aloud, but it was there all the same.

When you finally managed to capture the rare creature and return to the castle, both of you were exhausted but victorious.

It was a rare moment of quiet between the two of you, standing just outside the entrance to the Forbidden Forest, the last of the evening light filtering through the trees.

Ollie turned to you, his gaze softer than you were used to. “Not bad, Browning. You might not be as insufferable as I thought.”

You smirked, still unwilling to admit how much you had come to respect him.

“You were all right too, Bearman. For a Gryffindor.”

He chuckled, that mischievous glint back in his eyes. “Guess you’ll just have to keep finding out how much more all right I can be.”

Your heart skipped in spite of yourself. It was infuriating, how easily Ollie seemed to get under your skin now.

You weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline or the strange warmth in his voice, but something had shifted between the two of you.

And for the first time, you found yourself wondering—just for a second—if there was more to Ollie Bearman than just a Quidditch captain.

It had been a week since the Forbidden Forest trip, and the dynamic between you and Ollie had changed in ways you couldn’t quite explain.

While you were still far from friends, there was an undeniable shift. The tension that had once been a sharp, uncomfortable friction had softened into something that, though still fiery, was less about animosity and more about... understanding.

You found yourself meeting Ollie’s gaze more often than you cared to admit, and not in the usual confrontational way.

It was as if there was a silent acknowledgment between the two of you—the rivalry was still there, but it was starting to feel more like a game than a battle. And while you hated to admit it, you found yourself appreciating his quick reflexes, his unwavering determination.

He was more than just a Quidditch captain. He was actually... smart. Annoyingly smart.

But your thoughts were interrupted when Isla, your closest friend, cornered you in the library one afternoon, her eyes gleaming with the kind of curiosity you knew all too well.

"So," she began, a mischievous smile spreading across her face, "I’ve noticed something."

You looked up from your textbook, already feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "What are you talking about?"

"Don’t play coy with me," Isla teased, leaning in conspiratorially. "You and Ollie Bearman. Something’s... happening, isn’t it?"

You froze, the quill in your hand suddenly still. "What? No. I—" You stammered, trying to find an excuse.

"He’s just—he’s a Gryffindor. We’re working on a project together. That’s it."

Isla raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Uh-huh. Sure. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other during dinner. You can cut the tension with a knife."

You leaned back in your chair, trying to collect yourself. "Isla, you’re imagining things. There’s nothing happening between us."

“Nothing, huh?” Isla’s grin widened, and she sat down beside you. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly hating him as much as you used to.”

You glanced around the library nervously. What if someone overheard? What if Ollie had been talking about the trip? What if your friends noticed the shift in your dynamic?

"Fine," you muttered, a bit too defensively. "Maybe he’s... not as bad as I thought."

Isla’s eyes lit up, and she leaned in even closer. "Ah, so there is something going on. I knew it!"

You scowled, pushing your book aside. "There’s nothing going on," you repeated firmly, though your tone lacked the conviction you had hoped for.

Before she could push any further, you heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind you.

You turned just in time to see Ollie himself walking through the library doors, his usual grin plastered across his face as he waved at you.

“Hey, Browning,” he called out in his typical teasing tone, strolling up to your table. “You surviving this mind-numbing assignment?”

Your heart skipped a beat. It had only been a few minutes since you had been talking about him with Isla, and now here he was, acting like everything was perfectly normal.

You glared at him, but there was a strange warmth behind your annoyance.

“I was,” you said coolly, “until you interrupted me. What do you want?”

Ollie smirked, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil.

“Just thought I’d remind you that we’re meeting for the next part of our project later. Don’t forget. You know, it’s important to show up on time if you want to get the extra credit.”

You rolled your eyes, but something in his tone made you want to snap back with a witty retort.

"I won’t forget, Bearman. I’m not the one who’s too busy playing Quidditch to focus on anything else."

Ollie chuckled, clearly amused, and winked at you before turning to leave. "See you later, Browning. Try not to fall asleep on me, yeah?"

As soon as he was out of earshot, Isla grinned at you like a Cheshire cat. "Oh, it’s definitely happening."

You groaned and dropped your head onto your arms. “Can’t you just drop it already?”

Isla just laughed, her voice barely a whisper.

“I know you better than anyone, and something’s definitely changed. The way you two talk to each other? It’s not the same as before. Trust me, you’re not fooling anyone.”

The rest of the week seemed to drag on. You couldn’t shake the feeling that Ollie was always just a little too close—whether it was in the library, during classes, or even in the hallways after dinner.

It was as if your interactions with him were becoming less about the rivalry and more about something else entirely. Something confusing and... undeniably thrilling.

Then came the day when everything started to unravel.

You were heading to the Quidditch pitch with Isla after lunch when you ran into a couple of Ollie’s teammates, and much to your surprise, they didn’t give you the usual hostile treatment they reserved for Slytherins. Instead, they greeted you with an odd mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“Hey, Y/N,” one of them, Emma, said with a smile. “How’s the project going with Ollie? We’ve been hearing rumors that you two are getting along better than expected.”

You froze, unsure how to respond. Rumors?

“Yeah,” another teammate, Alex, chimed in. “It’s kind of hard to ignore how you two have been looking at each other lately. You two might actually make a decent team after all.”

Before you could stop yourself, your face flushed bright red, and Isla’s snicker didn’t help.

“What exactly are you all implying?” you demanded, though your voice trembled slightly.

Emma raised her hands in mock surrender. “Hey, no need to bite our heads off. We’re just saying, you two don’t hate each other as much as you used to. You’re practically friends now. Or whatever this is.”

You couldn’t meet their eyes as you quickly excused yourself, your mind racing with a mixture of confusion and embarrassment.

Were people really starting to notice? Were you actually starting to... like Ollie Bearman?

Isla shot you a knowing look as you walked away, and you knew you couldn’t hide the truth from her—or yourself—any longer.

The days after the encounter with Ollie’s teammates were a blur. It felt like everyone in school had caught wind of the fact that you and Ollie were spending more time together.

Even though it wasn’t true that you two were “friends,” it was starting to feel like something was changing.

The constant teasing from Isla and your classmates was starting to wear on you, but what bothered you the most was how often Ollie seemed to pop into your thoughts when you weren’t expecting it.

You could handle Isla’s teasing. She was your friend, after all. But it was Ollie’s subtle hints, the small gestures that seemed almost too thoughtful, that kept you off-balance.

Like when he saved you a seat at the Gryffindor table during dinner because your houses table was full or when he offered you his notes after class, claiming he had taken "extra care" to write neatly because he knew you’d appreciate it.

But you didn’t need to think about it. You had a reputation to maintain, and Ollie Bearman wasn’t someone you needed to be distracted by.

Still, every time you crossed paths with him, you couldn’t help but feel that strange flutter in your chest.

One evening, as the hectic exam season drew to a close, you found yourself walking down the hall toward the Slytherin dungeons, your mind occupied with thoughts of an upcoming project.

You hadn’t expected to run into Ollie that night. The hallways were unusually quiet, the only sound being the faint echo of footsteps on stone. But then you saw him.

Ollie was leaning against the wall just outside the entrance of your common room, his eyes scanning the hall with a kind of distracted look.

When he noticed you, though, his face lit up, and that familiar grin appeared.

“Y/N,” he greeted casually, though there was something different in the way he said your name this time. More familiar, less teasing.

You paused for a second, almost instinctively pushing your hair behind your ear. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” he replied without skipping a beat, his tone light but his eyes earnest.

“I was hoping we could talk.” You raised an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued. “Talk? About what?”

“About... us, I guess,” Ollie said, shifting slightly as though trying to find the right words.

“You’ve been avoiding me lately despite us being partners, and I get it. We’re not exactly the best of friends, but... well, I’m starting to think there’s something here.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Something here? What are you talking about?”

Ollie pushed off the wall and took a step closer. You felt your pulse quicken, but you weren’t sure if it was from irritation or something else entirely.

“I don’t know, Y/N,” he continued, the words spilling out more earnestly now.

“For the longest time, I thought you were just some Slytherin who hated everything I stood for—Quidditch, Gryffindor pride, all of it. But recently, I’ve started to see... I’ve started to see you differently.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. Your mind raced. See you differently? What did that mean?

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Ollie continued, his gaze not leaving yours.

“How we’ve spent all this time bickering, but when it comes down to it, you’re actually—” he paused, searching for the words “—you’re actually kind of incredible. You’re clever, driven, and... I don’t know, I can’t stop thinking about how you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

You could feel your heart beating in your throat, but you weren’t ready to admit anything.

Not yet. Not with Ollie Bearman, of all people.

“You’re just saying that because you think I’ll help you pass the next exam, right?” you tried, your voice betraying more uncertainty than you wanted.

But Ollie shook his head, his expression serious now, and you could see the honesty in his eyes.

“No, that’s not it. This is... this is me. I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I realized that I like being around you. I’m not saying it’s easy, but I think I’ve started to care about you in a way I didn’t expect.”

Your chest tightened. “Ollie...”

“I don’t know what this is, Y/N,” Ollie said, running a hand through his hair. “I just... I don’t want to pretend it’s not there anymore. I’m tired of pretending you’re just some annoying Slytherin I have to tolerate.”

You blinked, caught in the weight of his words. It felt like your world had shifted under your feet.

You had spent so much time hating him, convincing yourself that nothing could ever come of your rivalry. But now, standing in front of him, you realized how much of that was self-preservation.

How much of it was denial.

“Are you... saying what I think you’re saying?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ollie stepped closer, his voice low. “I don’t know what you think I’m saying, but I think I’m saying that I want to find out what could happen between us. If you’re willing to take the chance.”

The hallway felt suddenly smaller, the walls closing in on you as your thoughts collided with each other.

You wanted to resist. You wanted to shout at him and remind him that nothing could ever happen between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin. That your lives had always been dictated by competition, by rivalry.

But as you looked into Ollie’s eyes, the one thing that was undeniable was how real the emotion was in his gaze. How much he meant it.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” you asked, finally breaking the silence.

“I am,” he said quietly, his eyes not leaving yours.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The tension hung heavy between you, neither of you daring to break the silence, yet somehow it felt like everything was finally coming into focus.

You took a deep breath, swallowing the uncertainty. Maybe it was time to let go of all the reasons you had built up to keep him at arm’s length. Maybe there was something worth exploring here after all.

“Alright,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the rapid beat of your heart. “I’m willing to see where this goes. But you have to understand something, Ollie. I’m not going to make this easy for you.”

Ollie grinned, his playful side creeping back into his expression. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You took another breath, feeling the weight of the decision settle on your shoulders. But for the first time in weeks, you felt a strange sense of anticipation, a spark of something that had been there all along but was only now beginning to surface.

Something had shifted since Ollie’s confession, and while nothing had officially been said about your “status,” there was a new air of familiarity between you.

He no longer teased you with the same sharp edges, and his glances felt warmer, less challenging.

You couldn’t deny it: there was something comforting about the way he had started treating you—not like an opponent, but like someone he genuinely cared about.

Still, the adjustment wasn’t easy for you.

Slytherins weren’t exactly known for public displays of affection, and Gryffindors like Ollie seemed to have no problem making their intentions known to the entire school.

Which was why, when Ollie showed up outside your Potions class one afternoon, leaning casually against the wall in his Quidditch robes, you nearly froze in your tracks.

“What are you doing here?” You hissed, keeping your voice low as your classmates filtered out of the classroom, all of them throwing curious looks your way.

Isla, walking beside you, stifled a laugh behind her hand.

“Waiting for you, obviously,” Ollie said with that signature grin of his. “I thought we could walk to lunch together.”

You glanced around nervously, painfully aware of how many eyes were on you.

“Ollie, this is a Slytherin corridor. You’re not exactly... welcome, here.”

“Good thing I’m not afraid of Slytherins,” he replied breezily. “Come on, Y/N, it’s just lunch.”

Isla shot you a knowing look. “Oh, I don’t mind. This is fascinating. Please, by all means, walk her to lunch, Gryffindor hero.”

You shot her a glare before turning back to Ollie. “Fine. But don’t expect this to become a habit.”

Ollie’s grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the two of you walked side by side through the bustling hallways, the whispers were impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t every day that the Gryffindor Quidditch captain was seen escorting the top Slytherin student through the castle.

You could feel your face heat up with every passing glance.

By the time you reached the Great Hall, you were ready to sprint to your table just to escape the scrutiny. But Ollie, completely unbothered, placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“Relax, Y/N,” he said softly. “They’ll get over it.”

“You don’t get it,” you muttered, your voice barely audible. “People are going to talk. They’ll think I’ve gone soft. I’m not used to... this.”

Ollie stopped walking, turning to face you. His hazel eyes were calm, steady.

“Hey,” he said, his tone gentle. “I know this is new. I know it’s not easy for you. But you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not to your friends, not to your house, not to me. Just... be yourself. That’s all I want.”

You hesitated, his words sinking in. For someone so brash and confident, he had a way of making you feel seen in a way you hadn’t expected. Slowly, you nodded.

“Alright. But if anyone asks, I’m still your rival.”

Ollie chuckled. “Deal.”

At that moment, a familiar voice interrupted. “What’s this?”

You turned to see Arvid Lindblad and Kimi Antonelli approaching, both wearing amused expressions.

Arvid, a Hufflepuff with a mischievous streak, crossed his arms. “Bearman, are you seriously ditching us for your Slytherin rival?”

Kimi, a Ravenclaw whose sharp mind matched his dry sense of humor, raised an eyebrow. “This is... unexpected.”

Ollie grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders with zero hesitation. “What can I say? She’s growing on me.”

You immediately ducked out from under his arm, your face burning. “Don’t push it, Bearman.”

Arvid burst out laughing. “Oh, this is great. I can’t wait to tell the rest of the team.”

“Don’t you dare,” Ollie warned, though he was still smiling.

From the Slytherin table, your friends, Isla and Hayley watched the scene unfold, their faces split into identical grins.

“You owe me five Galleons,” Hayley said smugly.

Isla groaned, fishing the coins out of her pocket. “Fine, but I still say she’s going to hex him eventually.”

By the time you and Ollie reached the Gryffindor table, you were convinced that everyone in the castle had seen you together. But as Ollie sat down beside you, his easy confidence never faltering, you realized something: you didn’t mind as much as you thought you would.

Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

After a few months of seeing Ollie, the day of the highly anticipated Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match arrived, and the castle buzzed with excitement.

The rivalry between the houses was infamous, and the stands were packed with students decked out in their respective house colors.

Green and silver banners clashed with scarlet and gold as chants echoed through the stadium.

You sat in the Slytherin stands, arms crossed, trying to ignore the pang of nerves bubbling in your chest.

Isla nudged you, smirking. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re rooting for Gryffindor today.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you snapped, though your eyes couldn’t help but wander to the field where Ollie was leading his team through warm-ups. His movements were precise, commanding, and frustratingly confident.

Focus, you told yourself. He’s your rival, and Gryffindor needs to lose.

As Madam Hooch blew the whistle, the match began in a frenzy of motion.

The Gryffindor Chasers darted through the air, their passes quick and seamless, but Slytherin’s Keeper was on form, blocking their shots with ease.

You found yourself gripping the edge of your seat, every play pulling you further into the match.

It wasn’t until halfway through the game that the tension really exploded.

Ollie, playing as Gryffindor’s Seeker, was locked in a tight race with the Slytherin Seeker, each of them diving after the Snitch.

The crowd roared as the two streaked through the sky, narrowly avoiding collisions with the other players.

“Come on, Ollie!” Arvid’s voice carried from the Hufflepuff stands, and you winced despite yourself. Don’t mess this up, you thought.

Then it happened. A Slytherin Beater sent a Bludger hurtling toward Ollie at a dangerous speed.

You watched in horror as he barely managed to dodge, his broom wobbling for a moment before he righted himself. But the distraction was enough—the Slytherin Seeker had gained the upper hand.

“No!” you gasped, earning a smirk from Isla.

“Interesting reaction for someone who’s supposed to be cheering for Slytherin,” she teased.

You scowled, but before you could reply, the Snitch was spotted again. This time, Ollie was faster.

He leaned forward on his broom, the determination on his face clear even from your spot in the stands.

The Slytherin Seeker was close behind, but Ollie’s outstretched hand closed around the Snitch just seconds before they collided.

The stadium erupted in cheers and groans.

Gryffindor had won.

As the teams landed, the Gryffindor players rushed to Ollie, lifting him onto their shoulders in celebration.

You stayed seated, watching as he grinned and held the Snitch aloft. The sight filled you with equal parts annoyance and something you couldn’t quite name.

When the crowd began to disperse, you made your way back toward the castle, hoping to avoid the inevitable gloating. But before you could slip away, a familiar voice called out behind you.

“Y/N! Wait up!”

You turned to see Ollie jogging toward you, still in his Quidditch robes and looking infuriatingly triumphant.

“What do you want, Bearman?” You asked, crossing your arms.

“To talk,” he said, falling into step beside you. “You don’t look too happy for someone who just witnessed an incredible game.”

“Why would I be happy? My house lost,” you pointed out, though your tone lacked its usual bite.

Ollie smirked. “Come on, I saw you watching me. You can admit it—I was pretty impressive out there.”

“You were reckless,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes. “That Bludger nearly took you out.”

He shrugged. “Part of the game. Besides, I knew you’d be worried about me.”

“I wasn’t worried about you,” you lied, your cheeks heating up.

Ollie stopped walking, turning to face you with that annoyingly confident smile. “You’re a terrible liar, Y/N.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but his expression softened, and he stepped closer.

“Look, I know this whole... thing between us is new. And I know you’re still figuring it out. But for what it’s worth, having you there today? It meant something. Even if you were secretly hoping I’d lose.”

You hesitated, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard.

“I wasn’t hoping you’d lose,” you admitted quietly. “I just... didn’t want to see you get hurt.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before it melted into a warm smile. “See? You do care.”

“Don’t push it, Bearman,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

Ollie grinned, falling back into step beside you. “Alright, I won’t. For now.”

As the two of you walked toward the castle, the tension of the match faded into the background, replaced by something softer, something that felt almost... natural. And though you wouldn’t admit it out loud, you were starting to think that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind having Ollie Bearman by your side.

Epilogue:

The days when you and Ollie were sworn rivals felt like a lifetime ago, though the memory of your endless bickering still brought a smirk to your face.

Somehow, against all odds, you’d gone from exchanging biting remarks in the hallways to sharing late-night conversations by the fire.

It wasn’t a change you’d ever expected—or even wanted—but it was one you couldn’t imagine undoing.

Your dynamic hadn’t exactly mellowed.

You were still Y/N Browning, Slytherin’s top student, sharp-tongued and fiercely independent. And Ollie was still Ollie Bearman, Gryffindor’s golden boy with that infuriatingly confident grin.

The difference now was that the teasing carried a warmth it never had before, and the rivalry had softened into something that only strengthened your bond.

Take today, for example.

The castle was buzzing with activity as students bustled through the corridors, preparing for their final exams.

You were perched at a table in the library, surrounded by stacks of books and meticulously written notes.

The air smelled faintly of parchment and ink, a comforting sort of chaos that you thrived in.

“Still studying?” Ollie’s voice broke through the quiet, his tone laced with mock exasperation.

You glanced up to see him leaning against a nearby bookshelf, his Gryffindor scarf askew and his hair as messy as ever.

“What does it look like, Bearman?” you quipped, returning your attention to your notes. “Not all of us can wing it and still pass.”

“Hey, I don’t wing it,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from you. “I’m just naturally brilliant.”

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “You’re naturally lucky, which is not the same thing.”

“And you’re naturally stubborn,” he countered, reaching across the table to pluck one of your notes from the pile. “Come on, Y/N. Take a break. You’ve been at this for hours.”

“I can’t afford to take a break,” you said firmly, snatching the note back. “Unlike you, I have standards to maintain.”

Ollie chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “I know. That’s one of the things I like about you. But you’re allowed to breathe, you know. Even Slytherin’s top student can take fifteen minutes to eat a chocolate frog.”

You sighed, finally setting your quill down and meeting his gaze.

His hazel eyes were steady, the teasing light in them replaced with something softer. You hated how easily he could do that—disarm you with a look.

“Fine,” you relented. “Fifteen minutes. But if my grades suffer, I’m blaming you.”

“I’ll take the risk,” he said with a grin, pulling a small package from his bag and sliding it across the table. It was a chocolate frog, just as he’d promised.

You took it reluctantly, your lips twitching upward despite yourself. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he said, resting his chin in his hand as he watched you open the wrapper.

Moments like these had become your new normal. He knew when to push and when to step back, and you were learning to let your guard down—at least for him.

You were still fiercely independent, still determined to prove yourself to the world. But with Ollie, you didn’t feel the need to constantly defend your place.

He saw you, respected you, and never tried to change you.

It wasn’t always easy. There were still moments when you snapped at him or bristled at his easygoing nature, and there were times when his relentless optimism made you want to scream. But somehow, those differences only made your connection stronger.

He challenged you in a way no one else could, and you liked to think you kept him grounded.

Your friends had grown used to the sight of you two together, though the teasing hadn’t stopped.

Isla called him your “Gryffindor puppy,” and Arvid had taken to mimicking Ollie’s voice whenever you defended him.

Even Kimi, with his usual deadpan humor, had joked about how the universe might implode from the sheer improbability of your relationship.

But you didn’t mind. Because at the end of the day, when the library emptied and the castle grew quiet, it was Ollie who walked you back to the Slytherin common room.

It was Ollie who stayed up with you during late-night study sessions, bringing snacks and pretending to care about your advanced Arithmancy notes.

It was Ollie who, somehow, had become the one person you didn’t mind letting in. And as you sat across from him now, watching him steal one of your notes and grin when you scolded him, you realized something important.

You hadn’t changed for Ollie Bearman. You were still yourself—strong, driven, and fiercely Slytherin.

But you had softened for him, in a way that felt like growing rather than shrinking. And for once, you didn’t mind letting someone see the cracks in your armor.

“Alright, Bearman,” you said, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. “You win. I’ll take a break.”

Ollie’s grin widened. “Finally. I thought I’d have to resort to drastic measures.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you warned, though your voice was lighter now.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his gaze warm.

And just like that, the world felt a little brighter.

© soleilpinto 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[redroomreflections]

Paint It Black Chapter 2 - Fractured Authority

Teen Natasha Romanoff x Teen Reader

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has never known love—or at least, that’s what she tells herself. During her time in the Red Room, she encountered a girl whose memory was forcibly erased from her mind. Now, as an Avenger, she faces a new enemy who turns out to be more than just a threat; they share a tangled history that challenges everything Natasha thought she knew about herself and love.

Chapter Summary, Reader disrupts Natasha’s rigid training routine, introducing her to small acts of rebellion while hinting at the dangers of being Dreykov’s favored.

W/c: 5k

A/N: It only gets rougher from here

Warnings: This is a dark story, so read at your own risk. Mentions/hints of SA, violence, guns, and abuse. We're exploring the Red Room and Natasha's origins, kind of.

Mornings were for intensive training. A rigid schedule kept the girls in line. It wasn’t like the mornings back in Ohio, where cartoons blared at full volume and Yelena sang along to every theme song, her voice bright and off-key. Here, the only sound is the low buzz of chatter, conversations Natasha couldn’t bring herself to join. No Yelena, no music, just the restless shuffle of girls preparing for the day. She hadn’t seen her sister in months.

Natasha sat on her bunk, head down, wrapping her hands with sharp, practiced movements. The gauze bit into her fingers, the tension grounding her. She wasn’t focused on anything in particular. Couldn’t keep her mind from going every which way. It was just one of those days. 

“I would like to fight y/n,”  A girl by the wall stood out, leaning with her arms crossed and a smirk that’s too sure of itself.

Natasha didn’t look up. She didn’t have to. The girl’s voice was sharp, cocky, the kind of bravado that gets broken quickly here. Natasha tugged the wrap tighter around her hands and tested her fist. No mistakes. Not today.

"Not a chance, she's Dreykov's girl. Have you seen her fight? That's too dangerous," A second voice replied, belonging to the girl Natasha knew as Lorna.

Natasha had heard the rumor about you and your fighting style. The other girls' whispers and snide comments were more unbelievable than the last.

"I heard y/n's parents are in prison; war criminals. The authorities don't know what to do with her, so they put her here," The pixie girl said. "She's the only one of us whose parents have a known place, and they still don’t want her."

"Really? I heard her dad died in a freak accident when she was a kid, and now her mom is sick or something. I don't know. Y/n barely speaks. Do you think they're trying to fix her here? Make her into the perfect weapon."

"Whatever, I just know if I'm fighting anyone, I want to fight her."

Just then, the door swung open, and a stern-faced trainer stepped inside, his presence commanding immediate silence. “All recruits to the evaluation room,” he barked, his voice echoing off the cold, sterile walls. “Now.”

The girls scrambled to their feet, and the atmosphere was suddenly tense. Natasha stood, her heart racing as she glanced at her bed. It could be the last time she saw it.

She followed the other girls along the hallway and into the observation room. As Natasha stepped into the room, the sterile smell of antiseptic and sweat hit her, a familiar scent that had become synonymous with the Red Room. Rows of hard plastic chairs lined the walls. Recruits whispered among themselves, but Natasha’s gaze was immediately drawn to you, standing amongst another group of girls.

Your posture was confident, though Natasha could see the tension in your shoulders. You stood tall, facing the front, your hair framing your face as you watched Madam B. approach the center of the room. The older woman radiated authority, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor as she strode forward.

“Welcome, recruits,” Madam B began, her voice smooth but chilling. “Today, we’ll be evaluating your progress and pushing your limits. In the Red Room, we teach you to fight and prepare you to survive. You will learn to harness your skills, not just for the mission, but for the kill.”

A shiver ran down Natasha’s spine at the coldness of Madam B's words. She’d heard this speech before, the hollow promises of strength cloaked in a veneer of empowerment. But beneath it all lied the stark reality of what they were being trained to do.

Madam B. scanned the room, her gaze sharp and calculating. “Today, I need a demonstration of what you’ve learned. Y/N!” she called, her tone suddenly commanding.

Natasha’s heart dropped as you stepped forward. “Yes, Madam B?” You replied, your voice steady.

“You will demonstrate your fighting technique against one of our newer recruits. Let’s see if you can handle the pressure.” Madam B. gestured toward a girl Natasha recognized from the dorm, one of the less experienced recruits who hadn’t had much training yet.

A ripple of surprise flew through the group of recruits, and Natasha could see the uncertainty on your face. But you didn’t hesitate, and within seconds, you were both standing in the middle of the room, squaring off against each other. Natasha's mind raced, and she felt her palms beginning to sweat as she watched the scene unfold.

Madam B. stood to the side, observing the two of you closely. The recruit lunged, and you ducked and weaved, the two of you falling into a natural rhythm. Something was mesmerizing about how you moved, your movements precise and controlled, as if you were dancing rather than fighting.

Suddenly, the recruit landed a blow to your abdomen. You stumbled but regained your composure quickly and retaliated with a swift kick to her leg, knocking her off balance. As the fight progressed, you gained the upper hand, landing blow after blow until the recruit was backed against the wall, defenseless.

Your fist flew forward and landed squarely on the girl’s jaw, and the sound of bone crunching echoed in the small room. The girl crumpled to the ground, and Madam B. ambled forward, her expression unreadable.

There was a sudden, intense pressure in Natasha’s chest, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Something felt wrong. It all felt wrong. 

"Kill her," Madam B. demanded from you.

"What?" You asked.

"You heard me. Kill her. That's an order."

There was silence, and then the recruit let out a strangled cry. Her hand reached up, blood dripping from her mouth. "Help me, please!" she whimpered. It was a mistake allowing her to fight you. 

For the slightest second, you hesitated. Your hand tightened around the knife tucked into your belt, but the movement was barely perceptible. "No," you finally replied, your voice steady. "I won't."

The room eruptd into surprised mutters and gasps, and Natasha watched in horror as Madam B. struck you across the face for your defiance. "Disobedience will not be tolerated!" she shouted, her voice raw with anger. "You've been spoiled. You think your place here is valuable."

She’d struck you again and your lip split. Your only confirmation was the taste of copper coating your tongue. 

Natasha's eyes never left you as Madam B's next strike was more brutal. She couldn’t look away, even as the room filled with the sickening sounds of flesh meeting flesh. Almost like it was personal. 

Finally, the blows stopped, and the room fell silent again. Your harsh breathing unsettled them. You couldn’t seem to catch your breath. 

Madam B. turned toward the rest of the group. "Widows," she said, her voice dangerously low, yet commanding. She was a leader. "We must be ruthless in our pursuit of perfection. Only those who can handle the pressure are fit to serve the Red Room. Anyone who falters will be eliminated."

The meaning of Madam B's words were clear: those who can't survive will kill or be killed. 

Madam B. towered over you, her heels clicking as she circled like a vulture. Her voice was sharp and clipped, cutting through the tension in the room. “Y/N, you have failed to meet the expectations of the Red Room. Do you even comprehend what that means?”

"That's enough," A voice with chilling authority caused every head to turn.

You sat on your knees, staring at the floor, your breath ragged. Blood dripped steadily from your chin, pooling on the hardwood. The ache in your body made it hard to hold yourself upright, but you refused to fall. Not here. Not in front of her.

The weight of her words hung in the air until the door creaked open.

Silence fell.

His presence filled the room before anyone even dared to look. The sound of measured footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, like a ticking clock counting down.

Dreykov didn’t say a word as he approached, but every girl instinctively straightened, their eyes dropping to the floor. He stopped just in front of you, his polished shoes catching the faint light.

Your gaze flickered up, only for a moment. A dark suit, pressed to perfection. Rings glinted on his fingers, gold and heavy. His face was expressionless, but his eyes... they pinned you down, dissecting you like a specimen under a microscope.

He knelt slowly, his hand brushing your cheek, his thumb smearing the blood there as if studying it.

"Stand," he said finally, the single word low and heavy.

Madam B. stiffened beside him, stepping back as if to blend into the shadows. You rose to your feet, your knees trembling, the iron in his voice giving you no choice but to obey.

Dreykov adjusted his cuffs, his movements precise and unhurried, before turning to the rest of the room. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His silence was command enough.

"She's my best girl. She deserves a second chance," He stated.

"With all due respect, General, I believe she is a liability. Her disobedience is a threat to the program."

The General didn’t flinch. "Let me worry about that," He said. His tone was firm, but there was a hint of something else—an underlying anger impossible to miss. "I've already given my orders. Y/n is a valuable asset. She's not going anywhere."

Madam B's expression remained unchanged, but there was a subtle shift in the room's energy. She gave a curt nod, her displeasure evident.

"Yes, sir," She replied, her tone clipped. She watched as Dreykov’s fingers pressed into your chin, tilting your face up to scrutinize you. His gaze flickered over your expression, but your eyes remained carefully blank, giving nothing away. Natasha watched for a brief, disorienting moment, wondering if he was almost…fussing over you. 

There was something in the silence that made Natasha feel like she could finally breathe again.

"As for the rest of you," The General continued. "This is your first and final warning. Don't disappoint me."

With those words, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing through the silent room.

Madam B. snapped back into action the moment he was gone, barking orders and arranging the next fight. Natasha couldn’t help but look at you again. She went to reach out and help, but something held her back. You were a liability.

And for some reason, Natasha didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

***

It was late, the moon hanging low in the night sky. The next time Natasha saw you, you had bandages on your cheek. She didn’t dare to talk to you. Instead, she kept her distance, watching from afar as you walked through the cafeteria, her curiosity piqued.

But Natasha wasn’t the only one keeping tabs on you. Everywhere you went, you were watched. Rumors flew, and the older girls made their distaste known, casting you looks full of venom. You didn’t notice. The bandages on your cheek starkly contrast your skin, a physical reminder of the earlier evaluations that had gone wrong. You sat alone at a table, your gaze fixed on your untouched plate of food.

As the seconds passed, Natasha’s worry deepend. You brought a fork to your lips, but your hand trembled slightly, and the fork slipped, clattering against the plate. You winced at the sound, your shoulders tensing as if the noise was a reminder of the eyes on you. Glancing around, you caught a few older girls snickering, their whispers loaded with disgust and malice. The venom in their gazes fet like a physical blow, and Natasha saw your posture shift, the slightest crumple of your resolve.

You took a deep breath, trying to regain composure, but Natasha saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes as you stared at your food, willing yourself to eat. Your appetite has vanished, replaced by the gnawing anxiety from being at the center of whispered rumors. You pushed your food around the plate; the motions were mechanical and lifeless. 

 She shouldn't have cared so much. She knew you could not be friends.

But still, Natasha did.

She wanted to know your story. She wanted to know you.

*******

The training room was a different beast than the evaluation. The stakes were higher than ever, and after that day you battled, the competition was fierce.

Natasha sat on the bench, wrapping her wrists again. As the fabric covered her knuckles, her attention shifted to you.It seemed like you were everywhere.

You were standing by the punching bags, practicing your technique. You were quick. Powerful. Precise. Natasha watched as you hit the bag repeatedly, your movements fluid. 

She was about to approach you when ‘pixie-cut girl’ beat her to it.

"Hey," Pixie cut girl said, her voice smug. "Nice work out there."

You paused, glancing over at her, your expression unfazed. "Thanks," you replied, a hint of skepticism lacing your voice.

"But seriously," the pixie-cut girl continued, stepping closer with a challenging glint in her eye. "How do you get away with so much? Dreykov's favorite and all that. Must be nice to have special treatment, huh?"

Natasha held her breath, unsure how you’d respond. 

You straightened your back, the confidence radiating from you. “It’s not about getting away with anything,” you said, your voice steady and assertive. “I’ve just learned to make the most of what I have. This place tries to break you, but I refuse to let it.”

The pixie-cut girl raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “Is that so? Sounds a little naïve, don’t you think?”

Natasha bit her lip. She wanted to see how you would handle this situation. 

"Maybe," you replied, an edge to your voice. "But I'm not the one making excuses for my poor performance."

A ripple of murmurs echoed through the gym, and the pixie-cut girl's cheeks flushed pink. She stared at you, her jaw clenched, the tension between you building. Natasha felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, a chill running down her spine.

She'd seen this scenario play out before. It was a precursor to disaster, a ticking time bomb.

"You're right," the pixie-cut girl said, her tone dangerously calm. "I haven't been giving it my all. But maybe I should." She stepped forward, her fists clenched. "You wanna spar? Let's go."

Your gaze shifted from her face to her hands. "I don't need to prove myself," you stated, your voice calm and confident.

"Oh, I think you do." Her grin was cruel, her eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam. "We saw what happened with your last match. You're not a widow."

The jab hit you hard, and Natasha could see the briefest glimpse of pain on your face before you schooled your features, the mask of indifference returning. "No, but I am a recruit. And I know how to fight."

"Well, then, let's put it to the test. Unless you're scared."

The challenge hung in the air, and the other girls waited with bated breath.

"You don't want to do this," You shook your head. "Whatever hangups you have about me. Put them to rest."

"Don't tell me what I want."

You gave her a hard stare, then sighed, rolling your shoulders and flexing your hands. "Fine," you muttered.

“Tatyana,” One of the usual girls she’s with called to her. 

“No, it’s time someone puts her in her place.” Tatyana said. 

The two of you stepped forward, squaring against each other, the tension crackling between you. The older girl moved first, throwing a punch which you dodged easily. It's then you got angry. Not necessarily at Tatyana. But at the system. At the fact that you had to fight every single day of your life. 

You struck, aiming for the older girl's face, the force of the blow sending her reeling backward. Tatyana staggered, catching herself, then charged again, her shoulder colliding with yours, her momentum carrying the two of you to the ground. You were a blur of movement, both grappling for the upper hand.

Natasha watched, her pulse racing. The older girl landed a few blows, but you were relentless, throwing punches and kicks as fast as possible. You were on the offensive, fighting with a ferocity and determination Natasha had never seen before.

She was captivated.

The sound of a blow landing drew her focus, and Natasha watched as the older girl stumbled back, her lip bleeding. "You'll pay for that," Tatyana growled, her expression feral.

"I'd like to see you try." You threw another punch, and Tatyana blocked, countering with a kick to your leg.

The two of you were locked in a stalemate, neither willing to give ground. You were a whirlwind of fists and fury, the older girl's movements growing more desperate.

Suddenly, Tatyana threw a wide punch, her arm flying past your face, the momentum unbalancing her. A fatal mistake.

Your hand snaked out, grasping the older girl's wrist, and you twist, bringing her to the ground. Within seconds, you're on top of her, pinning her down.

"This isn't worth it," You muttered, your voice low and menacing. You know what you have to do now. You know what they want from you. “Whatever you have against me throw it away. If you know what’s good for you.”

"Get off me," Tatyana spit, struggling under your weight.

"I'm trying to save your life," you replied, your grip tightening.

The older girl glared up at you. She knew she was cornered. She knew what happened next.

"You have a choice," you continued, your tone cold and uncompromising. "Survive or die."

Your words hung in the air, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone in the room. The choice was clear. You know that if Dreykov or Madam B. Caught wind of this,you would suffer. The guards on one side of the room seemed to ignore all this happening. But the other side. The girls in the other corner were watching.

Tatyana hesitated, then nodded her defeat.

"Good." You released your hold, rising to your feet. “Next time, I won’t be so merciful.” 

The older girl scrambled up, glaring daggers at you. She brushed off her uniform, her gaze never leaving yours.

Natasha stared at you, her heart pounding, the realization hitting her like a ton of bricks.

You're the one to beat.

Tatyana sulked, her glare lingering but her steps faltering as she retreated to the other side of the room. The watching girls averted their eyes, murmuring amongst themselves. Natasha didn’t move, frozen in place, her mind racing as she tried to process what she’d just seen. 

“You did not have to do that to her,” Someone challenged. Another girl from your class. 

“Это всё,” A woman’s voice said in Russian, her tone icy and final. That’s over.

The words cut through the air like a whip. The watching girls froze for a split second before breaking apart like scattered birds. No one lingered; no one dared. The crowd thinned as they slunk back to their stations, their whispered chatter fading into the background. Even Tatyana, still seething, shot you one last glare before disappearing into the throng.

The room seemed to exhale, the buzz of drills and muted conversations resuming, but Nora’s focus never wavered. Her gaze fixed on you, cold and unrelenting.

“You,” she said, her voice sharp enough to make you flinch. “Come.”

The command was curt, absolute. Without hesitation, the remaining girls stepped aside, parting like water to make way as Nora turned on her heel and strode out of the room.

You glanced at Natasha out of the corner of your eye. She stared back, her face pale, her expression unreadable. You didn’t have time to dwell on it. Nora didn’t wait for you to follow—she didn’t need to.

As you trailed after her, the murmurs behind you faded into nothing, swallowed by the sterile hallways of the Red Room.

You didn’t say anything as she led you into the empty room. The silence between you was thick. You couldn’t escape that antiseptic smell. You sat on the bed, back straight, arms folded across your chest, eyes following the motion of her lab coat as it swayed with every movement.

She moved efficiently, methodically, gathering supplies without sparing you a glance. Her hands were quick, but steady, like someone who had done this a thousand times before.

“This is my second time patching you up this week,” Nora commented casually, her voice holding a hint of frustration but not quite pity. She turned to face you, her hazel eyes meeting yours for the first time since the confrontation. Her expression was unreadable, a practiced mask of professionalism.

You stayed silent, your lips pressed together in a thin line.

Nora shook her head slightly, as if disappointed, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she set down the bandages she’d been holding and picked up a sterile wipe, her fingers moving with precision as she began cleaning the gash on your cheek. “You’re reckless,” she muttered, but there was a sense of reluctant admiration in her voice.

You couldn’t help but let out a short, bitter laugh. “Reckless?” you echoed. “Isn’t that what they want from me?”

Nora didn’t answer right away. She worked in silence, her brow furrowed as she focused on her task. Finally, she spoke, her tone softer this time. “Not like this.”

You glanced up at her, caught off guard by the slight change in her demeanor. “What does that mean?”

She paused, meeting your gaze once more, and for a brief moment, you saw something flicker in her eyes—something human, something more than just the cold, professional persona she wore so well. A look she usually reserved for you. 

“Don’t make it easy for them,” she said quietly, almost as if she was speaking to herself more than to you. "You’re worth more than that."

You didn’t respond. There was no need to. You knew exactly what she meant.

"You're not my mother." You swiped her hand away from your face, the motion sharp and angry, but it didn’t seem to faze her.

She didn’t argue, didn’t react with anger or defense. Instead, her eyes softened, a brief flicker of something almost tender in them. She dropped her hand to her side, giving you space to breathe, space to cool off.

"No," Nora’s voice was quiet, almost sad. "I'm not."

The silence hung between you, thick with the weight of unspoken words. She didn’t press, didn’t try to make you talk, and for a moment, you almost felt a flicker of gratitude.

But you quickly buried it.

"Just... just do what you need to do," you muttered, turning your head away from her, focusing on the dull flicker of light overhead. Anything to avoid looking at her.

You weren’t sure what kind of words you wanted from her—maybe none at all. Maybe you just wanted to be left alone.

****

You were cocky, but she knew it was just a mask. She’d seen those rare cracks in your composure, moments when the swagger faded and something more vulnerable flickered beneath the surface. The other girls didn’t like you, and Natasha understood why. You were fast, smooth, and relentless in training; you never faltered in evaluations. No one could beat you.

But you were distant, never lingering with the others. Natasha often saw you slipping away, and she knew where you went. Dreykov kept you close.

It was another week she'd survived in the Red Room. The atmosphere in the evaluation circle was tense and charged with anticipation as the girls surround the mat, their eyes focused on the center. Natasha stood with her heart pounding, a cocktail of fear and adrenaline surging through her veins. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath as she watched the trainers move among the group, assessing each girl with a critical eye.

“Next up,” a trainer barked, breaking the silence. “Romanoff versus Mikhailova.”

Mikhailova, the girl she’s up against, strode confidently to the center. Natasha knew her by reputation: fierce and unyielding, a girl who thrived on intimidation. The two of them stood face to face, both about the same size; Mikhailova was only an inch taller and a year older.

Natasha took a deep breath, trying to steel her nerves. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation, but she knew the fight was inevitable.

Mikhailova smirked, her gaze sharp and calculating. Natasha braced herself, waiting for the attack. Mikhailova stepped forward, her confidence radiating from her as she smoothed her hair, a bright red ribbon tied neatly at the back of her head. They were both just girls, barely teenagers, yet here they are, pitted against each other in a brutal test of strength and skill.

And it came. Mikhailova struck first, a blow to Natasha's abdomen. The pain was immediate, but Natasha pushed it down, and her determination to survive pushed her forward.

The fight escalated quickly, both girls throwing punches and kicks, their movements fluid and instinctive. Mikhailova was a skilled opponent, but Natasha was quick, and her reflexes were sharp and precise. The two of them were well matched, the battle raging on for what seemed like hours, but both girls were determined to win.

Mikhailova threw a punch, and Natasha ducked, countering with a swift kick to the older girl's shin. The older girl faltered, and Natasha seized the opportunity, slamming her elbow into the older girl's chest.

A flash of pain crossed Mikhailova's face, but she recovered quickly, grabbing Natasha by the throat and pinning her to the ground. Natasha's eyes widened as the older girl's fingers tightened around her neck, cutting off her air supply.

As the seconds passed, Natasha's vision blurred, the edges fading to black. Her lungs burned, her chest heaving, the struggle to breathe growing more desperate with each passing second. She fought, trying to free herself, but Mikhailova's grip was too firm. In a final attempt, Natasha made a move that made the older girl loosen her grip just enough for her to slip free.

Natasha gasped, taking a deep breath, her lungs burning. She was on the ground, her heart racing, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She had to do something that she couldn’t come back from.

Her hand closed around a knife that's been tossed aside. Without a second thought, she drove it into Mikhailova's leg.

The older girl screamed, collapsing to the ground, her blood pooling on the floor.

The room was silent, the shock of the attack reverberating.

Mikhailova glareed at Natasha, her eyes full of hatred and pain. They know what happened next. Natasha's hand didn’t even shake. She quickly removed the knife from Mikhailova's leg, and the older girl let out a muffled cry, clutching at the wound.

"Put her out of her misery," One of the trainers demanded.

Mikhailova looked up at Natasha, her expression a mixture of fear and defiance. "Do it," She growled, her voice thick with anger and pain. "End this."

Natasha paused, her mind racing. The knife felt heavy in her hand. This was where you and Natasha differed. For her, if she said no, there would be no one to save her. You had the General. She had nothing.

So she did.

She plunged the knife into Mikhailova's heart.

The older girl gasped, her eyes widening as the life drained from her body.

Natasha stared down at her body, the realization of what she'd done sinking in. The blood rushed to her ears as she forced herself to remain upright. Her first kill. She'd done it.

"Congratulations, Natalia," Madam B's voice cut through the silence.She sounded almost proud. "You've proven yourself."

The older woman's words sent a chill down Natasha's spine.

Natasha looked up, her eyes locking with Madam B's, the older woman's gaze cold and calculating. "Don't get too comfortable," Madam B. continued.

Natasha didn’t respond. She looked down at Mikhailova's lifeless body again. Dedicated her face to memory. She had freckles.

The thought was fleeting but enough to bring her back to reality. She knew she's just won an important battle. But the war was far from over.

"Clean up," Madam B commanded.

Natasha's gaze snapped up, and she nodded, the movement mechanical and robotic.

She sknew she couldn’t stop. If she stopped, the consequences would be devastating.

********

In the shower, Natasha cried quietly to herself. She couldn’t stop thinking about Mikhailova. About the look in her eyes as she died. She'd been trained for this. She was a widow in training. This is what they do.

But it didn’t feel any better.

Minutes passed, she wiped away the tears and straightened her shoulders, her resolve firming. She couldn’t afford to break. She dressed quietly, ignoring the girls stepping in and out of the shared shower room.

Her mind was numb as she walked down the hallway, her footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. Suddenly, a familiar figure appeared.

"Y/n," Natasha whispered.

"Natasha," you replied, your tone equally soft.

"How are you?"

You hesitated, a flicker of emotion crossing your face. "Fine," you stated, your expression guarded. "You?"

"Same," Natasha answered, a lump forming in her throat.

You both paused, an awkward silence filling the space between you.

"I should go," Natasha said, her voice quiet.

"Wait," you replied.

Natasha's eyes met yours, and for a moment, the tension faded.

"You did great," You continue, a hint of pride in your voice. "Dreykov is pleased."

"Thanks," Natasha replied, her cheeks flushing.

"You deserve it," You added.  Before she could walk away you turned to her. "It's always hard. Your first kill." You elaborated.

"Is it?" Natasha asked, the question slipping out before she could stop herself.

"No," you replied, your tone somber. "I've found that the second one is worse. One time is an order. The second time is a choice."

"Oh."

The weight of your words hung in the air, the truth sinking in.

"Be careful," You added. "It will only get harder from here."

"I will," Natasha answered.

You give her a curt nod and turn, disappearing down the hall.

[revelboo]

Hello! Just wanted to thank you again for all your stories. Like many other people have already said, please take care of yourself. But also, I hope you're still enjoying writing these! Like it hasn't become an obligation or a source of pressure. Take all the breaks you need.

(You likely already know to do that, apologies. Just saying it because many many years ago I *didn't* know that ^^; )

No worries. That’s actually why I’d stopped writing on FFN years ago- felt obligated to answer every single request. At this point, I’m just doing this for fun. I’d missed writing silly TF stuff and you guys are challenging me to write characters I’ve never even considered

Drive Pt 5

Constructicons x Reader

• Tangled in your blankets, you curl onto your side with one of the three books that been in the things Bonecrusher and Long Haul had brought you and try to keep awake as Scavenger’s scoop sways with his steps. You’re not sure what they’re working on, only that you’d been picked up blankets, book, and all by Bonecrusher and plunked into Scavenger’s scoop. Along with three more blankets, a pillow, a bottle of water, and a box of granola bars. Can hear them softly arguing as they work, occasionally getting jostled when someone bumps your current ride and you tip your head up to stare at the stars overhead. Freedom all around you and you can’t get down without breaking your neck.

• Heading over to Hook to check the blueprints Scrapper had made for them, Scavenger can feel the warmth of you, feel every time you shift around inside his scoop and it’s a strange, but not unsettling sensation having you there even though he’d protested when Bonecrusher had just dumped you inside without asking. And it wasn’t like he could deny that you’re safer with them than alone in their habsuite. “You still good back there?” He asks walking back to gather more materials and shivering when you lay a little hand against him.

• Grabbing Scavenger’s scoop when he tries to walk past and tugging to make his brother nearly bend backwards with a strained ‘frag off, you glitch,’ Bonecrusher checks on you. Ignoring Scavenger, he rumbles when you look up at him and smile. Holding his brother still with one big hand as he struggles and swears, Bonecrusher reaches to rub a servo against your jaw and warms when you reach to touch his servo. Chasing you down had been fun, but now he just feels guilty about it. But he still gets a thrill remembering the hunt. Maybe when your ankle is healed you’d let him catch you again?

• Sitting up when Bonecrusher finally stops petting you and lets Scavenger go, you really can’t figure out their deal. The six big mechs so rough with each other, jostling and arguing. And then treating you like you’re made of glass. They’d chased you down like predators going after prey, scaring you half to death and now they’re keeping you like a favored pet. They must want something from you, right? Or maybe they just like having something to care for. Standing, you try to see out over the top edge of the scoop.

• “Don’t fall and break something else,” Hook growls when he spots your little head peeking out and he reaches up to tap you gently on the nose with a servo until you duck back down out of reach. He can still see the top of your head, though as you move around. “Stay down,” he adds tiredly. Because the rest of the Decepticons seem to have lost their minds and he’d rather you stay out of sight. Megatron’s little message to the ranks and then that stupid brawl between the commanders in the hall has him on edge. Just keeps circling in his processor. Cybertronians and humans fragging. Primus. You should be safe out here in the woods, but he’s not sure what to make of any of it.

• Sitting back down, you listen to them working. Hear them pushing trees down. Mixmaster laughing raucously at something Scrapper said that you didn’t quite catch. The sounds of metal on metal, thumps and rumbles. Hooking an arm around your pillow, you stretch out on your belly with the book. There’s not really enough moonlight to read by, so you just listen to them work. Trying to figure out why you feel so safe with them when you should be scared, trying to escape.

Previous

[syatbs]

MORE NAMGYU SMUT PLEASE

Killer of the Heart

summary: Where Nam-gyu has a sick obsession with you and doesn't want to let you go, at least not until he achieves what he wants… Or not?

જ⁀➴genre/au: Nam-gyu x reader [she/her, female anatomy}, smut, 18+, explicit content, mention of murder, stalking, obsession, mention of drugs.

જ⁀➴ Word Count: 2.923k

Find me on Ao3 for more frequent updates.

[Recommended Song: High Enough by K.Flay]

Obsession.

A term where I had never imagined myself crossing paths before. A disease that inflames my insides and ascends from my sternum up to my mind, where the wisdom lies within.

Such a disease that decays the brain and leaves the human flesh guided by nothingness. However, that is not quite my case. In fact, it is far from that. I’m being beckoned by feelings. Feelings that revolve around you and only you.

“Can you slow down?”

The hackles at the back of my neck rose at the sweet sound of your voice, a thrill blazing down my spine as from my periphery I could see you clutching the cushion of the passenger seat — a pathetic attempt to prevent yourself from the damage in case I swivel the wheel and crash into one of the thick trees’ trunk.

You are scared, I can tell with eyes closed. The flash of your cheeks, your gaze flicking every so often at me and trapping the bottom lip between your front teeth, gives the spot sans using any effort to call you out. Though, your mettle and the faith you have in me, elicit a smirk to curve at the corners of my mouth.

Despite knowing what a man I tend to be, you still chose me as your driver to return you home safe and sound. Call it stupid, but to my belief, it seems the wisest choice you ever made.

I’m high as fuck and a stinging pain throbs at the upper side of my face every time my eyelids flatter shut for a blink. The drugs I previously consumed vibrate in my bones, my system, and of course, my cock that twitches in my pants, begging for relief. I am going to lay my cards on the table and profess that the third sensation is due to your presence. Just having you here, right beside me where your warmth radiates and floods in me, has me mentally groaning at the fantasy of fucking you raw until you’re a breaking mess. To scream my name and your nails to scratch my skin until blood oozes out… To squirm around me and fight to escape me.

“I’m sorry love, but I’m afraid that I can’t.”

You scoff at the lack of verity in my tone. “Why?”

“Because you are a fucking cunt who doesn’t stop spreading open her legs for every dick she finds in her wake.”

Obviously, I don’t tell you that aloud, yet the spur to sing it out has me in a painful chokehold. Because of you, the lifeless body of a guy you allowed to slip his fingers beneath your panties and inside you, a few weeks ago, is now at the back of my car with ten lost fingers and a throat slit open. In a few words, I have a corpse in my vehicle and I have no interest in encountering any of the police who lurk in such late hours.

Again, I don’t say that aloud either.

In lieu, I press a few buttons, and music fills the suffocating atmosphere. It drowns for a short period my sick fantasies and a sigh falls past my lips.

Before you called me to pick you over from a party that one of your girlfriends hosted, I was out there hidden in the bushes as I stalked you from the windows of her apartment. I took plenty of your pictures and jerked off when you danced or did karaoke. I was so addicted to your sight that when I saw you almost getting hooked up with a stranger, it militated me from stalking you, to await the right moment to savage him.

It won’t be a difficult challenge.

Like the dead guy, he will soon follow the same tragic fate. Either I will feign that I’m a fellow student in his university and pose that I want to become his friend until I gain his trust so I can deliver the blade readily on his throat or go the easiest way and invade his apartment to catch him off guard.

I have connections at the Pentagon club where I work and in case things go south, they will have my back to erase any trail I leave behind. Every proof and evidence that gives away that it was me who committed the murder.

Notwithstanding that, I have the impression that you sensed my lingering thoughts back at the party. You didn’t fuck him and satisfaction licked my limbs like ravenous flames. Yet, that didn’t suppress the longing to torture him for the audacity to touch you, let alone speak to you.

You are mine.

The canopy of trees hedged us in at all sides of the empty road and far afield where the prying eyes could see what I was about to do. Perhaps you noticed that I missed a turn and now I was driving at the pits of the dark forest.

The night was still young and will be too bad if I stop directly outside the building you live. Let alone, wait for the precise moment when you will call me once again to help you out since no one is there for you. I grew bored playing the role of your best friend and it is finally time to make a statement… A message that signifies that I own you and nobody else.

“That is not the right way. You clearly missed a turn.” You said through gritted teeth. You tried to steel your spine to show me that you are undaunted but failed miserably.

We will work on that. Soon enough, come to that, because after I’m finished with you, there is no exit for you to skitter off. And if you dare to test it out and escape from my claws, I will chain you up on my bed or break your ankles so you cannot outrun me… Ever.

“Did I?” I mused, playing with your waters.

“You ask the obvious asshole. Don’t fucking mess around, I’m tired.”

“My sincere apologies, love.”

And I pressed the speed pedal harder.

As your back sank abruptly at the seat, you whipped your head to throw me one of your lethal pointed looks. You were seething, baby, and all my bloodstream gathered on my already swollen cock.

My voice dropped an octave. “Do me a favor first. And I promise after that, within ten minutes, you will be home.”

“Hardly to believe that.”

“Where is the trust, I’m your friend.”

Arguably it was the drugs that compelled me to act cocky because the way you pinched your freckled nose had me hot all over and not the terror of the possibility of losing you by my deviant demeanor. Your reaction made me goad you on.

Finally, you huffed and rolled your exposed shoulders back, to slacken off the stiffens that gathered on your muscles. “Fine. What is it?”

Darting my tongue to lick my lips, I tossed you a dark yet lustful glance. “Play with yourself.”

At that, you burst out laughing, your enchanting girlish sound a specter on my eardrums. However, when you saw me more earnest than ever, you sobered up, and a pink hue flashed on your cheeks. “Shit. You are actually serious.”

Unzipping my trousers, I fisted my erected dick. “Was I ever a liar, love?”

You cocked a brow at my falsehood, though it dissipated when your eyes dropped to my erection — something different licking your bright orbs. You watched me as I wiped with my thumb the precum that was leaking from the veiny tip, before giving a light pump with my fist.

My other free hand grasped tight the steering wheel and giving a jerk of my chin to your direction, I drawled. “Fuck your cunt, before I pull over and do it myself.”

I’m deeply aware of what personality I have created to become your trustworthy companion. Lying about being in a relationship, feigning that I’m gentle and caring was enough to waltz in your personal bubble and make you spit out your secrets in exchange for my comfort. Conversely, my eyes first spotted you at the club where I work and since then my obsession for you has only grown.

First, I followed you home. Then I broke into your apartment when you were at the university and set hidden cameras at every corner. Two weeks later, I spiked your water bottles that were stored on your fridge and fuck-fisted my manhood while lying beside your drugged form. Sometimes I undressed you and came undone at your bare pussy and before I wished you a goodnight, I slipped my fingers that were coated with my cum inside your tight walls.

I’m not proud of what I did, yet it was the only thing I could draw myself close to you.

Nevertheless, my whole point is that you never encountered me so blunt and crazy about you. To speak to you in a rigorous manner that forces you to press tight your thighs, desperate for some friction.

Reluctantly, you push apart your long skinny legs, forgetting immediately at what speed the vehicle runs. Your mini skirt rises at the stretch and dipping your hand, I see the sight of your drenched panties.

“Bloody hell… Already wet for me.”

Maybe it was the alcohol you imbibed at the party or the exhaustion that dances on your features because the furry that a moment ago festered you like a hurricane, now ebbed.

A moan of yours blooms inside the car and at that moment I regret having you in a small space and not somewhere where I could admire you and not the fucking road. To gather with my tongue the moisture in your folds and swallow. To be drown on you and only you.

Sensing your heating gaze down on my dick, your hand disappeared to your panties before pushing a finger into your tight pleading hole. Curling it inside you, you whine and I nearly lose control of the steering.

It was utterly different, hearing and watching you from up close and not behind the computer that is connected to the cameras.

“Nam-gyu…”

“You’re doing so well baby, fuck.”

My fist tightens its hold around my cock as I pick up pace. It throbs painfully and your hidden pussy makes it worse.

My tongue clicks at the roof of my mouth. “Take them off.”

There is a slight pause in your actions but quickly fades as your hips rise and do as I commanded. The thin layer slides down to your luscious curves and on your ankles before getting an angle that allows me to see your beautiful cunt.

The regret churns harder in the pit of my stomach.  

You add a second digit, thrusting now both of them on your opening while your gaze remains either on my profile or at my hard erection. You observe as I fuck my fist with the sounds you let out and my eyes narrow at the envisions that loom before me. The kind of envisions where I’m shoving my dick past your lips until it hits the back of your throat. To degrade you until tears well up on your trembling orbs and your pussy to pulsate in need.

 Your neck cranes as your back arches from the jolts of delight that jump on your nerves, and my frustration only festers.

I can’t refrain anymore.

Putting on the brakes, the wheels screeched at a sudden halt.

“Where are you going?”

Taking out the keys, the roaring engine switched off. Only the bright headlights remained on, to enlighten our surroundings, and kicking open the door, I rounded the vehicle. I stopped in front of yours and a flick of wariness gleamed on your tired eyes.

Without being willing to give you a reply, my hand hovered over the door handle, and slipping my other one under your bicep, I dragged you out.

I liked the way you writhed on my iron grip, but unfortunately, I had no passion to tease you. Pinning your torso on the hood, and your back to collide with my hard chest, my hips thrusted in the curve of your ass and growled.

When you tried to kick me, my fingers dug at the soft skin of your hips as I pushed one knee between your legs to mitigate the chances of kicking me on the shin or any other body part that I’m damn sure will hurt as hell.

“Quite feral, aren’t you kitty?”

You gasp offendedly at my comment and squirm once again. “Stop messing around, Nam-gyu. You play dirty!”

There was no disturbance or fear in you by the fact my bare cock is twitching in your rear. I’m your best friend, hypothetically, and you don’t even confront me for treating you so nastily. Baby, I start to think that you actually want this and what you display in front of me is only one of your woeful fake attempts to stop me. What you are doing, is simply an act.

“Dirty is my second name, if you haven’t guessed. And I played dirty games since the night I first met you.” Kissing the back of your ear, you sighed. “Tell me, did you ever feel like someone was watching you?”

It was too late to seal my lips as I had already fallen into the burning depths of hell.

You stiffened underneath me, yet before you demanded a better explanation, with a lift of your skirt I thrusted all my length to your heat. My eyes rolled at the back of my head as you screamed at the sudden stretch.

You were so fucking tight and tensing over my words doesn’t help the euphoric experience at all.

Finding your clit, I growled. “Focus on my finger. Feel what it is doing to you.”

“Stop…” You cried. Pulling out, I drove another thrust of my hips making you obtrude at the hard push. “Ah!”

Once your tight walls coated us both with your wetness, I picked up the pace, slapping my hips harder against you. Your cries and my groans joined alongside the night's crickets, stealing their performance with our sinful one.

My hand snaked around your throat and pulled you against my chest. You lolled your head towards me seeing now the devious glint that filled my expanding pupils. You were hazy, yet you still had the energy to shiver at the madness that flooded every apex of my body.

“Can you feel how your sweet pussy grips my cock?” I rasped.

You nodded as tears streamed down your face. My panting breath skimmed over your lips, before dipping my head and claiming them. My tongue fought entrance, your nails clutching at my leather jacket as I was showing no mercy at the assault of my hips and mouth. Our make-out session was brimful of lust, and a lecherous frisson ran down my spine. 

You were battling for a breath and I, to savor you. To ravage your sweaty flesh and my teeth marks to remain on your skin like favorable tattoos.

You are meant for me.

“Good. Because no one will have that but me.”

In a flash of movement, my hand forced your head back to the hood, and focusing on the thrust of my hips, my balls tightened as I ejaculated inside you. Letting my high linger for a while, I finally withdrew to fix my trousers.

Then I bend down to your entrance and sucking my cum from your red cunt, I grab a fistful of your hair, craning your neck to the side. As if you knew what I was planning, you opened your mouth like a good girl and I spit my seed for you to swallow.

I slapped your cheek with a mischievous smirk stretching across my lips.

“You did drugs, didn’t you?” You finally fess up once we are back in the car and ready to head back to the destination of my apartment. You might think I abide by the promise of returning you back to your house, though I won’t. After that experience, I don’t think I will be able to let you out of my sticky webs.

“Like someone wise said, don’t ask the obvious.”

You smiled at my tease, thus I noticed at the corner of my eye that there was sadness on your exterior. You weren’t fond of, since we first crossed paths, about me caning to such substances but it is easier to resume rather than quitting.

Soon your brows knitted into a deep line, losing yourself in your dreaming bubble. “You said about someone watching me when… You know…”

“Bending you over and fucking you?”

Blush crept through your cheeks and I repressed a laugh. “Yes. What was that about?”

Oh, how much I wanted to confess my sins of watching you on the restless night were exhaustion couldn’t reach me due to being far gone with your image invading my brain like obnoxious wasps. Therefore, when I glanced at your way and saw you skeptical, I just couldn’t.

In the end, I lied that it was simply a razz and there was no truth in my statement — thanking the destiny when you seemed convinced by my falsehood.

However, when you opened the sun visor to fix your smeared makeup, a photo slipped, before falling on your lap. And that photo was from nowhere else but you at the party I picked you up from.

[urlocalmultigroupfan]

ice.cream

pairing: barista!hyunjin x fem!reader

summary: based off of ice.cream by hyunjin....

tags/warnings: mentions of food, americano reference, non-kiwijin jinnie, ice cream (obviously), not that proofread, kind of suggestive if you squint, really short, prob forgot something

a/n: wait so many people liked deep end omg??? apparently if you change your aesthetic it gets more likes lmao....anyways....

this is a hyunjin oneshot based off of ice.cream!! hope yall enjoy <3

The sound of soft jazz filled the cozy café, blending seamlessly with the low hum of conversation. You sat at a corner table, a half-finished iced coffee sweating against your palm. It was an escape, a moment stolen from the chaos of your week. The air-conditioning kept the room cool, but your attention was drawn to the man behind the counter, his movements fluid as he worked.

Hyunjin.

The name sounded like a secret on your lips, though it wasn’t the first time you’d been here, not the first time you’d noticed him. He was magnetic in the way only some people could be without trying. The kind of person who could make stirring a cup of iced Americano look like performance art. His dark hair was pushed back, a loose strand rebelliously framing his face, and he wore a confident smirk that seemed to say he knew exactly the kind of effect he had on people.

Today was no exception.

“Another iced coffee?” His voice startled you, even though you’d been staring long enough to know it was inevitable he’d catch you.

You nodded, your throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. Sure.”

He leaned forward across the counter, a playful gleam in his eyes. “You know, we have a new special today. Something sweeter. Ice cream. You might like it.”

You raised a brow, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened. “Are you saying I don’t like my coffee?”

“No,” he said smoothly, the smirk deepening. “Just saying you might want to try something… refreshing. Different.”

Before you could respond, he disappeared into the back, returning moments later with a small dish of ice cream. It was delicately presented, the creamy dessert dusted with a hint of cocoa powder and topped with a single mint leaf. He slid it in front of you, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest second—a spark that felt deliberate.

“On the house,” he murmured, his voice low enough to feel like a secret shared just between the two of you.

You hesitated before taking a bite, but the sweetness of the dessert melted on your tongue, its coolness contrasting with the heat creeping up your neck. When you looked up, he was still watching, leaning casually against the counter like he had all the time in the world.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you replied, barely audible.

The smirk softened into something warmer. “I thought so.”

As the café slowly emptied, Hyunjin’s confidence lingered in the air. When he finally came around to clear the table next to yours, he paused, leaning just close enough for his cologne to mix with the lingering scent of coffee and sugar.

“You know,” he said, his voice teasing but somehow serious all at once, “if you like the ice cream, there’s more where that came from.”

His eyes lingered on yours, the challenge unmistakable.

And just like that, you knew—this was only the beginning.

hope yall enjoyed <3

todays writing playlist....

case 143 by stray kids, down bad by taylor swift, hype boy by newjeans, sour grapes by le sserafim, lose my breath by stray kids, twilight by stray kids, super shy by newjeans, how sweet by newjeans, love, money, and fame by seventeen, hall of fame by stray kids, flower by jisoo, cherish (my love) by illit, omg by newjeans, thinking out loud by ed sheeran, hold my hand by han, ice.cream by hyunjin, secret secret by stray kids, walkin on water by straykids, chk chk boom by stray kids, u by tablo and stray kids, happily ever after by txt, ain't shit by doja cat, industry baby by lil nas x, die for you by the weekend, not like us by kendrick lamar

*bold for explicit songs*

my playlist!

masterlist

taglist is open! comment if you want to join <3

[angelatmidnight1]

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

A/N: I've had a stressful couple of weeks and wanted to write a quick story with ler!Astarion and lee!reader. This was inspired by one of the helping lines he has where he says "you look good helpless". @tickly-deer-boy here is a quick Astarion fic!

Summary- Tav is stuck, and Astarion comes to get them out of trouble. He had no idea that they were ticklish…and gods, is it entertaining. 

Paring- Astarion x Tav (platonic).

Word Count- 1.8k.

Warnings- None. But please note this is a tickle fic!

Tav grunted in frustration as they tried to wriggle free from the narrow space between the crates. Their movements only caused them to get more wedged in the spot. They were reaching forward, straining to reach Lae’zel’s outstretched hand, only to just be out of her reach. 

“K’chaki. I told you to go around.” Lae’zel grumbled in exasperation. She withdrew her hand. “We waste precious time while you struggle. At any moment, we could become ghaik.” 

“I know that,” Tav groaned and tried to launch themselves forward. They barely moved an inch, and now their waist was fully stuck between the crates. “It’s almost like you’ve been saying the same thing since we crashed! If you’d shut up and give me your hand, I’d be out of here already.”

“You cannot reach my hand,” Lae’zel pointed out as if it was as obvious as day. “And I have no time to wait and make up for your shortcomings. Had I known you would slow me down, I would have left you to your fate on the nautolid.” 

“And you would have no astral prism. You’d turn into a mindflayer before me,” Tav grunted and decided to change tactics, twisting their hips to try and dislodge themselves. It didn’t work. Lae’zel checked her pack, believing she’d been the one carrying it, only for Tav to give a mocking sneer. “Honestly, it’d be an improvement. You wouldn’t be talking so much if you had a mouth full of tentacles.”

Lae’zel scowled. She took a step forward, hand on the hilt of her sword. “You think it’s wise to provoke me in your position?”

Before you could challenge her, Astarion’s silky voice sounded from somewhere behind you. “Now now, darlings. Let’s not turn our blades on each other. We’ve so many enemies we could stab instead..”

Tav heard the sound of his shoes crunching over gravel as he approached them. The sound stopped when he froze, taking in the scene of the trapped leader in front of him. “Oh. Oh dear. Someone’s gotten themselves in a spot of trouble, hm?”

Tav didn’t have to see his face to know he was smirking. They bristled, and they would’ve turned to leer at them if they hadn’t been pinned at the waist. “Hilarious, Astarion. Truly. How about doing something useful and helping me?”

The vampire clicked his tongue. “My, so touchy. I’m almost tempted to leave you there. Who knows what a less friendly adventurer would do if they found you?”

“You wouldn’t,” Tav retorted. “You’d miss me too much. Who else would wake up day after day to tell you how handsome you are?” 

“Cheeky,” Astarion smirked. “Still, I’m not convinced to help you. If only there was a word you could say that would make me reconsider. Something like, oh, I don’t know…please?”

“To hells with that,” Tav palmed the sides of the crates and pushed at them. Besides the occasional, minuscule move, they remained right where they were. Their face contorted with exertion, and they heard Astarion snickering behind them. 

“That’s four words, and I'm not looking for any of them.” Astarion stepped closer and leaned against the crates. “But by all means, keep squirming. You look good helpless…”

The heat rose to their cheeks, or maybe that was from all of their struggling? Tav wasn’t sure. They gave up on pushing the crates and twisting their body to and fro. Then, exhaling through their nose, they grumbled, “Fine. Please help me, Astarion. There, happy?”

“Your groveling skills need work,” he snorted. “But it would be cruel for me to expect a grand performance in your state. So of course, my dear, I’ll help you.” Astarion moved behind them, hands outstretching to rest on their sides. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and he rotated them to determine the best angle to pull them from. The light touches sent shivers up their spine, though he didn’t seem to notice. If anything, Tav would’ve chalked it up to the cold. Astarion moved his hands higher, now resting just below their rib cage. His fingers slid along their skin, looking for gods know what, and they jolted.

“What are you doing?” Tav cried incredulously. Lucky for them, he couldn’t see the grin tugging at the corner of their lips.  Lae’zel had already stormed off, leaving the two of them alone. 

“Helping you. Obviously.” Astarion rolled his eyes and readjusted his hold, returning to their sides. This time, he was squeezing them in an attempt to get a better grip. “And I’d have an easier time if you would hold still.” 

Tav choked on a giggle. They did the opposite of what he said and fidgeted some more. Suddenly, the impossible feat of getting themselves out on their own didn’t sound all that impossible. “Forget it, Astarion. I’ll d-do it myself..”

“Nonsense. Stop squirming, and I’ll pull you out.” 

“No, but-” 

Astarion’s fingers ghosted over their stomach, and they squeaked. He froze, and Tav felt their heart do somersaults in their chest. 

“What is the matter with you?” Astarion took his hands away from their belly, fingers resting just above their hips. The confusion was as clear as day in his voice. “You’re acting as if I’m hurting you.”

Tav remained quiet. They feared that they’d end up giggling if they spoke. 

“Tav? Am I hurting you?”

“...No.” Tav hesitated, shaking their head. They wracked their mind for a plausible explanation. “It’s just, uh, your hands. They’re cold.”

“Cold enough to feel through your clothing?” Astarion raised a brow, tone flat. “Odd. You haven’t told me that before..”

Tav didn’t even believe the tale they’d spun. “W-Well, they’re just that c—ah!” Tav squealed when he lightly pinched their hip. “Don’t do that!”

They went to smack at his hand, but hit one of the crates instead. Although they couldn’t see it, Astarion’s eyes brightened with mischief. 

“Oh, now I understand…” Astarion grinned a predatory grin, rolling his knuckles against their hip. Tav squirmed, biting down on their lip to trap the impending giggles. “You’re ticklish, aren’t you?”

“Noho!” The word alone sent butterflies in their stomach. They brought one of their hands up to their mouth, their other hand uselessly hitting the top of the crates. “Damn it Astarion, just pull me ouhuhut!”

“I’m trying, Tav, but you’re not making this easy for me.” Astarion shuffled closer to them, now using his thumbs to deliberately knead into their hips. Tav gasped and giggled into their hand, feet stomping into the dirt. “It’s impossible to get a good grip with you kicking around like this..”

“You’re nohoht trying!” Tav argued, bucking their hips as Astarion kept kneading into them. The ticklish sensations surged through them like electric shocks, and it was harder to suppress their frantic giggling. “Gah! S-Shihihit! When I get out of hehehehre, you’re dehehehad!”

“I’m already dead,” Astarion snorted. “But do tell me, what is so funny? Surely I am not tickling you?”

Tav growled in between their giggles. They giggled harder when he changed tactics and squeezed their hips again, again, and again. Both hands flew to their mouth to muffle their squeals. 

“Darling,” Astarion purred, “I need an answer.” 

“Gohoho to hehehell!” The dam broke, and Tav giggled freely. They twisted and bucked as much as their trapped position allowed, clawing at the crates. “Stohohohp it!”

“Stop what?” Astarion feigned confusion, nails skittering along their waistline. “I’m only trying to help, just as you asked! You’re stuck in here good, I’m afraid.”

“Nohoho! I’ll f-freehehee myself!” Tav sputtered as he dragged his nails up their belly. They shouted and shook their head back and forth, laughing loudly. “Let gOHOHOhahaha!”

“I can’t do that, dear. That would make me a terrible friend,” Astarion tutted. He stopped scritching at their belly, teasing their sides with featherlight strokes. “And, while I’m on the topic, do you know what else sours a friendship?”

Tav’s laughter died down to short, breathless giggles. Their cheeks were well beyond flushed, and they fidgeted in anticipation. “I—hah—don’t know... what?”

“Lying,” Astarion grinned and gently pinched just beneath their rib cage. Tav squealed and bucked. “For instance, pretending not to be delightfully ticklish when you very clearly are.”

Tav’s eyes widened, panic flashing across their face. “I’m—I'm nohot—”

“Ah-ah, there it is again.” Astarion double downed on his efforts, kneading one of his thumbs into the side of their belly. Tav shrieked and kicked their legs uselessly, falling back into another laughing fit. “You are an insolent little pup, aren’t you? Lying is one thing, but lying to a friend? Lying to me?” 

As if they weren’t already stuck enough, Astarion wrapped his free arm around their waist, making it much harder to squirm or kick. He continued tickling their stomach, alternating between gently scratching along their skin with his nails and kneading with his thumb. He moved at a leisurely pace, as if he had all the time in the world. And, truth be told, he did. Tav’s laughter took on a more desperate note, and they threw their head back. 

“NAHAHA! Alright! Okay! I’m sohohohorry!” Tav shouted and pounded their fist against the damned crates. They doubled over, or at least made an effort to, and squealed with laughter. “I’m sohohohohrry!”

“So you are,” he hummed. “And yet, I’m not fully convinced. You’ve already lied to me once. Who’s to say you aren’t doing it again?” He dropped to his knees, lazily raking his nails down the backs of their thighs. Tav shrieked and kicked around even more. 

“I’m nOHOHOHohohot! I’m not!!” Tav grit their teeth and giggled madly. They tried to lift their legs out of his reach, but he chased after them with minimal effort. “PLehehehehease! I’m nohoht lying!”

Astarion laughed. “You learn fast. It’s still a no, though. I’m just gutted that you would lie to me.” He pretended to sound sad while he spidered his nails along the backs of their knees. Tav howled, curling in on themselves as much as possible. “After all of the time we spent together! After I offered to help you..” 

Tav cackled when one of Astarion’s hands snuck back up to prod at their belly. He swirled his pointer finger in random patterns, scritching just shy of their hip bones, around their navel, and ending at their lowermost ribs. He did the same thing in reverse, eventually settling back on the ground to squeeze and tickle their knees and thighs. His fearless leader was a puddle of squeals and giggles, and that’s one crime he was happy to be guilty of. 

“I CAHAHAHN’T!” Tav went back to pounding their fists against the crates, eyes shining with tears. “Astarion, plehehehehehease!”

After what felt like forever, Astarion stopped tickling them. He gripped their hips and, with one firm pull, dislodged them from their trap. They fell back into him, and he held them up, still by their hips. “There you are, you’re free!” he snickered. “You’re welcome.”

Tav exhaled, shutting their eyes. They were coming down from the ticklish sensations, chest rising and falling from each breath they took. They were still smiling a bit, so what they said next had very little bite. “Bastard.”

“Careful,” Astarion tapped his fingers against their hips, and Tav lurched forward. “We wouldn’t want this little secret to slip to any of our friends, hm?” 

[apeachty]

₊ ˚ ⊹ teaser ; wild roses | cyj

⠀⠀⠀neighbour!yeonjun x fem!reader

genre ; soulmate au, angst, fluff, smut warnings | tags ; strangers to friends to lovers; slow burn

you were a curious child, so even before you started middle school, you knew exactly what kind of connection you had with your soulmate. you didn’t like it—there were so many beautiful bonds described in the old book you’d found in your local library, but yours was undeniably the “wild rose” connection. “feeling the pain of your soulmate” never sounded like something poetic or beautiful. still, you looked forward to meeting them, feeling the faintest echoes of their existence in the tips of your fingers when they played guitar, or the sting on your palms when they scratched against the ground during some unknown activity.

but as the years went on, the connection grew quieter. while others around you were meeting their soulmates in their teenage years, your own bond began to feel more like a distant memory. the last time you truly felt them, it was sharp and unrelenting—a deep, aching pain in your chest. heartbreak, you knew. and then... nothing. nothing except your own pain caused by your own missteps, and you didn’t even have time to dwell on it, too lost in the chaos of your life.

you told yourself the “unbreakable” connection had broken—maybe fate had changed its mind. but now, years later, amidst the whirlwind of grown-up problems and challenges, something shifted when you met another lost soul like yourself. and you weren't sure if it was about the “soulmate” connection you abandoned so long ago. maybe it was time to finally give someone else a chance—or more importantly, to give yourself a chance at happiness.

release date ; february 14th, 2025 taglist ; @.pagelets. let me know, if you want to be added too ♡

₊ ˚ ⊹ one fifth of a valentine’s event with talented moas! you can find full masterlist here ♡

[women-in-ssports]

Ch 2 Alumni Weekend

Ch 1 here

Ch 3 here

When they pulled up to the bar, the familiar buzz of the night out started to settle over Azzi. The crowd was loud and animated, and she could already see groups of former teammates, old friends, and alumni mingling in the dimly lit space. Azzi made her way to the front of the line, hoping to get her drink before the inevitable awkwardness of the night could fully take hold.

As she stepped up to the bar, she found herself right next to Paige. It was pure coincidence, but for a second, the world seemed to pause. Azzi’s stomach tightened, but she did her best to keep her cool. Paige, however, seemed unaware of her presence at first, distracted by trying to get the bartender’s attention. Azzi took the opportunity to pretend she hadn’t noticed Paige, her focus shifting just enough to give the illusion of indifference.

“Hey, can I get a dirty Shirley and a Bud Light?” Paige asked, casually.

Azzi didn’t even glance over as she leaned in to get the bartender’s attention, still trying to mask the wave of familiarity that hit her at the sound of Paige’s voice. But then, almost in slow motion, she felt Paige’s eyes on her.

The briefest moment of eye contact passed between them—too quick for Azzi to fully process it, but enough to make her heart skip. Paige quickly recovered, turning back to the bartender, “Can you add another dirty Shirley and some jello shots, please?” she said with a casual smile, sliding the order onto her tab.

Azzi stood there, silently observing as the bartender got to work. There was nothing left to do but wait for him to finish making Paige’s drinks. She was about to make her own order when, without warning, Paige slid one of the Dirty Shirleys in front of her, along with a shot.

“On me,” Paige said, her voice warm, almost too familiar.

Azzi blinked, momentarily thrown off, but then she reached for the drink, accepting the shot with a slight nod. Paige held hers out with a subtle smile, and Azzi clinked her shot against it. They both threw back the shots, the burn of alcohol a sharp reminder of how long it had been since they’d shared a drink together.

“Long time,” Paige said with a touch of nostalgia in her voice.

“I could say the same,” Azzi replied, her smile effortless as she locked eyes with Paige. It was easy, maybe even too easy, like slipping back into a rhythm they had long since forgotten.

For a moment, the world seemed to slow around them, and Azzi felt a strange sense of peace settle in. It was always easy between them, weirdly so. Even after everything, the tension that had existed between them in the past—at least, the one Azzi carried—seemed to melt away with every word. Maybe it was the familiarity. Maybe it was just the fact that, in that instant, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“Are you staying the whole weekend?” Paige asked after a beat, swirling her drink.

“Yeah, kinda have to. KK made me promise not to leave her alone,” Azzi replied with a grin, glancing over at her friends at the table.

“Oh, because we know KK can’t stand being alone,” Paige laughed, clearly aware of the energy KK always brought to a room. Both of them shared the unspoken understanding that KK could be the life of any party, effortlessly getting along with everyone.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Why, are you scared I’m going to be here the whole weekend?”

The words were out before Azzi could stop them, and instantly, the air shifted. Paige’s expression faltered, her eyes flickering just for a moment as she almost choked on her drink. There was something electric in that brief, shared silence, and Azzi couldn’t help but smirk.

Paige recovered quickly, brushing it off. “You know, because if we get put on separate teams for the alumni game, you might get your butt kicked,” Azzi added, leaning in slightly, her voice low but playful.

Paige shot her a look, almost exasperated, but a glint of challenge sparked in her eyes. “No way,” she said firmly. “There’s no way you’re beating me.”

Azzi’s smile only deepened. “We’ll see about that,” she replied with a teasing shrug.

“I think the last time we played each other was my rookie year,” Azzi said, the nostalgia creeping back into her voice. Paige couldn’t help but slip back into her mind to that time—Azzi’s rookie year, when they had only been broken up for a little while. It had seemed like Azzi was doing perfectly well, thriving even, while Paige felt like she was falling apart. But little did she know, Azzi wasn’t as put together as she appeared.

“I remember that,” Paige said softly, her eyes drifting momentarily, lost in the past. “You were so… confident, like nothing could touch you. I kept thinking you had it all figured out while I was just trying to stay afloat.”

Azzi looked at Paige, a quiet understanding passing between them. “You think I had it all together, huh?” she said, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. “I was falling apart inside, Paige. It didn’t look like it on the surface, but I was just as lost as you were.”

Paige swallowed, her gaze lingering on Azzi, as though seeing her for the first time in a new light. “You never let it show… and I guess neither did I.”

There was a pause, the weight of their shared history hanging in the air. Neither one of them spoke, but the tension between them was palpable, the unspoken truths settling like a quiet storm.

Just then, Paige’s girlfriend, Melody, walked up, her steps light but deliberate. She wasn’t jealous—at least, she wasn’t going to admit it—but it was hard to ignore the subtle tension between Paige and Azzi. After all, it wasn’t like the two exes still talked. The last conversation they had, if you could even call it that, had been months ago, when Azzi, a little drunk, had texted a simple “Hi.” Paige had replied in the morning with something polite but distant, and Azzi hadn’t responded. In the end, Azzi had deleted the message—and Paige’s contact, too.

But honestly, it wasn’t like it mattered. Azzi would be lying if she said she didn’t have the blonde’s number memorized, buried somewhere in the back of her mind.

Melody’s eyes flicked between the two, her smile polite but cautious, sensing something unsaid in the air. “Hey, everything good here?” she asked, her tone light but with a sharpness that only Paige could fully read.

Azzi, sensing the shift in energy, gave a half-smile. “Yeah, just catching up.”

Paige, caught off guard by the sudden tension, forced a smile and nodded. “Right. Just a trip down memory lane.”

Melody tilted her head slightly, then dropped the subject, deciding it was best not to press. Instead, she looped her arm through Paige’s, offering a silent show of solidarity as she casually steered the conversation in a new direction.

Caroline, ever the savior, spotted the shift in energy from across the room. Without missing a beat, she crossed the space with practiced ease, her gaze locking on Azzi for just a moment before she moved in. With a swift, playful motion, she grabbed Azzi’s arm and tugged her toward the dance floor, her voice light but with an unmistakable undertone of urgency.

“Come on, we’re getting you out of here,” Caroline said, flashing a grin at Paige and Melody as she guided Azzi away. “You’re too sober for this crowd anyway.” She whispered when they were out of earshot.

Azzi shot a quick glance over her shoulder at Paige, a mix of emotions flickering across her face, but Caroline was already leading her into the thrumming heart of the dance floor, where the music and chaos could drown out the weight of the moment.

Paige watched them go, the tension of the past few minutes still lingering in the air, but her focus shifted to Melody, who was now giving her a pointed look. It was clear she had noticed everything. But Melody didn’t push. She simply leaned in closer, and gave Paige a small kiss on the lips.

“I’m sorry,” Paige whispered, pulling back from the kiss, her fingers lingering on Melody’s cheek, as if trying to erase the unspoken tension that had crept into the air between them.

Melody’s eyes softened, her gaze steady and understanding. “It’s fine,” she replied, her voice calm but with an edge that Paige couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was a hint of uncertainty or maybe it was just the weight of everything that had happened earlier. Either way, Melody didn’t press.

Paige smiled down at her, trying to push the knot in her chest away. She really did love Melody. They had been together for a few years now, built a life and a rhythm together. But in this moment, surrounded by old memories and the echoes of past conversations, Paige couldn’t help but feel a tug at something deep inside. Being back here, in the same space where so much had unfolded, where she’d shared parts of herself with Azzi that felt like another lifetime ago, was messing with her emotions more than she cared to admit.

She kissed Melody again, a bit more gently this time, but even as her lips pressed against the girl she loved, there was a part of Paige that wasn’t fully there. It was a quiet battle between the past and the present, and Paige wasn’t sure how to navigate it—if she even could.

From the dance floor, Azzi caught the last kiss Paige gave to Melody, her gaze lingering longer than she intended. It was a simple kiss, soft but full of meaning, the kind that spoke of years shared and quiet love. But as she watched, Azzi’s heart gave a sharp, unexpected twist.

She wouldn’t admit it to anyone—not to Caroline, not even to herself—but in that moment, she wished it was her. She wished it was still her, the one Paige pulled closer, the one Paige kissed with that softness that could make the world feel right.

Azzi quickly turned her attention to the flashing lights, her smile tight and forced, trying to lose herself in the rhythm of the crowd. But even with the music pounding in her ears, the feeling lingered, bitter and familiar.

She tried to shake it off, but a small part of her—a part she rarely acknowledged—couldn’t help but wonder if there was a version of her and Paige where they hadn’t ended, where maybe they’d still be standing there, kissing under the dim lights, like nothing had ever changed.

[tobiasdrake]

How would you write Majin Boo and Yamcha in the Tournament of Power, instead of Roshi and 17?

Honestly, Buu would be pretty game-breaking. I can't really conceive of any reason why Buu wouldn't absorb Jiren and anticlimactically waste everybody else fighting in the tournament.

As the be-all end-all final villain of Dragon Ball, Buu's ability to just eat whoever's stronger than him and gain their power for himself is completely busted. It makes it very difficult to write him into scenarios where he is a struggling underdog trying to compete with a superior foe.

Which is probably why Super snubs him so much. This is a character who has near limitless regeneration on top of the ability to turn every single fighter in the tournament into candy and he can just absorb everybody who's stronger than him whenever he runs into a brick wall. That's great for an overpowered villain that we need to find some way to beat, but terrible for a protagonist who needs to be challenged.

Like. It cannot be understated how devastating Buu's Candy Beam would be here. He can spread it over a wide area. He could literally step out onto that stage and Gobstopper every fighter from every universe simultaneously.

And sure, some of them would be able to Universe's Strongest Jawbreaker that shit. But it's still kind of purpose-defeating if like 80% of the assembled fighters are KO'd in the first three seconds. Buu just waves his antenna and erases anyone who isn't Power Levels enough to compete with Vegetto? Okay, man. There go all the fun fights for the weaker characters. Buh-bye.

Even then, if they aren't allowed to fly, like... how are they supposed to fight now? Is Gobstopper Jiren just supposed to spend the rest of the arc rolling into other gobstoppers super hard to ping them off the field?

Actually, that sounds amazing. XD

But in an AU capacity, not in a "This is seriously the plot of the show" capacity.

I don't think Toriyama would have kept Buu around if he wasn't planning on closing the book on Dragon Ball shortly after. Buu joining the supporting cast is very much a "Fuck it, we're done anyway" decision that the series is now paying for, and its solution is to just... find ways to conveniently kick him out of the cast over and over again.

Going into the Tournament of Power... Like, right from the get-go, Buu is going to be nerfed by the rules of the tournament. He can't eat people. That would probably be how you get around the "Buu just deletes half the tournament roster" problem.

He's just. He's not allowed to use his powers. Sorry. Buu has to fight with one hand behind his back. Dem's the rules.

I don't know if he would actually abide by that rule. He might just end up disqualified after eating Toppo. Buu is a selfish, impulsive hedonist who reflexively lashes out at authority. He's just gonna do whatever he wants and let the chips fall where they may.

But if Mr. Satan tells him not to eat anyone, he... probably won't eat anyone? Might still Candy Beam them though. Turning them all into marbles and rolling them off the stage would technically be within the terms of a "NO EATING PEOPLE" restriction.

Buu's crowd control options are bad for the narrative integrity of a battle royale. Even right now, I'm trying to figure out how he could be involved and still having to write around his powerset rather than being able to incorporate and challenge it to its fullest.

I don't know. It's honestly difficult to incorporate him in a way that would be respectful and utilize him in interesting ways without letting him dominate and break the plot.

I think he could work as the villain of another universe's story. Have Buu take the field as the threat that's gonna carry us to victory until fighters from another universe find a way to team up and take him down.

But for the life of me, I can't get around, "Why doesn't he just Candy Beam the entire arena?"

...

As for Yamcha, I probably wouldn't write him into the Tournament of Power. Yamcha quit during the Cell arc and I'm entirely happy to let him. If I was writing Yamcha in Super, probably the only thing I'd do with him is properly introduce his new girlfriend from the end of the Cell Games.

Put an actual name and a face to her, so the fandom can stop ignoring her existence when they complain that Bulma condemned Yamcha to die alone and unloved.

I mean, I'd pick Yamcha over Roshi, to be sure. I feel like the series has forgotten that the Muten-Roshi isn't Goku's "One True Master" or anything like that. Goku has a lot of respect for the man who set him on his path, and he wears the Kame-senryu dogi out of that respect. But he learned everything Roshi had to teach him and left him in the dust long ago, a fact that made Roshi proud.

That story is over. The Muten-Roshi is a 300-year-old man who just wants to enjoy his retirement. Stop trying to make him relevant again! And also just. In general. Stop trying to make "Goku the wide-eyed pupil" happen again. It's done. He's a master now. Let him be a master.

Lotta beefs with DBS.

But yeah, while I agree with the criticism of "Why Roshi and not Yamcha", it's only to the extent that going with Yamcha is still kicking the can down the road. I cannot conceive of a single way that Yamcha's character or the story would be enriched by the Tournament of Power, that wouldn't just feel like hollow fanservice.

"Yamcha got to WIN A FIGHT AGAINST SOMEONE. This one's for you, Yamcha stans! Okay, he's done, someone punt this dipshit off the stage."

Which. To be fair. A lot of the ToP is hollow fanservice. I... did not like that arc very much. Or DBS as a whole, for that matter. So I'm probably not the guy to figure out the best way to utilize characters in it.

But for me, I'd be more interested in a proper Yamcha epilogue that closes out his character on a satisfying note and sends him off, than in desperately trying to drag Yamcha back into the game and shackling him into a status quo he already respectfully bowed out of.

[strangeauthor]

fuck it im posting the snippet. im asking if i format this right and if it flows correctly. alt in readmore (no spoilers in this btw)

context: they are trying to get the road trip started but don't know where to look so they're not going on a wild goose chase. to narrow things down, Adam suggests trying local legends, because behind every myth is a sliver of truth, at least according to his father. speaking of his father, he told one story around bedtime years ago that stuck with him, and here it is.

Adam’s cheeks turned the same shade as his hair, before he cleared his throat and began his tale:

“Long before the age of technology, a man traveled to America from Scotland, but it wasn’t for a chance to start a new life. No, he wanted to find what was known as ‘The World Beneath the Earth’, an underground cave that, according to rumors, is filled to the brim of shining jewels that glow, and if you so desire, it can make a wish come true. Any wish, to be exact. Money, power, riches, youth…anything. Many had tried to find it, but none succeeded. To most, it was nothing more than a silly urban myth. To him, it was a challenge like no other.”

“Huh,” Jacari said, “That sounds a lot like the moonstones. The cave, I mean.”

“It does!” Adam nodded. “I swear, when Nick showed me them the first time, I was wondering why they looked so familiar! Back on track, it took the man twenty years to find the so-called World Beneath the Earth, until he stumbled upon it while in what is now known as Utah.” Adam leaned back. “Details are still sketchy on how he found it. Maybe he ran into a local who knew the area. Maybe luck. Maybe he was compelled by the jewels. The story changes often—dad’s version was luck.”

“What didn’t change was what he found. He did find the jewels, and he did get his wish, but when he came to the world above…he discovered that the world was changed. He thought he was only gone for three days. He was away for three hundred years. Every friend and family member he once knew were long dead.”

“Jesus Christ…” Nick muttered.

“Yup. Some still say he wanders the earth as an ageless man, trying to find a way to go back to his past, but he never can. The jewels in the cave vanished, leaving him trapped forever in a new, unfamiliar world.” Adam shook his head. “Great bedtime story for kids, huh?”

“That was a bedtime story?” Maria gasped.

“Scottish fairy tales were just like that.”

[dammit-tazmuir]

I just genuinely do not remotely understand where you're getting this notion that "there's nothing sympathetic about Ianthe" or that "we're not supposed to care about her." Like where is your textual evidence? Because I have literally not seen one single person in this fandom yet who doesn't adore her, and I have a very hard time believing that's by accident.

I've seen people shit on Corona, and even rip her apart to emphasize Ianthe's tragedy without acknowledging how mutually toxic they are. I've seen people fail to acknowledge the nuance and sympathetic circumstances around all of John's stuff. I've seen almost nothing but making Silas the butt of jokes, and only very rarely any appreciation. I've seen people have problems with Palamedes of all people. I've seen criticism for Paul's existence.

I have at not one point yet encountered a person who doesn't adore Ianthe and want good things for her. I have never seen a single person be like "fuck that toxic bitch, I hope she gets what's coming to her" the way they do characters like John. Like maybe I've just been lucky so far, but I'm sorry, it REALLY, REALLY does sound like you personally sympathize with her LESS than most people do and are projecting that onto other people? Or taking "she's awful" extremely literally. Have you never seen or written a character that makes you go "oh they're the absolute worst, I adore them"? Is that just a new concept? I want to understand here.

I typed up a whole big thing about personal theories for Ianthe's mentality but decided it was probably too much and saved it elsewhere, so let me know if you want that I guess, but no worries if not.

For that matter though, what specifically proves that "Harrow is a terrible person"? Because a lot of fans find her deeply relatable, and there are both fans and other characters who don't see her sour grumpy attitude as particularly offputting and some actively find it endearing. "She made Gideon's life shitty for 16 years" can only do so much heavy lifting when we know for a fact Crux and other adults were worse offenders, Gideon was also constantly shitty to Harrow, Harrow was literally younger than Gideon, and Harrow was dealing with severe and untreated mental illness that Gideon personally exacerbated. (We KNOW Gideon is inclined to pull pranks on Harrow and rearrange things when she's out of the room and do other things that were very likely to cause Harrow to need to go to Crux for reality checks, that Gideon is a significant contributor to her fearing she's simply insane, and that she was actively afraid to let Gideon specifically know bad her brain was even though that could have helped a lot of them a lot.) And also when that stopped nearly immediately the second they were away from the adults perpetuating it. I don't know man but I feel like staying in a pattern one was raised in when it's never been challenged says a lot less about a person than how they behave and adapt once it's gone.

Is it because the baby nun who was 500% paranoia by volume between her hallucinations and her recent trauma she can't properly remember and having been raised to be extremely secretive at all times Or Else wasn't ecstatic about being romantic or bffs with someone who she knows killed and ate one of the only other friends she had in cold blood while also dealing with constant attempts on her life? Because even with all that she was honestly still pretty soft with Ianthe. Denying being friends in words doesn't change that she was relying on Ianthe and trusting her even more than she did their God and being fairly intimate with her. Actions should speak louder than words.

Like genuinely, why do you think "we're not supposed to" like or care about or sympathize with Ianthe, or that Harrow is objectively terrible start to finish? I don't see it.

A big reason I ignore all the meta from Tamsyn Muir about The Locked Tomb is that her values system about some of her characters seems deeply at odds with their characterization in-book.

Muir clearly loathes Ianthe, and yet HTN shows an Ianthe who is deeply insecure, scared, and desperately lonely. Yeah, she killed her Cav and a few other people. This is quite bad. I do not think Ianthe is a good person. But I don't find her irredeemable like Muir says.

Hitting on Harrow isn't ideal, but also Harrow is her only friend and flirtation is one of the few ways Ianthe knows to show her companionship. Throughout HTN, Ianthe seems to be trying to make friends, to be helpful, and is rebuffed at every turn by Harrow.

In contrast, while Harrow is less evil than many of the other characters, she is clearly a profoundly horrible person. She is mean and cruel to those around her, she has made Gideon's life absolutely miserable for 16ish years, she rebuffs basically every single offer of help and friendship anyone but Gideon ever shows her in either of the two series (and quite meanly; basically anything anyone ever gets from her is some verbose equivalent of "go fuck yourself".)

But we spend all this time in her head, so we know it's because she's scared and insecure and doesn't know how to handle it. So very much of her behavior is forgiven by Muir and by the audience because of this. A sizeable portion of the fanbase seems to be mad at John for trying to tell her to get more sleep, or to try doing something relaxing (make soup), or even to ask other people for help. Yes, you cannot will your way out of depression, but "try to get more sleep" and "do soothing things" are basically foremost of any serious advice for how to deal with it.

John doesn't know why she's been not getting enough sleep. But he's also a deeply fucked-up person. And yet he's trying with Harrow. Badly, clumsily, but trying. He doesn't really know why she's been on such edge and miserable. But Harrow never tells him. She has John and Ianthe (and probably Mercymorn and Augustine, although they're even more fucked up) she could have tried asking for help, and refuses.

But, Harrow is the protagonist, and we see inside her head, and she's not willing to actually murder Gideon, and she thinks murdering 200 children was bad, actually. So we're expected to sympathize with her.

Don't get me wrong, I sympathize with her. I want her to be better. I like fucked-up protagonists who aren't great people.

But do not, for one second, suggest that Harrow is not one of the worst human beings in this series (behind John, Cytharea, Mercymorn, Augustine, and Ianthe, in roughly that order). She brings an untold amount of her misery upon herself by being deliberately, not prickly, but just so. fucking. awful.

[pocketramblr]

Crying the others have so much respect for Rulie and he has no clue. he's just a guy.