#bc your entire life is still ahead of you

[pjharvey]

it's so goofy that questions about ur first kiss and your first time are questions that i will never be able to think about or see without going into an insane spiral bc i feel very uniquely broken but like one day they'll invent a new kind of therapy just for me and i'll be able to like deal with it i guess

[jjk4isen]

ꗃ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃, 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 .

❝ answer me. did you think of her when you're in bed with me? when you're kissing me and holding me— was she the one on your mind? ❞

summary: it's hard knowing you aren't really the person in toji's heart but loving him was something you still did regardless. as for toji, he thinks he's ready to give you his all.

desc: 2.8k words, f!reader (referred to as ‘mama��), canon compliant i think, takes place after mamaguro's death and before toji’s, age gap (early 20s reader, early 30s toji), baby gumi ahhhhh, sfw, angst to fluff to angst again lol, intended lowercase, think you're tsumiki’s mom but without tsumiki bc the relations would be too complicated and also the second wife erasure in the canon storyline?? yeah it's reserved specifically for this fic, not proof read i fear but pls read it's really interesting i can swear by it lmaoqhdhns

dating a widowed man with a son wasn't easy especially when the said man is still in love with his former wife, or rather, his wife who had died.

love is often beautiful but sometimes it's unfair. it can also be cruel. what other reason would make you still stay despite knowing you'll never measure upto the person who had been here before you?

and you've heard stories about her. she was sweet, so beautiful— not just in her appearance but her entire being was beautiful. there always was an ache in your heart upon just the mention of her name.

so how much more would it have ached for toji?

“mama” the spiky haired boy, barely two years old calls you and you realise the silence in the room. “not mama, i’m nana okay?” sick.

nana. not mama but close enough. it doesn't matter anyway, n and m are just letters and next to each other so how much difference would that make? you're the one that's here after all, are you not?

if there's a lump in your throat and your eyes are burning with unshed tears, you force yourself to ignore.

“okay nana” megumi nuzzles his face into your chest, slowly drifting away to sleep. the boy always liked cuddling with you and it melts your heart immensely.

your hands strand through his dark hair. people always said he's the carbon copy of his dad but you'd like to differ. megumi has his mother's eyes and his hair resembled hers more than it did his dad's.

the thought sends another ache in your chest but you push it away– as you always have.

you recall the last time toji had heard megumi call you “mama”. you had never seen toji that livid. he was never a gentle man to begin with but that night, there was nothing else you've been more scared of.

was he like that to his wife? maybe not.

does that matter though? it's not like toji treats you badly. he's decent and loves you an enough amount. you weren't crazy enough to stay when you're not wanted so that must mean you were something to him right?

you also recall the whispers of pity and condemnation thrown at you for just being with toji. him being a brute is one thing but the difference in age is what people seem to have a problem with. you're so much younger than him and have your whole life ahead of you so why are you entrapping yourself this way?

you disagree though. love doesn't know any age and you definitely aren't naive to be head over heels over a guy just because he's relatively older. no, this was real and genuine.

a faint knock disrupts your train of thoughts. “he sleepin’?” toji nods towards the small boy in your arms and you nod back in return.

taking care not to wake the sleeping kid, you slowly pry his hands away from you and pull over a blanket to cover his small body.

when you make your way towards toji, he wastes no time in pulling you closer “missed you” he mumbles, placing a kiss onto your forehead and suddenly all thoughts plaguing your mind disappears. that's all you could ask for, even if it was just for a moment.

“i missed you more” you whisper back, he only huffs out an amused chuckle.

“got bad news though” a frown finds itself on his lips, decorated by a single scar next to it.

“did you lose all your money again?” toji was a gambling addict, another thing you forced yourself to tolerate just for him.

“sorry, doll. thought i’d win this time” he rubs small circles on your back comfortingly and it makes you a bit uneasy to know that he has his way with you so easily.

“it's alright. i’ll just find another part time job”

“so good to me” toji pulls you into his chest and you let out a sigh— of exhaustion? relief? you couldn't really tell but that's not important, toji had you in his arms.

“i’ll try and think of something too. don't worry your pretty little head too much” he lifts you up with ease. while you're in his arms, you feel the safest.

toji really felt bad this time. he was confident he would win but that stupid horse had to trip and lose its lead, ending up last of all places. he knows luck never favoured him but that's didn't stop him from trying again and again and again.

he also knows how you didn't say anything more than necessary about it but he isn't that much of an idiot either. he sees how your expression falters and your shoulders slump a little more when he comes home with another news of his gambling loss.

this is also why he tries, or rather, tried to quit — one too many times, unbeknownst to you. however, old habits die hard and most of the time (everytime) toji gives into his urge and loses yet again. the cycle keeps happening.

maybe this isn't just about gambling.

with the way you're asleep so soundly next to him after putting his son to sleep and taking care of him too, he is overcomed with yet another feeling to be better for you and megumi alike.

toji isn't a gentle man; everyone knows that, you do too — even more than anybody else but he can't help the familiar pool of warm feelings surging through him the longer he stares at your peaceful state.

he remembers the last time he felt it, with another person. it felt like a lifetime ago.

he also remembers how painful it was when he lost it — the person, the feeling altogether. his hands that were making their way to caress your face stops mid air.

toji knows you deserve so much better. you've been nothing but patient to him, so amazing, so perfect to him. still, he just can't do it yet, just not yet.

he will eventually, he hopes you stay until then.

toji wakes up to an empty bed and his heart sinks a little but the creases and wrinkles on the sheets serve as a reminder that you were really here.

he makes his way towards the kitchen, only finding megumi sitting on a chair next to the dining table.

“hey kid, where's your mama?”

toji freezes. it came out so naturally he didn't realise he said it himself and almost thinks he didn't but megumi's wide eyes prove that he actually did.

“m…mama?” megumi says hesitantly and toji nods this time. “yes, your mama”.

“potty potty!” megumi points to the bathroom and giggles, toji follows suit. the man crouches to his son's eye level and pats his head.

“you love your mama, kid?” toji sees megumi's eyes sparkle as the boy nods enthusiastically “very very much!!”

“yeah? i love your mama too.”

toji smiles to himself, he can't wait to tell that to you.

the next time toji got his pay, he finds himself hesitating. instead of heading towards the race tracks, his feet takes him to a jewellery store.

instead of picking out a slot and testing his luck, he picks out a ring. it's not fancy by any means but he thinks it would be the most beautiful band of metal to exist if it slides into your ring finger.

the tiny ring carries all the heavy feelings he has for you.

──

it was one particular evening when you saw an old man lingering by the front gate. its particular because the warm sunset and the soft cool breeze contrasted the ground breaking truth you find out.

“can i help you?” you ask the old man who looks at you up and down, not making an attempt to hide his distaste of your sight.

“is this where toji zenin lives?” he stares down at you with his scrutinising gaze; it makes you feel small.

“zenin?” you ask, confused. is he referring to toji? but his last name is fushiguro is it not?

“yes toji zenin. i heard he has a son as well. you're not the mother are you?”

is it that obvious? you wonder how the old man figured it out. regardless, you're not about to give him his answers so you stood your ground.

“i’m sorry i don't know what you're talking about.” you turn around, about to head inside when his words make you stop short.

“are you fushiguro?”

that's toji’s last name isn't it? not zenin or whatever he called it. so why is he asking you that? is he implying that you're married to toji?

“no. you have the wrong person.”

“why? did he say not to get involved with anyone from his clan?” the old man draws closer, chucking to himself. you're just there unmoving, trying to comprehend the situation and the words coming from his mouth.

“or did he not tell you that either? did he tell you anything at all?” he stands tall in front of you, tearing away bits of yourself with every word he says.

“when he returns, tell him the clan wants to propose him an offer. you can do that much at least won't you?”

…

and when toji comes home that night with the ring cluched tightly in his fist and inside the pocket of his white pants, the world stills.

he finds you in a state he has never seen you before. you look completely and utterly defeated.

“hey, what's wrong?” his hands come to caress your face so effortlessly, the ring and prior nervousness long forgotten.

“talk to me what's going on?” he looks around and the house seems emptier than usual. your laundry that were usually hanging with his were gone.

your small trinkets you placed around the house to “make it more lively” were nowhere to be found.

and there's a bag in the corner of the room which toji prays and hopes he isn't what he thinks it is.

your hands push away his own that were cupping your face. you're not even looking at him.

“say something damn it!”

you flinch and toji takes a step back. he recalls the last time you trembled in fear — when he got mad megumi called you his mom. he punishes himself for it.

“im sorry. please talk to me.” he isn't touching you now but he wants to. he wants to reach out and pull you close, as he always had done. but now there's an unbearable silence and the small distance between you both felt like lightyears away.

“who's zenin” your voice was meek, barely a whisper but toji's eyes widen. how did you find out about that?

no fuck that, he was supposed to be the one telling you. in his own time.

“i can explain” was all that came out of him. he's nervous, he doesn't know where to start. there's a lot of information to unpack and he's not sure how to do it without hurting you too much.

when he doesn't elaborate, you ask another “who's fushiguro then?” your voice falters a bit and toji curses himself for it.

but he's done running away and keeping things from you. “my… my late wife” he says wryly.

your eyes close and a shaky breath leaves your body, as if he just confirmed your worst suspicions. damn life is so funny isn't it? everything you thought you knew apparently wasn't what it seemed to be after all.

opening them again, your vision blurs and you realise tears were escaping your eyes. fuck you didn't want to cry now of all times but they won't stop.

and the way toji was looking at you, it makes you want to throw up.

“i must've been so stupid to you” you let out a humourless chuckle. “did you pretend im her?”

your gaze was sharp and so were your words. maybe all your bottled up feelings were resurfacing. it doesn't make you feel better about it but that doesn't stop you though.

“answer me. did you think of her when you're in bed with me? when you're kissing me and when you're holding me, was she the one on your mind??” your voice was loud now. you should be afraid of waking up megumi who you cradled to sleep just a few hours ago but no, your thoughts are too clouded right now.

toji sighs. he has no excuse.

“i used to” he actually looks ashamed as if he wasn't the one who did it purely out of his will.

your scoff makes him wince “but not anymore.”

his words fall on deaf ears “you know… i knew you did. but i stayed regardless because i thought there would be a chance that maybe one day, you could open up your heart to me. im not even asking for all of it, just a little… i thought you'd let me in.”

you're blabbering and honestly, so distraught.

“but not a moment was there when it was me isn't it? it was always her in the first place.”

now toji should have said something, anything but he stays there planted in place. and maybe that was your breaking point.

you turn around, grabbing your bag and brushing past him towards the door. instead of holding onto you and stopping you, toji clutches the small box containing the ring — your ring in his pocket, almost crushing it in the process, as he hears the door slam.

you think it's funny how toji did not reach out after what happened. it's poetic even. very fitting of him, till the very end, he did not give two shits about you.

so then, why were you back here?

it's been four long years since the trajectory of your life changed. you still don't know if it was for the better or for the worse.

saying it has been hard would be an understatement. it took you a long time just to get back onto your own feet but you did it regardless. however, you left a part of you here long ago and now, you're here to take it back.

that and you missed megumi dearly. perhaps it was an excuse too because you won't deny a part of you still missed toji, despite everything that happened.

standing a few feet away from the place you used to call home, you hesitate.

maybe this was a bad idea. oh this was definitely a bad idea. you'll see them, and then what? what comes after that?

closure? don't make yourself laugh. you’ll just be reminded of how you couldn't be that person for toji— how you'll always come second. and what if they moved?? there's no reason they'd still be here right?

forget this, you don't need to do this. why must you still be the one who put effort? to reach out? four long years passed and still no news means they clearly moved on... right?

you were convinced enough and was about to go back when you saw little megumi carrying a backpack on his back, seemingly coming home from school.

your feet wouldn't move and your eyes wouldn't blink. he grew up so well.

the world pauses as your gaze follows the kid you used to consider your own, now as good as a stranger.

“do you know that kid?” a voice at your back makes you whip your head around. life really is full of surprises and this time, the surprise was in the form of a tall man, no a tall kid with white hair, looking at you curiously through his round tinted glasses.

“... no i don't” well you weren't exactly lying. you don't know the megumi you see now. perhaps if he asked whether you raised him since he was a baby till he was two, then your answer would've been different.

“oh okay” the boy shrugs. “poor guy though”

“why? whats up with him?” you turn to look at megumi again who was minding his business walking home and your heart aches a little.

“I'm here to recruit him. his dad died you see so he's–”

“wait what was that??”

“his dad. he's dead” the amused boy in front of you chuckles and you stare at him, horrified.

“what happened to him?” your voice was shaky and doesn't sound like your own. he leans down to meet your eye level and smirks “why? i thought you don't know that kid. why does that matter to you?”

your stomach churns as you stare at him, not even knowing what to say— the smug expression on his face only widens.

“so you do know him.”

'know' would be a weak word to use when it comes to toji. you knew of his habits, the simple things he does and also of the more complex ones — like the exact place his scar decorated his lips and how it felt to kiss it.

then again, you don't really know anything about him and maybe you never will.

and maybe that's really, the closure you needed.

[kaeyeahsworld]

The Right Choice

content warning: mild abusive relationship, thoughts of cheating (but none actually) scumbag ex, mild violence, regret, big dick toji, eating out, female reader, fingering, orgasm, 18+, angst bcs I love writing it.

A/N: another tattoo artist Toji brain rot. Not proof read or edited pls don’t come after me, come after or for toji which ever works for u :D

It had been an entire year of your scumbag boyfriend setting up his own tattoo parlour right along side Toji’s.

Although in the initial days, your boyfriend’s place had done better compared to Toji’s simply because he was loud and obnoxious enough about his work, but when ultimately it came to finesse in the art Toji remained undefeated.

Toji’s calm but awkward manner with the clients made him an instant favourite in stark contrast to your boyfriend who only cared about the bucks.

With the tattoo parlours being almost beside each other, you often bumped into him. The first few times were just awkward but prolonged eye contacts, that went ahead to subtle smiles and Toji’s crinkling eyes, which at last proceeded to an awkward conversation.

“I see you around a lot. You work here?” He somehow mustered up the courage to ask you that, praying to the saints he hadn’t come off as creepy or overbearing.

Toji could never forget the first time he had laid his eyes upon you. It was late in the night while he was closing down, when he heard some voracious laughter coming off from Zack’s parlour. On the usual, he wouldn’t give two fucks if someone was even dying on Zack’s side but when curiosity got the best of him, he turned around and glimpsed at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

Only for the rose coloured glass to be broken when he got to know that you were dating Zack. The most narcissistic piece of douche Toji had ever come across.

He initially thought you might have been the same and somehow kept convincing himself to keep away, but none of that worked when you guys had started conversing.

You had met Zack at a concert and not knowing better started dating him and the year since then had been..well, bleak to say the least.

Zack was beyond your comprehension. He was everything you wished you were- loud, confident but the more you came closer to his world, the more distant you felt from him. The Zack that doted on you in the beginning and made out sloppily with this stinky breath was nowhere to be found these days. The Zack that was all up for late night video calls was now the same one who would leave you on delivered for 24 hours straight. Or should you say a different one. Still, you were a stubborn little one. Refusing to accept the reality of the situation.

To the add to the whole thing, was the guilt that was brought upon by your little crush on Toji. You would never cheat on your guy, but god Toji felt like he was everything you deserved and more.

His intense lingering gazes, his soft smiles, his gentle demeanour but the strength that had come with it. It gave you all the right shivers.

Ironically, the first time you guys spoke to each other was when you were trying to escape your boyfriend who was fighting with a customer about the design, when you had accidentally bumped into Toji.

Noticing the inked beauty peaking out on his forearm, you immediately realised that this was your favourite artists design.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah” Toji looked at you, trying to not let his heart eyes show,

“Is your tattoo Miyazaki’s work?” This question genuinely surprised Toji and gosh he prayed to the heavens to warn him if this is the part where he falls head over heels for you.

“Ya know him?”

“OF COURSE I DO??” You had screamed and almost pounced on his arm to admire the man’s work.

Toji had wondered then how your eyes would light up if you got to know he had trained under the said artist.

Fast forward past a few more of “accidental” bumps into each other, and some lighthearted conversations about everything and nothing under the sun, in a few moments and both of you could sense the undeniable attraction you had felt towards each other.

But neither of you ever crossed the line. You were a woman, taken, and he was a man who respected your choices no matter how strange or..shitty.

You couldn’t help but notice how different Toji was around you and when you were together with Zack.

The kind demeanour he held was immediately replaced by indifference whenever he would see you with your boyfriend who would pass on a snarky reply just to irk the said man.

Toji could easily give Zack 2 broken legs with how big he was, but one look into your doe eyes and he couldn’t even bring himself to look in your direction except throwing a finger off to the other guy.

But nothing could keep you away from each other especially during those lonely wistful nights.

You lying in your bed with your fuck ass boyfriend wasted somewhere, fingers plunging deep into your warm cunt and a heart full of regret, guilt and most of it all, lust for Toji. Nights that went away calling out his name in small whispers imagining his large hands that would envelope you and touch in all the right ways nobody ever could. Making you see stars and kissing you through the bliss.

Toji was no better. Stroking his cock in anguish, lusting after you like a beast in heat. Your plump lips, your sexy fucking hips that he would dip kisses all over, if you were his, your luscious skin that he would worship and mark, you were going to be the death of him.

But when the nights slipped away and dawn broke and as in when in you guys bumped into each other, it was the same all over. Hidden glances and lazy longing that would never translate into something more.

Until it had.

You shouldn’t have come to the parlour today. Things had been rocky between you and Zack for a few weeks now.

He had been smoking up all the money and refusing to take even the simplest of clients just out of sheer audacity and worst of all, paid no heed to your words more than ever.

Going to the parlour, at 2 am in the night after getting a call about the ruckus your boyfriend had caused and setting the damn curtains on fire, you immediately ran over only to come across the most drunk and high Zack had ever been, amidst scattered flames.

You knew from your experience to be better than to be around him when he intoxicated but the situation at hand was not helping. If only you hadn’t invested money out of blind stupidity into his tattoo parlour, maybe you would have been spared this ordeal today.

“Drag this bastard away miss OR we are gonna call the cops on y’all” said a stranger trying to control him.

“I’m so sorry about this”

“WHO…THE FUCK..lem..me gooo you little..bitch..”

“Baby listen to me, you aren’t in the right mind let’s get out of here..”

Zack had always been rough with you but never violent but it seemed like that was about to change tonight, when he grabbed you by your shirt collar and harshly dragged you towards him.

”ZACK! LET..ME GO!”

“Fuck youu..you” but before he could bring his face towards you, came a dangerous hit that probably bore into the drunkard’s skull.

“Hands away you sick fuck.” said the seething voice.

It was Toji. More than the pain, all you could think about was the relief that had washed over you on seeing Toji’ eyes that were ablaze with fury.

Before you could even say anything, he grabbed your wrist towards his motorbike and plopping helmets on both of you, drove away to your address.

He drove like the man he was at the moment- fast, angry and menacing. You clutched onto his waist for you dear life and that was the only thing, that calmed Toji a little bit.

You were here, he was here with you and you were safe and that was all he needed.

But in the half an hour that he drove both of you in utter silence, the events of the night slowly came crashing back to you.

Longing that turned into regret and that had now taken its ugly form of shame. Shame for who you were and who you had chosen to be with.

Sensing your hasty breaths on his back, Toji slowly parked his bike near the sea shore.

Even with unbearable longing like his, Toji had made it a point to never touch you. He would only do that when you were his completely mind, body and soul.

Tonight was the first time and he didn’t like it. You couldn’t even bring yourself to face Toji and when he slowly grabbed your chin to look at him, the sight before him tore his heart apart.

Tears welled up in your eyes and dripped down your soft cheeks like pearls, if Toji was a god he would be raging a war by now. But he was a mere mortal and all he could do was engulf you into him. Arms all around, caging you and protecting you, while you stained his jacket with your sobbing.

After the night had passed and somehow returning to your apartment with his help, you didn’t leave the confines of it for almost 2 weeks. Except for the occasional knocks from the said man or a get well soon bouquet, he had not spoken a word more to you, just as you hadn’t.

Both of you knew it was your decision in the end.

Almost as a sign, you got the news from your friends that Zack had ran away the same night as the police tried to catch a hold of him. Nobody knew where to and neither of them cared enough to find out.

The last checkpoint was having a conversation with Toji.

As you slowly approached his parlour, the ever so familiar but distant end of the tattoo street, one end of which was burnt ashes and the other end bustling with less customers compared to the usual, you awkwardly knocked on the clean glass door.

“Here inside” said Toji’s low baritone from the room within, as you noticed him deeply zoned in into his work on an old man and mistaking you for a customer.

You decided to wait outside in the waiting hall. It felt only right. It was only right to apologise for whatever had happened.

He had waited for you so patiently always, a steady wall that you had come to lean on unknowingly through the past few months and he never once asked anything in return. You loved him and you would wait for him just as long.

After being done and billing up the customer half an hour later, Toji peeked into the waiting hall to see who had checked in while he was working when his heart raced at the sight.

Here you were, in a soft white dress that had flown gently till your knees and straps falling agonisingly over your shoulder, looking like the sweetest angel and not to forget, with a small flower in hand. A delicate little rose and upon seeing Toji in all his black top and pants glory your heart welled up just as much as.

“Toji…I didn’t want to disturb you..so”

“You should have. You can always disturb me you know that right?”

He wanted to hug her. Touch her face, kiss her locks and smooch her lips. His restraint was a tight string waiting to break.

“Why are you here, Y/N?” His voice came off tighter than usual. With tears in your eyes and slowly offering him the small flower you found on your way here, you asked him

“Toji, can I get a tattoo?”

This took him by surprise. He didn’t know what he was expecting but tattooing you was definitely last on his list. Heaving a sigh, he gently took your fingers and the flower and moved you into the room with all his equipment.

Nobody had given him flowers before. The simple gesture had set in an ache for your being that he couldn’t ever define even if he wanted to.

If you wanted to do it his way, so be it.

“Where do you want your tattoo miss? Based on that I can tell you how painful—“

“My lower back”

“What—“ before he could even say anything, you were stripping down from your dress, locking the door while Toji’s mind was reeling.

2 weeks you had disappeared and now you were here in front of him , half naked.

“You favourite work of Miyazaki. Can you ink it on me Toji?” Of course he would. He could never say no to you. Not when you looked so sweet, sitting right in his chair looking up at him with heart eyes. Legs on display all for him. In nothing but soft lace panties.

“Fuck…darling, what are you doing to me..” he said as he slowly grabbed a delicate stencil of one of his favourite art, a pattern of the moon, the cherry blossoms and a ripple through it all.

Toji was an excellent artist but he never had to work with a raging boner before. His pants were bursting to the sight in front of him, you in a relaxed state ready to be marked. Almost a dream.

“Are you sure baby?”

“Yes. But one thing before that.”

“Hm?”

“Can you kiss me Toji?”

That was the last straw and before you could even say anything, Toji was at your lips, grabbing you by the back of your head and devouring you. You deserved slow and gentle and Toji swore to himself he would take all his time with you, but not at this moment.

Months worth of pent up lust and more so, love and the result of it, was kisses that took your breath away. Nipping away at your lower lip gently, as you opened your mouth he plunged his warm tongue into you, making you moan in ecstacy.

“Hmpph— To..jii..hm!” “Gosh baby do you know how many times I have dreamt of doing this to you huh? Your luscious fucking lips that you keep tinting up with that gloss..fuck..”

Littering kisses all around your neck, under your ears, licking across your collar bones, your whimpers were honey to his ears. Slowly wrapping your hands around his nape, you whispered to his lips

“Take me Toji. Make me yours, please.”

That was all you had to say.

Kissing you harder than ever, Toji grabbed your waist. “Turned around for me baby. Let me take care of you” with your back arching and on all fours on his chair, he ripped at your panties. You were a dripping mess and Toji was so close to coming in his pants like a fucking teenager.

“Toji..wait…it’s messy down there..stop—“

“Tell me girl. Did that fucker ever eat you out?” He asked venomously, slowly slipping in a finger into your sopping hole

“No-ughmm!!- he said it was too dir..ty..” his finger was so different from yours. Long and thick. If a finger alone was so delicious, you were sure you woud go crazy once his cock was in you.

“Proved himself to be a fucking moron once again. Well, you are all mine now. So let me treat your delicious cunt the right way baby yea?”

“Hmm—ahh!!” Dipping his face into your wet folds and antogonizingly licking up along them, eating you out from the back was Toji’s personal heaven. His nose bumping right into your sensitive clit and making you wetter by the second and now 2 of his fingers in your cunt, prodding you in all the right places sending shudders down your spine.

“Ride my face baby. Find your rhythm and make yourself feel good” Toji said and as he literally sucked and slurped at your folds and clit like a man starved. Spitting and licking and slightly pinching on your clit, in a few minutes, you were seeing stars that would normally take you so long.

“I’m cominggg Toji—!!!” Crying out and slumping over the chair.

Toji couldn’t get enough of you though. Marking you all over your back, letting red bruises blossom like petals, leaving you a sputtering mess.

He needed more. He needed you to cry his name out. Turning you around, he latched his lips onto your breast this time with a finger brushing on your clit lightly.

The wet muscle languidly brushing over your sensitive buds, teasing and biting and soothing it up again, you were so lost in pleasure, sure you would come from his attention to your breast alone.

“Faster toji..please..” “On your clit baby? Like this?” His gentle brushes had now turned into precise strokes and never in recent times had your dreamt of coming twice so quickly.

“Ahh!! Fuck!! Just like….that..I can’t! M gonna——cum..”

“Come for me good girl, let it all out… there ya go” and with the knot uncoiling, you came harder than ever.

“Such a good fucking girl for me” he whispered sinfully as he locked your lips in a gentle peck, making you ride out your high.

Little did Toji know that his sweet girl was minx in bed, all ready with her cunt clenching around for his cock. And he was all ready to give her the entire world, and of course his cock too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~••••~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: everytime I wrote Zack my brain kept going ‘gongaga’ send help.

A/N: just edited it a lil bit I’m so sorry for the all the typos 😭

[vaaaaaiolet]

Left to his own devices during an international flight, Leon reflects on the most recent failure in his life: screwing over his airport crush. Said crush might also happen to be seated a couple rows ahead.

f / m, fluff, romance, you know the drill, bitches. leon is stupid and clumsy and crushing on you like crazy!! roman holiday mentioned bc i love gregory peck

word count: 957 // read on ao3

a/n: for my beautiful beautiful mutuals @idyllcy + @kennedysbaby <3 make sure to buckle up when you fly!! and don't take your shoes off on planes that's gross dudes

On long international flights, you’ve got three options to pass the time:

stuff your face.

watch outdated blockbusters.

sleep like the dead.

Leon, however, picks option D) relive the most embarrassing moments of his life while trying not to throw himself out of the nearest emergency exit. He’s such an efficient decision maker that he’s whittled his selection down to the most recent of these moments – exactly three hours ago.

Three hours ago at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, Leon was the biggest jackass to the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. 

She’d been sitting pretty, smiling down at her phone like some sort of angel sent from the sky in the early morning rays, and Leon was half-awake, running late as always. Eyes shutting by themselves. Shitty airport coffee bombarding his taste buds. Five o’clock in the morning is the worst time to have Hunnigan yelling in his earpiece. 

If Leon had decided to sit anywhere other than the closest spot, right behind that pretty girl, his brain wouldn’t have been torturing him for the past three hours. He groans at the memory, waving a hand dismissively at the flight attendant offering him an extra blanket. 

Leon doesn’t deserve warm blankets right now. The Antarctic should freeze him over and karma should shut down his in-flight entertainment screen. He cranes his neck to find the back of the girl’s head for the the millionth time, and there she is, sandwiched between two burly strangers, beautiful head left pillowless because Leon stole that too along with her window seat. 

How? 

In Leon’s half-asleep daze, he’d taken a nice big stretch, reaching his arms skyward to smooth out last mission’s leftover muscle pulls. And in that same daze, he’d conveniently forgotten about the lukewarm cup of coffee he was still holding. 

Newton is to apple as Kennedy is to coffee; he’d spilled every last drop down the back of the girl’s neck. Saturated her travel pillow right through. Her yelp had woken him up faster than any coffee in his life, and he’d whipped his head around to meet a pair of stunning eyes, wide open in shock that was entirely his fault.

And he didn’t even apologize! 

No, what Leon did was stare at her like a blithering idiot. 

Her boarding pass had happened to be tucked in her back pocket and coffee had spilled all over that too. It was made of some sort of eco-friendly paper, the kind that promises to disintegrate within seconds of contact with water to not choke the turtles or whatever, and that’s exactly what it did. Going, going, gone in front of his eyes. And to top it all off, Leon’s boarding group got called at that exact minute, and he’d left the poor girl to sort out her seat without so much as offering to help.

“Sir?” the flight attendant repeats.

Leon blinks, busy swimming in guilty reverie. “I said don’t need a blanket.” 

“No sir, I’m actually coming here with a seat change request,” she says, louder this time. “Would you mind someone taking the empty spot next to you?”

Well, it’s not like he needs the aisle seat for his feet or something. 

“Yeah, sure thing.”

And he closes his eyes to return to his pity party, hears shuffling in the dimly-lit cabin as the seat next to him dips, and you know what? It is kind of cold. He could use that extra blanket. Leon cracks open an eye and holy fucking shit the pretty girl is sitting right next to him.

“It’s you,” he stammers, sitting ramrod straight. “I am so incredibly sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to run off like that at all.”

She faces him. Recognizes him. “O-Oh, it’s okay, don’t worry about it. I still made the flight, right?” 

He shakes his head. “You got stuck in late boarding. You got a bad seat because of me and- god, your pillow. I’ll buy you another one the moment we land, okay?” 

But the pretty girl, you, you just laugh. “Really, it’s alright. It was a ratty old thing.”

“Then let me buy you a coffee,” Leon insists, searching for some kind of way to make up for his blunder, “it’ll be morning when we land and you couldn’t have gotten any sleep stuck between those guys in your old seat.” 

Way to go. He’s just confessed to staring at you the whole flight like some kind of stalker. 

“I’m more of a tea person, but you know what? I’ll take the offer.” 

Tea. He likes tea. Leon breathes a sigh of relief as you settle in, buckling your belt and digging around for the in-flight entertainment remote. He hands it to you from under your seat, brushing his shoulder against your knee and suddenly feeling a lot less cold as heat floods his face.

You smile when he surfaces. “Found anything good to watch?”

“Mm, not much. Hope you like Roman Holiday,” Leon adds softly, “it’s the only movie with subtitles.”

“Can’t say I don’t. It’s one of my favorites.” 

He’s going woozy. Is it the cabin pressure? Audrey Hepburn flashes across the screen in black and white, but he’s finding her beauty a lot less blinding than yours. You’re tilting your head at him, shit, is he staring again?

“Thank you, uh, gosh,” you chuckle, “I never caught your name.”

Phew.

“Leon,” he supplies with a grin. “And you are?”

You’re a liar, is what you are. A beautiful liar because he’s right – you haven’t gotten a wink of sleep since he ruined your pillow. Your head drops onto his shoulder not ten minutes into Roman Holiday, and Leon could swear Audrey winks at him before she drifts off to sleep too.

psst, find more of my work here!

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3 take care and i love you!

[idksmtms]

Plié, Jeté, Relevé (Ballet Master!Cillian Murphy x Ballerina!reader)

A/N: Here you go my lovelies! I have literally never done ballet in my entire life, so any knowledge of this has come from watching tiktoks of ballerinas, movies with ballerinas in them, or my best guesses… anywaysssss, I hope you enjoy it! 

Also, would highly recommend watching the performance of Still Life at the Penguin Cafe on youtube, the music and the dancing is *chefs kiss* 

Summary: You were ready to admit that you hadn’t been at your best the past week or so, but surely you hadn’t been so bad as to deserve this much wrath from Mister Murphy… 

Word count:  3,750 

Trigger Warnings: she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, mean!Cillian, SMUT, dub-con bc of the power imbalance (?), fingering (technically?), humiliation (not as a kink tho), only reader orgasms, depiction of toxic teaching environment, (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: This is written purely for fictional purposes and for the sake of writing. No disrespect is intended to the real people portrayed/concerned in this scenario. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

If anyone out there believed in the stereotype that all Irish people were happy and jovial then they clearly hadn’t met your ballet master. The man may speak with a lilting musical accent but there was not a thing jovial or happy about him. The master was harsh, verging on cruel. If anyone was caught slacking even the littlest bit, something that would go unnoticed by the rest of the troupe, his voice would crack like a whip through the studio. 

Recently, that whip had been directed at you. You knew you weren’t doing your best. You had hit a rough patch in your entire life. You had been late more times than ever before, more times than you ever would usually be, more times than you would like. And your dancing had been affected as well. Your posture wasn’t straight enough, your pliés weren’t deep enough, your toes not pointed enough. Everything was going wrong, and while you had hoped it wasn’t noticeable, Mr Murphy never failed to find every SINGLE one of your mistakes. 

Today differed in no way. You had dilly-dallied a little too long while getting ready in the morning, only to end up running late for rehearsal. It was no more than five minutes, but from the start of training it was the rule that all ballerinas must be lined up by the barre at exactly ten o’clock every day. For every minute you were late, the worse your punishment got. Usually if someone hit the five minute mark, they went home and sprained their ankle on purpose for an excuse. 

At four minutes, you had run into the hallway outside the studio and thrown your bag onto the ground, disregarding the sound of your water bottle rolling away and one of your keychains cracking under the weight of your things. At five, you were throwing the door open and running inside, slipping into the back of the line and getting into first position. 

Mr Murphy paused in his speech to gaze at you. You stared straight ahead, refusing to look directly at him. Slowly, his eyebrow rose, scrutinising you with a frown that made shame curl in your stomach and tears make themselves known behind your eyes. He slowly brought his hands together, rubbing them as he sighed and began shaking his head. 

“Kind of you to join us,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he made his way closer to you, stepping leisurely, dragging out the fear that made your throat hurt. He stood a few feet away, staring at you in that impenetrable way of his, ice eyes sharp and painful wherever they gazed. He clapped his hands once. “Girls, turn and look at Ms. Y/L/N.” He waited until each of them had turned in their spots, some craning their heads to the side to make sure they were looking at you lest they somehow disobey him. You could see the pity, the sympathy, the smug triumph in each of the girls’ eyes, the frowns and subtle smirks, and you could do nothing other than keep staring ahead of you as your hands and knees suddenly began to tremble. “What is wrong with her?” 

He didn’t ask it in a rude or incredulous way, but as if you were a diagram in a textbook, and this was simply an exercise the students were completing. You were sure your shame was visible on your face, the embarrassment turning your spine to liquid. One of the girls put her hand up, near the front of the room, and you only recognised her for the little kiss-ass she was once she spoke. She had always been that way, desperate for Mr Murphy. Always at the front of the line, always gleeful at the downfall of others, always ready to point out any mistakes. And you were always happy to watch her desperation help her in no way whatsoever. A lot could be said about Mr Murphy, but favouritism was not something he had ever displayed. Whichever ballerina was doing well, recognisably well, was given her dues, and it was left at that. 

“She’s not wearing her tights and leotard, or at least, she’s wearing sweatpants over them. Her pointe shoes are dirty, and her hair isn’t in a bun.” You could almost imagine her satisfied little smirk when she finished speaking, that evil little smile that you had always wanted to punch off her face. One swing, you thought, just one swing… 

“Correct,” he simply responded, threading his fingers through each other and raising his eyebrow at you again, as if confused and annoyed at you for not doing something. “Leave, get your shit together, and then come back inside. If you have not returned within ten minutes, don’t bother returning to rehearsal ever again.” He nudged his chin in the direction of the door and you nodded obediently, eyes downcast as you stood up straight and slowly walked back out. 

When the door was closed behind you once more, you stood silently for a minute, eyes clenched shut and hands curled into fists at your sides. You pressed out a scream behind your pursed lips, teeth clenched so hard your jaw began to hurt. You slammed the heel of your hand against the side of your head again and again and again until your shoulder hurt a little from the motion and your brain felt sufficiently jumbled. Your chest was heaving and you were overwhelmed with rage. You wanted to kick something, to throw something, to go back in there and rip that bitch’s hair out of her bun. You resolved to pulling your pointe shoes off and lobbing them across the hallway as hard as you could, letting out another clenched scream before walking all the way down to pick them up and bring them back. 

You stood in front of your bag and took three deep breaths. You picked up your water bottle from where it had rolled between another two of the ballerinas’ bags, and took huge gulps of water until you felt a little less sweaty with anger. You checked the time on your phone to make sure you hadn’t wasted your ten minutes, then set about carefully pulling off your joggers, folding them up, and placing them inside your duffel. You pulled out a new pair of pointe shoes, cursing yourself for not having prepared them in time and preemptively wincing at the blisters you knew you were going to get by the end of rehearsal. You walked down to the bathroom at the end of the hall in the pointe shoes, hoping to at least break them in a little bit with the short time you had, and used the mirror to quickly pull your hair into a bun, securing it with pins in a practised dance you had learned from years of repetition. You checked yourself once more in the mirror and then looked down at your phone before sprinting full on back to the room and sliding through the doors. You made it just in time. 

Mr Murphy glanced at you as you slipped into position at the back of the line, following the exercises he had been calling out to the ballerinas while you had been out. He methodically looked at every inch of your body, from your pointe shoes to your pink tights and black leotard, from the careful set of your bun to the determined set of your brow and sheen of sweat on your temples. He didn’t say anything directly to you, and you took it as a win. 

At the halfway point, you were all allowed a little break to drink water and have a rest before you switched from exercises to rehearsals for your next performance. You were all practising for your various roles in a performance of ‘Still Life at the Penguin Cafe’, and though you would have to wear a huge mask of a ram on your head, you were ecstatic for the performance. While it wasn’t technically a solo, you were the centre of the piece, being the only one not dressed as a penguin. Now, everything felt so precarious. You couldn’t quite be sure Mr Murphy wouldn’t take the role from you after the past two weeks spent in a slump, and the worry was becoming your ever-present companion. 

Just as the girls were all leaving the room to get water and lounge around on the floor of the hallway, Mr Murphy cleared his throat and snapped his fingers at you. 

“Ms. Y/L/N,” and he pointed at the spot right in front of him. It took everything within you not to sprint to the spot. You took careful, measured, steps and stopped a few feet in front of him, spine straight and head held high. You weren’t sure where to look. You could never meet his eyes, something in your soul was opposed to it, so you chose a spot on the wall just next to his head. 

“You will stay for another hour at the end of the session to make up for your failures this morning, understood?” He raised both his eyebrows, hands on his hips. You closed your eyes, trying not to burst into tears like a child throwing a tantrum on the spot. You nodded, whispered a ‘yes, sir’ in a clogged voice, and waited until he dismissed you to walk out of the room. 

You sat down by your bag with a sigh, arms slung over your knees as you cradled the water bottle close and pressed your face to it. You closed your eyes and allowed your head to dip down as some of your friends came to sit around you, offering pats of sympathy and words of comfort. You tried to smile, nodded in thanks, but you just wanted to curl up into a ball and never get back up. 

The next few hours were spent going through each section of the dance. You felt lucky that you didn’t get to the Ram piece, you were sure you couldn’t hold it together long enough for that, only to be doused with cold water at the thought that you needed to stay longer afterward. 

When rehearsal was over, Mr Murphy dismissed everyone right on the dot. He didn’t acknowledge you as the girls started leaving, the chatter slowly beginning to rise as they reached the door. For a moment you wondered if you could get away with leaving with everyone else, but just as you reached the door he called out “ten minutes at most, Ms Y/L/N, then I want you back in here.” Your bones seemed to disappear and you thought you would collapse to the floor in a heap of mushy flesh. Instead you nodded and wobbled your way outside to chug what was left of your water bottle, refill it, then chug the contents again as tears of exhaustion slipped from the corners of your eyes and mingled with the sweat dampening the hair by your temples and ears. 

The ten minutes were up far too quickly and you stood with a groan, heading to the door once more. You gazed at the room from the door, the light hardwood floors, the wall of mirrors and the bar spanning the length of the room, the huge windows letting in swaths of natural light. You often forgot how beautiful the space was. 

You walked slowly to where Mr Murphy stood, typing something on his phone and moving the speaker to face the room again. You stood before him, hands clasped and eyes downcast, waiting for instructions. For a while, he didn’t say anything. He was no longer on his phone, his hands hanging by his sides, and he stared at you. Every few seconds you glanced, trying to glimpse what was going to happen, but he just continued watching you, stoic as ever. 

You could never tell what he was thinking. Never once had you been able to guess at his thought process, to figure out what was going on in his head. Maybe that was one of the reasons he intimidated you so much. 

He walked closer, so close the toes of his shoes almost touched the toes of yours and you gulped, staring at the contrast, the black and the pink, the background of wood. His hand came up and he tapped up under your chin with the side of his index finger, waiting for you to lift your head. When you did, your entire face felt hot under the skin. He was so close, you could see the freckles splashed on his skin, the careful set of his cheekbones and jaw. You gulped. His eyes were so much more terrifying up close. 

“You’ve been given a gift,” he began, slow and firm, “your ability, your natural rhythm, that is a gift. Unless you put in effort to finetune this gift, it goes to waste. Do you understand what I’m saying?” You nodded but he shook his head once. “Speak.” 

“Yes sir,” you breathed out quickly, gulping when your mouth was closed again. 

“I’m not sure you do, though,” and it felt like the hammer falling. His eyes seemed to harden a little, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “The past two weeks all I have seen is a sloppy, unprincipled, uncommitted dancer who deems merely showing up a success.” Each word was a stab to some part of you, and it took everything not to wilt completely to the floor. “You have been given one of the more difficult roles in the performance, and I once believed you deserved it. For the life of me, I cannot remember why.” Your eyebrows furrowed as you closed your eyes, throat bobbing as the despair that felt inevitable finally began to land. 

He went silent, and that felt worse somehow. The backs of your eyelids began to burn and you clenched your hands tighter around each other, hoping the little pain it brought would distract from the tears. You berated yourself in your head. You yelled in your mind that this was a pathetic display, that it would be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done if you began to cry in front of him. He would think less of you, it would only confirm what he believed; you were weak. When you opened your eyes again, one traitorous tear slipped out and down your cheek. You could feel the hot, ticklish track it made down the skin. If you didn’t know better, you thought you saw Mr Murphy’s eyes soften. 

He breathed out, long and tired, and reached up to gently wipe the tear away with his thumb. Your breath caught in your throat. His hand was warm. Your chest felt tight. His skin was soft. You stared into his eyes. He left the side of his hand against your face, as if allowing himself to feel the skin. Something in your stomach writhed impatiently. Everything seemed to have changed within a second. Some deep seated urge whispered in your ear to open your mouth and lick his thumb. You shivered. 

“Turn around,” his voice was low, rough, and you almost moaned at the sound. You gulped again, but obeyed almost instantly. You heard some shuffling, and then the music started, the slow long notes interspersed with the quick little strums, a beautiful, almost joyful piece of music. Then Mr Murphy was pressed right against your back, and suddenly the music was secondary. His chest, firm, solid, was moulded to your back. You could feel the soft fabric of his black shirt, the puffs of his breaths against the back of your neck. Your entire body shivered. He was warm, like a heater on a middle setting, and if you weren’t so tense, you would melt against him. You could feel his nose against your head as he bent slightly. You could feel his lips graze the shell of your ear as he whispered “relax.” You tried, forcing your muscles to loosen like you would before a performance. 

His hands trailed down your arms, his fingertips running down your biceps, then your forearms until you shivered against him again. When he reached your wrists, he hooked his own hands under them and began raising them in time with the music. You turned your head to the right, watched his hand raise your own, your lips parted and breaths heavy. You couldn’t move past the feeling of him pressed to your back. 

You almost missed the cue to move, almost, and pulled away from him slowly, carefully, using the measured steps required by the music. You left your right hand in his, just the barest touch of your fingertips against his, the illusion of contact as you moved to the left, feet lifting high. His eyes seemed to pierce through you, and suddenly you enjoyed the feeling in a sick, scary way. You walked forward until you were in line with Mr Murphy, still an arm’s length away before he stepped forward and your arms moved to a waltz position. He settled into the space, gripping your hands firmly in his. He was pressed as close as he could be, closer than your actual partner would be for the dance, and you set your eyes on his face. Your pulse thrummed in your ears, you were in your element. 

You went through all the steps of the dance like you had been born knowing it. Your bodies were like water as they moved, smooth, graceful. You hadn’t felt this intune to the music in a long time, hadn’t felt this much like a dancer in a long time. You could almost see the crowd in front of you, the blinding lights, the smooth fabric of the dress. 

At the final step, Mr Murphy gripped your hand and spun you into him, changing the ending of the dance. You gasped as you leaned back into his chest. His head was bent down, pressing his face into your hair. You were panting, torso moving up and down quickly but trapped in the confines of his arms crossed over you. You leaned your head back a little, pressing the curve of your skull into the curve of his neck as he pressed his cheek to the side of your head. The music was fading out, and the only sounds in the room were your mingling breaths, heaving into the air of the room. 

His left palm pressed against your stomach, firm and insistent, but you couldn’t be bothered to look down. It seared into your already boiling skin and you closed your eyes. You tuned into the sensation of his hand slowly sliding down, bit by bit, inching down over your stomach then pressing against your pelvis. You gasped as you felt his fingertips brush over the leotard just at the top of your pussy. Your hand moved behind you, gripping his sides, clenching into the soft fabric of his shirt. 

He didn’t say anything, just breathed heavily against the side of your head, and you didn’t stop him. His hand moved farther down, pressing against the softness atop your core. Gently, his index finger moved to the centre line and began pressing in. You lifted up on your toes a little when you felt the pressure through the fabric, the indent of his finger pressing against your clit. You were hot and wet, he could feel the heat emanating from your core against his hand.

He kept his finger pressed there until you became restless, impatient, pressing your hands a little harder against his ribs. Slowly, keeping the pressure, he moved his finger down until he was pressing against your hole. The warm tendrils of pleasure slowly undulated up your insides. He repeated the motion, up then down and pressing a little harder against your hole. 

You breathed out heavily, shakily, and bent your knees to press a little harder into the feeling. 

Up, down, press. Up, down, press. He circled your clit through the fabric, pressing against the pulsing little bud. Up, down, press, drag up, drag down, press. You were panting into the air, face contorted, mouth up and head tilted up, resting against his shoulder. Your eyes were screwed shut, hips moving to chase the motions. He didn’t say anything, just breathed heavily against your ear, held you tighter against his body. 

You were both standing in the middle of the large studio, bathed in the early evening light. Your hands clenched a little harder against his sides. The warm tendrils were lasting longer, becoming more frenzied, curling up into your stomach and making your hole flutter. His right hand moved up and cupped your breast, gripping firmly and burning the heat of his hand into the flesh. 

You were engulfed by him, wrapped up in both his arms as he pressed his fingers harder and quicker against the seam of your core, moving up and down, pressing and releasing. He ran the edge of his thumbnail against the fabric over your nipple and your pelvis shook. You writhed in his arms at the spark it shot to your core, at the electric pulse it created and ultimately pushed you over the precipice. A moan, a high-pitched whine shot from your mouth, echoing in the room. You pressed yourself so hard against him he almost lost his balance, moving one foot back to keep the two of you upright. Your hands hurt from how stiff they became clenched into the fabric of his shirt. 

Slowly, he released the pressure against your core. He grazed his finger up until he could press his hand to your stomach again. He left it there and the two of you heaved breaths in sync. You began to flutter your eyes open, still lost in the blood rushing through your head. His right hand came up and gripped your chin, pushing it so you faced to the left where his head had dropped down. He leaned back a little, you tilted forward a smidge, your eyes met. Your lips were still parted, his mirrored. Then he surged forward, pressing his mouth to yours, his nose sliding into the crease between your cheek and nose. He tasted warm and minty. His lips were plush and cushiony soft. He pulled away and you looked into his eyes again. 

Neither of you said a word.

Taglist: @4ria790

[sylveon-official]

thoughts on angel's heartbreak

viv has already said that angel is gonna get his heart broken sooo

i imagine husk pushes a boundary. we've already seen husk push angel's limits quite a few times. he's obviously really judgmental and i think that's one of his biggest flaws. it almost seems like a defense mechanism, that because he's already given up on himself, he doesn't want to waste angel's potential and so he's harder on him.

we've got tons of examples of this in masquerade, with husk calling him fake. and even in welcome to heaven when angel is considering taking drugs, husk totally plays a guilt trip - "go ahead if you wanna mess up all your progress, i just thought you were better than that"

i think that's how the 'heartbreak' is gonna happen. angel can't believe he's got a someone like husk in his life and he's so smitten, coming to terms with his feelings for husk and tentatively getting hopeful that they're reciprocated. like husk has built him up enough to the point that angel feels he can break down his walls around him, so they're getting closer, more flirtatious in a really sweet way, sometimes even a little touchy.

so imagine them being at this stage, where angel so fully trusts him, which is a big deal for him. and then angel fucks up real bad. he's been clean for almost 6 months and him and everyone else in the hotel are super proud. but after a hard day in the studio he just breaks and goes on an all night bender. like he's out so late husk starts to worry and texts him, but all he gets is a belligerent phone call like "huskYYY BAaaby don' worry i'm jus' out w the girls from the studio u should be here miss yoo-" and then some guy cuts in like "angelbaby, i thought you were gonna show me a good time?" and angel's like "mmm oh ya cmere daddy~" and the call cuts off.

husk is fuckin pissed, not just bc angel is off the wagon after making so much progress, but he's also jealous. like they were obviously heading in the direction of something more, or so he thought, but here's angel back to his old self-destructive habits, getting fucked up and fucking random guys.

the next day, husk finds angel passed out on the on the couch. usually he would wake him up with breakfast or coffee if he knew he'd had a long night at the studio, but this time he just rolls his eyes and gets to work on the bar, maybe stuffing glasses back into cabinets a little louder than usual.

that wakes angel up and he's like, "huuusk what the fuck couldya keep it down?"

"it's almost noon. don't you have something to do? or someone..." he mumbles the last part, but angel hears and is wide awake like, "fuckin' excuse me?"

"what? you don't remember callin' me last night? sounded like you scored a real charmer"

angel is stalking up to the bar getting embarrassed and defensive, "wtf? since when do you care who i'm fuckin' in my free time?"

"i guess since it obviously wasn't a choice you made entirely sober! what were you thinking?! you were clean 6 whole months, and you gave it up to what? snort coke off of some hunk's abs?!"

angel's mouth drops open and he doesn't know what to say but his heart stings. he knows he fucked up real bad, but it was a hard day and he guesses old habits die hard... it's his first real attempt at getting clean, and of course he's disappointed in himself. and honestly, he was planning on talking through it with husk, but now...

"well that is just rich coming from you," angel says, shaking, rolling his eyes in the direction of husk's bloody mary.

"yeah, well, i'm not the one trying to get into heaven-"

"fuck off with that shit husk! you don't think i know i fucked up?! i'm not an idiot! you don't gotta keep that line in your back pocket for every time i screw up! i already know it's fuckin' pointless, you don't need to keep reminding me, asshole, get over yourself!" and he starts storming off upstairs, eyes welling up.

husk does feel guilty, and wants to continue the conversation, but he's still firmly of the belief that if angel just pulls himself together, he's a shoo-in for redemption and it's frustrating to see him self-destruct after making more progress than ever before.

"angel, wait-"

"NO, fuck you husk!" angel turns around, tears streaming down his face, pointing an accusing finger. "i thought if anyone could understand, it'd be you! i know everyone else is gonna be disappointed in me, but you-" he pauses, gulps down his tears and steels his face, "i guess i don't know you as well as i thought i did" and then storms upstairs.

then angel would have a few consecutive weeks of totally self-destructive behavior on a whole new level than anyone else at the hotel had ever seen. maybe he even moves out of the hotel and back in with val, having given up not only on himself and his grand delusions of getting clean and redeemed, but also his "stupid school-girl crush" on husk.

this turned into something way longer than i intended lol, but my point is that since angel is gonna experience heartbreak we know it has to involve husk, and with husk's habit of guilt-tripping angel... i think it will need to blow up at some point and be seriously discussed.

i also think we need to see the 'it gets worse before it gets better' side of recovery bc obviously it's unrealistic that now that angel is a serious resident of the hotel, his addictions are just gonna magically disappear. and i think that's gonna cause some misunderstanding and turmoil with not only husk, but also our main cast.

[runariya]

I am in love with that Jk merman story of yourssss , you are such a talented author !!!! Keep it up with the good work .

Even i want to request a prompt after that story because i believe only you have the capability to bring that prompt to life (only if you want to write ofcourse, no pressure )

I have never read an ABO fic with enemies to lovers troupe in modern era , I mean just imagine them being the high-school academic rival wolves who can't bear standing eachother

but the moment they turn 18 and their wolves will develop some special senses and powers, they both will realise that they both are actually mates . damnnn now image the strong pull their wolves will feel towards eachother making them go crazy ( their wolves will fall in love with eachother the moment they will recognize eachother as mate and start rebelling their human counterparts and start convincing them to love eachother too .)

and how bad they will try to hide it , deny their wolves forbid their animal counterparts from eachother only to fail miserably in the end because yeah that mate bond will win 🥹

You can choose any BTS member you want because I love and enjoy reading all seven of them so go for any member you want .

Borahae 💜 , no pressure if you are not interested in writing this prompt , I will still adore you and your work 💜 😘 so feel free to reject this request if you want .

part of the prompt game pairing: alpha!Jungkook x omega!female reader genre: fantasy!AU, "E"2L, ABO, high school romance warnings: Jungkook's the most pitiful teenager in all of existence, bad handling of emotions/feelings, a lot of cliques, denial, a little bit of physical fighting, mentions of blood, lmk if I forgot smth word count: 2.754

a/n: tysm for all your compliments, I'm so flattered 🫂 I've tweaked your request a tiny bit to fit the character of OC better and left out marking etc. bc they're still so young 🥹 hope that's okay 💕

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

He hates you.

No, he loathes your entire existence.

That Miss Perfect attitude, excelling in everything you do as if it’s the easiest task in the world. You’ve been enemies since high school started—not because either of you declared it so, but because Jungkook simply can’t stand you.

You, on the other hand, are oblivious to this feud, always kind and friendly towards everyone, especially Jungkook. He doesn’t understand how you do it, staying so humble and kind towards him when he takes every opportunity to throw jabs your way, or cause you minor inconveniences, like not holding the door open or letting you trip more times than he can count.

It’s infuriating to watch you be so lovely, especially when you’re not only the smartest but also the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen—something he will never admit. Ever.

“Jungkook?” Your soft, sweet voice startles him. He’s been too busy glaring at the papers scattered before him, his thoughts circling back to you. There's no one else in the lecture hall, and he didn’t even realise you’d entered. You seem to appear out of nowhere, catching him off guard. “I think you dropped this.”

You’re smiling again, that blinding smile of yours, starry eyes sparkling with joy, courteous as ever. He wants to scream. He doesn’t want this treatment from you, not when you’re a little older than him—well, only two months, but still. You’re 18 now, with your wolf, while he’s not, which only deepens his resentment. Once again, you’re ahead, better at something.

The whole school talked about your wolf. Despite your gentle nature, everyone was shocked to learn after your first turn that you’re an omega—one of the very few in the city, the only one known in school. It’s yet another thing Jungkook can’t stand, especially now that everyone, wolf or not, showers you with attention.

“Not mine,” Jungkook lies through his teeth, eyeing the pencil still held out towards him in your small, delicate hand, your nails perfectly manicured.

“Oh…” you murmur, glancing down at the pencil, your brows drawing together in disbelief. Of course, you don’t believe him. “But it’s got your initials, and it’s the one you’re always using.”

Damn you! Of course, you know it’s his favourite. He should’ve seen this coming.

“You think I’d use it after your germs have contaminated it?” Jungkook scoffs.

“That’s not very kind.” You purse your lips, those beautiful lips.

“It’s the truth, ___.”

“Is it okay if I keep it?”

What?! “What?” Jungkook can’t believe his ears. Why would you want to keep it?

“Can I keep your pen? It would be a waste to throw it away, especially when it looks so cool.” You repeat, smiling again.

The pencil is cool, and Jungkook has half a mind to just snatch it back, but he won’t give in. He won’t concede even the smallest defeat.

“I don’t care,” he grumbles. It’s enough to make you burst with joy, your face lighting up as you clutch the pencil to your chest.

“Thanks, Jungkook! You’re so kind!”

“Whatever.”

And ‘whatever’ indeed, because seeing you every day with his pencil, as if it’s the most precious thing in the world, drives him mad. He regrets his decision. He wants it back. It’s his, and what’s his should stay his, but it isn’t—and it makes him livid.

Livid in a way that fuels his pettiness, pushing him to new lengths to make your life difficult. He puts fake spiders in your bag, bumps into you when you’re struggling with your food tray in the canteen. But all of it is in vain, because you’re an omega—everyone’s darling. Every time something inconvenient happens to you, a horde of people rushes to your aid.

This alone is enough to make Jungkook reconsider his actions—or rather, the attention he’s giving you. It’s not like you care. It’s not like you treat him any differently when he’s mean. So what’s the point? At some stage, he’s not even sure why he started all this, why he loathes you so much. If he’s honest, you’ve never actually wronged him. Not once. And now, he’s running out of ways to break you, to show everyone your true colours, because no one can be this perfect, right?

It’s the Friday before his birthday weekend when you approach him again, this time holding a small present. You look up at him as he stands by his locker.

“Hey, Jungkook,” you say softly.

“What do you want?”

“Uhm, I know Sunday’s your 18th birthday and… well, I know you didn’t invite me to your party, which is totally fine! Don’t get me wrong! But I just wanted to give you this because it’s a big birthday, right? So, yeah…”

The tiny gift is wrapped in floral paper with a neatly tied bow, and it looks exactly how he imagined your presents would. It screams 'you', and he’s unsure what to say. He reckons he should just take it and thank you, but the way you’re looking up at him, so small and kind despite knowing you weren’t invited, bothers him like a sock slipping off mid-walk.

Jungkook reluctantly takes the present, ignoring the slight relieved droop of your shoulders and how your warm, soft fingers brushed softly against his.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, his eyes transfixed on the gift.

“Happy birthday, Jungkook. I hope it’ll be everything you wanted and beyond.”

And with that, you turn away, a light spring in your step, your hair moving behind you like a fairy’s wings.

Jungkook doesn’t waste any time after you leave, ripping the gift open in a rush of curiosity, only to freeze, stunned, when a tiny jewellery box is revealed to him. He’s never received any jewellery before, and the fact that it’s a gift from you—a female ‘stranger’, no less—makes his nerve endings prickle with discomfort. The idea of receiving something so personal feels wrong somehow, and yet, despite this strange feeling creeping over him, he still finds himself opening the small red box.

Inside, nestled on an equally red velvet cushion, is a delicate necklace with a pendant that bears his initials. It’s the prettiest necklace he’s ever seen, and the worst part is that he can already picture himself wearing it, the style so perfectly matching his aesthetic that it’s rather unsettling.

He carefully takes the necklace from the box, letting it twist and turn in the sunlight, the metal gleaming ever so mesmerising. But that’s when he notices an engraving on the back of the pendant, and as he peers closer, he fights the urge to rub his eyes.

You’ve had ‘alpha’ engraved onto it. There’s no way anyone could be so bold as to assume another person’s future rank, and yet here you are, making such an assumption about him. Jungkook can’t help but think maybe he was right all along—there’s something strange about you. You’re just a little too perfect, a little too confident in your kindness, a little too bold in your presumptions.

Shaking his head, he lets the necklace fall back into the box, snapping it shut and tossing it carelessly into his locker, fully intending to forget about it sooner or later. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Saturday night and Sunday come and go in a blur of noise, people, and anticipation. Jungkook has invited practically everyone he knows to his birthday party, hoping that with the arrival of his wolf, his mate might finally be revealed as well. But no one who attends is his mate, and this realisation drags his mood dangerously low. He feels a nagging stab in his chest that he can’t shake, made even heavier by the recurring thought that you, little Miss Perfect, were right all along—Jungkook has become an alpha, just as you predicted. Typical.

What infuriates him even more is that on Monday morning, as you—like always—walk past his locker on your way to the lecture hall, the world seems to slow around him. He watches in disbelief as you suddenly stop, staring at him with wide eyes that shimmer with unshed tears. You look stunned, but more than that, you look happy, as though you’ve just discovered something wonderful. And then, in the midst of his confusion, his inner wolf starts to go wild, barking ‘mate’ over and over again, leaping with excitement inside him.

It should be a moment of joy, a moment where he feels relief and happiness in finally knowing who his mate is. But instead, all Jungkook feels is denial, a desperate refusal to accept the truth, even though, deep down, he knows that you’re everything he ever wanted in a mate.

Still, he turns away from you, ignoring the way your face crumples, the way your bright, hopeful tears turn into ones of sadness, the way you rush past him with your head down, leaving his wolf whimpering in confusion and hurt. Jungkook tries to convince himself that this can’t be real, that it can’t be right, even though every part of him knows it’s exactly what he wanted, what he’s been waiting for.

In the days that follow, he struggles to keep up his usual routine of tormenting you, making snide remarks whenever he gets the chance, but there’s no joy in it anymore. You’re not kind to him the way you used to be, not anymore. You don’t smile at him, don’t even really smile at anyone; instead, you accept his cruelty with a resigned, sad look in your eyes and a forced, brittle smile that never quite reaches your eyes.

Each day, it becomes harder and harder for Jungkook to suppress his wolf, who clearly isn’t on the same page with his cold treatment of you. His wolf growls at him, restless and unhappy, frustrated with the way things are. And Jungkook knows—he understands why—but he feels trapped.

How could he possibly make things right after all he’s done to you? How could he ever redeem himself after letting his bitterness and resentment carry him so far? It doesn’t help that the necklace you gave him is now tucked securely under his shirt, the cool metal pendant resting against his chest, near his heart, multiplying the ache that’s slowly but surely forming there as well. He fiddles with it absentmindedly, the action soothing in a way he can’t explain, though it only makes the guilt grow.

“Jungkook?”

He no longer startles when you appear, his wolf always sensing your presence before you even speak, and your voice has become so quiet, so broken, that it doesn’t have the same effect it once did.

Looking at you now, standing there with your eyes downcast and your voice soft, makes him wish he could take it all back—every harsh word, every petty action. He wishes he could go back and rewrite everything, build something good between you instead of tearing it down. But it’s too late for that, far too late, and he knows it.

When he doesn’t respond, you gather the courage to continue, your voice wavering slightly. “I know it’s random, but I noticed your grades haven’t been as good as they used to be. I know you’re not the kind of person who needs help, but… if there’s anything I can do, just let me know, yeah?”

He wants to snap at you, wants to push you away, but he’s so exhausted—exhausted from pretending he doesn’t care, exhausted from pretending he hates you, and most of all, exhausted from fighting this undeniable bond between you.

Tears prick at his eyes, overwhelming him with guilt, frustration, and something else he can’t quite name. He’s so fed up with himself, so trapped in the mess he’s made that he doesn’t know how to fix it, doesn’t even know where to start.

“Hey… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” you say, your voice tinged with panic now as you shift nervously on the spot, your hands reaching out towards him only to pull back, unsure of what to do. “I’m sorry…”

“Stop!” Jungkook yells, and the sound of his own voice surprises him. You flinch, your entire body recoiling as if he’s physically struck you, your trembling hands clasping tightly in front of you.

“I… I’m sorry.” Your bottom lip quivers, and before Jungkook can say anything else, you turn and run, disappearing down the hall, leaving him standing there with the misery of his guilt pressing down harder than ever.

To think it couldn’t get worse was the stupidest thought Jungkook ever had, because it got worse. Not only did his little outburst suffocate him in guilt, but it also made you avoid him every chance you got. It also didn’t help that most people noticed your changed persona, adding one plus one and recognising Jungkook as the culprit.

He doesn’t fault them, doesn’t really mind the insults coming his way, of being heartless for not wanting a mate like you, when he knows they speak the truth. He doesn’t deserve you, doesn’t deserve someone who he clearly hurts without a true reason.

And the way his inner wolf retreats now from him too, is something he understands as well, because there’s literally nothing he could do to mend what he’s broken.

It’s one afternoon after classes have just finished, and he’s walking out of the school when he notices you cornered against the wall by some other alphas, three in total. Jungkook’s immediately enraged, and it’s then that his wolf rises to full strength, baring his teeth and growling violently.

You’re clearly uncomfortable, clearly scared of what might happen, especially when one of these alphas gets in your face, giving you no way to escape. The last straw for Jungkook is when one runs his filthy finger along your beautiful face.

“Hey!” Jungkook roars, storming towards the alphas who have now turned to laugh in his face. “Back off.”

“What?! She’s fair game.” One mocks, while you’re still pressed against the wall, but your eyes are hopefully locked onto Jungkook.

“I said back off my mate.”

They do, but only to now lunge at Jungkook, thinking that outnumbering him will shoo him away. But it doesn’t—Jungkook won’t let anyone else touch you, his wolf and himself ready to do anything to protect you. And so, Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to take each one of them down.

Driven by adrenaline, he doesn’t notice the sting of the hits he couldn’t block, but it’s nothing compared to the urge to protect you with all he has, all he is.

One after the other falls to the floor, while blood trickles from his split lip, knuckles burning and swollen, his chest still heaving, his wolf still angrily jabbing at the air.

“Jungkook?” His eyes snap up to you when you call for him, and he’s relieved to find no repulsion or fear in them when they lock onto him.

“Are you okay?”

“Thank you,” you nod, and his wolf wags his tail, barking mate, deafening all his other senses.

“Good."

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?”

You hesitate, and it makes him feel powerless all over again, but eventually you whisper, “Because I’m not who you wanted.”

It’s broken, it’s defeated, and it’s everything he never wanted his mate to say, because it’s not the truth. Never was. Never will be.

“But you are.” Jungkook tries to smile, despite knowing it’s not hopeful or kind, but sad in all the ways his decisions led it to be.

“I am?”

Seeing your eyes gradually returning to their lively, sparkly self is more than he ever wished to witness, more than he ever should receive, but everything he ever wanted.

“You are. Always were.”

And with that, he opens his arms, stepping over the still-groaning alphas to get closer to you.

With a push off the wall, you sprint into Jungkook’s arms, tears of relief running down your cheeks as he embraces you like you wished he would from the start. But it doesn’t matter, because no time apart could ruin the feeling of him embracing you and your bond.

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook mumbles into your hair, inhaling the magnificent scent of you.

“It’s fine, everything’s fine.”

And as you cling to him, your wolves finally as content as you are, you know that you’d never change a thing, because it’s better to be loved willingly than with no other choice.

[star-girl69]

Fade Into You

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!AphroditeCabin!Reader

—-

sypnosis: you fell first, but clarisse fell harder. requested by anonymous!

a/n: decided to feed y’all today….. two fics i’m a monster that just creates and creates. this was so funny bc i kept accidentally writing angst and i had to stop myself. they’re allowed to have crushes on each other. it’s ok. this was hard anyways i hope you all enjoy!!

Fade Into You - Mazzy Star

warnings: just so cutesy, swearing, mentions of violence, mentions of blood and injury, soft clarisse i looooovvvvveeeeee you, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

Your chest heaves. You’ve never ran that fast or that far before in your life. Your satyr protector runs ahead to get the healers, and you crash against some random building- a tool shed, maybe?

You groan, crouching down to clutch at your lower leg sporting a large gash running blood. You don’t remember how it happened. Maybe it was when you fell? You could have sliced it open on an unfortunately sharp stick.

You don’t even want to think about the fact that the stupid monster thing chasing you could have gotten close enough to claw at you.

“Hey, hey,” someone says, crouching down next to you. She’s wearing an orange shirt. Her hair is curly, her eyes are pretty and brown, and oxygen isn’t getting to your brain so she kind of seems like an angel. “Oh, wow,” she mutters, looking at your leg. “One second, ‘kay?”

“Wait,” you say, grabbing onto her forearm. She looks up at you.

“I’m going two steps away, dummy.” She laughs, and you’ll remember that sound for the rest of your life.

She leaves you, and you almost want to cry because you feel so alone. You’ve just been told you’re a demigod, then you were forced to run through the woods, your heart is still hammering and your leg fucking burns.

But she was right. It was only two steps, and she comes back, the door of what must be some sort of storage shutting behind her.

She leans back down and presses a towel against your gash.

You hiss.

“Sorry,”

“You’re not.” She laughs again. More beautiful music in your ears.

“I’m not,” she agrees.

You fall into silence, it’s so dark out, but you can see everything about her so clearly.

“You can stop breathing so heavily,” she whispers, the shouting of your satyr protector getting closer, along with what must be the healers. “Camp Half-Blood is surrounded by a magical barrier. You’re safe here. Well, at least, no monsters are gonna get you.

“O-okay,” you mumble. You aren’t sure if you believe her. You don’t think you believe anything anymore.

The healers push her away, you’re so so tired, and she stands up, dusting off her hands.

“Thank you, Clarisse,” one of the healers says. “We’ll take it from here.”

Clarisse.

—-

The purpose of Clarisse La Rue’s entire existence seems to be to drive you insane.

The way her arms flex when she wields her spear, the way she lifts her shirt up to dab at sweat on her brow; and the way you can see her toned stomach and the faintest hint of abs you would actually kill to touch. The way she smiles, even though it’s never really genuine, and the way she laughs when she’s making fun of someone.

She was the first person you met at camp, and you’re pretty sure she doesn’t even remember it, yet alone know your name.

It was ironic, as the daughter of Aphrodite, to be quietly pining over someone from the distance. And it sucked, but maybe you would just always have this quiet crush on Clarisse, and you learned to take it like you took your breakfast.

Until the start of this summer, when everyone came back to camp, it was alive again, and it all changed. And now you’re fucked.

—-

You smile, watching a few of the younger campers scream about how amazing the lake is. Summer’s just started. It’s so beautiful this time of year. They didn’t have as traumatic experiences as you, no monsters chased them right up to the barrier of camp. The lake is huge and so blue it seems otherworldly- probably because it is.

You slam into something.

It’s an awkward flare of limbs and muttered obscenities, but you manage to keep yourself upright by falling back into a very convenient tree.

“Sorry,” you say, looking up and expecting to make eye contact with anyone but her.

You haven’t been face to face with Clarisse in four years. You mouth snaps shut, and you’re sure you look like a terrified deer in headlights.

She’s frozen just like you.

“W-watch where you’re going,” she hisses, pushing you farther into the tree as she walks past you.

Did Clarisse just stutter?

—-

Clarisse stares at you.

You blush like you’re about to turn into a flamingo.

The cycle repeats.

—-

This year, the Ares and Aphrodite cabins were paired together to share the field for sword practice just before dinner. The sun is hidden by the trees, providing some nice shade as you frown at all the Ares kids sparring like their lives depend on it.

While Aphrodite kids are not the most naturally skilled in fighting, you’re still demigods, and you still have to know how to protect yourselves.

Matty, a Ares child and your sister Tyla’s boyfriend, already sparred three times, winning against his siblings, then sparred with Tyla once; which just ended with her getting bored after a minute and dropping her sword before jumping into his arms.

You watch random people spar. Everyone moves around you, Tyla and Matty are on top of each other next to you on the bench, everyone walks around you to collect their water bottles from the table behind you.

“Aren’t you gonna spar, Y/N?” Tyla asks, fiddling with Matty’s hands.

“No,” you laugh.

“That’s against the rules.”

You know that voice, you hear that annoyingly angelic voice in your dreams.

Clarisse sits down next to you. You can hear Tyla smiling. Only a few of your siblings who can be trusted to keep a secret know about your wretched crush. You’re probably blushing.

“Uh, what?” you say, looking in her direction but not risking actually looking at her.

“You have to spar,” she says, like it’s painfully obvious, kicking out her legs.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” you shrug.

“Sounds like you’re scared, Y/N,” Matty muses.

You shoot him a bored look. “Sounds like you’re whipped, Matty.”

Tyla is currently in Matty’s lap, her hands in his hair.

“Oh, definitely,” he says, turning towards Tyla with a sweet smile on his face and she coos and immediately attaches her face to his.

“Oh, Gods,” you mutter, turning away from the two of them having borderline sex on the bench.

Clarisse laughs.

You clench your fist, you feel like you’re gonna explode being so close to her and not able to climb up into her lap and kiss her like a woman starved.

“You still have to spar, you know.”

“Are you going to tell on me?”

“Hm, no. I won’t have to.”

You finally look towards her, if only because you’re confused, but she’s looking straight out at the the distance, where a certain centaur is making his way to the fields-

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, immediately jumping up and scrambling for a sword from the pile behind you.

You turn around, hoping one of your siblings is free so you can spar with them-

The sword is ripped out of your hands.

“That one sucks,” Clarisse says, simply, while you stand there with your mouth open. She rifles through the swords. “Use this one instead.”

The one she hands you does seem a lot easier to hold. Not too heavy, not too light.

How the hell could she tell which one is best for you just by looking at you?

“Matty,” Clarisse says. “Chiron’s coming.”

Tyla and Matty both hop up, giggling at they make their way towards one of the marked circles.

As you’re left there with Clarisse, it suddenly hits you that after four years of simple indifference, she’s talking to you like she knows you. Or like she wants to know you.

You like her too much to question it. You want her too much to be bothered as to why she’s giving you five minutes of her time.

Clarisse walks away. You thought it was going to happen, so your heart feels this sort of heavy that is indescribable, but she turns around.

“Are you coming?” she asks, deadpan.

“Oh. Uh, yeah,” you say, sticking your sword under your arm and cracking your knuckles. With Chiron showing up, she leads you to the marked circle all the way at the edge of the field, the start of the woods, the very last one.

She stops and turns around, this sort of nonchalant but smug look on her face. She reaches forward and bats your hands away from each other with a single swat that leaves you so shocked from the feeling of her skin on hers that your hands fall to your sides.

“Stop that. You’ll hurt ‘em.”

Here, right in front of the trees, the sun shining through the gaps shines off of Clarisse’s tan skin and her bronze armor in a way that makes her look otherworldly.

Clarisse’s that kind of pretty where you just never want to stop staring at her. The kind of pretty where you just want to fade into her and be next to her; the kind of pretty where nothing compares to her but it just watches her too.

Like the sun behind her, it isn’t jealous, it just admires her and shines off her skin.

She’s smirking at you, her knees bending into an offensive position, her spear pointing at you.

“He’s watching,” she taunts, and you’re really not in the mood for a lecture and the loss of dessert privileges, so you copy her.

“I’m not the best-”

She spins forward, spear arcing toward you. You yelp, raising your sword up to block her spear. They slam together.

“You’ll do fine,” she smiles, so smug in a way that makes you want to slap her and kiss her all at once.

“Whatever,” you mumble as she pulls back.

But you feel a little more confident with her praise, launching a surprise attack. She seems a little shocked, but she blocks it, probably a bit closer than normal.

“Feisty,” she murmurs.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

She launches her own attack, more force behind it this time, and it’s harder to stop her, but you do, you push her back.

“It means you’re exactly like I thought you were.”

You frown, because what is she even saying, but she launches another attack, smiling brightly as you block it, her eyes never leaving your form.

It’s a blurry of your heartbeat in your ears, her smile, the clash of her spear and your sword, the rest of the field coming to life with the sound of metal on metal, wins and losses.

Your arm is growing heavy.

But you keep your eyes open, blocking her attacks and waiting for an opening you’re not sure will ever come.

Finally, she reveals her side, and you swing, your sword clanging as it hits her metal armor.

She looks down at your sword and then you.

When she looks up again, it’s never the same.

—-

“Did you let me win that first day?”

You’re in the woods with her, so many months after that first day, and it all still feels like it was yesterday. You’re laying on a blanket on the soft grass, facing each other, limbs tangled together and her arm around you.

“Hm?” she says, slightly sleepy.

“When we sparred?”

“Oh,” she smiles, yawns. “Yeah, I let you win.”

You gasp and hit her arm.

“Clar, that’s, like, horrible. Our relationship was built on lies.”

You’re the only person allowed to call her that.

She frowns. “It wasn’t. What are you talking about?”

“I was gloating over you for months, and you let me-”

“Okay, but, you still won. I just helped you a bit. That’s what a good girlfriend should do.”

“You were not my girlfriend then.”

“Yeah, but you wanted me to be. For how long? Four years?”

You roll yours eyes. “You bumped into me once and then became obsessed with me.”

She smiles against you as she kisses your forehead.

“Who wouldn’t?” she snorts. “Not my fault you bumped into me in a way no one else ever has, angel.”

“My love language is just bumping into people, I think.”

“Then you can’t bump into anybody but me. Or else I’d kill them, probably.”

“A true romantic.”

She wraps her arms around you, muscles flexing as she pulls you on top of her.

“Only for you, angel,” she says, eyes falling closed again. “‘M cold, be my blanket.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be all rough and tough?”

“Can’t be with you,” she yawns. “Love you too much. Now shush. I’m gonna fall asleep.”

“You big baby,” you mumble. “Big bad Clarisse needs to fall asleep with her girlfriend and get her full eight hours or else she’ll go on a rampage.”

“Damn right.”

Clarisse is the type of pretty that just makes you wanna fade into her. And you do, in the light of the rising moon, the light of the fading sun. You fade into her.

—-

y/n when clarisse helps her on her first day: wow, an angel 😍😍

clarisse when y/n bumps into her: wow, an angel 😍😍

ALSO CLARISSE CALLING Y/N ANGEL???? I THINK I’VE FOUND MY NEW OBSESSION Y’ALL

—-

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[eustasskidagenda]

anon asked: Hello you <3 your writing style is so smooth, I love it! So, I would like to ask you some smutty fruity juicy smut for Law my man, Kid (maybe it will make you accept this request more easily 😇), and Sanji. Something about how they would react after being teased all the day by their s/o, like bc she’s wearing some suggestives clothes or touching them in public etc. For a female reader, if possible. And regarding the kinks, do as you wish, I trust you with the result. Hope I made the request correctly and tysm for bringing our ideas to life <333 Oh, and you can add some more characters if you want! anon, please.

Hi there! Tysm for your kind words, I'm always a bit uncertain and unconfident when I have to write scenarios in other languages than my native one ;w; So, it means a lot to me ;w; I didn't add more characters bc you already pick two of my personal fav + my ultimate fav ♡. Anyway, the meal is ready, hope it will match your expectations, thank you for requesting!☆

☆Law, Kid & Sanji after being teased all the day by their s/o

CW (generals) : MDNI, f!reader, smut, teasing

WC : 3,3k

Law 

CW : dirty talk, fingering, overstimulation, slight degradation (usage of 'slut'), panties stuffing (mouth)

What a foolish game to tease Law. You know that, don't you? Law could write a complete book about teasing and still have much to say regarding this topic, in fact. So, sure, go ahead and tease him. Taunt him with this short skirt, bend just in front of him to grab the book you "accidentally" let fall, and try to annoy him while he's working in his office. He won't show anything, always keeping his cold and serious attitude in front of others. Law is pretty good when it comes to controlling himself. But inside, oh damn, his blood is boiling with pure desire to make you pay. Law is not one to let things fall, so he wants to avenge and he will do so.

And we all know Law is the king of shenanigans. While working, he would imagine a cruel scenario that would make you turn into a moaning, whimpering, and wet mess. He would keep thinking about it the entire day, holding back a mischievous grin as you continue to tease him. 

In fact, he thinks you're cute. You're putting in a lot of effort to tease him, but you have no knowledge about this topic. But it's fine, he'll teach you how it's done soon enough. 

Despite your attempts to annoy him, he's still working even though it's almost midnight. Even so, you enter his office once more, sitting at his desk, throwing his papers away. And you're wearing a really short skirt, one of his favorites. Slowly, you cross your legs, showing him the panties you're wearing under: again, one of his favorites. "Law, I'm bored" you whine, with wet puppy eyes.

And now the fun begins. Law would use his DF to 'room, shamble' you into your shared bedroom. Obviously, he would also lock the door from a distance. All you can do is wait for him. He won't let you go soon. He would continue working, taking pleasure in the silence and picturing your pitiful whines. 

After maybe two hours, he would finally join you, slowly opening the door to find you lying on the bed, all bored and eagerly waiting for the long wait. As you attempt to jump into his arms and say 'Law, you're here!', he would scowl mad at you and take off his hat without any consideration for you.

The aura surrounding him would only radiate anger and eagerness. "Get on the bed." And this is not a suggestion or a nice request coming out of his mouth, but an order. He rarely commands that directly, but when he does, you better obey really quickly. Honestly, you know it's not time to act like a brat anymore, so you should comply.

First thing first, Law would tie your wrists. "A naughty girl like you doesn't deserve to touch me." With that sentence, he would slowly remove his shirt, taking his time, playing with the buttons, and eventually revealing his bare tattooed chest. The one you love to fondle, kiss, bite, and even leave hickeys on. 

You're already squirming, anticipating being touched, anticipating intimacy with him, anticipating his skin touching yours. "Is there something wrong, y/n-ya?" Ah, yes. He would really take his time, slowly sliding his shirt down the ground, and running his beautiful tattooed hands through his hair. 

As you writhe, your short skirt goes up your thighs, revealing your panties that are already wet. "You're such a pathetic slut. You need me so badly already, y/n-ya?"

He would simply observe how your underwear is becoming more and more wet. He hasn't touched you yet. It doesn't matter if you squirm and beg, he won't care. You did that to yourself. You can try to untie yourself if you want, you're tightly tied. 

"Please Law, I'm sorry! I need you so bad! " 

" And you decided to tease me all the damn day to get my attention? You're such an eager slut. Now shut up and take it." 

Law would love to sit on the edge of the bed, close to you, but not enough to allow you to touch his skin. He would make you feel his presence, enjoying all of your pathetic whistling. And after a certain time, finally, without a word, he would run his skilled fingers along your body, touching you everywhere, avoiding your inner thighs in purpose. The more you contort and arch your back, the more he will tease you. He loves how you crave for his touch. 

As tears of frustration start to prickle at the corner of your eyes, he would roughly pinch your nipple. "Something wrong, y/n-ya?" He's tricky because if you beg for more, of course, he won't obey. And if you keep quiet, he would continue to torture your body, waiting for your answer. "That's how we tease someone, y/n-ya."

His hands would slowly, slowly, taking off your skirt and then, he would hook his thumbs under your panties, sliding them down your legs, inch by inch, revealing your bare pussy and damped folds to his eyes. "Law… I" And brutally, he would stuff your wet panties in your mouth. "Nice girls are the only ones allowed to speak." 

Your muffled complains would be pure music to his ears. He would continue to tease you, his fingers tracing patterns on your lower-stomach. Finally, sliding along your slit. "You're soaking wet for absolutely nothing." Oh, he would love to watch how your dripping core is aching, clenching around nothing, before slowly rubbing his fingers along your pussy.

"You're making a mess on the bedsheets. You better clean them right after I'm done with you. " 

He would push one finger into your pussy while you moan, your mouth still full of your own panties. Law is truly talented, even with just one finger. " One finger. That's all you deserved." 

His middle finger, which is nicely curled, would hit all your sweet spots when he circles your clit with his thumb. He would love to watch you trying to get more friction, more of him, more of his fingers. But he won't comply.

He would be painfully slow, thrusting his finger in and out of your body at an unrealistic slow pace, before brutally pushing in, and then, nice and slow again. Yes, it's frustrating, it makes you tense yourself in anticipation, and it's precisely what he's looking for. 

"See, I've told you one finger would be enough" as you cum violently all around his middle finger, making a mess on the bedsheets, with shivering thighs, shaky breath and pathetic whimpers. 

"I'm not done yet." 

Before sliding two fingers inside you. He would continue to rub your clit, hitting all your sweet spots, making you squirm on the bed as you try to untie yourself. But there is nothing you can do. You're sentenced to take more of his fingers, to cum again and again, your sensitive pussy aching and clenching.  

Then, he would take off his fingers, licking his tattoos covered in your wetness. And if you dare sigh of relief, he would slowly run his fingers along the length of his cock through his pants. 

"Oh, y/n-ya, you're here for a long, long night."

Kid 

CW : Degradation, rough sex, fingering, dirty talk, v!sex, spanking, hair pulling, slight choking, Kid has a filthy mouth, size kink, overstimulation, unprotected sex, mention of anal sex

The master of rough sex.

Kid has absolutely no patience or self-control, and absolutely hates being teased. Whenever you tease him, his honest reaction is to grab you roughly by the wrist, pin you against the closet wall, and just fuck you roughly from behind. He doesn't give a damn if it's in a public place. 

But today is different because he can't have his fun with you. That damn reunion for the 'alliance thing' that he agreed to because of Killer is way too long, and you're teasing him under the table by rubbing your feet against his cock. Or showing him that you're wearing your red panties, his favorite ones. The poor Kid would hold onto the table, his phalanx white due to the intense effort he's making to maintain his composure. 

Don't you dare think about his thoughts right now, because all he can imagine is you being fucked roughly like the little slut you are

The moment the meeting is over, he would try to grab your hips and fuck you immediately. If you manage to escape his grip, sticking out your tongue to mock him before running to the Victoria Punk, oh, damn, you're doomed.

Kid would waste no time looking after you, with clenched fists and gritted teeth. No one would dare approach him because, honestly, his anger is wrapping him up like an aura. And we all know how Kid deals with annoying people. 

He would slam the door of your shared bedroom angrily. Kid would be even madder if you lie on the bed, giggling and pleased with your mischiefs. "Think you're funny, fuckin’ woman?" The way he spits his words in your face is quite frightening. Now, you're not laughing anymore. "'Gonna fuckin' ruin ya" 

That's all your waiting for, right?

With sloppy moves, he would let his coat fall on the ground, take off his shirt, and throw his boots away. Before ripping all of your clothes, including your panties, and crawling onto the bed, his impressive figure looming over you. He would shamelessly use his large metallic arm to crush you onto the mattress. The prosthetic hand would hold your upper body, with two metallic fingers around your throat and the rest wrapping around your waist. "Stay fucking still, slut."

As you squirm and start to moan, turned on by how dominant he's acting right now, he would scowl angrily. "Stop bein' so fuckin' loud" with a rough slap on your inner thighs.

He would love to watch how you look, pinned down and totally helpless. All you can do is take all of him. He would make you spread your legs, pushing your knees away, and force them to touch the bed sheets in a matting press position. 

The sensation of fitting your small body between his muscular thighs would be immensely attractive to Kid. He would slam roughly two thick fingers into your soaking wet pussy without any warning or consideration, hitting all your sweet spots. The only thing you're allowed to do is take it. You won't be going anywhere. Not with his metallic hand holding you still. 

As you moan and beg for more, he would laugh mockingly. "Shut the fuck up, slut." Without a word, he would take off his fingers covered in your wetness and force them into your mouth. "Suck them clean." 

He would probably make you gag and drool a bit, forcing his fingers down your throat, enjoying how tears are starting to prickle at the corner of your eyes. "Thought it would be funny to fuckin' mess with me?" 

After taking off his fingers, he would roughly flip you over on your stomach. "Ass up. Chest down. Now." And, as you comply, he would smash your head against the pillow, forcing your back to arch until your spine hurts. 

Kid would spank you with his heavy hand. The flesh one. Leaving red marks on your cheeks and spreading them apart brutally to watch your tight pussy clenching desperately around nothing.  "You're just a fuckin slut, Y/N, gettin’ soaked just for some fingering." 

Quickly, he would slide down his pants, just enough to free his large cock, leaking in pre-cum, throbbing and twitching with impatience. Then, slamming his hips forward, burying his cock deep inside you, and bullying your cervix with his thick length. "Take it all." As you cry out from how good he's filling you up. 

"Shut the fuck up" burying your head violently against the pillow if you start to moan. And if you continue to muffle, cry out, and whimpers, Kid would wrap his large hand around your throat, squeezing roughly, silencing you. 

He would slam his cock so hard, making your ass jiggle with each thrust, his heavy balls slapping against your wet pussy, with a sloshing, obscene sound. He would make sure you feel helpless under his control, enjoying how your breath becomes shallow and labored as you struggle to get enough air through your nose. "Don't fuckin' mess with me, Y/N. Never." 

He would love to watch how your inside is swallowing his cock, burying himself so deep that it feels like he's pounding your very core. 

"You keep sucking me in, you like my cock that much, lil slut?" 

The headboard slamming against the wall would cause the bed to creak. With his hand, Kid could either slap your ass or hold you still. And sure, his eyes would be glued to his cock, sliding roughly in and out of you, glistening, all covered by your wetness. 

As he pounded into you at a breaking-spine pace, he would grunt loudly and shamelessly, sweat dripping down his face. "Cry out for me all you want, fuckin' whore." 

He would pull you back onto his cock with each thrust, almost tearing you in half. He would use his exceptional stamina to his advantage, plowing into you repeatedly and showing no signs of slowing down. He won't stop if you don't use your safe word for a rough session. 

"Who's fuckin' you so well?" 

His ego would be immensely satisfied if you keep shooting his name.

His hand would grab your hair, pulling it roughly, almost breaking your neck, forcing you to look at him while he fucks you. Squeal for him, cry for him under his unforgiving pace. That's all he wants. "I don't even know why I'm fuckin' you. A slut like you doesn't deserve my cock." 

He would continue until your mind starts to melt into nothingness, leaving bruises all over your skin. Your moans and his low, animalistic grunts would fill the rooms. As you cum all around his cock, he would slap your ass, keep thrusting, and overstimulate you. And brutally, he would cum inside of you, his body shaking with the force of his release. After a few more sloppy thrusts, he would pull out, his member sliding out of you with a loud plop, followed by a large amount of white sticky fluid leaking out of you.

"Keep it in, slut." 

Slowly, his thumb would find its way to your asshole. "This hole deserves some attention too, right, slut?"

Good luck, you just awake a wild beast. He would be delighted to observe your struggle to walk the next morning. That's what you get for teasing him. No one messes with Eustass Kid.

Sanji 

CW : oral sex , fingering (reader receiving), slight food play, squirting, v!sex, Sanji is talking in French here and there 

Okay, but Sanji is almost always turned on by your simple presence. Our poor Sanji would struggle to even breathe if you decided to tease him. His eyes would always be glued to your every move. He would smoke more than usual, attempting to resist the urge to lift this beautiful dress and devour you.

Honestly, he would assume that you're angry with him. "Have I done something wrong today, Y/N?" With wet puppy eyes. 

Poor Sanji would be even more confused if you start laughing playfuly and lift up your dress slightly, revealing the elegant lace panties you're wearing today. He would struggle to cook, almost burn the dinner for the crew because his mind would be so dizzy. Oh, he would sacrifice everything to eat you out right here, right now, in front of anyone.

Sanji would cough loudly as you continue to tease him under the table during the diner with the rest of the crew. And once everyone has left the kitchen, Sanji would waste no time locking the door and just grabbing your hips and sitting you on the table. 

Let's remember the broken plates with a minute of silence.

"J'ai tellement besoin de toi, Y/N" (I need you so bad)

He would also ask you what he has done wrong today, and as you laugh and reply 'nothing, I just wanted to tease you,' Sanji would be relieved. "If my pretty girlfriend is needy, then, I have to take care of her. Je vais bien m'occuper de toi." (I gonna take care of you)

Sanji would use the environment to his advantage and cover your body with black chocolate, slowly licking your breasts covered in the warm liquid. "Tasting so good…" 

He would eat and treasure every inch of your skin, sucking on your nipples, pinching them slowly between his thumb and index finger while sucking on the other. Sanji is eager to please you and is happy to finally touch you after a long day of teasing.

He's a starving person, he would never be able to tease you back or just ignore you.

Sanji would slowly slide your panties down your legs. At the sight of your bare pussy, his cock would roughly press against the fabric of his pants. 

He would treat you like a queen even if you've been teasing him for the entire day. After all, you are his queen and you deserve the best.

While you remained on the table, he would ask "Are you comfortable?" and then kneel down and gently run his hands along your inner thighs. He would slowly bury his head between your legs. Being between your thighs is his favorite place. Pure heaven for Sanji.

Sanji, the oral sex king, would take his time, placing soft kisses on your inner thighs, slowly approaching your soaking wet pussy. "My pretty girl is so needy." 

He would eat you out by using his skills to make you moan his name loudly. Please grasp his hair and press his head harder against your lips. When you use him for your own pleasure, he loves it. His tongue flicking against your clit, he would smoothly slide two long fingers inside of you, curling them deeply inside of you. 

Sanji doesn't need anything but his skillful mouth and hands to make you feel good. Your responsiveness is something he loves. He would love to feel your legs wrapped around him as he continues to drink all of your juice as if it were a glass of red wine. 

With a gentle touch, he would intensify the passion, his tongue licking harder at your clit, and his fingers perfectly curled against all your sweet spots. Although he's patient, he's also battling against his own urge to take off his pants and slide his cock deep into your hot and wet pussy.

He would look at you, enjoying how your face is twisted in nothing but pure ecstasy. "You're always making the prettiest noises for me" before returning back to his duty: making you cum.

And that's what you do, squeezing his head between your thighs, grabbing a full hand of blond hair, cumming hard against his lips and around his fingers nicely curled inside you. 

Sanji would drink all of your juice, continue to eat you out, until you cum again. And again. You teased him all the day, now, he can't get enough of you. He wants more, he needs more. He would leave you with your legs shaking and turn you into a pathetic whiny mess. "Too much!" He would continue until you squirt on his face, your mind so dizzy that you can't feel your own orgasms anymore.

Finally, he would stop, licking his lips and glistening with your wetness. "Tu es si bonne, je ne peux pas m'arrêter." (You taste so good, I just can't stop.)

He would not expect you to return the favor. But it would be cruel to leave him with an uncomfortable erection. You're not cruel. Right? 

If you decide to let him slide his cock inside you, he would moan so loudly and shamelessly. The prettiest moans. You just feel so good. 

He would fuck you on the table, in all the positions, worshipping every single inch of your body until you're both exhausted.

[reiding-writing]

macarons and misunderstandings [ s.r ]

Summary:

You coax Spencer into joining you in a bakery café that your friend recommended you to visit whilst on a case in NYC, and although it starts as two friends getting lunch together, it doesn’t end that way.

WARNINGS: minor swearing, wholesome miscommunication

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

genre: fluff, just the most sickeningly sweet wholesome fluff

wc: 3.4k

masterlist!!

a/n: rest assured, i will be returning to my comfort zone of hurt/comfort for my next fic bc i cannot write wholesome stuff for the life of me 😭

“Alright, take a break everyone, we’ll pick this back up after everyone’s had the chance to eat,” Hotch’s voice rings across the NYPD conference room alongside the closing of the file he was reading from, and he tucks the manilla folder under his arm as he stands. “I want you all back here by 1:30,”

There’s a small chain of nods and ‘yes sir’s before the team is rising from the table and grabbing their belongings to vacate the police station to go and get some lunch, and you manage to catch Spencer right before he leaves. “Hey Spence-”

“Hm? Yeah?” He does a full U-turn with his body, almost walking straight into you in the process if not for his hand still holding the door open to give him a point of balance, and you have to stifle a small smile that tries to break its way onto your face.

“You got any plans for lunch or can I effectively kidnap you for an hour?”

Spencer gives you slightly furrowed expression although doesn’t seem opposed to the idea. “I’m not sure that was the best way to word that but no I haven’t,”

“Yeah probably not-“ You let out a small breath that could almost constitute as a laugh. "Anyway, apparently there’s a really good french bakery like two blocks away from here, we should go check it out before Hotch changes his mind and decides we’re confined to the station,”

“Right… yeah uh-.” Spencer laughed softly, encouraging you out of the door ahead of him before following behind you. “A bakery sounds really nice actually,”

"My friend told me about it when she was down here for fashion week, she said it has some of the best pastries she’s ever tried," You emphasise the word ‘best’ with your hands, and Spencer’s eyes followed them as he got caught up in your enthusiasm.

One of your favourite things about your oddly-developed friendship with Spencer was that you could do things like take a trip to a bakery together without a single hint of awkwardness.

Long since had the silences between you held any unfamiliar tension or apprehension when it came to getting to know each other those five years ago.

It was comfortable. Secure. And you weren’t entirely sure it was just a ‘friendship’.

“Did she happen to mention what type of pastries they have?” Spencer asked you, his eyebrows raised with genuine curiosity.

"She specifically mentioned the almond croissants, although i’m also eager to try their lemon crêpes because they sound absolutely amazing," You continue to exaggerate what you’re saying with your hands as you push open the door of the Police Station, exiting into the cool autumnal breeze of the New York City streets.

Spencer followed closely behind you, nodding along to what you were saying as he placed his hands the pockets of his tattered trench coat. Although, he wasn’t entirely listening to the words leaving your mouth, too focused on how the autumn breeze blew your hair softly and how the partially concealed rays of sun made your eyes look like they they held all of the stars in the milky way.

"Ooh, and macarons-" You turn towards Spencer as your excitement about what pastries to get overtakes any lingering thoughts of the case you’re working on, gripping onto his sleeve with your left hand.

You were excited about the pastries; He was excited about the warmth of your hand through his sleeve.

“Macarons do sound good. You know what would go really well with them?” Spencer looked at you as he spoke, smiling like you’d ripped the sun from the sky and given it to him as a present. “Hot chocolate.”

"Oh you are so right-" You give an immediate sharp nod at Spencer’s suggestion, sliding down his arm to rest on the inside of his elbow, fingers pressed gently into the slight curve created from where his hands rested inside his pockets.

To the unassuming eye, the two of you most probably looked like a couple out on a date, your arms linked and Spencer looking at you like you were the only person in existence.

Spencer was very aware that the way you touched him made it look like you were in a relationship.

And it made him feel a little giddy.

He had to force himself back to reality. He wasn’t in a relationship with you. All he was doing was going out with you as a friend to grab some pastries for lunch. That’s it.

"Okay so we have definite yeses to macarons and hot chocolate, I feel like we’ve gotta get at least one almond croissant considering how much my friend was raving about them, anything else?"

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a crêpe before. Maybe we should try one of those?”

Spencer had a sudden urge to kiss you, and he didn’t really know why. Maybe it was gentle heat of your fingers against his arm. Maybe it was the light pink flush on your cheeks from the cold breeze. Maybe it was the fact that he’d been subconsciously pining after you for years to the point where he could barely think of anything else.

"Yes. Definitely. 100%." You give the inside of his elbow a small squeeze at the prospect of introducing him to the delicacy that is french crêpes. "I cannot let you live a life without crêpes in it."

Spencer nodded along arbitrarily, not listening to a single word that you just said as he internally imagined how it would feel to have your hands in his hair and your lips on his skin.

Why wasn’t he in a relationship with you? You were just… perfect, and he was really into you.

He felt like there had to be a reason why you weren’t together, but that train of thought made Spencer fluster to the point he was afraid you’d be able to see it if he thought about it any longer.

"Aha," You make an exclamation of victory as the bakery comes into view, pushing the door open with a soft bell chime and tugging Spencer inside with you with a gentle but excited insistence.

The bakery looked amazing, although much closer to a café. It had a small quaint European feel to it despite it being on a main Street in New York City, and surprisingly, it wasn’t that busy either. It was the exact type of bakery that Spencer had hoped it would be.

You scour the chalkboard menu for a second to make sure they actually had everything you wanted before going up to order, and Spencer noticed as your hand slid downwards to the inside of his wrist so that you could lean forward to see the chalk whilst still keeping yourself anchored to him.

He was definitely blushing now, his heart taunting him as it pounded against his chest.

Spencer wanted to ask you to kiss him, or at least hold his hand, but the thought of bringing attention to the unspoken connection the two of you had may ruin it stopped him from saying anything, not wanting to risk losing what he currently had in the very minor instance of gaining something more.

"You’re alright with sharing a croissant and a crêpe right? I figure it might be too much otherwise-"

Spencer nodded with a smile. “I don’t mind sharing a croissant and a crêpe with you.”

You give him a beamed smile and a nod as you leave his side to go and order, shutting down his offer to pay before he could even suggest it.

He subconsciously ran his fingers over his wrist as he waited for you, trying to compensate from the loss of your touch and the gentle warmth that accompanied it as he watched you engage in polite small talk with the cashier.

You looked so sweet. So perfect.

"let’s sit outside yeah? it’s a nice day," You retreat back towards him with a tray balanced in your hands, two mugs of hot chocolate joined with four coloured macarons and a single croissant and crêpe, carefully distributed to balance the weight as you carry it.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Spencer nods at you softly, a wistful expression still on his face as he takes you by the elbow in order to help you carry the tray safely.

The reinstating of your previous contact brought a small flush back over his cheeks, and even through his hands were only brushing against the fabric of your shirt, it still felt oddly intimate.

The two of you walk over to a vacant table, set under a large parasol that casted the table in a comfortable shade.

Spencer took a seat across from you as you both sat down, separated by a small table in between the two of you.

Funny how a little table could do that.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Oh my god we are definitely coming back here next time we have a case down here-" You give a satisfied sigh as you wipe your fingers on a serviette, placing it inside your empty mug and pulling out your phone to check the time.

1:17.

You should get back to the station.

The thought of having to go back dampened your mood a little, and not just because it meant you now had to spend the rest of the day bent over a desk to curate a profile.

You really enjoyed spending time with Spencer like this, whether it be accompanying him to a new museum exhibit or driving him to buy his groceries so he wouldn’t have to sit behind the wheel.

It was a small highlight of your time not spent working, and you always found yourself disheartened when it was time to leave.

“We should definitely come back.” Spencer looked at you as he spoke, catching the mild change in your expression. “Are you okay?”

“Hm? Yeah- yeah i’m good,” You give him a nod and a reassuring smile as you stand from you seat with him following not long after you. “Just not exactly looking forward to going back to work,”

“Yeah I understand what you mean,” Spencer gives a small laugh, stuffing his hands back into his pockets again.

"We should do this more often you know,” You tilt your head slightly at him, the words leaving your mouth without any thought behind them. "I uh- enjoy spending time with you like this,"

“I enjoy spending time with you too,” Spencer smiled gently.

He looked at you, feeling a slight bit of courage at your confession of enjoying spending time with him one on one.

Come on Spencer, just ask them out already.

"I’m glad," You give Spencer a half-laugh, turning away from him slightly to hide the flushed nature of your cheeks from your embarrassment.

Spencer’s eyes studied you, and he felt like now might be the time. You two were still technically off work, you loved spending time together, and you’d just spent the last half an hour listening to him rant about the new book he was reading whilst the two of you drank hot chocolate and shared french pastries with each other.

You weren’t just friends. You were more than that.

At least he hoped so.

“Can I take you out… on a date?” Spencer’s voice was soft, but it carried confidence.

"A- date?" You stop walking in the middle of the street, your body re-directing any cognitive functioning to focus on computing Spencer’s question.

Spencer stopped as you did, eyes entirely trained on your expression. He couldn’t help but look at how beautiful you were right now. Your face painted with a blush and a mild look of confusion characterised through the slight furrow in your eyebrows.

“Y- yeah… do you want to go on a date with me?”

Of course it was okay if you didn’t. It wouldn’t hurt Spencer. He’d handle the rejection. Right?

"I- Yeah-" You nod quickly, a little too enthusiastically if you were to think about it logically. “Yes,”

"I’d love to go on a date with you-" You’re words are rushed and slightly muddled together as you hastily agree to his proposition, but they get the point across.

Spencer’s face lit up with a blush as you said yes.

That’s wonderful news.

A small grin spread across his face. “I’m glad…” The words slipped out without Spencer realising it, joined by a notable fluster.

He was glad.

He was absolutely thrilled about the fact you want to go on a date with him.

Spencer was so incredibly grateful that you said yes.

“Wouldn’t- I mean- We just like went out together and got food and talked and stuff- was that… a date?-“ You gesture your hand back to the bakery café the two of you had just left.

You weren’t exactly wrong, and he understood your confusion.

“I suppose it follows the motions of a date,” Spencer looked at you, overtaken by how perfectly ethereal you looked with the breeze fluttering against your shirt and a blush covering your cheeks.

“But an actual date would be much more romantic.” His words were confident, even if he was embarrassed that he was admitting to you just how much of a romantic he was underneath his façade of being uninterested in finding someone.

"So it wasn’t a date?” You raise an eyebrow slightly, fiddling with your sleeves. “Because I want to kiss you but if it wasn’t a date then I can’t because you can’t kiss someone without going on a date with them first because it breaks date etiquette-”

Spencer’s eyes widened as he listened to you ramble without taking a single breath. You wanted to kiss him?

You wanted to kiss him.

You wanted to kiss him.

Spencer was trying to keep his emotions in check as he stared at you. Your words made him tingle with excitement. “Um… you can- still kiss me if you want…?”

You shake your head with determination. “You can’t kiss someone before you’ve been on a date with them,”

Spencer looked so utterly confused.

So, you didn’t want to kiss him?

He wanted to kiss you.

“Why not? Your logic makes no sense. Why can’t kiss me?” Spencer was so utterly confused, his eyebrows knitted in a way that made you want to plant your lips between them as he tried to understand what your issue was.

"My logic makes complete sense-" You cross your arms over your chest as you gesture for the two of you to keep walking with a nod of your head.

"Everybody knows that you never kiss somebody until the end of the first date, it curses your whole future relationship otherwise,"

Spencer couldn’t help but stare at you blankly.

What he heard you say was wrong. Really wrong.

You should kiss someone whenever you want to kiss someone. Especially if they’re your crush.

But you were adamant you couldn’t kiss Spencer because of this stupid arbitrary rule.

"Well, if you’d have agreed to my judgement that our bakery stop was a date then you’d be getting a kiss," You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, lips pressed into a straight line. "But you don’t, therefore I can’t kiss you,"

Spencer stared at you in disbelief as you spoke, before his eyes widened.

He knew what you wanted to hear, and so he gave in.

It was the only way he’d get a kiss.

“Okay okay- It was a date at the bakery I was wrong-”

He hated how desperate he sounded, but you were so beautiful, you were stunning, you were the most gorgeous person he ever met.

Spencer wanted to be with you. And you were giving him an in to finally press his lips against your perfect face.

"Are you sure?" You furrow your eyebrows at him in mock accusation, agains stopping in your tracks to stand in front of him with your eyes fixed on his face.

Spencer sighed. “I… yes. It was a date. I was just being silly…” Spencer took your hand for a moment as he spoke to you, interlacing his fingers in yours and feeling the warmth of your hands against his frigidly cold ones.

He wanted you to know that he felt a lot differently towards you compared to how he’d felt about anyone else.

You were special.

And he wanted you.

"Right you are pretty boy," You give his hand a small squeeze as you use your other to cup his face, pulling it towards you with a gentle insistence so that you could press a chaste kiss to those perfect pink lips that had just been begging you to silence them. "You were being silly,"

Spencer’s face lit up with another blush as you called him pretty boy.

Of course you thought Spencer was pretty. Not handsome or beautiful.

Pretty.

He let himself be pulled in closer as you spoke to him teasingly, telling him that he was being silly.

And then… your lips. Pressed against his with a soft pressure that he gladly returned.

That was all it took for Spencer to feel like the luckiest man on earth.

"Here’s to a successful first date," You chuckle softly as your lips part, your noses brushing as you lean back to admire the rosy tint to his cheeks and the beaming smile that accompanied it.

Spencer felt so happy. So overwhelmingly, sickeningly happy.

And so, he did a thing that he never thought he had the courage to do. He pulled you into his arms, leaning in to kiss you with so much fervour that you were relying on the strength of his hands on your waist for stability.

Spencer didn’t know when he’d get the opportunity to do this again. So he was 100% going to make the most of it.

You can’t help the smile that erupts on your face as he pulls you in again, your hands cradling his cheeks and your head tilted ever so slightly to the left as you rested your weight into his hands.

If you’d recorded this moment and told him it was a scene from a cheesy romance movie he would’ve believed you.

As the two of you reluctantly pull away due to the unfortunate human necessity of breathing, you catch a glance at the watch face on the inside of your wrist.

1:29.

“Shit- We really need to get back to the station.” Your hands fall from his face to grab one of his own, pulling him down the streets as you hurry back to the police station, mildly out of breath and still completely flustered.

“So-“ Spencer pulled a small resistance against your hands as the two of you stopped outside of the door.

“We’re going on a second date once we get home right?”

[obislittleone]

i hate that I even have to do this:

if I have one more fucking mutual on this site dm me a free palestine post during this time when they know that I’m not only jewish but have one of my closest friends fighting for her life while her parents have been kidnapped by hamas (openely funded by Palestinians) i will lose my shit. I’ve messaged some of you privately and you still persist to think you know more. It is disgusting how you keep your narrative without doing the research just to prove a point. I am so close to losing my mind and deleting tumblr for a while, since you guys clearly don’t understand how big of a problem this actually is. I didn’t want to have to make a public post, but at this point, I’m tired of responding to conversations where all I hear about is the pity you are giving to the groups that are murdering my people. There has not been this many jews killed in a single day since the time of the holocaust, so if you’re okay with that, go ahead and reveal yourself as a nazi and let me move on with my life. I stand with the innocent people in Israel, and I don’t give a shit about your opinion. Fuck hamas, and if you’re siding with them (simply because they are in alliance with Palestine) then fuck you too.

Edit: y'all seem to think that since I'm against hamas that I'm somehow condemning the innocents of palestine too, and I would like to set the record straight that I am on the side of human life. Don't come at me saying I'm a genocider and other ridiculous bullshit when I've given of my time, effort and money to help Palestinians in need. And don't call a fucking jewish woman a nazi when my great grandmother's entire family [minus her bother and herself] were murdered in the holocaust. It's a new kind of foul when you try and pull that card.

One more thing: to the people in my inbox telling me hitler was right and that they hope hamas gasses me like my ancestors, i hope you take a moment to self reflect and find what's truly bothering you, bc ain't no way y'all just became nazis over me trying to save human life on both sides

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

I was re reading your pool fic bc it’s one of my favourite and I wanted to ask ab how Vil would go over giving you a make over when he finds out you’re a girl or how Vil, Rook and Epel would be involved?

Would Epel finally be happy to not be the only one being tortured by Vil with his 20084 step skin care routine?

Would Vil take you shopping and go full MUA?

Would Rook stalk you so Vil can find our about your current beauty regimen?

Also I love your writing so much

Aforementioned Makeover | Yandere Pomefiore

The thing about the pool party is that everyone knew you were a girl 

You had told them straight up

But they either written it off or the time you casually mentioned it or it just wasn’t a priority

Rook most definitely already knew 

More than willing to share one of his extensive photo albums on you when Vil finally decides you are indeed in need  of a makeover

Whether it’s through Rook or forcefully making Epel ask or just interrogating you himself

He’ll go full steam ahead once he has an idea on your situation

But it gets tricky when he realizes Rook’s has a loooonggg list of things he notices and actively updates about your health and routine

It kind of makes him jealous

So he steps up his game a little and demands your presence in Pomefiore immediately

He might wait for exam season where everyone’s on edge 

And far too anxious to debate whatever craziness he’s imposing on the Ramshackle Prefect

“This is just for the time being, no need to lose your head. Focus on your exams and I’ll focus on you. Got that?”

He’s reworking your entire life routine to fit around and with him in the center

Because Rook get’s to openly patrol and monitor you he’s not upset

He also expected it’d turn out this way but that’s a discussion for another time+

Epel though is at first willing to excuse himself

Leaving you to the proverbial wolves until he realizes what this means

“After the fitting, we’ll polish their elegance training, and then after that we’ll have to do a hearty meal otherwise they’d whine all day–” “I agree!”

“But they told me that tomorrow we’d go to the racing derby together…”

“Hm, well we’ll have to cancel that then. (Y/n)’s incredibly short energy and requirements for tomorrow can’t have them waking up too early to go to that. We only have time for what we’ve planned.”

“Yup sorry, monsieur crab-apple! Now please continue Roi du Poison!” 

“...”

If he doesn’t actively include himself or remind Vil of his obsession with training him

He’s going to be left out

Lose more time to get close to you

Less chances for him to win you over

Not to mention the bonding and learning he gets from just aiding his upperclassmen in their endeavors

“Now this Epel is the perfect time to ask questions. In this condition their mental state is still intact, so any questions you ask isn’t immediately going to be met with mindless and incoherent blubbering.”

“But why would I want to ask questions? What good is talking to this piece’a crap gonna do?”

“Tsk Tsk pauvre malheureux you have so much to learn! Consider this prey the beginning of a larger scheme…a member of a conspiracy against notre chéri!” 

“I see…”

Unbeknownst to him he’s prepared to use it all against them when the perfect time strikes

But it’s not wise to underestimate your teachers 

Where do you think that urge came from?

“We at Pomefiore value beauty above most, consider it a privilege we want to highlight yours.” 

“Though the urge to lock it away is palpable; for my Roi du Poison I’ll stiffle my urges just a tad longer!”

“Don’t expect to get too far from me I’m mo’ than set onya heart.”

“Epel!”

“I know I know, geez.”

[kynizen]

☆ drst hcs ~ in denial

prompt. him being heavily in denial about his feelings for you and if/when he’d finally realize it. split into three sections — him & you (how & why the denial starts) + him & co. (another character’s reaction to his denial) + feelings realization. gender neutral reader.

ft. hyoga, tsukasa, & ukyo

warning. spoilers for most recent eps. ahead , angst

a/n — I think this concept is fun! less characters bc there’s 3 sections per character! enjoy this fun little game of denial! also, i will say that hyoga’s characterization is largely based on his later manga appearances! there are no spoilers, but you don’t get to see a lot of good hyoga until the manga <//3 anyway! enjoy!

☁️ hyoga akatsuki ;;

him & you ~ how it starts

• Given his nature, Hyoga would be in denial for quite some time before ever realizing that he actually likes you. After all, in his mission to build a world where only the strong and proper are revived, is there really any room for romance?

• The answer, of course, happens to be yes, even if he didn’t mean to fall for you.

• Usually, Hyoga would view kindness as yours as limiting and weak. How can anyone survive in a battle of survival of the fittest if they refuse to be ruthless?

• However… your kindness does something to him. He’s used to being treated with respect, reverence, or fear. Experiencing genuine kindness from you— kindness from one person to another— is an entirely new experience. He’s never been treated with warmth and smiles without an ulterior motive.

• Pacifist or not, your kindness is only further enhanced by your other skills. Witnessing you in your element further grows Hyoga’s affection for you. Your warmth got his eyes on you, and your skills kept him watching.

• But… surely he’s only watching you because you’re a proper ally, right? He’s merely surprised by how capable you turned out to be behind that soft heart. That’s why you’ve caught his attention.

• Hyoga treats you noticeably kinder than others. Even when he’s around people he respects— like Homura or Tsukasa— he maintains distance. With you, he’s a little warmer— more willing to entail conversation he’d see as nonsensical otherwise.

• On top of that, Hyoga is adamant on keeping you away from trouble. When he starts to suspect Gen’s loyalty, he tries his best to keep you far from the mentalist. What if Gen pulled you to the other side? How would he keep you safe then?

• He keeps trying to reason with himself that he merely feels this way because you’re a proper ally, and it’d be a shame to lose skills like yours. He’ll ignore his fluttering heart and the smiles behind his mask if it means keeping you at a distance and never admitting how he feels.

• Because if he admits it and he loses you, he’s certain he’ll risk becoming much weaker. And that’s not something he can afford.

him & co. ~ another character’s reaction — asagiri gen

• Hyoga, though he acts subtle about his favoritism toward you, isn't as discreet as he likely thought he was. Then again, it’s hard to hide things from a mentalist, even if Hyoga wears a mask.

• Gen notices a change in Hyoga’s demeanor a few weeks after you’re revived. Before you were around, Hyoga would make himself scarce— training in solitude— if no one needed him or he had no duties for the day.

• Beforehand, Tsukasa and Homura were the only people Hyoga gave the time of day. He’d hardly ever entertain conversation with another soul unless absolutely necessary. All to say, he was something of a lone wolf.

• Then, you’re revived. And suddenly, Gen sees a lot more of Hyoga around and hears him talking a lot more than he used to.

• Hyoga still trains, but he makes it a point to idle around and wait for you to also be free before walking off with you so you can keep him company while he trains.

• You’re the only one Hyoga actively talks with, and from what Gen has overheard, it’s hardly a business talk. Your conversation topics with Hyoga always include life, family, and who Hyoga is. Surprisingly, Hyoga doesn’t brush you off— diligently answering your questions and even asking some of his own.

• Gen also notices that when Hyoga isn’t around, you’re also notably absent. Gen once thought it was you clinging to Hyoga… but soon realizes it’s quite the opposite. Actually, he overheard Hyoga asking to be assigned to the same work with you when he’s able, or he merely finishes his own duties before seeking you out.

• Gen is quick to realize what it is. However, when he musters up the courage to ask Hyoga about it, he’s not shocked to hear the man vehemently deny it— going as far as calling it foolish and weak.

• However, Gen notices the way his shoulders relax, the way his brow unfurrows, and the smiles Hyoga tries to hide when you’re mentioned. Gen notices the way Hyoga straightens up a bit and softens around the edges when he’s with you.

• Gen knows for a fact that Hyoga is smitten with you. Now… whether or not he’d ever come to admit that is a whole new question. He’s so deep in denial and in his own worldview that he’s almost certain Hyoga would deny it until the day he dies.

• Well… not that it matters to Gen. If he can leverage Hyoga’s crush against him, then he will. Maybe then Hyoga would actually admit that he doesn’t just see you as a normal ally.

feelings realization ~ finally. . .

• After his betrayal against Tsukasa and the Kingdom of Science, Hyoga believes he’ll only feel regret that he didn’t best Senku. However… as time passes while he’s locked up, he feels more regret that he betrayed you and your trust.

• He doesn’t remember how everyone else reacted to his betrayal, but he does remember the hurt and disappointment on your face. In that moment, in fully losing, he felt like he lost something more than his ideal world— the person he wanted to share that world with.

• Hyoga fully suspects you to want nothing to do with him or Homura ever again. He suspects that he’s lost you forever— that he’ll never feel your warmth again. And the mere thought makes his heart hurt.

• In that moment, when he’s locked up and questioning why he cares so much, he finally comes to the realization that he wouldn’t care if you were just a proper ally in his eyes. He wouldn’t care so much unless he cared about you deeply.

• Part of him is disappointed— part of him blames you for bringing out a weakness in him. Surely, that weakness is the reason he lost. But… then you start visiting him.

• It starts with you bringing his food on a daily basis. Then, you bring your own food and stick around to eat with him. You engage Homura in conversation, and soon enough, him, too.

• Hyoga warms up to you all over again. You’re stronger than he ever was. He wants to call you stupid for being so willing to forgive him even though he was your enemy. However, he knows that you’ve fully considered the weight of your decision and still chose forgiveness anyway.

• He knows he could never be that way— which is why he has to admire that trait in you. Sure, perhaps kindness can be a foolish weakness… but that kindness of yours allowed you to give him a second chance.

• In its own way, that’s quite proper, isn’t it?

• Either way, he can’t help but accept that, yes. He loves you more than anything. And if there isn’t a place for romance in the Stone World, he’ll just have to carve one out himself.

• All he hopes is that, one day, you’ll be able to love him just as much. Though, he’d be unable to blame you for feeling otherwise. It’d be foolish for him to engage in such wishful thinking without facing reality.

• But… he certainly does love you. And that won’t change for a long time.

☁️ tsukasa shishio ;;

him & you ~ how it starts

• When his attention first falls on you, Tsukasa assumes it’s because you’re especially pure-hearted. You’re someone his sister would’ve loved. After all, what else could it possibly be?

• He isn’t fully sure when that viewpoint changes. All he knows is that you change from someone his sister would’ve loved to someone he wishes could’ve met her. You become someone he knows he likes to be around, and he isn’t sure why.

• He vehemently denies that it could be love because, well, it was that same emotion that was Senku, Taiju, and Yuzuriha’s downfall. Senku’s care for his friend and knowing that Taiju loved Yuzuriha is precisely why he was able to best them.

• Emotions like that were sure to become a weakness, and he’d never let that happen, so it couldn’t be that. It’s precisely why he’s never searched for Mirai. Because even if she couldn’t be revived, he couldn’t bear to see her statue come to harm.

• So what he feels for you couldn’t be that. The desire to be in your presence— the desire to confide in you and spend quiet moments with you— it isn’t love. Admiration, perhaps? Maybe friendship? With each passing day he becomes more uncertain of the answer.

• What he does know is that he makes it a point to check in on you quite a bit. He revived you for your skills and kindness… but each time he meets you it’s never about anything related to the Empire.

• Your conversations with him are notably familiar. They’re never about work like with the others he talks with. When he approaches you, he does so to check in on your well-being— to ask if there’s anything you feel you’re lacking.

• You’re the only one he walks along the beach quietly with, reminiscing about his sister and his past. Tsukasa feels inclined to tell you things he hasn’t told another.

• But it isn’t love. When he tells you about himself— hoping to show you the reasons behind his morals— it isn’t love. When he’s had a rough day plagued with regrets and he seeks you out— that isn’t love.

• Because if it is, he’s certain you’d never be happy with where his morals align. He’s certain that you hide how troubled you are beneath a kind smile.

• If he falls for you, he knows it’d kill him that you’d never agree to be by his side. So he refuses— he can’t. He’ll call the extra kindness he shows you, the leniency he takes with you, anything but what it likely is if it means saving himself the weakness that comes with that warmth.

him & co. ~ another character’s reaction — yuzuriha & taiju

• While Tsukasa is relatively good about being subtle about how he feels about you, the person that notices it first is Yuzuriha, followed closely by Taiju.

• When he’s around you, Taiju recognizes the initial upstanding guy he thought Tsukasa was. He sees no hint of hostility or distrust that he’d seen in him before. All he sees is kindness. Tsukasa never regards you with anything but a smile, and it’s enough for Taiju to firmly believe that, yeah, Tsukasa is a good guy— probably just on the wrong path.

• It’s entirely different for Yuzuriha. The reason she recognizes Tsukasa’s fondness for you so quickly is because she recognizes the way the man looks at you. It’s the same way Taiju looks at her. Fondness, warmth, love— an unspoken desire to be by someone’s side no matter what may happen.

• They both see that… but they also hear how Tsukasa talks about you. He has nothing but good things to say. Even if you’re someone who doesn’t agree with Tsukasa’s morals, he’s never expressed anything but understanding. And if someone dares disrespect you, he’s quick to shut it down.

• However, they also hear him insist that you’re just a friend— someone pure-hearted that needs to be protected. Taiju mentions to Yuzuriha that he feels like Tsukasa looks a little sad when he calls you just a friend. She sees it, too.

• When he thinks you aren’t looking, the two notice that Tsukasa’s eyes always seem to drift to you. He always has a faraway look in his eyes. Then, they see his eyes glimmer a bit with hope when you happen to catch his gaze.

• Truth be told, it makes both Taiju and Yuzuriha a little sad. If Tsukasa was honest with himself— if he wasn’t so adamant on his ways— then there’d be nothing stopping him from being happy with you. Tsukasa’s biggest obstacle is himself.

• They hope that if they eventually beat Tsukasa in this war… maybe then he’ll allow himself to be happy with you. Maybe he’ll be allowed a happy ending with you.

• Because at the end of the day, Tsukasa is a good guy, isn’t he?

feelings realization ~ finally. . .

• Tsukasa finally realizes that he loves you when it’s a little too late. He finally realizes it… but his time with you gets cut terribly short.

• At the end of the war against the Kingdom of Science, you remain by his side. You share his excitement in reviving Mirai, and you never blame him for anything that happened. You stayed by him despite everything— despite all the fighting.

• The moment he realizes that you being there is just… natural to him, he accepts that he loves you dearly. You’d stay beside him through thick and thin, you’d be an amazing role model to Mirai, and your kindness knows no end.

• He loves you and wants to protect you. If the entirety of humanity is going to be revived, he’ll protect your pure heart from any corrupt adults himself. He wants to stay by your side and love you at your best and your worst as you did for him. He wants to be your support— a quiet and safe place to retreat to.

• He just… wants to be someone that deserves the kindness you’ve shown him. He wants to be worthy of the warm love you’ve always shown. He loves you and wants to treat you in the way you deserve.

• But… his happiness is short-lived. When Mirai is revived, he tells her about his affection for you. He tells her he wants to confess— but then Hyoga fatally wounds him.

• Tsukasa realizes it’d be selfish to ask you to wait for him. When Senku chooses to freeze him, they both have no clue when he’ll be able to come back— if he’ll ever come back. Tsukasa doesn’t want you to wait for him— for the slim chance he’ll return.

• It’s then that Tsukasa decides to take it with him to the grave. If he happens to revive… if Senku somehow finds a way to petrify him… then he’ll tell you. If you still haven’t found anyone by the time he returns, he makes a promise to himself, and to Mirai, that he'll finally tell you how he feels.

• Before he’s frozen, you make a promise to him in a hushed whisper that you’ll watch over Mirai for him— that you know he’ll return one day and that you’ll be patiently waiting for him to come home.

• In those final moments before cold sleep, Tsukasa’s heart feels reassured. He should’ve realized— you’d wait for him regardless of what he said.

• Now… he just hopes he’ll be able to awaken and meet you again— to love you as you deserve.

☁️ ukyo saionji ;;

him & you ~ how it starts

• Ukyo recognizes your kindness almost immediately after you’re revived and become acclimated into the Tsukasa Empire. It’s hard for him not to stick by your side— relieved that he isn’t the only one who doesn’t agree with Tsukasa’s ideology and feels some guilt toward being unable to do a thing about it.

• Being around you so much leads him to start recognizing things beyond just an alignment of morals. You’re truly kind and caring— extending that same warmth to Tsukasa and even Hyoga. You reason that they must have their own experiences that led to having such ideals— that it isn’t an excuse not to care for them.

• You have the same idea as Ukyo for different reasons. You won’t leave the Tsukasa Empire not for reasons involving power or which side might win. It’s merely because you care for the people you revived with— you care for him.

• Ukyo wants to protect that kindness— wants to keep a war from happening in hopes that it’ll save you from ever looking sad over a lost friend. But… it isn’t love.

• No, Ukyo is certain that it’s merely a desire to protect you. After all, the world needs more people like you, so he can’t risk you getting in harm’s way. That’s it. It’s nothing beyond a desire to protect, right?

• And yet, you’re the only one that Ukyo has gotten close to in the Tsukasa Empire. He keeps everyone else at a professional distance, refusing to disclose anything about himself. When he’s with you, it seems much easier to open up. He doesn’t feel like he has to hide.

• You’re the only person he goes out of his way to check in on. When he knows you had an especially busy day or had a lot on your plate, he’ll seek you out immediately when he’s relieved of his duties. He’ll comfort you when you need it and keep you company when you desire it.

• However, he refuses to call it anything but friendship. Even if he wants to be closer to you— wants to soothe the fluttering in his heart— he can’t. Because Ukyo is continuously questioning his loyalty to Tsukasa.

• If he said anything, he’s certain you’d be used against him. If you happened to want to turncoat and leave, he knows he’d be used against you. That’s the last thing he wants.

• Because if a war is waged against the Kingdom of Science, Ukyo wants to be certain that you won’t come to harm. And something like love would become a glaring weakness— one that could be fatal.

• And this world needs more people like you.

him & co. ~ another character’s reaction — ishigami senku

• When Ukyo first defects to the Kingdom of Science, Senku immediately notices a level of hesitance for him— as if something is still holding him back. Considering how adamant Ukyo is that absolutely no one dies, Senku assumes that it isn’t just fueled by his morals.

• Then, Gen mentions seeing you and Ukyo together a while ago— and Senku can immediately tell that you’re the reason he’s so adamant on a peaceful end.

• At first, Senku assumes that maybe you’re a really good friend, perhaps a sibling? However, when he’s able to hear more from Taiju and Yuzuriha’s perspective, he can immediately tell it’s romantic, even if Ukyo himself is in denial about that fact.

• In all honesty, he isn’t one to care for romance himself, but he does care about the happiness of others. He can tell Ukyo’s seriously anxious about something happening to you— and though Senku is absolutely certain he won’t let anyone die, he knows that love can be a little illogical.

• Besides, you have your own assets that Senku could utilize. If you have the trust of a man like Ukyo, he’s certain it’s because you’re a good person. He isn’t one to push anyone into confessing— he never did with Taiju— but he will do his best to accommodate, even if he sees it as senseless.

• Because Senku does know what it’s like to lose someone— what it’s like to worry and to not want to be alone. If your presence makes Ukyo a little more confident, so be it. That’s why he’s the one who suggests looping you in and bringing you to their side.

• Hearing and later seeing how comfortable Ukyo is with you by his side is enough to confirm without a doubt that Ukyo loves you. Senku remembers seeding Ukyo when he’s serious— when he’s in the zone. It’s the complete opposite of what the man is like with you.

• With you, Ukyo is softer and much more laid back— more himself, if anything. And frankly, Senku thinks it’s illogical for Ukyo to keep hiding how he feels when it’s clear you feel the same.

• Then again, he won’t push. He’s certain Ukyo will want to make a move himself. He has faith it’ll happen one day, and Ukyo will be better for it.

feelings realization ~ finally. . .

• Given how adamant Ukyo is on protecting you, it isn’t exactly shocking that he’s the one who ends up hurt during the final battle of the war against the Tsukasa Empire.

• What does shock him is just how much it affects you. Of course, you’re kindhearted and have a loving personality— but he didn’t expect you to show so much concern for him in particular. However, the moment he gets injured, you put yourself at risk to get him to safety— spending time patching his wounds before running back to the battle.

• Your bravery paired with the care and consideration you show— add on top of that his neat brush with death— all of it causes him to truly accept that he loves you. He loves you and he doesn’t want to lose you— he doesn’t want to regret the things he never said.

• When the dust finally settles— when Tsukasa is defeated, Hyoga imprisoned, and the Kingdom of Science reigns victorious— he decides to tell you how he honestly feels.

• Because you’re sure to face dangers in the future— ones he might not be there for. There may come a time where he gets hurt or otherwise incapacitated again and he won’t be able to protect you like he wants. All he wants is to be certain that, no matter what you face, you know that he loves you and is supporting you whether he’s there physically or not.

• Of course, he hesitates a bit at first. But when he starts his confession speech and hears your heart quicken— hears the way your breath hitches a bit— he knows it’s mutual and he becomes far more confident in his words.

• Finally, he can accept that he’s always loved you— that there’s no longer a reason to deny it any longer. While he knows there might come a time in the future where someone could use your love against him… he thinks the risk is worth the reward.

• Because in no world are you Ukyo’s weakness. You’re his biggest strength— and you make him strive to be better. And he’s certain that if someone tried to use you two against each other, you and him would find a way to come out on top.

tags.

[curtins]

GOO GOO MUCK #1 — jujutsu kaisen x reader choose a storybook to open. aka my mythos take on jujutsu kaisen.

you've turned the page to: CHAPTER I. ITADORI YŪJI go back to the table of contents.

"an unchangeable colour rules over the melancholic: his dwelling is a space the colour of mourning. nothing happens in it. no one intrudes. it is a bare stage where the inert is assisted by the suffering from that inertia. the latter wishes to free the former, but all efforts fail, as theseus would have failed had he been not only himself but also the minotaur; to kill him then, he would have had to kill himself." alejandra pizarnik

prologue. → there was no other ending for this story — none where you did not end up as fodder for the beast in labyrinth, not after the king decreed that you would be the next sacrifice. how ironic that itadori yuuji doesn't seem like a monster at all, just a brilliant boy who was marked for death and sorrow.

pairings. minotaur!yuuji itadori x reader (sfw!)

song inspiration. goo goo muck — the cramps / still monster — enhypen

warnings reader comes from the royal family, has a deadbeat + awful father, mentions of injuries, death, sacrifices, angst and hurt, comfort. mildly ooc yuuji because life has dealt him a rough hand. reader picks their skin and cuticles + mention of bleeding, ambiguous ending, grief. word count. 2.9k!

a/n. y'all know i dont play abt this little guy but omg i was literally scratching my head trying to come up with decent plot. also i'm not entirely faithful to greek mythology my bad 😧 i hate spelling the word 'labyrinth' bc who the fawk came up with all that?

ask/comment/dm to be added to a taglist 🩵

mp3. when the sun goes down, and the moon comes up, i turn into a teenage goo goo muck!

you're not quite sure how long it had been since you were thrown to the rough, cold stone of the maze, where each jagged groove bit into your skin as you traced the contours of your new prison. the walls rose ever so high, swallowing you in an oppressive and towering silence and had it not been for the cold that bit your bones, you might have sobbed.

what was the weight of family, or the worth of blood, when a father could offer his own child to the gods as casually as one might surrender a coin to the tides? you could still feel the rough ghost of his grip on your shoulder, his hand heavy with the ringed wealth that he refused to give up.

all his gold, all his riches, the coffers of a kingdom that was within your rights to inherit, what did it matter in the end — when it was you that he sacrificed? the gods did not care for mercy, was that not why they were gods? but they had demanded, and the king had answered. not with offerings from hoarded treasure, but a child of his own flesh and blood. you, stripped of finery and beaten gold, and left adrift in the maw of stone and shadow.

but now, you laugh, a bitter sound swallowed by the cold air, hoping that your nerves are able to rework themselves into something braver, to allow the maze to drink in your defiance. at this point, you're not quite sure where you'll meet your end, but you've been told the beast waits, a monster of bone and sinew and deific anger, bound to the hunger of the cruel gods.

your eyes have caught the faint outline of something strewn along the path ahead, a line of small and crooked shapes against the stone. brittle sticks left to decay? a morbid curiosity has stirred within you, drawing you closer, as you kneel in thin linen onto the grimy stone.

they are not sticks at all, but fingers. withered and mummified, bent in unnatural shapes as if frozen mid-reach. dark, claw-like nails tip each one, and the skin is shrivelled and taut over bone, in a faded mauve hue. something bruised and ever so ancient.

you just cannot help the sickened gasp that escapes you, lurching back and clutching a hand to your mouth as bitterness rises and makes a home in your throat. the grotesque trail stretches on before you, and you hazard a guess that this rotten path leads into the heart of the labyrinth. a warning, a lure?

but a sound has risen from the depths of the stone around you, a low and rumbling roar that makes the walls tremble, as if the maze itself is struggling to take a breath. the noise grows, and it sends a cold shock through you that drains away every shed of defiance you had clung to.

for a moment, you can scarcely breathe, chest tight with fear. the memory of all you wanted to be, all you dreamed of becoming, hands over you like a whisper, a fragment of hope already out of reach. you think of the things you will never see, the lives you will never touch, and it startles you — how your heart breaks with a quiet desparate longing as you regret the way you lived in this short life. you wanted more than this, even if you did not get a proper death. but you wanted more than to be swallowed up as a nameless sacrifice, your thread picked out of the tapestry of history.

a flicker of thought urges you to raise the torch in your hand, to wield it as some pitiful defense. you imagine the flames as a fragile beacon against the shadows, a last defiant spark in the face of the death that you have been handed. but even the flame trembles, casting erratic shadows, and in the pallid light, you feel the futility of it all.

your strength has failed, and you sink to your knees as a numbness overtakes your body, as you bow your head, pressing your forehead against cold, damp stone.

"please..." you murmur, the word a faint breath lost in the maze, a plea without direction or expectation. whether it is mercy you seek, or simply a swift end, you cannot say. but death has never been kind, and it would never hold its hand out to you in a painless way.

but in waiting for a blow to be delivered, your eyes crack open, vision blurred by the shadows that lovingly cling to the labyrinth. each muscle is tense as you struggle to rise from the cold floor that pressed sharply into your smarting knees. but slowly, a shape and a form comes into focus — broad and menacing, a silhouette bathed in the flickering light of your torch.

at first, he seems like a nightmare sprung from the depths of the eldest primordial myths, markings etched across his skin like a map of some forbidden world, as dark ink ripples down his shoulders, down his chest.

you blink, and your gaze adjusts to the strange half-light, and you're bewildered as the black lines begin to fade, dissolving as if they were never truly there. the intensity of his form softens, and you're not sure if the monstrous edge is beginning to fade away, leaving something...unexpected in its place.

the form before you now is young, hardly older than you, with a face that seems almost human in its expressionless calm, yet somehow haunted. your breath catches, air hitching as you take in his features — amber eyes so intensely golden that they seem to glow in the dim light, fixed upon your with a gaze that is neither hostile nor welcoming, nay. just unflinchingly steady. his hair is a soft, choppy pink; like the goddess of the dawn had run her rosy-tipped hands over his head. but he is bare-chested, the lean muscle across his torso gleaming with a faint sheen, and the broad lines of his shoulders and thickened waist speak of one who has been carved for war.

you fight to quell the tremor in your chest, a rising mixture of terror and something else — something you just cannot name. there is no cruelty in his face, nor hatred. but it is a sad emptiness, a blankness, as if he himself is lost and hollow, waiting in this forsaken pit for far longer than you can possibly imagine.

but the soft rumble of his tone pulls you back, "so, you are the next one they sent?" and his voice is coloured by a kind of bitter amusement.

his eyes, that haunting amber, crease slightly at the corners, and you cannot help but notice that despite his demeanour, his face is incredibly expressive when he speaks, with a warmth that softens his gaze, but the sadness remains. a quiet and relentless grief that settles around him like a shadow.

you feel the tremour in your own voice as you stammer, leaning back against your calves, and yet still kneeling. but your head is tilted up to meet his gaze. your heart races, an awful and unsteady ba-bump! but you force yourself to speak.

"i would ask only for mercy," you whisper, "for my only crime was being an obedient child of a harsher master."

for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. but the boy scoffs, a bitter sound that is not entirely unkind. he looks away, his mouth twisted into a grim half-smile with no real mirth, and you watch as the puckered scar on the side of his lips crumples.

"if there was any mercy in the world," he replies quietly, "they would have just executed me by now."

you pick at your nails, at the skin that is peeling off your cuticles with a sharp sting, "mercy is as much as a myth as the gods themselves."

"and yet you choose to kneel and ask me for it?"

you've looked down, focusing on the rapidly blooming crimson, "i do not want to die."

the boy does not answer at first. instead, he just stares at you with an intensity that feels as though he's examining you from the inside out. you're not sure if you meet a hint of suspicious flickering behind topaz eyes, as if you are the real danger here.

but you just test your luck, shaky but persistent, "why would execution be a mercy?"

it is no kindness to your nerves that the question hangs in the air like a fragile thread — and his response is a growl that rumbles deep in his chest, primal and sharp. it's shaken you to your core, and in that instant your gaze blurs, with your heart slamming against your ribs as a foggy vision plays before you like a twisted reflection.

you've pushed the beast too far. and for a moment in this haze you see him, this beautiful boy, morph into the very thing you had imagined in the darkness before. a four-armed creature covered in dark markings, his form expanding and distorting into something far more grotesque. would there be savage claws, reaching for your face as you recoil, tearing you into ribbons?

but the moment passes in a breath, and he's still there, slumped against the stone. no monster, just mortal fresh. no, he has not moved to strike, nor to rush at you.

instead he just sinks lower into cold stone, pulling his knees up to his chest, and resting his elbows on them, looking almost defeated. there's a strange heaviness in his posture, as if the weight of something much larger than the maze itself is dragging him down, something wide and unbearable.

"what did they tell you before they tossed you here, alongside me?"

"they told me that i was doing my father a service," you begin, and you wonder if there is a bitter drip that falls from your tongue as you let the words fall from your dry mouth, "and that the gods would award me for my pious duty and sacrifice."

the boy raises a thin brow, a faint flicker of surprise scattering itself over his faint, pale scars, "your father. the king i gather? he sent his only heir down here?"

what a sting. even a monster could understand. even the ones trapped in the dark can understand the greed that drives the hearts of men. you grimace, a fleeting shame twisting in your gut as you nod, but it is no surprise. your father's name had never been one to inspire reverence — only fear, and the hollow hope that the gods would look favourably upon his ritualistic sacrifices. it was hard not to feel small and broken in comparison to the king who stood tall in his halls of marble.

your new companion shakes his head, almost in acrid disbelief, but he continues, "i'm not the beast that they say lives down here," and at your look of disbelief and confusion, he grinds his heel down onto sharp stone, "it's not me."

your gaze drifts over him as he speaks, and your eyes fall on the harsh marks scattered over his chest. some are thin, barely more than pale lines, while others are thick and jagged — carved into him by hands that had no mercy. there's one in particular, a long streak that cuts across his face, something etched there by something far darker than any mortal blade. like patchwork.

there's a curl in your fingers, one that scratches at you. one that tells you to reach out and place your hand on thickened skin, but you tamp it down. he must have noticed the way your eyes linger on him, and for a moment, the corner of his scarred mouth quirks upward. he doesn't seem quite offended...just aware. you shift slightly, folding your legs beneath you, the thin linen shift you wear now soiled with the grime of the stone floors. the dirt clings to the fabric, staining it a muted grey.

"the beast is not me," he says again, and there's a quiet ache in his words, "he just lives within me. that's all."

you frown, trying to make sense of his words. "he?" you echo.

the boy glances at you, his gaze distant for a moment before he continues, as if he's not looking at you, but rather past your head.

"the council said they were going to kill me at first. said it would kill the monster that lives in here -," and he presses a hand harshly at his sternum, fingers splaying against his chest, "thought it would kill him if they just put an axe to my neck. two birds with one stone."

"and then...," and his smile is harsher, rueful, "then the king decided that it would be more useful to keep me down here, extend by sentence a bit. said that i could help them like this. said i could control the beast just enough to save the lives of others."

you curl your lip, and you can't fathom the cruelty of knowing your body is a prison. that your blood, bones and sinew is being used as the bars of an enclosure. such was your father's consistent cruelty.

"i am sorry that you suffered at the king's hands."

he doesn't look up at you at first. instead, his gaze drifts to your hands, where you've ripped at the edges of your cuticles, leaving faint scars that are prone to be reopened. your fingers tremble as you shove your hands into the folds of linen, hiding the fresher, red wounds.

his voice is low, but not unkind — with his eyes lingering on your hands, "i could say the same for you."

you almost smile, feeling as though a distant thunderclap has unsettled you and shaken you.

"what's your name?"

he doesn't answer immediately, the silence stretching just enough to make you wonder if he'll speak at all. but finally, his voice emerges, laced with a faint warmth, "itadori yuuji." now his eyes flicker to you, and after a beat, he adds, almost with a touch of irony, "your highness."

the title sounds wrong here, in the dark deeps, in the hollow of this wretched place, yuuji's home. you laugh, though you're certain the sound is thinned, "i'm sorry we met under these circumstances," you say, words slipping out before you can stop them. but you are sincere — and you wonder, briefly, what it would have been like to meet him in another life or another world.

yuuji laughs softly at that, and you catch the faintest glimpse of a smile, wan but genuine. it's a tragedy, you think, at how you cannot help but marvel at the way the torchlight catches onto his beautiful silhouette, illuminating small crescent marks that lay under his eyes.

"i am too," he says, and you wonder foolishly if he, too, regrets the way he lived. the strange fate that has brought you both to this moment.

your smile drops suddenly, "i will die down here, won't i?" the question slips from your lips, softer and more naive in a way that doesn't belong in the air of this place.

yuuji frowns, the furrow of his brow deepening, and his eyes darken — is there pity in his eyes? or something else that you cannot place?

"you don't have to."

you don't believe him, not truly. you know the customs of this sacrifice. the king's laws, and the will of the gods — they all point to the same conclusion. you know this, for all of yuuji's apparent mercy cannot hold back a four-armed beast when it catches the iron scent of blood in the air.

"and when the guards come with the next prisoner?" you ask.

yuuji doesn't look at you immediately. instead, he draws faint and absent patterns in the dust with the tips of his fingers.

"the guards will never be able to report back to your father then. maybe sukuna can be of some use, for once."

you frown, a thousand questions racing in your mind — about the finality of his tone or the underlying oath of blood being spilt. but the one that rises to the surface is the unfamiliar name, "sukuna?"

yuuji shifts slightly, his posture loosening, as if he's trying to make himself more comfortable in the cramped space between you. your gaze catches on his slender fingers tracing lines in the dust.

"the beast within me. gojo said he was my uncle too, apparently."

"gojo?"

yuuji's face darkens, "he was my - " he ends his sentence abruptly, as if he has not the heart to bite the last words out.

you stare at him, bewildered, your mind struggling to process the connection he’s just made so casually, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. what cruel fate.

he catches your expression and laughs softly, a sound that is more bitter than it is light.

"long story," he adds, as if that explanation is enough, his eyes glinting with something unreadable as he leans back slightly, his attention slipping into the distance.

"seems like you have a lot of those," you offer heartedly, but it darkens your heart. you do not see a boy capable of great violence in front of you. in another life, itadori yuuji would have lived a happier life — surrounded by those that he loved. but when the beast, sukuna, is unleashed, who will stand between you and the creature to protect you? how haunting, for the last face you believe you will ever see is the first face that you think you've ever loved.

[lis-likes-fics]

Music to My Eyes

Pairings: Finnick Odair x deaf!fem!Reader Word Count: 7.5k words Warnings: Mentions of the Games, so killing and death, mentions of trauma, my attempt at writing sign language, pre-Katniss, no Annie... A/N: Hey, everyone! I watched the Hunger Games a few months ago and had a mini obsession and decided to write for it and only now just got half of my fic done. Since it was running as long as it was, I decided to go ahead and split this into two different parts, but I swear the rest of it is being planned and written. Also A/N: Just FYI, anything written in /slants/ is an indication of something being signed because explaining every little sign just does not work. And, also, Hecton Leary is absolutely done by Peter Capaldi in my mind...just in case you need a visual. I was watching a lot of Doctor Who during this so, get ready to see those intense eyebrows all over the place in this, lmao. Also Also A/N: Special thanks to my beta-reader @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen who I will be crediting more bc I literally forgot to last time and she's too amazing for that! Thanks, Vee! 💖

You don't love wearing dresses—especially not extravagant ones like these, more expensive than likely your entire district as a whole. You also don't love parties like these where you have to wear said dresses, surrounded by tons of people generating body heat and stuffing the room full of perfumes and colognes that make your nose and eyes burn. Your feet hurt from the heels your designer paired with your outfit, and the air is active with words and voices that overwhelm your brain with too much information to take.

Having Hecton beside you is a relief at least—not completely lost in a sea of people as he and you communicate with two rich sponsors from District 1 dressed just a slight less dramatic as you but just as exaggerated.

You watch their lips, painted over with bright colors complementing their attire, as they speak to you. "It must be so hard, isn't it?" the woman asks, spending too much time on "so" as she speaks slowly for you to comprehend. You want to roll your eyes. "Flailing about all the time just to get a few words out?"

The man next to her agrees, nodding his head. You can see his throat shift, and you assume he's hummed a response.

Hecton's hands move with skill as he speaks, partly as aid in translation for you but mostly for the performance people are looking for.

You feel like your lips are going to fall off, you can almost feel them twitching at the ends from how long you've been smiling at all these people who don't know anything about you and assume they know everything.

You widen your smile to show teeth and shake your head, continuing to be as respectful as you can with your social tolerance running low.

Your hands move and, out of the corner of your eye, you can see Hecton speaking as they do. "Not really," he translates. "It's natural for me."

The man puts a hand over his heart and turns to her. "Oh, you poor thing," he says rather dramatically. Hecton doesn't dignify his words by translating that for you—not that you needed it in the first place. His hands remain still, folded in front of him. The man glances toward them, and you can see his brief disappointment at his words not receiving the glory of illustration.

You glance up at Hecton, your smile intact as you slightly squint the corners of your eyes in a silent plea. He answers you gracefully, turning his attention back to the fashionable vultures in front of him.

"This was wonderful," he says, "but I believe our little lady is excited to meet other guests here tonight."

Hecton is an older man with grey hair, pale eyes, and intense brows. Upon looking at him, he isn't the most approachable man. You don't just say no to him—especially as a past victor of the Games who certainly triumphed by a long-shot. He is not weakened by age, but he's definitely wisened by it. Although sobered by surviving the horrors of the Games, it neither slowed nor ruined his life, it simply gave an abrupt end to what little childhood people of Districts like yours can obtain.

One look at the finality on his face and they were fully ready to end their (rather insulting) conversation. They turn to one another, making these awful pity-faces as they hold each other's hands and turn back to heartily agree. "Of course." She puts too much emphasis on the words. "Goodbye, dear."

You nod gently and look toward Hecton for confirmation as he places a hand on your back and turns with you. You both walk away from the conversation gratefully, still smiling for everyone else in the room but moving your hands in silent conversation.

/These people are exhausting,/ you complain, entirely within your right with the way they treat you.

Hecton sighs, looking at you with eyes that understand your struggle. /Just keep them happy./

You nod, remaining light-hearted for both your sakes as you offer a genuine smile before you slip back into a customer service front. /I know, I know./

Lots of eyes are on you tonight, but none so keen as a certain boy across the room. He has basically been watching you all night, intrigued by the way you've been communicating, by the way you draw so much attention without having spoken a single word since you arrived.

He has seen you around a few times—on television, at other parties. He knows your face and that you won the Games like him, but he's never paid enough attention to actually know anything past that. But now, observing you all night, he's interested enough to ask.

His elbow brushes the guy next to him, a victor from another district he doesn't care to specify right now. "Who is that again?" he asks, not taking his eyes off of you as his friend turns to look. "I've seen her a couple times, never remember."

He looks at you and then back at him. "Her?" he gestures vaguely toward you. He nods.

"Victor from District 10, she won the 67th Games." He takes a sip from his drink, leaning back against a table with a hand in his pocket. "Surprised everyone cause she," he shrugged, "can't hear or something."

That definitely caught his attention as he turned full bodied toward him. "Really?"

"Yeah," he swirled his drink around. "She's nice…in a little bunny sort of way." It's not necessarily an insult, more than it is him calling you soft-hearted and skittish.

He walks away without a word, finally making his way toward you to quell his curiosity as he approaches you and takes his sweet time about it.

Your back is turned to him. He briefly wonders the best way to get your attention on the way over, knowing you hate being tapped by the way your shoulders flinch and you strain a smile when you turn.

Then again, no one likes tapping.

When he reaches you, he just folds his hands behind his back and smiles. "Hello," he says simply. Hecton turns at the greeting, prompting you to do the same.

"I'm Finnick. Finnick Odair," he greets with a smile of his own as he regards the both of you. He watches the way the old man's hand moves on his name. Your hand reaches out and interrupts him as you place a gentle palm on top of his. He makes a face—it's not annoyed, just teasing.

You turn back to Finnick, your performance smiling still intact. Hecton speaks while you sign. For a moment, Finnick thinks he'll understand the movements you make—Mags doesn't speak, she has to use her hands to communicate all the time, surely it couldn't be that different—but he is proven wrong when words don't match waves.

"I know who you are. You won the 65th Games, you're from District 4." Finnick thinks, briefly, that your friend's voice doesn't match you at all (which is obvious, of course, but he feels it's worth pointing out).

"Well, then," he responds with a slight chuckle, only glancing for a moment at the way Hecton's hands move as he talks, "I'm flattered you know me. Unfortunately, I couldn't say the same for you…"

You seem surprised by that. He thinks it may have something to do with the way that you haven't had many moments away from conversation since you arrived. Everyone has been too taken by you, too interested in snatching a few minutes.

Your hands don't start moving in that curious way Finnick likes to watch because words are already being spoken. "Mr. Odair, this is Y/N Y/L/N. I am her mentor and translator, Hecton Leary."

Finnick holds out a hand, which each of you shake. Out of courtesy, he doesn't start talking again until after your hands are free. "Wonderful to meet you both. And, please, Finnick is fine. There's no need for formalities when we could be friends, right?"

You still smile as you begin to sign, though your brows furrow. /Why exactly do I want to be your friend?/

Finnick doesn't understand, looking at Hecton for translation. He only says your name, a sort of reprimand as he continues to smile.

/I'm only being honest./

Where you expected frustration from not understanding, you find amusement in Finnick's eyes as his genuine smile widens and he looks between the both of you. "What am I missing?"

Hecton looks at you, raising a large brow and waiting for your reply. You sigh gently and shake your head, remaining civil as you begin to sign.

"Sorry," he speaks for you. "I look forward to establishing friendship with another fellow Victor. Maybe one day we'll…" Hecton gets quiet as he just watches your hands continue to move and your lips continue to smile, full of amusement.

/We'll frolic in the woods together, holding hands and singing songs./

Hecton turns full body to you. He holds his palms apart and brings them together swiftly without clapping them. /Y/N./

You smile wider and hold your hands in surrender, the tiny sound of a giggle slipping out of you. You're otherwise silent as your hands fly. /I'm joking! Tell him it was nice to meet him, and I look forward to being friends./

Hecton eyes you momentarily before relenting, turning back to Finnick with exasperation. "She says it was a pleasure meeting you, and she looks forward to your friendship."

Finnick raises his brows, bowing his head gently. "The pleasure is all mine." He's a charmer, and he makes that clear by reaching out and slowly, softly taking your hand in his (his grasp is so gentle that you could easily take your hand back if you wanted and he wouldn't stop you). He bends forward, pressing his lips to the back of your hand. He straightens his spine and watches you fondly. "Until we meet again."

As he lets go of your hand, he bows his head once more before he walks away. You and Hecton watch him leave. He raises his own brow at you. "Is that blush I see?"

Your hands are quick and exaggerated as you move them. You know he's joking and you're not blushing, but his teasing makes you. /No!/

Hecton's smile is wide and open and you know he's laughing at you, so you call him out for being mean. He drops it just as quickly, once the joke has faded to a funny memory and you both are back to mingling with people who do not care about you.

~

The halls are empty this late in the night. Everyone has retired to their rooms or taken an early train home. It's peaceful, wandering the halls this late and being undisturbed by curious eyes and ears watching you like some wild animal. You enjoy the silence—the physical silence of steady air and only one set of footsteps to track instead of hundreds.

At the end of the hall you wander now is the elevator that takes you to your level. Hecton will be wondering where you are—and if not, it's probably time for you to retire for the night before the victor's interviews with Lucky tomorrow anyway. As you make your way toward it, the lights bright and beckoning, you stop in front of it and click the door button.

It's as the doors are sliding open that you realize you're no longer alone in the dead of this night. You feel it in the prickle of your skin, the change in the weight of the floor beneath you. You look over quickly where the side of your face heats with a new presence.

You see Finnick approaching you, seemingly pleased to see you as he smiles at you, stopping short of the doors to offer you first entry. You grin hesitantly, your confidence from before waning a little with the absence of your mentor and translator. If he tries to talk to you, you're probably going to have a rough night. You press the tenth floor button. He presses the fourth.

Finnick isn't as pessimistic, glancing at you out of the corner of your eyes as you stand with your fingers tangled and your eyes toward the ground. You don't look nearly as cocky this time around—in fact, you seem nervous, refusing to even give him that small, awkward smile you usually receive when stuck in a space next to someone you don't know.

Finnick licks his lips, and speaks before he can correct himself. "Hello," he says, giving you a charming smile before immediately remembering your certain disability.

His curiosity grows when you raise your head, glancing his way but not quite committing.

"Oh, right," he mumbles. His added words spark your attention once more as you finally look at him, moving your hand in a talking motion.

"Yeah," he responds. "How did you know?" You're deaf, but you could tell that he was speaking without even looking at him?

He watches you think for a moment, staring off to try and figure out a way to tell him without Hecton to aid you. You look at him again, raising a hand palm down and shaking it.

"Shaking?" he guesses, raising a confused brow.

You gestured around the elevator, your face etched in concentration, determined to be understood. You sometimes forget how hard communication can actually be for you.

"The room?" he tries. "The room is shaking?"

You make a face, one that says "not quite".

He thinks for a moment, putting your gestures together before it dawns on him. "The air is moving."

You smile, far too happy to have successfully gotten a point across.

Finnick's brows raise, though not in a mocking or upset way. "Is everything really that sensitive for you?"

'It has to be,' you want to say, but you can't. You can read lips, but moving your own to try and copy them is a completely different story. Instead, you just nod and agree.

"I heard that's how you won the Games," he said, before adding on the end with a genuinely impressed smile. "Very cool, by the way." He had spent an embarrassing amount of time—or it would be embarrassing if he actually cared about that—asking party comers about you. Most of the information he got was about the Games, always about the Games. He got the same answers from just about everyone about how you were just so sweet and how it was so inspiring how your lack of hearing helped you to win.

As much as that sweet grin on your face made you want to smile, he wasn't technically right. So you shook your head, and he watched you raise your hands to cover your eyes.

"You were blind?" he wonders, but that doesn't make any sense and he doesn't feel very smart for asking now.

You shake your head and do it again, this time pulling your hands away and then covering your face again.

"You hid," he answers. That makes more sense.

You nod and he hums.

You didn't win the Hunger Games by killing for being killed, you didn't win by joining alliances or traveling in groups and pairs. You won the Games by running and hiding until everyone had killed each other.

When the Gamemakers used their tricks and schemes to flush you out of your hiding places, you found another one to lay low until the end. Yes, there were times when you had to fight for your life, but you were no strong competitor. It was dumb luck that you won. Right up to the end, facing off with the almost-champion after having been hunted down by Mutts. He killed them, and then he tried to kill you.

And that was when your disability was labeled your greatest weapon.

Maybe one day you'll be able to tell him that.

The doors slid open to reveal Finnick's floor. You both linger there in the elevator for a moment, trying to decide what to do from there.

Truly, you should have just waved at him and let the doors close to take you to your own floor. It was late already, you needed to rest.

But…

"Do you like sweets?"

Yes, you do.

You nod, answering his charming smile with a shy one and being upset with yourself in the back of your mind for falling for his obvious charm. If you got hurt, it was on you and no one else. But who cares?

You, you care. Maybe not enough, though.

You follow him off the elevator and into the common room. The kitchen is just off of it, with a long table cleared of dinner but still adorned with snacks—fruits and a few deserts. Finnick slides over a plate of cookies as you take a seat. They're chocolate and very good.

He sits across from you, a little too keen in the way he leans forward. He picks up a cookie between his thumb and forefinger, playing with it absent-mindedly as he speaks.

"Is that," he waves one hand, "usually how you communicate?" He hopes he doesn't sound offensive and takes a bite from his cookie.

You don't seem offended as you shrug. He watches you move your hand like you're grasping a pen, shifting it around in a circle. He understands and, like a dog, goes to grab the supplies for you, dropping his cookie back on the table with little to no regard. He's not necessarily upset about his obedience, if anything, he's happy to let you boss him around—not that you have been—if it means quenching his genuine curiosity with how you operate.

He slides you a notebook as he reclaims his seat, gently slapping a pen on top with a cheeky grin. He seems proud of himself. You hold in your chuckle as you write with the best handwriting you can with the quickness of your scribbles.

/Signing or writing./

Finnick reads it off. He thinks your handwriting is pretty.

"Does it get tiring?" he asks, cookie forgotten in crumbs on the counter. He absent-mindedly pushes it to the side so he can lean closer. "Moving your hands like that all the time?"

His question is one you get often, a repeated question every person asks to suit their shallow interest in you. But you can't bring yourself to be offended or annoyed. Finnick doesn't seem shallow, his curiosity runs deep and his kindness deeper. You're not sure you could take anything he says with offense.

You simply shake your head. /Easy as it is for you to talk,/ you answer honestly, adding the gesture for "speak" at the end to try to be helpful.

He shouldn't be impressed, but he is. "Oh," he says, brows raised in vivid interest. "Is it easy to learn?"

He's full of questions. He knows he probably sounds like a child, piling them on top of each other like tidal waves. But you don't seem upset, so he carries on.

You shrug again.

/Would not know. Depends on person./ You look up at him, and then you add, /You want to learn?/

The way you write is interesting to him. You don't do it in full sentences in an effort to keep it short and simple. But you also don't use contractions, though you try to write as quickly as possible to keep up the feel and consistency of actually speaking.

He smiles slyly and pretends to be shy about it, bowing his head and looking up at you through pretty lashes. "Maybe," he says. "Could you teach me?"

You mirror his expression, bowing your chin toward your chest and smiling at him. /Maybe./

You finish your cookie and rip off the first page to turn to another. He watches you write out the alphabet, quickly scribbling a very poor illustration of a hand gesture underneath each one. It takes a while, longer than you wished for it to.

Finnick doesn't mind. While you're distracted with the activity at hand, he's watching you. You're very pretty, he thinks. With the way you sit to draw, you keep your body open and give yourself the room you need to still see him as you work.

You've got kind eyes. He doesn't think you get that enough. Everyone calls you a sweet girl, but they usually follow it up with something along the lines of "even with her issue".

But Finnick just thinks you're pretty and kind. That's it. No exceptions.

He wants to learn about you without the tainting of word-of-mouth or television programs. He wants to know you. The stuff you love, the stuff you hate, everything that makes you happy, and the stuff that makes you want to throw chairs. He wants to know what your favorite color is, if you like to dance or paint or swim.

Before he can keep daydreaming about whether you like cats or dogs, you look up at him to show off your work. You think it's sloppy. He thinks you did great.

You start going through it with him, showing him the hand signs as you get to them with a patience that amazes him. Once you've gone through the whole of it once, he lifts his own hand to try it out. He looks weird and silly, and you smile as he tries his best.

When he offers a poor attempt at a 'Q', a giggle manages to slip. You probably don't hear it, but Finnick certainly does. His face lights up at the sound. He had heard you make little more than a sigh. Managing to pull a giggle out of you—especially one as pretty as that? It's like winning the lottery.

He goes through it with you a couple more times before he straightens his spine. "So…"

He points to his chest and holds his hand out, slowly moving it to fit the gestures he's tried.

F. I. N. N. I. C. K.

You nod quickly, beaming from ear to ear at how quickly he's picked it up already. You point to yourself and spell your own name out. You move slowly, giving him time to connect each letter to each sign as you go. And when you finish, he spells it himself. A nearly perfect copy, (although perfect may be generous, he's definitely trying and it shows—that's perfect enough in your book).

You carefully tear the page out and set it to the side so he can still see and write excitedly on the next page, your writing almost terrible with how quickly you scribble. /Natural!/

You sign the word after. He copies you, and then tries to spell it out. He gets it right for the most part—even though you're pretty sure you saw him use an 'X' instead of an 'R'.

He really wants to impress you. He doesn't make that subtle, and you're honestly happy he doesn't. It makes you genuinely giddy, the way he's so eager to learn and show off his new skill (a skill he's literally been practicing for no more than ten minutes). You don't realize how far onto the table you've learned. Your hands would brush if you moved them an inch closer.

"I'll keep at it," he replies genuinely at your proud smile. He had no idea someone so silent could be so pleasantly loud. Your ecstatic movements and wide grins compensate for your lack of vocalization. When you speak through your hands or the notebook in front of you, he almost swears he can hear a voice he hasn't heard in place of it, so kind and pretty. Like a song.

You smile too fondly at him, taking in a soft breath before looking down at your hands and sitting back again. You'd gotten ahead of yourself. You don't correct it as much as you should. You're just as fond as you sit correctly in your seat and watch him with intense interest.

After a moment of comfortable silence, you pick up your pen again. He watches you write something down. You turn the book around for him to see.

/Mentor cannot speak?/

"Mags?" he wonders. You nod, tilting your head. "No."

You write again. /Cannot sign?/

"No."

You tilt your head and furrow your brows, a silent inquiry. He shrugs, "Never learned."

You contemplate for a moment, rubbing your neck gently before taking the notepad once more. You show it to him.

/Can teach./ You point to yourself, offering a small grin.

"Really?" he furrows his brow.

You shrug. Why not?

Finnick stares at you a moment, searching your eyes for a joke he knows he won't find. So why would you be so open to helping her? Maybe you're just weird.

His lips curl in a smile. "I'll ask her."

Your own smile grows.

He drums his fingers on the table, watching you watching him. He thinks for a moment, just staring, before he opens his mouth.

"So obviously, you can read lips." You nod. "Were you born deaf?"

You nod and reach for the notepad once again. It takes you a moment to write this time. /Parents did not find out til 2. Was a quiet kid. Did not realize until I never started speaking./

He's so interested in everything you tell him. He hangs onto your every word like pure gold. "So you've never heard anything before? Ever?"

He feels like it's a dumb question. Of course not. But you hesitate, glancing off before you nod.

/Yes./

His eyes go wide with wonder. "How?" He crosses his arms and leans forward on the table.

You thought for another moment, trying to find the best way to phrase it to keep it simple. You tap the pen against your lips and click click click it.

/Before the 67th Games, my team gifted me hearing aids. Thought it would help./ You pull away for him to read, staring at the page before taking it and adding in a new line, /Didn't think I'd make it deaf./

The look on your face told him how much that bothered you—or, at least, a whisper of how much it used to bother you. He thinks you may be used to it by now…

"Seemed to work, huh?" he asks with a slight chuckle in an attempt to brighten your mood again.

But you shake your head as you pull the notepad back. /When Games started, too much. Ripped them out and ran./ You sigh gently, swallowing thickly. /Couldn't handle it./

He listens in, his full attention heeding your words. "So you never wear them?"

You shake your head. /Do not like to./

He nods gently. "Because it hurt?" he asks, trying to understand.

You think for a moment before raising your hand and shaking it like before, meaning a different thing this time. /Kind of,/ you write.

You sigh and raise your hands, loosely clawed in front of you as you bring them into your chest in fists. Then you pick up your pen to translate. /Trust me?/

He nods. "Yeah."

/Sure?/

His second nod is more firm. "Yes."

He watches you grab a hand towel. You lift it up, gesturing to him with it and he nods his approval once again. You step behind him and tie it around his head to cover his eyes.

After you blindfold him, sure that he no longer has sight, you turn off all the lights and spin him around a couple times before you lead him into the living room.

Without his sight, Finnick is reduced to having to let you lead him where you want him. And he trusts you. He sways on his feet for a moment, standing still when you stop guiding him again.

"Can I look now?" he asks, his hands out by his side blindly if not for anything but balance.

He hears your voice, the slight sound of you clearing your throat before humming gently, like you're feeling for it. Then he hears your broken response, unaccustomed to actually speaking.

"N-o," you mumble. He smiles a little, and you think he's weird—in a good way.

After a moment of silence where the both of you just stand there and do nothing, he feels you begin to remove the towel from his face. You don't give him a chance to adjust to the dark, you just flip the closest light on and let him have it.

He winces, shielding his face as the shock sets in. You smile gently as you apologize, rubbing your fist over your chest in a circle. When his eyes adjust to the light once more to look at you, your smile is still a fond apology as you motion to your ears.

He breathes lightly. “That’s what it felt like for you?” You make a “bigger” motion with your hands as you nod. “That’s awful,” he mumbles.

You shrug as you begin to walk back to the dining table to grab your pen and notepad again. As you take a seat on the sofa, you bring your legs up under you and invite him to sit beside you. He watches you write something as you prop the notepad against your thighs. You show it to him when you finish.

/What do you like to do?/

He is happy to answer as he settles back and thinks for a moment before offering his reply. You sit and talk back and forth for a long time. You don’t really keep track as you learn that Finnick loves to swim and he dabbles in cooking when he can. You learn that he likes the color blue, but his favorite color is probably white. You learn that he is a “live life like it’s your last day” type of person because of his experience with the games (a philosophy you have adopted yourself in a smaller intensity). You learn that he’s more fond of the quiet than the rowdy crowds he’s grown accustomed to.

Finnick learns that you also like the water, but you enjoy sitting under the surface and feeling like the world is just as silent as you in a way that isn’t so interesting to the rest of the world. He learns that you don’t have a favorite color but you always say green, that you’re not a people person but everyone thinks you’re a person who loves people, and that you like to watch Hecton play the guitar while he lets you set your hand on the body of it to feel what he plays.

You don’t know when you fall asleep on the couch, laying against the back of it with your head turned toward the large, cushy pillow that supports your head. You’re curled up against it, and Finnick thinks you look precious. He’s not long after you as he dozes off on the couch. Neither of you touch at all, hands to yourself as you let the night ease on around you. But the presence is comfortable enough, you’re happy for it.

But sometime in the night, you don’t know when, how long the passage of time had gotten to be, the calm that had set over you slowly began to fade and slip into something a little more unnerving. Uneasiness sets in your bones, makes you queasy as your fingers twitch. You hum, a groan that slips from between your lips and rouses Finnick as he opens his eyes and glances your way, eyes still heavy with sleep.

He starts to sit up as he sees you shift, your breath quickened and your muscles twitching. He calls your name gently, a first instinct he immediately realizes isn’t going to work. He hears you hum again and begins to reach a hand out. His fingers hardly brush the skin of your arm when your eyes suddenly open. You’re muttering something intelligible to yourself as you glance around frantically, eyes glazed over and movements full of adrenaline.

“Woah, you’re good,” he tries as you grip the cushions on the couch. It’s too warm and it’s cushy and you don’t want to be up there anymore. He’s still trying to ease you, hands out like you’re a frightened animal ready to attack him. You slide off the couch and onto the floor, where the cold hardwood greets your skin as you catch your breath, your face tucked between your arms as your whole body heaves for air.

He lets you stay there, concern written all over his face as he tries to figure out what the issue is. He guesses they’re just nightmares, bad, ugly nightmares that he, himself, has faced over and over and over again. He waits and waits and waits for your body to steady and for your breath to calm, keeping his hands out but away as he waits for you to recover.

When you’ve calmed down again, you lift your head and sit back against the floor, turning toward him with lethargic muscles, your adrenaline already waning as the exhaustion from before trumps everything else. You catch the movement of Finnick’s lips from out of the corner of your eye and turn to see him speak. “What’s wrong?”

You breathe in slowly, filling your whole chest as you gather yourself enough to answer. You stroke a circle over your chest with your fist, a movement he remembers seeing you do earlier when you were apologizing to him. He shakes his head gently, slowly shifting off of the couch to join you on the floor, giving you space as he props his elbow on the cushion.

“S’okay,” he says, his lips moving gently around the word. “What happened?”

You breathe out slowly, still centering yourself. You lean toward the table, sliding the notepad over with lazy movements. You contemplate before writing. /Vibrations./ You show it to him and he tilts his head. /I sleep with my hand on the floor. It lets me know if someone is coming, I can feel the footsteps in the ground. It wakes me up and keeps me out of trouble./

The way you write is different now, filling the missing blanks of words you’d usually leave out because they were unnecessary. Like you’re too tired to summarize, letting the words do their job as you slump against the table like you haven’t slept in ages and are simply going through the motions.

He moves slowly, letting you see what’s happening before it happens as he sets his hand atop your own on the table. You don’t move, glancing at his hand and letting it happen as his skin brushes yours. He feels honored.

“Well,” he says, “you’re safe here.” With me.

You manage to pull the corners of your lips up into a small smile, turning your hand so his rests in your palm. You raise your free hand to your chin. /Thank you./ You take a moment to sit there, looking at each other and enjoying the feelings of your hand in the other’s. Then you pull your hand away regretfully and pick up your pen.

/I should get back to my floor before my people worry./

He reads it off and nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he sighs, already moving to stand to his feet as he holds his hand out to help you, hoping you would accept. When you do, he smiles. You lift yourself to your feet and give him another of your best in this condition.

You pick up the notepad one more time. /Thank you for the sweets. And for the company. I liked talking with you./

He puts a hand to his heart, too heartfelt to be teasing as he dips his head slightly. “My pleasure.”

Finnick walks with you to the elevator, standing by you in silence after the button is pressed as you both wait for the doors to slide open. When they do, you step in and offer yet another warm smile as you sigh and wave, mouthing the word “bye” as you depart from him, sad to go. He mouths the word back to you, though you’re not positive he spoke them as he offers a small wave of his own.

The doors shut and Finnick misses you already.

~

The blaring lights, (otherwise) deafening crowds, and extravagant costumes are something you get used to and never get used to all at once. All the attention is on you, and it's your job to make sure they are entertained as you make your way onto the stage with Hecton's at your side.

Lucky is standing, that unnervingly large grin tearing his face in two as he watches you excitedly. His hand is extended toward you, both to show you off and welcome you in.

"Hello, my dear!" he exclaims theatrically as he takes your hand. He places a kiss to your knuckles and then shakes Hecton's hand as well. You all take your seats, your smile the picture of thrilled.

"It's been a while since we have last spoken, hasn't it?" He stops dramatically and then says, "Well, a while since I spoke to you, at least." The air is on the fritz with cheers and laughter and more clapping as you look around at everyone. Lucky's laughter is just as wide. "How have you been, Y/N?"

You look at Hecton, your smile and his set in perfection. He speaks as you sign, beginning his role as your ultimate translator. "I've been great, Lucky. I've missed you!"

His big brows furrow as he slaps a hand over his heart. He turns to the adoring fans. "Oh, isn't that sweet?" He laughs again and looks back at you, his expression calmer but no less dramatic. "I have also missed you, my dear. Now, tell me, this is a tour for some of our previous victors, have you met any of them yet?" He leans in like you're sharing a secret.

"I'm glad you asked, I have. It's been great getting to be reacquainted with old friends and making new ones."

"Ooo," he says, looking around and encouraging the crowd to join in. "New ones like who?" He sits up straight and brings a finger to his lips, glancing away and smiling slyly. "I know I have it from a reliable source that you were mingling with District 4 Champion, Finnick Odair." He leans forward with narrowed eyes. "Do I sense something blossoming?"

He and the crowd tease you, making lovey dovey noises that you don't hear but definitely feel as you glance at Hecton and he raises his thick brows in amusement.

"Oh, Lucky," you smile like you'll laugh as Hecton continues to read your hands. "I wish I could agree, but who am I to say?" You shrug it off with a sigh.

"Oh, really?" he jabs. "Because when I brought it up with Finnick, I believe he described you as 'a special kind of beauty'." This riles the crowd up even more, they cheer louder and the air feels suffocating. You smile through it.

"Did he now?"

"He did."

Lucky laughs dramatically, Hecton laughs less dramatically, and the crowd eats right out of the palm of your hands.

"Well," Hecton says as you catch the attention again, "you know I'm not one to gossip."

"Ohh, not just this once?" He says it like he'll cry.

"I wish I could."

He sighs heavily. "Oh, well." The crowds 'aww's and you give an apologetic smile to them all. Lucky leans over and takes your hand in his, which you then cover with your own. "It has been lovely catching up with you, my dear. And you, too, Hecton, my friend." Hecton nods. "I hope to see you again soon, both of you—I do so love our talks!"

"As do I, Lucky. As do I."

He puts both hands over his chest this time, smiling with sadness to see you go. "Would you give us a kiss before you go?"

You stand to face the crowd and kiss your hand, blowing it out to them as they scream and shout for you. You beam and look at them all, waving happily.

"Oh, fantastic!" Lucky exclaims as he stands to join your side, Hecton at the other. He takes one of your hands again. "It is always a pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine."

He turns to the adoring audience. "Our Silent Spectacle, everybody!"

They scream and shout and you press your cheeks to Lucky's before you and Hecton leave the stage. Even after you're past the curtain where they can no longer see you, you keep the smile as wide as you can until it trembles out of place.

/Very well done, Y/N,/ Hecton congratulates.

You huff out a tiring breath, massaging your cheeks before regaining your posture and masking your frown with a much softer smile as you respond. /It's exhausting./

He offers a sympathetic look. /Maybe so, but they love it./ He glances at you again, noticing the fatigue in your eyes and your twitching lips, the nerves kicking from overuse. He sighs, taking your hand and turning you to him.

/You've got to keep them happy./

You look at him, how his words reflected a deeper worry, a double meaning that surpasses the gratification of your adoring crowds. Your eyes glue to his own, solemn, sober—a fair contrast from the faces surrounding you, drunk on the sap of their own self-importance.

/I know,/ you nod.

The tense moment is interrupted as a new player enters the arena. Hecton is the one to turn first, redirecting your attention toward the person approaching you. You immediately smile, an instinct by this point as you turn your gaze on your next audience. It only takes a moment for you to recognize the person, and your smile comes a little easier.

Seeing the situation before he approaches, Finnick wonders whether or not it would be appropriate to interrupt. But when your mentor turns and you turn with him, and you smile a more genuine smile upon seeing him, he finds that he doesn't really care if it's appropriate right now.

"You're quite the personality," he says as he steps up, smiling himself as he tilts his head.

"They love quiet, happy girls," Hecton translates as you sign. Finnick really doesn't think his voice suits you, coarse and thick with an accent hard to find.

"That, they do," he nods. He licks his bottom lip, "So you'll be headed back off today?"

You turn toward Hecton, your jaw clenching briefly before you turn back. "Soon. I've got some business tonight and then we'll be off tomorrow."

"Business?" he raises a curious brow, taking a small step forward as his lips quirked. "What kind of business?"

You tilt your chin, a nervous kind of smile on your lips as you move a hooked finger from your nose to your cupped hand. "Nosey," you tease, though Hecton speaks it flatly.

"Oh, it's a secret?" he wonders, even more curious now. He doesn't speak like a creep as he continues, holding that same teasing feeling while also offering his genuine curiosity. "I have a thing for secrets, y'know. I can keep it safe for you…"

You do it again, with a little more delight this time. Again, Hecton's translation holds no ounce of the delight you give off as you talk to Finnick. "Nosey," he repeats, this time with a little more sternness to get him to stop asking. You give him a side glance, but he isn't affected.

Before you can communicate anything else, Hecton's sets his hand on your lower back. It isn't patronizing, he's just used to guiding you, your protector.

"Come now, Y/N," he says. "It's time we were off."

You sigh gently but nod, still smiling as you glanced up at him. You begin to wave to Finnick, but he speaks as you're waving your hand.

"Am I free to visit down in District 10?" he asks, his tone light and playful to avoid sounding as hopeful as he feels. He's just met you, and he wants to know you.

You nod quickly, too eager. You move two fingers over your fist, missing the way Hecton doesn't translate. But Finnick can figure that one out himself.

His chest floods with relief. "I'll keep it in mind."

You wave. /Goodbye, Finnick./ The way you sign his name is different. Where he is expecting to see the familiar letters you showed him last night, he finds a wave of your hands and a fond smile.

He winks at you. "Goodbye, sweetcheeks."

You scrunch your nose, circling your hand over your belly. /Gross./

Hecton is already walking you away as Finnick blows you a cheesy kiss, mirroring the one you'd done for the audience earlier. You wave him off, smiling and shaking your head as you go.

When you're far enough from him, walking away from backstage to wherever you were headed now, Hecton's intense brows are furrowed in what you can only assume is annoyance at his distrust in Finnick.

/You seemed familiar./

/Stop./

Music to My Eyes taglist: ... This is a temporary taglist for those who want to be tagged in the sequel to Music to My Eyes, Finnick Odair x Reader. Please keep in mind that once the second part is posted, the tag will disappear. Feel free to DM, comment, or send me an ask to be added, if you would like. Or simply add yourself here...

[lelengerine]

the sun in your system

pairing | bff!haechan x reader

synopsis | the one where haechan is hopelessly in love with you, it's sick.

genre | one-sided pining au, college setting, a mix of fluff and angst

wc | 0.7k

notes | i apologize for any errors in this bc i got the biggest brainrot for softie!hyuck and this was created from that spur... this isn't proofread or anything but i hope u like it :> likes and rbs are highly appreciated!

m.list

it’s a sunny saturday afternoon and haechan’s accompanying you to the school’s treasured library to study for an upcoming exam. it was an odd occurrence to even spot him near the premises of this god-forsaken building (as he likes to call it), yet the two of you have been here for a total of five hours and he hasn’t complained about going back to the dorms once.

you did tell him you were going to do some additional research for a class you were taking, but that no longer seems to be the case when you’ve dozed off an hour ago, and your best friend doesn’t seem to have any plans of waking you up.

the faint glow of sunlight peeks through the library’s windows, grazing your features with a soft touch. it doesn’t seem to disturb you, yet haechan takes it upon himself to grab a book and hold it over your eyes, silently shielding them from the warm rays. your nose scrunches a little from the change despite being asleep, falling back to slumber just as quickly.

why would the poor boy ever ever want to leave when he could see you like this?

he may look like a sick fool—and perhaps he is one for following you around like a golden retriever pup who’s lost his owner—but he’ll gladly let others think so if it meant he’d be able to spend his days with you.

it hadn’t been long since he’s fully realized how he felt about you all this time. no, it took a lot of nightly conversations with his dorm mates who were probably tired of the hearts in haechan’s eyes every time you randomly pop in their conversations. at this point, they’d prefer the boy to grow the balls to confess his heart out to you. it’s not like he doesn't profess his love for you in a different way at least once each day in the middle of their dorm anyways.

there were many people who called haechan the sun (hell, even he agrees with it), yet he believes he’d only be a small, burning star when compared to you, his entire solar system. the one that keeps him afloat, the one who makes him feel like he’s destined for greater things ahead of his life, the one who grounds him when he needs it the most so he wouldn’t be floating in a pit of dark space without meaning.

“you’ll never know just how much i love you, y/n.” he breathes without much thinking, each syllable falling from his lips with utmost care, afraid that if he spoke any louder, they’d only get caught up in the depths of his throat.

you stir in your sleep, or at least that’s what he still thinks you're under until you rise up groggily, rubbing your eye. “you love me?”

“it was a joke!” he brushes the topic off, words leaving him through an awkward laugh.

“uhuh, as if i believe that!” you exclaim before covering your mouth in haste, forgetting you were still residing in the library. 

haechan chuckles at you, absolutely adoring the way your eyes widened in sheer shock, cheeks flushing from the sudden rush. “hey, don’t laugh!” you whisper-shout this time, a small pout on your rosy lips.

“sorry! i can’t help it- you just look like a dork.” his statements clearly refuse to align with how he feels about you, a pang of frustration bubbling up within him for being unable to speak his mind freely—the constant fear you might turn your back on him if he did staying hidden in the furthest depths of his mind.

he was okay with this—admiring your presence, as a friend—or rather, he was okay as long as you were.

“was that really a joke though?” you question properly, and haechan can already sense the hesitation behind your voice. 

“mhm, don’t worry about it. i really was just kidding.” he tries reassuring you, another small pang hitting his heart right where it hurt. 

“if you say so… but that joke wasn’t funny at all!” you point out with a huff, returning back to studying as you open the forgotten notebook laying in front of you. “you need to get better at making them, hyuckie.” you tease, dangling your feet happily.

“yeah… maybe i should.” his reply is muffled, but you pay not much heed to it, now immersing yourself in your studies once more. perhaps that’s exactly why you don’t notice the gloom washing over him, your sun glowing a little less brightly in its solar system.