#but he was still a person at the end of the day

[lamefish]

kento nanami is an anniversary man. nsfw

you think it's sweet, how he has the date of big events in his life on memory. when it's a loss, he'll take the day off to remember, with his head in your lap as he tells stories of whomever has passed. you listen intently, ask questions about them and watch as your husband recounts every good thing about a person.

he celebrates the good, too. almost excessively. the date you met is circled on the calendar, and kento will wake you up with breakfast in bed and a day of doting to show you just how important this anniversary is to him. you turned his world upside down in the best of ways, and what kind of man is he if not one to celebrate the light in his life?

of course, your wedding anniversary too. it's the one he goes all out for: more often than not you put a weekend aside to take a trip and spend some uninterrupted time together. you'll act as newlyweds again, because you still feel like newlyweds despite the passing years, and you'll be reminded over and over just how lucky you are to have found your soulmate in a man like kento nanami.

a man who is sentimental, and so very in love with you. and also celebrates the first time you had sex.

that first year, he had spent the day doting on you so profusely that you were convinced he was going to propose. he was pulling out all of the stops, taking you out fopr an expensive meal, dosing you with fine wines and so many kisses you could get drunk off the taste of him alone. he took you home, ran you a scented bath and took care of the house while you relaxed.

and of course the night ended in mind blowing sex—as your nights usually do. he had insisted on fucking you in missionary despite his recent penchant for taking you from behind and, once he has ripped two orgasms from you and was working on your third, he let it slip.

“we made love for the first time a year ago today,” he whispers against your lips, cock pulsing inside of you as he reaches deep inside of you. “just like this—looking into each others eyes, three orgasms from you, two from me. fell in love with you that night, do you know that honey?”

“you kept track of the day?” you cant finish your sentence without a moan breaking from your throat. “kento, you’re something else.”

“of course i did. it’s an important date, reaching such intimacies—feeling these beautiful velvet walls of yours for the first time… i’ll never forget it.”

you laugh, though it’s quickly swallowed by a kiss from your lover. he rocks his hips into you, feels every inch of his veiny cock disappear inside. he looks down to watch himself sink into you, though his gaze his brought back when you speak.

“three.”

kento blinks. “three what?”

“orgasms from you. you said you had two, but you came a third time right at the end—i milked you dry and you were so sex-drunk and exhausted but you insisted on making me food.” you reach down and grab his hand, the one that had been cupping at your chest, and hold it up for him to see the gentle scar that runs across his thumb. “you cut yourself slicing the bread because i fucked you mindless.”

it comes back to him in gentle flashes. you had, in fact, milked him of a third release. he had just been so out of his mind with nerves and pleasure that the memory had washed itself clean from his mind. he scolds himself mentally for ever daring to forget a detail about being intimate with you, but smiles.

“i remember,” he says. “you told me sex made you hungry so i wanted to incorporate it into your aftercare…”

“silly man,” you wrap your legs around his waist and lick your ankles behind him. with a gentle nudge, he’s forced that tiny bit deeper inside of you. “my silly man.”

kento moans—his eyes flutter shut and his lips catch between his teeth. he adores you—he really does. so much so that the sheer memory of his first time with you is quickly becoming too powerful of a memory to have.

and you, his beautiful other half, laid beneath him with lustful eyes and parted lips, smile up at him. “are we recreating our first time, ken? is that what this is?”

he nods, a little wordless as he tries to keep his mind straight.

“then i think you know what i’m going to do to you, my love.”

he smiles. “milk me for all i have. it’s all yours anyways.”

you lean up and kiss him. it’s slow, gentle, like your first kiss with him was. you taste him wholly on your lips and thank all the divine beings that may exist for putting such a man in your life’s trajectory. his cock twitches inside of you, he fills you out so perfectly.

still, you smile as you roll your hips up to meet his. “just let me handle the aftercare this time.”

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ we're doing better ]❜

ft. the salesman (gong ji-cheol) x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ your husband has finally been honest with you, but what now?┊3.0k words; prt one (here)

contains: his pov, lots of perspective and lore, love at first sight, happy ending where the reader forgives him, note that sociopathic/psychopathic behavior has no known cure & that this is unrealistic fiction, he can’t be fixed but he can be here <3

➤ author's note: the long-awaited & heavily-requested part two!! the ending is sucky because i didn’t plan to write a part two and because i personally wouldn’t have forgiven him, but lots of you guys seemed to want to. i wanted to write something exploring their relationship, so i hope this is received well & that you guys will enjoy!

“i love you too, i’ll be back in the morning” were the last words you said to him before rushing out the door and disappearing to your mother’s house. that was last night, but it was now early evening with the sun finishing its descent over the horizon and you were nowhere to be seen. he briefly wondered if you were also watching it from wherever you were like he was through the window, knowing that you adored the beautiful array of colors blending into each other and always pointed it out when you were with him. he never cared for it himself and took the sight for granted until you came along. now he’s aching for your presence asking him if he thought it was pretty when you were always the prettiest sight in his eyes with the orange light reflecting on you.

his hand was itching to call you or send a text, but he decided against it. you needed your space, especially after that fateful conversation which left him with regret weighing heavy on his chest. he wasn’t sure what the regret stemmed from, if it was regret from not trying harder to keep his secret, if it was from not being more careful to hide his tracks from seong gi-hun, if it was from attempting to build a normal life, or if it was leading the type of life had in the first place. it was a mix of everything, and he hated the feeling of it.

gong ji-cheol never regretted anything in his life. he didn’t regret spending his days getting a sadistic kick out of playing judge and jury to people he viewed as worthless trash when they lost against him, whether it was slapping people he was recruiting into games they would inevitably die in or spending his free time messing around with homeless people. he didn’t regret getting tangled up with the mysterious oh il-nam and the activities occurring on that island, starting as a guard and working his way up to a salesman. he didn’t regret firing a gun on his own father in cold blood when he unknowingly begged his own flesh and blood to spare him.

he’s a man who was steadfast and stubborn when it came to his fucked-up morals and ideals, always believing from a young age that it made him better than others. there was never a reason for him to change as he got older when he found himself working for a hidden organization that introduced him to the addicting taste of death, paid well, and protected him from the law if the unlikely situation of getting caught by authorities for his crimes ever happened. he never cared to do the right thing was doing wrong was just so much more suited to him, never minding the strict set of rules he had to adhere to as long as he was allowed to freely exercise his psychopathic tendencies without trouble following him. it made him feel like a god at times who was so high above normal people if he ignored that he was still an employee with a boss.

and now he’s sitting in the living room, disheveled and staring at the floor waiting for your return like a dog awaiting its master.

he couldn’t even be mad at you for storming out like that. he’s surprised about how mellow your reaction was to learning the truth of his occupation and how dirty the cash he used to spoil you was, how you didn’t scream loud enough for the neighbors to hear, and how you didn’t call the police— or maybe you had already called them at some point today and his friends in higher places were working to keep him safe. more than anything, he misses you, filled with a feeling of longing he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before.

at first, he was only trying to look normal. the people around him started to wonder why a man as tall and handsome as he with money that flowed in like water from an unknown source he kept secret was still single. when people wonder, they start to become nosy. he couldn’t have that if he wanted to keep up the lifestyle he had, so he started searching for someone suited to be his wife. 

to others, he seemed incredibly picky, never reaching out for a second date even once or even bothering to send a polite text saying he didn’t feel a connection. to him, he didn’t think he was picky enough. despite carefully combing through his options and sometimes even hiring private investigators to stalk them if needed, there was always something he missed which was a dealbreaker for him in a relationship: ignorance and stupidity, improper table manners when he reserved at a fine restaurant, running more than fifteen minutes late without traffic in the way, and most importantly for him, asking too many prying personal questions which weren’t relevant on the first date. yes, he understands that first dates are all about getting to know each other, no, he doesn’t find it necessary to talk about stupid things. although he would rather not say anything at all, he’s very particular about how quickly he shares information about himself with others and gets ticked off by anyone who tries too hard to learn more about it (he won’t admit it, but he also gets a bit threatened by it).

by the time the day his first date with you rolled around, he was ready for it to be his last before he lived out his life alone as originally planned. he lost his faith that he would find someone who lived up to his lofty expectations and received news that oh il-nam was dead. the next games were canceled to mourn the loss of the founder, and part of ji-cheol wondered if he should cancel the date as well to take the time to pay his respects. he didn’t think you would be the one and believed there wouldn’t be any difference whether or not he actually showed up.

yet there was something in him that refused to pick up the phone and make up an excuse. it was indescribable like a higher power making sure that he followed the path intended for him. he told himself it was nothing but not wanting to be rude when it was only half an hour before the arranged time and because he didn’t want to pay the cancellation fee, nothing more nothing less. he never cared before if he was thought of as rude to people he didn’t intend to keep in his life for long, and he had enough money to buy the entire place if he wanted to.

so what was his problem all of a sudden?

you showed up perfectly on time, a few seconds before the clock struck, looking beautiful. it’s not a word he uses often. pretty, maybe, but not beautiful, yet it was the first word that crossed his mind when you introduced yourself. he found himself enamored by your presence and everything about it from how you carried yourself to the subtle glitter eyeshadow that made your eyes sparkle to the dainty jewelry hanging around your neck, so enamored that he forgot to accept your outstretched hand and to get up to pull out your seat for you at first.

more than easy on the eyes, dressed appropriately, good table manners, well-educated, never pressing too hard on matters he clearly didn’t want to talk about, you were quickly checking off everything on his list as his partner— although what he was really looking for was to draw away suspicions and your likable personality made you perfect for the job, he could even see you as a companion. even if you were visibly nervous, he didn’t mind, your timidness was adorable actually, akin to a little bunny being fed by his hand.

when he finally got home, he realized he was still smiling when he’s usually constantly reminding himself to do so. he also realized that he lost track of time and came back a whopping two hours later than he expected.

it was history from there, gong ji-cheol, a man who saw other humans as unequal trash, had succumbed to love at first sight, which baffled him.

it made him remember a scene from his childhood, one where he asked his mother why she remained married to his deadbeat father after another night of him not showing up in favor of gambling and drinking instead of spending it with his own family. she embraced him with tears, once again reminding him of her own tale of love at first sight, and also telling him that when you’re so deep in love like she was, you’re willing to forgive them for anything.

he thought she was stupid for that. now he knows he’s truly just like his mother just like everyone said.

you were shy in the first steps of the relationship, quickly realizing that you had become a glorified sugar baby of sorts. he didn’t know how to express his affection through words nor did he have the extra time to spend with you during that time of the year, so he spoiled you with lavish gifts and wealth beyond your wildest dreams. any debts you might have were paid off, one of the nicest condos in korea was bought for you to move in together, your parent's retirement was paid off in full to allow them to stop working, and any other money-related issues were quickly covered by him. you could even quit your job if you wanted to, but you didn’t want to become too dependent on him and wouldn’t know what to do with all the extra time in your day.

it soon became clear there was a boundary not to be crossed, which was not to dig too much into his personal life. if he gave you a curt, general answer to your question, you were not to say anything more about the matter. no one you spoke to about this thought this was too strange, even when you were preparing to get married, because what was there to worry your pretty head about? you love him and he loves you, he was treating you better than a queen, and his wealth spread into your circle of people you cared about with friends getting luxury perfumes and parents getting first-class tickets to wherever they wanted. in a way, they didn’t want to ask any more questions if it meant angering him and possibly not having these things anymore.

you never liked it, but he never cared about it. they were just trivial things and he was perfectly fine with sharing what he had, or at least, that’s what he told you. it was mainly to ensure he was well-liked among them and no one would ever try to come between you.

the only people who ever did were a few snakes parading as your friends trying to steal him away from you, trying to seduce him, and getting too close for his comfort. you were too sweet to notice and always forgave it if you did, but he noticed their lingering eyes and was disgusted. it was the one time he allowed his mask to slip, calling them out for being human garbage with a polite smile on his face as they gasped in shock. if they tried to cry to you about how awful he was to them, he simply told you the truth and encouraged you to cut them off which you always did.

the garden he carefully cultivated of a normal domestic life was flourishing. you were so captivated by the colorful flowers he planted and the butterflies pollinating them that you didn’t notice how dirty his gloved hands were when ripping out anything that didn’t belong like weeds trying to sprout through the soil. he was always sure to take them off and discard them afterward, never daring to touch you with the sins of his life outside of you.

then you fell pregnant after months of trying, and while he was overjoyed at first with renovations in mind to turn one of the extra rooms into a nursery, there was an unease in him wondering if the child would turn out like him: a remorseless psychopath who would one day kill his own father as he did his. he would later by a few books about parenting, hoping that he could prevent that type of future.

time flew by and he hadn’t killed anyone in a while although he was still complicit in hundreds of deaths a year. his violent urges slowly calmed and his hand was only raised during ddakji matches, but even then, they were more gentle than before (which meant that they still stung and made their face swell up, but it was an improvement when in the past, he would sometimes hit them so hard that they could taste blood on their tongue). 

the effects of being a husband and soon-to-be father were changing who he was at his very core, but it didn’t change everything he’s already done.

he was stupid to think he could have such a picture-perfect life with the woman he loved after everything. for someone who meticulously plans out things down to each syllable of the words he spoke, he didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do once he was found out.

the law couldn’t touch him, but he didn’t care about the law, he cared about you and your unborn child. 

he ran his hand through his messy dark locks, sighing in frustration trying to think of a solution as he dug around the kitchen until he fished out an entire bottle of wine. he could manipulate himself out of this situation as he had done countless times before, he’s a snake with a forked silver tongue who could easily get his way just by flickering it, but the thought of lying to you again broke his once unfeeling heart. it would never be the same way again with your relationship tainted with distrust. the truth would have to come out eventually.

oh god, but what would he do without you? 

before he could begin to spiral for the fourth time that day about what would happen if you left him, the familiar sound of a keypad being pressed and the front door being unlocked. he froze in place, not expecting you to come back at that very moment— but he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. he wasn’t sure of anything, simply staring at you when you caught him hunched over the counter drinking straight from a bottle of wine and looking like a child whose mom just caught him sneaking a snack at two in the morning.

“oh god, i leave for a day and you’re already a wreck, what happened to the ji-cheol who’s always put together even when it’s raining?” you approached him casually, reaching up to mess around with his hair until he looked more like his usual self. there was an air of awkwardness you tried to hide and was successful for the most part, but he could read you easier than a book. you were nervous around him now, acting with slight fear and carefulness like you were inching around a predator, and even flinched when he hugged you to feel your presence and breathe in your scent. 

you hugged him back after a moment, looking up at him with your voice shaking, “if it’s really… that… then i understand it would be dangerous for you to tell me, so i won’t ask any more questions… i don’t… i don’t want to leave you and leave our child fatherless…”

if you were any other person in the world, he would have smirked at the fact that he didn’t need to bother trying to manipulate you into staying with him. he would have relished his control over you and how you came back in the end, free to continue killing and asking people to play a game with him to satisfy his sadistic desires. 

but you weren’t any other person in the world, you were his wife.

“you really forgive me? after knowing all that?”

“i guess love really does let you look past everything no matter how bad… at least you didn’t cheat on me as my friends suggested, that would be the real unforgivable offense…”

the topic of his occupation never came up again, but he made the choice to resign on account of it no longer fitting with his current lifestyle. the current frontman, who was an old friend of his, looked upon him fondly for his loyalty, thanked him for his service, and was even kind enough to use his connections to find him a new place to work. it was boring by his standards, but it paid well and wasn’t illegal, so he persevered. he now has plenty of things to tell you about his workplace, from the annoying co-worker who keeps showing him the most random unfunny things on the internet to how the coffee shop downstairs wasn’t half bad. mundane things that made you grin when he told you about his day, which was all that mattered to him.

you soon gave birth to a healthy baby girl with his eyes and your smile. the world became a lot brighter, even with all the sleepless nights of her crying and learning how to change diapers. she was a little joy born out of his love for you. 

finally, you’re both doing better, and he no longer has to hide himself away from you.

tag list!! @tric0rd / @solatiiium / @iloveragdollcats / @sugaremedy / @pear-1206 / @orangutanjazz / @boowiththegoo / @knoepfl / @miaasmf / @queenjang21 / @larissa-slays69 / @munch3025 / @qrstarz / @capital-koreasofia / @swiftieee4lifeee / @liliylikescats / @maryyyswift / @vaenys2 / @bane-y-zane / @dynaloy / @chunkzdeluluwife / @everyonelovestay / @tomhollandtoothbrush

there will not be a part three, thank you for reading!!

[requinoesis]

Hello! Fellow shark lover here, so that means i absolutely love your art! What is your favourite piece youve made of all time and what inspired you to create it if anything did? 🦈

I'm so glad you like my shark art! 🦈✨

I had to think about your question for a while, but I think my favorite piece is this one. It's part of a series of illustrations set in the same world, created during the first Sharktober in 2020.

The story depicts a little pilgrim shark exploring the ruins of his own world, where he finds wonders created by his ancestors, now forgotten.

Even though his people have lost all hope, this little one is determined to restore the image of an ancient deity, once the ruler of the ocean spirit. This divinity, however, is corrupted by a sinister shadow that consumes it as faith fades.

If I were to try to describe the meaning of this story, I would say that the little shark could represent me. He symbolizes my own journey in exploring both the reality of sharks, which are on the brink of extinction, and the fascinating aspects of their biology, ecology and role in the world - things that are ignored and in danger of being forgotten. His journey to “purify” the tarnished image of sharks reflects my attempt to recover the fascination and admiration they deserve.

However, like the little shark, I feel powerless in the face of such a great challenge. Who am I to counterbalance the negative influence that the movie Jaws had and that reverberates to this day? It only took one movie to destroy sharks’ image; could the opposite be done with the same intensity?

The fact that it seems that only this little shark still holds out hope of restoring the lost ocean, while their people live daily lives resignedly, waiting for the end, perhaps reflects something personal for me. Many times, those closest to me have discouraged me from trying to help the sharks, saying that it was “useless" or that I should "fight for a more important cause”.

Just as the little shark chose to trust his heart and leave his village, I decided to trust only myself on this lonely journey. Still, I keep trying. From ruin to ruin, the little shark persists, restoring one spark at a time to the great cosmic shark.

Perhaps, at some point along the way, when I can no longer go on, I will be able to inspire others to continue this journey. May they purify more sparks, until the full image of the sharks is restored.

Currently, I'm thinking of using the world I've created of this little pilgrim shark as some kind of “ RPG Book” of my modern sharkfolk that you know, it would probably be called “The Buried Ocean”.

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fuss to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

next chapter early access

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

[sabsberries]

back to you - h.s.

summary - harry and y/n are forced into close quarters unexpectedly, but, despite the tension, it was the best thing that could've happened to them.

w.c. - 5.9k

warnings - swearing, use of Y/N, SMUT, fingering, p in v, oral (fem! receiving), pussy spitting, bondage, happy ending (sorry to my angst lovers)

part 1 can be found here - this also took me a week to write, and I think it's obvious where I finally got motivated...

Harry was fucked.

Completely and utterly fucked.

Despite both him and Y/N agreeing that their breakup was mutual, deep down, the pair knew she had been the one who insisted and fought for the breakup to take place, and he just went along with it to keep her happy. She broke up with him.

Harry also knew that he was too full of pride, and ego, to tell his friends that the relationship he claimed 'shaped him as a person', and 'gave him a reason to wake up every morning', had ended, and that it was partially (mainly) his fault. He stayed silent until it became impossible to ignore, and reluctantly made the phone call to his friends and family, trying his hardest to keep the embarrassing details to a minimum.

So when he got the panicked text from Sarah at seven o'clock at night, asking if he could come over and babysit because Mitch had managed to break his finger falling over in the shower, Harry was all in.

He jumped out of bed, pulled on the clothes he was wearing the day prior so that no one could tell he had spent his Friday laying in bed watching shitty movies, and rushed into his car.

However, the last thing Harry expected to see when he finally arrived was Sarah's car missing, and Y/N's car in its place. He paused in the driveway, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Had they forgotten that they called him? Was he taking too long so they called Y/N as a last resort instead?

He pulled up next to her car, paused, and turned down the radio. As much as he hated to admit it, even seeing her car was causing his chest to tighten and his throat to ache, and the nagging voice in the back of his mind was slowly getting louder, begging for him to put his seatbelt back on, turn around, and go home.

After taking a few minutes to compose himself, Harry hopped out of the car, slamming the door shut and reaching over to place his palm on the bonnet of Y/N's. "Oh, fuck," he mumbled. "Still warm."

He began making his way towards the front door, his brain spewing possible escape routes with every step he took. The door swung open before he was even arm length away.

"You're here! Did you find the house oka-- Harry." Y/N cut herself off, a half unscrewed bottle of wine in one hand, and the doorknob in the other.

"Me." He deadpanned, throwing her a tightlipped smile. "Expecting someone else?" He shimmied past her, ignoring the way she looked like a guilty teenager who just got caught replacing their parents vodka with water, and pulled off his coat.

"Uhm.. no. Not really. Just, y'know, pizza..." Her voice trailed off unconvincingly.

"Pizza?"

"Yeah? What's wrong with me ordering pizza?" She questioned, slamming the door shut and turning to look at him, an evident accusatory look on her face mirroring that in her voice.

"Nothing. What toppings? I'm starving. And finish opening that bottle." He grumbled. "Where's the little man?"

"Um, pizza is margarita, I can't finish opening the bottle because I can't find the corkscrew, and he is fast asleep upstairs with some white noise playing." 

Harry merely raised his eyebrows in what was either shock, surprise, or a mix of both, and made his way over to the kitchen. Y/N trailed after him, grumbling something about how he hadn't even said "Hello," to her yet.

"Corkscrew's in the drawer next to the fridge." Harry explained, pulling it out and showing it to her. "Pass me the bottle."

"So," Harry scrunched his face up slightly as he pulled out the cork, smirking at the satisfying 'Pop!' that followed suit, "Clearly it wasn't pizza that you were expecting at the door."

Y/N paused, and turned her head towards him ever so slightly. "What?" Her voice was slightly breathy as she forced the word out as quickly as possible, and her eyes were locked on Harry's smug face.

"Earlier at the door. You opened it, saw me, and started stuttering about pizza."

Y/N scoffed. "I didn't stutter. I don't stutter. You just caught me off guard. That's all."

"I caught you off guard?" Harry questioned, reaching to grab two wine glasses and pouring in a hefty amount. "Is that all?"

"I don't know what you-- thanks. I don't know what you want me to say!" Y/N defended, grabbing the wine glass he was offering to her and taking a gulp.

Harry stayed silent, and resorted to taking small sips from his glass. For the first time in almost a year, the silence between them wasn't hostile. There were no lingering glances, no scoffs when the other moved, and, the best in Harry's opinion, his brain wasn't fighting itself trying to think of things to get her to finally talk to him.

The noise of the doorbell rang throughout the house, contrasting the silence and causing Harry's head to rattle slightly.

"I'll grab that." Y/N smiled weakly, passing her glass to Harry for him to refill, and rushing over to the door.

Harry stayed behind in the kitchen, swirling the wine in his glass as he leaned against the counter. The sound of muffled voices at the door echoed faintly through the house, and he couldn’t help the way his ears pricked up, trying to catch pieces of the conversation. He knew it was just the pizza, but his stomach still did that irritating little flip it always seemed to do around her. Old habits die hard, apparently.

Y/N returned a moment later with a pizza box balanced in one hand and a slight smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “Dinner is served,” she announced, setting the box down on the counter and reaching for her wine glass.

Harry arched a brow, eyeing the box. “Margarita, you said?”

“Yep. Nice and simple.” She opened the box and grabbed a slice, her movements relaxed. "Much better than your weird combinations."

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes as he reached for his own slice. “It’s not weird, it’s called flavour. But thanks for sparing me the judgement tonight.”

“Oh, I still judge you, don’t worry,” she teased, taking a bite.

That earned a laugh from him—an actual, genuine laugh that surprised them both. The awkward tension that had been hovering between them like a storm cloud seemed to crack, just a little. Harry glanced over at her, catching the faint flicker of amusement in her eyes as she chewed.

"How come you're here?" Harry asked, finally taking a bite from the pizza.

Y/N looked at him for a few seconds, almost as if she were coming up with an answer, before she finally spoke. "I had a date."

Harry stopped chewing. "A date?"

"Mhmm. I was getting ready when Sarah called me and told me what happened, and asked if I could come here and babysit. I told her I could, but I had to cancel my date, and she told me to just move it to here. She never mentioned you, though. That's why I didn't expect to see you."

"Ahh." Harry nodded his head, and continued eating his pizza, focusing on unclenching his jaw so that it wouldn't be so difficult to chew. "And, I've been here for, what, fifteen minutes now. Where's the lucky guy?"

"I cancelled." Y/N pursed her lips. "I actually used one of your excuses."

Harry scoffed, "When have I ever used an excuse with you?"

Y/N straightened up and looked at him. "Our second date! Last year you told me that you actually weren't sure about me because you thought I was an undercover fan lying about not listening to One Direction, so you texted me and said you had twisted your ankle and took some strong pain meds to make you pass out!"

Harry nearly choked on his pizza, his laugh bursting out before he could stop it. “I did not!” he exclaimed, though his face betrayed him as he tried to suppress a smirk.

Y/N raised a brow, crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, you absolutely did. And do you know how ridiculous I felt when I saw paparazzi pictures of you the next morning walking out of the gym? With no ankle brace in sight, might I add.”

Harry let his head fall back against the kitchen cabinet, groaning in embarrassment. “Alright, alright, I’ll admit it. That was bad. But in my defence, you were way too cool about the whole ‘not a fan of the band’ thing. It threw me off!”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of a smile playing on her lips. “Right, because I had to be a crazed fan to want to go out with you? Very logical.”

“Well,” Harry said, dragging out the word with a teasing lilt, “you have to admit, I’ve met my fair share of undercover Directioners.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at that. “True, but I wasn’t one of them. I genuinely didn’t care about the band.” She paused, then added cheekily, “Still don’t, actually.”

“Harsh,” Harry muttered, clutching his chest dramatically as if she’d just wounded him.

The laughter between them came easier now, the pizza nearly forgotten as they both leaned against the counter, sipping wine and trading playful jabs.

“Okay, but seriously,” Harry said after a moment, his expression softening. “You cancelled your date. Was it really because of me?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. “Not entirely,” she admitted. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting to see you, but I guess… when I realised you’d be here, it didn’t feel right to have someone else show up, too.”

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling over him. “Why not?”

She met his gaze then, her voice quieter, more vulnerable. “Because I didn’t want to make things harder than they already are between us. We’re barely managing this, Harry. Adding someone else to the mix just felt… unnecessary.”

He nodded slowly, his grip tightening on his glass. “I get it,” he said, his voice just as soft.

For a moment, the air between them grew heavy again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It felt like something was being acknowledged—something neither of them was ready to say out loud yet.

Harry cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Well, thanks for sparing me the awkwardness of a third wheel situation, I guess.”

Y/N smiled faintly, lifting her glass in a mock toast. “Anytime.”

They clinked glasses again, and just like that, the conversation shifted back to lighter topics. By the time the pizza box was empty and the wine bottle drained, they were sprawled out on the sofa, laughing like they hadn’t in ages.

The laughter eventually died down, leaving a comfortable silence between them as the night settled in. The living room felt warmer somehow, though it could’ve just been the wine coursing through Harry’s veins—or maybe the way Y/N had let her guard down for the first time in what felt like forever.

Harry stretched his legs out in front of him, his socked feet brushing against hers where she had tucked herself into the corner of the sofa. He didn’t pull away, and neither did she.

“Remember how we used to do this?” Y/N said softly, her voice carrying a nostalgic edge.

Harry turned his head to look at her, his lips curving into a small smile. “Yeah. Except back then, I think we still liked each other.”

She laughed quietly, shaking her head. “We did. Most of the time.”

“Most of the time,” Harry agreed, his smile fading slightly. He let his gaze drop to the rim of his empty glass, his thumb tracing its edge. “I miss that, you know.”

Y/N stilled, her expression unreadable as she studied him. “What, the pizza?” she joked, trying to lighten the moment, though her voice wavered just enough to betray her.

Harry chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “No, not the pizza. I miss... us. Just being around you. Without all the... mess.”

The room seemed to grow quieter, the sound of the baby monitor’s faint white noise the only thing breaking the stillness. Y/N swallowed, setting her glass down on the coffee table. “It turned to shit pretty quick, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted, leaning back into the sofa and running a hand through his hair. “But it wasn’t all bad. I mean, we had good bits too, right?”

Y/N smiled faintly, nodding. “We had a lot of good bits. You were... you are a big part of my life, Harry. That hasn’t changed.”

The way she said his name made his chest ache. It wasn’t angry or cold like it had been before. It was soft, almost hesitant, like she was letting herself feel something she wasn’t sure she should.

“You’re still a big part of mine, too,” Harry said quietly, his green eyes locking onto hers. “I know I never said it enough, but I’m sorry for... for everything. For how things ended.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed slightly, her lips parting as if to speak, but she didn’t. Instead, she leaned her head back against the sofa, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. “It wasn’t just you, Harry. I wasn’t perfect either. I didn’t know how to handle us falling apart, so I pushed you away.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly fight to stay, did I?” he countered, his voice tinged with regret.

The quiet stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. Harry shifted closer, his knee brushing against hers. He didn’t know if it was the wine or the way the room felt so heavy with memories, but he needed her to know he still cared.

“I miss you, Y/N,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

She turned her head to look at him, her eyes searching his. “I miss you too,” she admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Harry’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. For the first time in months, it felt like they weren’t running from the truth anymore.

Before either of them could say anything else, a soft cry came through the baby monitor, breaking the moment. Y/N sighed, pushing herself up from the sofa.

“I’ll check on him,” she said, her voice steady, though her cheeks were flushed.

Harry watched her leave the room, his heart still racing. Maybe they weren’t fixed yet—maybe they never would be—but god did it feel nice to sit with her and just talk. No fighting, no spewing insults about the other and the generations before them, just talking and laughing.

The soft cry over the monitor faded as Y/N disappeared upstairs, leaving Harry alone in the dimly lit living room. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply as he stared at the nearly empty wine bottle on the table. The weight of what they’d just admitted hung heavy in the air.

When Y/N returned a few minutes later, she looked slightly frazzled, her hair falling loose around her face. “He’s fine, just kicked his blanket off,” she murmured, brushing her hands down her thighs as she sat back down. This time, though, she didn’t tuck herself into the far corner of the sofa. She settled closer, close enough that Harry could feel the faint warmth radiating from her.

“You’re good with him,” Harry said, his voice low.

Y/N gave him a soft smile, brushing her hair behind her ear. “I’ve had enough practice babysitting for Sarah. Besides, he’s an angel compared to some of the kids I’ve looked after.”

Harry chuckled, his eyes lingering on her face. There was a glow to her in this light, something he hadn’t allowed himself to really notice in so long. “Still. It suits you.”

Y/N arched a brow, her lips twitching. “What does?”

“Taking care of someone,” Harry said simply, leaning slightly closer. “You’ve always had that in you.”

She looked at him, something flickering in her gaze that she quickly masked with a light laugh. “Well, I used to take care of you, didn’t I? Someone had to make sure you didn’t live off toast and pot noodles.”

“Oi,” Harry protested, though his grin gave him away. “You loved doing that.”

“Maybe I did,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. Her fingers played with the hem of her jumper, a nervous habit Harry recognised all too well.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged, the kind of quiet that demanded to be broken. Harry shifted slightly, his knee brushing against hers again—but this time, neither of them moved away.

“Y’know,” Harry said after a moment, his voice dropping, “you still do that. Get under my skin, I mean.”

Y/N blinked, her breath hitching as she met his gaze. “What do you mean?”

He leaned in just a fraction more, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint mix of his cologne and wine. “I mean,” he murmured, “you walk into a room, and I can’t think straight. Always been like that with you.”

Y/N’s lips parted, her pulse quickening at his words. She should’ve said something to deflect, to break the tension, but she couldn’t. Instead, her eyes dropped to his mouth, lingering there just a second too long before flicking back up to meet his gaze.

Harry noticed, of course he did. He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriatingly confident way that made her stomach twist. “You’re doing it now,” he said, his voice softer, more intimate.

“Doing what?” she whispered, her voice betraying her as it wavered.

“Driving me mad.”

Her breath caught as his hand lifted, hesitating for just a moment before he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her cheek, the touch light but enough to send a shiver down her spine.

“Harry...” she started, though she wasn’t sure what she was going to say.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

She swallowed, her heart racing as she searched his face. “This... this is dangerous.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, his thumb brushing lightly against her jaw before he let his hand fall. “But it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

Y/N couldn’t help the way her eyes flicked to his mouth again, her resolve faltering. Harry noticed, of course he did, and when he leaned in just a little closer, she didn’t stop him.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his lips hovering a breath away from hers.

But she didn’t. How could she?

Instead, her hand lifted, resting lightly against his chest. She could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.

“Harry,” she said again, this time softer, almost pleading.

“Yeah?” he whispered, his voice rough around the edges, his green eyes locked on hers.

And just like that, the space between them disappeared.

The kiss started soft, hesitant, as if neither of them could quite believe it was happening. Harry’s lips brushed against hers, testing, waiting for her to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, her fingers curled against his chest, clutching at the fabric of his jumper like he might disappear if she let go.

That was all the encouragement Harry needed. His hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair as he deepened the kiss. It wasn’t rushed, but there was a hunger behind it, a need that had clearly been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

Y/N sighed into his mouth, her free hand moving to his shoulder as she tilted her head to give him better access. She could feel the warmth of him, the way his body seemed to press closer to hers with every passing second. It was overwhelming and intoxicating all at once.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together as they tried to catch their breath.

“This is a terrible idea,” Y/N murmured, though there was no conviction behind her words.

“Maybe,” Harry said, his voice rough and low, his thumb gently stroking the side of her neck. “But I don’t care.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn’t give her the chance. His lips found hers again, more insistent this time, his hands settling on her waist as he pulled her closer. She went willingly, her own hands sliding up to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over the stubble on his jaw.

The kiss grew hotter, more desperate, as the tension that had been building between them finally began to unravel. Harry’s hands slipped beneath the hem of her jumper, his fingers grazing the soft skin of her waist, and she shivered at the contact.

“Y/N,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breathing. His green eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“We shouldn’t...” she started, her voice barely above a whisper.

“But do you want me to stop?” he asked, his hands still resting on her waist, his thumbs tracing slow circles against her skin.

She hesitated for only a moment before shaking her head. “No.”

That was all he needed to hear. He captured her lips in another searing kiss, and this time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing. They gave in completely, their bodies moving instinctively as they closed the remaining distance between them.

Harry shifted, guiding her back against the sofa until she was lying beneath him, his weight pressing her into the cushions in the most delicious way. His lips trailed from her mouth to her jaw, then down to her neck, leaving a path of heat in their wake. Y/N’s hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently as she tilted her head to give him better access.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured against her skin, his voice raw and full of emotion.

She froze for a moment, her fingers stilling in his hair as his words sank in. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers as if he’d just realised what he’d said.

“I mean it,” he said softly, his hand coming up to cradle her face. “I’ve missed you every single day.”

Her breath caught at the vulnerability in his voice, and she felt her resolve crumbling all over again. “I missed you too,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “More than I wanted to.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to hers as he closed his eyes. “Then maybe this isn’t such a bad idea,” he said, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. “Maybe we just... don’t fight it this time.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away, her mind racing as she tried to process everything. But when he kissed her again—soft and slow, like he was trying to prove just how much he meant every word—she realised that maybe, just maybe, he was right.

She stayed quiet as he began trailing wet kisses down her neck, and instead focused on the warmth flowing through her body from the wine. "How mad do you think Sarah and Mitch would be if we had sex on their sofa?"

Harry laughed, and tucked his head into the crook of her neck, placing a final kiss before pulling away and scanning the room. "Blanket?" He asked, turning his head to look down at her.

He'd barely done more than a hickey or two and she already looked out of it. Her pupils were slightly blown, her lips puffy and pink, and her cheeks were flushed. She had never looked more beautiful.

“Blanket.” She reaffirmed, and moved out of the way so that he could lay it beneath her.

Harry smirked as he grabbed the throw blanket folded neatly on the armrest. “You’re really making this easier for me, aren’t you?” he teased, shaking the blanket out before draping it over the sofa.

Y/N rolled her eyes, though the soft smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Just trying to be considerate. Sarah’s got that whole ‘no shoes in the house’ rule. I think ‘no bodily fluids on the furniture’ falls under the same category.”

He let out a low laugh as he smoothed the blanket into place. “Good point. But for the record,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at her, “this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I agreed to babysit tonight.”

“Oh? And what did you have in mind?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms.

“God knows, but definitely not this,” he said, turning to face her. His expression softened as his eyes met hers. “But I’m not complaining.”

Her cheeks flushed under his gaze, and for a moment, the teasing faded. The air between them felt charged, buzzing with an unspoken intensity. Harry took a step closer, his hands finding her hips as he guided her back against the sofa.

“Still sure about this?” he asked quietly, his voice low as his thumb brushed the hem of her jumper.

Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she nodded. She knew this was reckless and fraught with risks. Still, the way he was looking at her with such raw, unfiltered longing made her forget every reason to say no.

“Positive,” she murmured, her fingers gripping the fabric of his jumper to pull him closer.

That was all Harry needed to hear. He leaned down, kissing her with a slow, deliberate intensity that sent a wave of warmth cascading through her body. His hands slipped under her jumper, his fingertips grazing her skin and making her shiver.

She gasped softly, her back arching against him as he pressed her down onto the sofa. His weight over her was comforting and electrifying all at once, grounding her in the moment even as it made her pulse race.

“Y/N,” he groaned, resting his forehead against hers for a moment as he tried to catch his breath. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

She smiled, sliding her hands down to the hem of his jumper and tugging it upwards.

He helped her pull the jumper over his head before tossing it onto the floor. “You’re trouble,” he murmured, leaning back down to kiss her.

“And you love it,” she shot back, her fingers tracing along the lines of his chest.

“Yeah,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I really do.”

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, his hands exploring the soft curves of her body. She let out a shaky breath as his fingers brushed the edge of her bra, and she couldn’t stop herself from pressing her hips against his.

The moment seemed to stretch, the world outside fading into nothingness. Every kiss, every touch felt like a silent conversation, years of unspoken words expressed in the warmth between them. As her hands roamed and his lips pressed against her skin, the quiet sounds of their shared breaths and murmured names filled the room. Neither of them cared about the consequences; all that mattered was right now.

“Can I take your bra off?” Harry questioned.

“Well, yeah, obviously.” She laughed, reaching behind her back to unclip it and pulling it off.

Whatever snarky comment Harry had ready to shoot back melted on his tongue as looked down at her. “My gorgeous girl.” He mumbled, ducking his head to kiss along her right boob.

Y/N moaned as his tongue found her nipple, swirling around and biting it gently. “Harry, please.”

“Shh. I’m getting there. Be patient.” Harry muttered. reaching down to pull her thighs apart and pushing his hips against hers.

She arched her back into his chest at the friction, and lifted up her hips, chasing against his as he moved away.

“Turn around.” Harry pulled away, his hand gently rubbing against her hip bone.

“What?” She asked.

“Turn around.” He repeated, this time squeezing down ever so slightly on her hip.

She nodded her head and rolled onto her stomach. “But what if I wanted to see you?” She asked, feigning sadness in her voice.

Harry grabbed her arms and pulled them behind her back, holding them in place with one hand whilst the other worked on pulling off his belt. “What if you don’t deserve to see me?” He mocked, looping the belt around her hands and pulling tightly.

“Oh my.. fuck.” Y/N mumbled, dropping her head onto the sofa and arching her back slightly.

Harry’s hips met hers once again, but this time there was a sense of urgency behind. “You alright?”

“Oh my god, yes.” She practically moaned.

Harry smirked, and grabbed the edge of her leggings, pulling them, along with her panties; down her legs in one quick motion. “Good.”

He leaned down and began to pepper kisses down her lower back, kissing any freckle or small childhood scar he could find, before finally sinking his teeth into the meat of her right hip.

Y/N yelped, and Harry’s hand pulled her back in place before she could move away. “You’re fine.” He said, and dipped his head to lick a bold line straight up her slit.

Y/N moaned, her body jostling forwards as Harry wrapped his arms around her thighs and dove right in, not leaving a single spot neglected.

He began to nibble her clit, his thumb quickly moving to rub soothing circles soon after whilst he pulled back to admire what was below him.

“You have got the most gorgeous pussy.” He sighed, leaning his forehead against her right asscheek and lifting his hand to brush through her. He pushed in his fingers, scissoring them open and using the sound of her moans as motivation.

“Are you not going to thank me? Maybe I should just stop since clearly you’re not appreciating what I’m doing for you.” Harry sighed, pulling away completely and sitting up against her.

“No— no Harry please. I’m begging you- please. It feels so good I— Thank you! Thank you, thank you. Please, Harry, don’t stop.” Her words were blending into one, and Harry couldn’t help but feel proud of himself. He’d barely touched her like he used to, and this is how she was reacting?

“There’s my good girl.” He smirked, unbuttoning his jeans and shimmying them down his legs. His ground his clothed dick against her, hoping she didn’t notice the way he barely choked out a moan at such a simple touch.

His boxers were gone soon after, and finally, it felt like it was just them again. It felt like everything Harry had wished for had come true, and he was finally where he was supposed to be.

He reached down to grab her hands, bending over her to place a brief kiss against them, and pulled away once again. He rubbed the head of his dick through her slick, collecting as much as he could before hunching over and spitting directly above her clit, moving his dick to chase after it and distribute it.

“You ready?” He questioned.

“So fucking ready. Please, Harry-” Y/N cut herself off with a moan, her hands squeezing against nothing and her already overstimulated body was shaking as he pushed in.

Harry threw his head back as he groaned, his hands twitching with the need to grab something as the pleasure took over.

He waited a couple of moments before pushing in the rest of the way, gradually speeding up until finally his hips were flush against her ass. He bent over her once again, his hands resting against her head.

“I love you, my gorgeous girl.” He whispered, kissing the back of her head.

“I love you more. I’m sorry.” She whispered back, her voice cracking with what was either pleasure or regret.

Harry shushed her gently, and straightened back up so he could hold her hands. He pulled out ever so slightly, and pushed back in, repeating until eventually his whole dick, bar the tip, was out. He waited another moment, and, despite it being extremely unnecessary, spat once again, this time onto his dick, and slammed his hips back against her.

Y/N practically screamed as the pleasure set in, moving her head to bite against the throw pillow as her hips moved against Harry’s, desperate to get him deeper into her.

“Fuck I’ve missed this.” Harry groaned, his eyes rolling back into his head.

Y/N was incoherent. Her moans were gradually getting louder, and she was starting to appreciate Harry making her turn around as she knew that her face would be covered in drool, as well as mascara and lipstick smeared all over.

“Can’t believe you tried to take this away from me. As if you’d ever find someone who could make you feel like this.” He pushed down on her back, forcing her to arch even further into him.

“Please, Harry.” She cried, her jaw aching from the excessive force she was using to bite down on the pillow as a muffler. “Please don’t stop, I'm so close.”

Harry slowed down, his hand dropping from her hip down to her clit and rubbing slow, small circles, whilst his other worked on unbuckling the belt from her hands. “Turn around. ‘Wanna see your pretty face.”

He pulled out of her gently, and watched as Y/N shakily rolled over, her face flushed and makeup ruined beyond repair. “Hi, baby.” Harry grinned, caressing her cheek gently.

“Hi.” She whispered, her voice raw and rasp. Once again, their hands connected, and Harry pushed back into her, their moans harmonising as Y/N clenched around him.

“I’m so fucking close.” Y/N whined, her nails digging into the backs of Harry’s hands whilst her pushing up her chest to rest against his.

“I know, baby. Hold it for me, alright? I’m almost there.” Harry muttered, resuming biting at the hickeys he had abandoned prior.

His hips began to match his harsh assaults on her neck, each thrust matching the way he nipped, licked, and suckled any bare spot from her jawline to her collarbone.

“Oh, fuck. I’m gonna cum. C’mon pretty girl, let go for me.” Harry whined, dropping her hand and moving to rub circles on her clit.

Y/N was incomprehensible. Her jaw was dropped, and her mouth open as she cried out a mixture of curses and praises as she came, Harry tailing along soon after, whimpers escaping the two of them. He slowed down, now ever so slightly moving inside of her as he watched a blend of their cum fall out of her with every movement.

“Well, shit.” He chuckled, brushing the sweat and hair off of her forehead gently.

Y/N nodded, a small giggle escaping her lips as she looked around the room. “How long do you think it’ll take Mitch and Sarah to figure out what he did?”

Harry smirked, and stared down at her with a look of admiration in his eye. “You open the windows and chuck the blanket in the wash, and I’ll run us a bath?”

“Deal.”

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

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[brynn-lear]

The Abduction of King (Y/n) [Yandere Mydei x Reader]

A/n: Here I go, an asexual trying to learn how to write smut, so bear with me as I start this journey. Also, note that this story presumably happens after the entire Amphoreus Quests, so I’m running under assumptions on how the story ends. I enjoyed writing this reader. It’s always refreshing to write nice people turned feral.

Unreliable Synopsis: The new Stellaron Hunter, King (Y/n), is always welcome to visit the Express. Life has a way of changing a person… And Mydei couldn't accept his beloved’s new “whatever will be, will be” attitude.

CW/Tags: female reader (“King” is your title), slight hurt/comfort, yandere!mydei, toxic relationship, heavily implied one-sided sunday/reader, mild violence, and dubcon elements 

To smell and taste pomegranate juice— such were your aspirations before living the life you have now. 

You are simultaneously at the lowest and highest point of your life.

Being falsely accused of "matricide" was an unpredictable way to achieve that wish, yet you are nonetheless grateful for the hand you dealt with. You'd dare say it's a blessing in disguise. Despite your retainer’s blatant “betrayal”, you were thankful he had ground your knees against gravel and harsh pebbles. If anything, he wrote you a lovely story.

(Y/n) was exposed to have “murdered” her mother, the King, in the Charmony Festival.

Former King (Y/n) originally fled her mysterious unknown planet.

Former King (Y/n) joined the Stellaron Hunters soon after.

Exciting, is it not? Crimes you hadn't committed weighed intolerably upon you. Your planet, Amphoreus, wouldn't dare open its mouth for a choir. No tears shall be collected in jars should you perish, instead, your funeral will be basked with laughter. Daidalos is not a forgiving nation. The Daidalosan Cathedrals would sooner strike a beloved saint’s statue down than a chord from your songs. 

You still vividly recall Kafka’s opaque stare through her tinted glasses. The playful yet empathetic smirk on her face served to entice you to her. She needn't use a whisper. Fate just had its way with you.

The Nameless get to shelter a wounded bird, while the Hunters take on a new apprentice.

As poetic as that sounds, your resolve isn't cruel and unfeeling. If it were, you doubt the Express would take kindly to your serene shenanigans.

You giggled. Truth be told, you were aware as to why March left in a hurry. 

You may hold yourself with sheer elegance and an astute gaze befitting of the crown, but behind it lies a mischievous streak that remains undetected. What can you say? Perhaps this sneakiness is an act of love. You do miss their company.

Several months ago, the Nameless went on a dangerous mission to Amphoreus. 

The unknown planet the galaxy you hailed from that the rest of the galaxy does not know?

That was Amphoreus.

 The very same planet you escaped from was the place Dan Heng and Stelle landed blindly.

Aside from Elio, only a single soul knows this one other dangerous fact: you cannot taste or smell anything— and fall victim to catatonic moods more capriciously than others. Your ailment does not terrify you more than Kafka’s lack of fear (ironically), Yingxing’s mara— and especially not more than Firefly’s syndrome. Just a scratch to your patchwork of problems. You had support. Your people once wholeheartedly gave you your flowers for the good you've done. And it pains you immensely how you cannot express genuine gratitude for it.

You may have been a great King, but Kephale never favored you. Unfortunately, you cannot resign to THEIR uneven-handedness much longer.

You are not a Chrysos Heir.

You are just an Amphoreus Tragedy.

It's no small wonder that you offered your life to Elio, hoping he'd one day pull out a feast that would satisfy your tastebuds. That day won't happen any time soon. Not that you mind.

Cause you'll get to see Stelle, Dan Heng, March, and Sunday suffer while drinking your horrendous drinks— if you're lucky, Himeko’s as well.

Ah, your seemingly earnest and just demeanor is truly a gift that keeps on giving. Your “friends” are gone. You stand on new ground, one that allows you to take the smallest things to heart.

Your mother’s “murder” is when you started noticing what matters in life.

Now, you enjoy the silence.

Listen deeply. The child in you that wasn’t allowed to. Let it heal.  

It’s what Kafka ordered you to do, and it was the best command a King could ever receive.

“Going somewhere?” 

You stopped walking and looked up from your phone. A familiar young boy standing by the doorway. He had a small smile on his face, despite barring the exit.

“Lord Elio?”

“Indeed,” he nodded. “This is your first time seeing me in this form. And I assure you, this won't be the last.”

Given his clairvoyant abilities, you figured that to be true.

“My apologies for not recognizing you, Lord Elio,” you frowned. “I'm afraid I have grown more accustomed to your feline form.”

“No need for apologies.”

He handed you a machete.

Machetes are your weapon of choice, and quite frankly, no other steel fits like a glove. The lances of Daidalos do not compare to the satisfying momentum brandishing a machete elicits. Unpolished. Unkingly. Unsightly.

Personally? 

… You thought they were cute.

They remind you of someone.

They say never bring a weapon to a fistfight, but that little prince never minded.

You cleared your throat but stopped yourself when Elio raised his hand, disinterested in how you would inevitably pay him back in credits or an equivalent.

"I-I am most grateful, yet I must inquire— what purpose does this serve?" You inclined your head slightly, your gaze steady. "Is there an urgent expedition that demands my attention?"

“If there was an emergency, there would have been a contingency plan beforehand.” The boy giggled, fixing his bow tie with a smug smile. “But no, I just urge you to take this on your way to the Express. Just in case a small miracle triggers. Which, I doubt.”

Hmm, there must be a threat later then. Shame. 

Elio cautioned you. “You might also regret wearing that.”

“Wearing what?”

“Red.”

You assessed your appearance. At first, you thought nothing wrong about your flinty rings and maroon pantsuit. “Does it not look good on me?”

“One might say it’s too good on you,” Elio muttered. “Let’s hope it doesn’t reach that point.”

“Understood.” You bowed.

“Lastly, King (Y/n)?” Elio shook his head. 

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Do not bow for me,” he exhaled, mildly exasperated by your antics. “You are one of us. You are a Stellaron Hunter, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course, my Lo—”

“None of that either!”

“Yes… Elio.”

“Better,” the young boy opened the exit.

Then, he opened his eyes. It's those piercing blue shades that make you both uncomfortably seen and relievedly accepted.  

“Next time you come back, we'll have a giant feast for your return. No pomegranates. It's a feast that may just be more memorable than your previous birthday celebrations.” Elio’s grin widened. “Truth is, once our prodigal King returns, she shall become a Stellaron Hunter.”

No pomegranates? Become a Stellaron Hunter? What an odd choice of words— and aren't you already a hunter?

Does it even matter?

You can’t taste anything.

You laughed. Elio loves your laugh for it was always a whole, hearty, and joyous sound. A laugh befitting a king. 

“Much like my favorite bard, I do not understand a word out of you. However, do not worry—” You stepped out the door. 

“I am looking forward to it!”

“I'm ashamed I can't show you a better sight when you've been enthused to visit. What a pity. I cannot stand to present to you such weaklings.”

“Weaklings, you say.” You muttered. “Little prince, their rib cages are stretched open with limbs bleeding out. This torture you call training outmatches the way we Daidalosans treat prisoners.”

You picked up the tortured gladiator’s weapon.

It was a machete.

“Was it necessary to torture them…?”

“Δασκάλα μου (My teacher), they have insulted you and Daidalos. I cannot allow such slander to the former.”

You saw the intense sincerity in his eyes and turned away.

No matter how many times you have rejected his heart, he continues to court you in ways that disturb many.

“You care too much about me. I hope you would spare such care for your gladiators instead.”

“And you care too little about yourself. This is precisely why your nation fears our military might, King (Y/n). Make no mistake, everyone suffers in their imagination more often than in reality.” He scoffed. “Even these soldiers.”

█████ laughed. To him, this is one of many days where no one remembered the fallen except for spectators such as yourself. █████ watched as your eyes batted over the strewn rubble where your grandfather’s soldiers once fought for the realm’s peace. He saw conflict in those (e/c) eyes. A dead silent remorse for faces you have never truly seen.

Even so, you smiled sadly. 

That smile was out of place in Prince █████'s Spoliarium.

“███, that may be your opinion, but our mind IS our reality. It may seem overdramatic and unreasonable to you, but the pain is not any less real.”

“We seriously need to master how to make coffee before (Y/n) gets here….”

“Don't worry so much, Dan Heng, we at least persuaded Himeko to visit Herta so that's one big bomb deactivated!”

“... should you be adding that much Halovian sugar? I believe that unhealthy proportions are against many culinary rules.”

“Rules? What rules, Sunday? Nah. These are guidelines.” 

“What— Stelle, NO!!!”

You snorted a sound that does not sound elegant in the slightest. Both Dan Heng and March 7th apprehended their callous friend. Sunday’s wings perked up upon hearing you, and a smile formed on his face before he even knew it. Meanwhile, the three only took notice of you when they successfully extracted the sugar from her hands.

You placed a hand on your mouth, hiding any impolite laughter.

“I've just arrived, and it sounds like an interesting conversation. Shame, I should've arrived moments prior.”

“(Y/n)! Nonsense, you came at a perfect time.” Sunday sauntered joyfully, standing up to usher you toward Shush’s counter. “There's a seat beside me, please come here.”

“Look at him, already making the moves,” March whispered to Stelle, snickering.

Stelle, a master of the stoic expression, only nodded. “Let him cook.”

Dan Heng rolled his eyes, ignoring the two.

“King (Y-”

“Just (Y/n), please.” You pouted. “You are all an equal to me.”

“... (Y/n).” Dan Heng scratched his neck. “About the brewing session…”

Your questions were lost in Dan Heng’s recitals of Himeko leaving for Herta’s Space Station, Stelle’s failed attempts at brewing her cup (it somehow turns into alcohol-like beverages), and the crew’s insistence that the next batch should follow online recipes. This made you laugh more than you thought you would. So, you decided to drop the idea altogether, to everyone’s relief.

“Instead, we can talk about our last journey instead, how about it?” Stelle offered.

Your smile stiffened.

“Ah, yes, I believe that was in…”

“Amphoreus!” March grinned. “The pictures Dan Heng and Stelle took were so nice. Here, let me get it—”

“There is no need for that.”

You spoke a little too quickly.

More perceptive than you thought, the crew noticed your sudden change.

“(Y/n)?” Sunday spoke, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

“I know why.” Stelle pushed away from the table, upsetting her chair before theatrically balancing herself back. She then went on carelessly:

“It’s because she’s from Amphoreus.”

March’s eyes widened. “WHAT?!”

You looked away, sighing. “Shush, do you have a bottle of Retsina wine?”

“Wait, w-where did you get this information, Stelle?” Dan Heng shook her slightly. “I don’t recall hearing that—”

“She’s the former King of Daidalos, which is far away from Okhema. Honestly, I just saw it around stone tablets. Daidalos is a long-fallen land of artisans. People thought she died by execution because no one believed she did reach beyond the sky. They also say she’s the mentor and childhood crush of crown prince M—”

“You know a lot and you never thought to tell us about ANY this?!” March gawked. “What the heck Stelle!?!”

“I just thought it wasn’t that important.”

“Yes, yes it is!!!”

While the three argued over details, Sunday took the bottle from Shush and poured you a glass. There’s a look of understanding in his eyes, and he won’t ask unless you want him to. You gave him a small smile, acknowledging his empathy.

“You look rather pale, have those Hunters done something to you?” Sunday inquired, his unease blatant. “Is it your mission? Have they been asking the impossible?”

“What? No. My workload is infinitely a lot less weighty than the crown.” You grinned, teasing. “It's all light work.”

He figured he had nothing else of value to add. Still, his eyes were skewed. Sunday won't be dropping the issue any time soon.

“Then why do you look kinda miserable?” Stelle asked.

“Steeeeelle! C’mon, watch your mouth. How do you always sound so offensive?” March whined.

You placed a hand on your head. “Hmm, I shall not lie, nightmares have been mostly a root cause for my unsightly and dim appearance as of late. Pathetic, I am aware—”

“Nightmares?” Dan Heng shifted his body forward, closer to you. “Like what?”

“I dream of an old… friend a lot more frequently.” You paused. Should you be saying this? “And more often than not, I'm being… chased… by him.”

Both Stelle and March looked at Dan Heng. He bit his bottom lip, thinking. 

“... Where is your new mission?”

“Elio has given me no command,” You sighed deeply. “He declared that the plans are already set in motion, and it falls upon me to rise to the occasion, whatever challenge it may be that calls upon me.”

“Oof. Good luck.” Stelle said, but the air of those words seems a little more knowing.

March chuckled nervously. “Yikes…”

Sunday had no comment. Instead, he also poured himself a drink.

“I'd be wary if I were you.” Dan Heng’s gaze was astutely focused on yours. “I've been through something similar. Nightmares, that is.”

"Is that so?" You murmured, swirling the coffee in your cup with an air of detached curiosity. "And what transpired thereafter?"

“...”

March 7th laughed, uneasy.

“Well, uh, it kinda came true?” March’s eyebrow furrowed, wearing a strained smile. “It's good though, Blade didn't actually kill him so…?”

“March.”

“I'm sorry, it was just too silent, I couldn't stand it!”

“... What were the dreams like? Can you elaborate?”

You paused at Sunday’s questions.

█████ towered over your chained form, clenching an open letter in his strong hands. His knuckles were white from the sheer anger he held them.

“Entertaining a love letter, are we?”

He sneered.

“How dare you consider suitors other than myself?”

█████ knelt down and harshly grabbed your chin.

“Shall I pluck his feathers out for you?”

“Cold.” 

You muttered. “Lacks warmth.”

Sunday has never been this tempted to get into someone’s mind.

Dan Heng placed a hand on his chin. 

“Anything else? Like vivid smells or tastes?”

You laughed. “Are those things important?”

“Sorta?” March quipped.

“Is that so…” You wouldn’t know. Both senses eluded you.

…

…

Suddenly, you had willed your words into existence.

“!!!”

Someone uninvited has entered the Express.

An immediate tension gripped everyone’s lungs, and each heart in the vicinity quickened. A subtle shift, imperceptible yet undeniable, stirred them all. A silent warning. Eyes darted nervously, glances exchanged with no words. The Nameless knew that something was about to emerge. The weight of the unknown pressed heavily upon their shoulders, and though none dared speak it aloud, they could feel it— whatever was coming was drawing near.

The lights flickered and died out.

“LOOK OUT!!!”

Enshrouded by a ghost who trailed behind, you grabbed Sunday and jumped away. The sound of metal rang. None of you could see the other. Pompom’s screams, asking for what was happening, droned on inside the other car. 

You must’ve barely dodged that attack. Swiftly, you brandished your machete. Instincts that infiltrated each inch of your veins screamed that the intruder you faced was a familiar soul. Your body warmth congealed a hand’s breadth below the blade’s sharp rim. It’s been a while since you felt this threatened.

This excited.

You sported a boyish grin. Been a long long while since you had felt true risk— a real divergence from your tolerable comfort zone.

“Come and face me in the light, coward.”

The figure drew their already built frame taller to stiffen their pride.  You spun to the side, narrowly avoiding a crushing blow that tore through the air. Your instincts were sharp.

With a final joining of force and momentum, you swung your machete with half of your strength.

It met the shadow’s fists, causing an ear-bleeding stalemate of metal against metal.

Seconds passed, and it was clear that an impasse had been reached.

You both pulled away— and the figure ignited a fire within his palms.

As if your eyes were spiked with visions of red and yellow— you squinted at the strange man. His bare skin and intense eyes are enough to make the common man buckle his knees and tremble. 

But you know that face.

It's the one soul who knows your secrets.

You paled.

“... Dei?”

That face, though aged, belonged to the young boy you taught patiently. The same stubborn boy who wanted peace for his people even though the chances were slim. The only person who would vouch for your innocence. The kid who you secretly envied for his cursed immortality— for his status as a Chrysos Heir.

The little prince who wanted you beside HIS throne.

It was Dei himself. 

Crown Prince Mydeimos of Kremnos— the land of Daidalos’ “worst enemy”.

“Dei” grinned. He languidly raised his head, his gaze towering above you. A shadow clouded his face and settled in his eye.

You, who had reduced his name to one syllable on the day you met, was the first woman he had come to admire ardently.

Riotous pomegranate wines that hedonistically spill in white table cloths that adjoin themselves like countries on a map— saintly garbs donned by faces achieving a carnal state of euphoria— those were the images that describe Daidalos to the crown prince. Holy, but unrighteous. 

Yet, when the sky brightly illuminated your face at the outdoor picnic you extended the invite to, the Prince was royally smitten. Humbly, you were dressed only in a simple sundress. No accessories or cloaks to elevate yourself. In the seeded topsoils of the plains, you were the most natural beauty to behold.

Mydeimos had grown obsessed with the consistent air of absentminded integrity you carry as King. It was not an aura he had the privilege of carrying. But he will live that life vicariously through you.

“Δασκάλα μου. (My teacher.) Kαρδιά μου. (My heart.)” The prince scoffed an airy smirk. Not a word can describe his smug satisfaction. “Found you, at long last.”

Chrome, gold, and pomegranate red.

Those had always been his colors.

And that included the color of…

“You adorn yourself in every color but red, is there a reason why?”

“Red is more of your color, little prince.” You humored him. “And a King wearing red is an omen for war. The same is said for our flag.”

“I see.”

… blood and war. A color entirely suited for his calling.

You froze without breathing, struck dumb.

How did he leave Amphoreus?!

You greeted with a frown.

“... Hello, little prince.”

You can’t believe this.

Leaving took you centuries to perfect!

How did he do it?!

Mydei instantly detected within you an erosion of self-assurance.

Just talking to him felt no different from downing some of Kafka’s fancy wines. While you consider yourself above petty theft, this situation compels you to understand her deeply. You, too, would pocket Dreamjolt Hostelry’s alcohol to an amount you felt was just after talking to this prince.

He recklessly held your blade. The Chrysos Heir thrust your weapon’s handle against your palm whilst his own bled profusely.

It had always been difficult to challenge an opponent with no self-preservation.

“Has joining these intergalactic bandits stripped you of every bit of decorum, King (Y/n)?” He shook his head. Taking advantage of your paralyzed state, the prince yanked the machete away, allowing it to pelt to the floor with a harsh thud. 

The prince leaned down to kiss your hand, but the sudden pause shocked both you and him.

“Where is it?” He spoke gravely with murderous rage.

You pursed your lips. “Where is what, Prince Mydeimos?”

“Your ring.” Mydei spoke. “The Daidalos King’s ring.”

A laugh escapes your lips. One without any semblance of humor.

“It is a ring that adorns only the hand of a King, does it not? Yet I, alas, no longer bear such a title. You may put those facts together to form your conclusion.” You answered, nose turned up snobbishly. 

He glared.

The prince threw what was assumed to be a warp device that formed a distortion that connected the Express to Amphorous. Your eyes widened and you snapped back to make eye contact with Stelle. 

You only had a second to think.

“CALL KAFKA!!!—”

“(Y/n)!!!”

But before they could reach and save you, you and the intruder disappeared.

Just as there was no consensus if the Nameless should involve themselves in this matter or not, no trailblazer had the same opinion of following suit aligned with their beliefs. Sunday desperately tried to have everyone on his side, whereas the wiser of the crowd had more sway with their stable voices. The three only had to watch and wait for Kafka to arrive. 

Until then, the express was silent.

Crown Prince Mydeimos, son of Gorgo, may not be the sharpest of men— but he lived a proud life.

“That Prince again, how many more of our King’s time shall he exhaust?!”

“I do not know myself, Aitherios, but he certainly does not mean well.”

“And we are to let that man linger in our castle?”

“I suppose so.”

“But Luminia!—”

He had never hid his true self. There, Mydei would stand, taking no more notice of them than they are of him. Though usually unrestrained, he would hold himself back for those who spat venom were your people. People you had loved and cherished for centuries longer than you’ve known him. 

And he is no one but a person you’d go to picnic with on a sunny day.

Despite his raging mind, he kept his mouth shut about your unpleasant servants. He’d bear the pain of every word. He’d even accept lashes and whips if it meant he could sit beside you in your favorite picnic spot another day.

He stays rooted in a field where he does not belong.

That was how much Mydei loves you.

"Alas, it is a sorrow that your visit is swift. Had it been under better circumstances, I would have bid you stay and witness an Epic with me thereafter." You sighed, placing the teacup under your lips. "The young lad, who once struggled to wield a greatsword, now holds the power to lay waste to my very castle at his will. How swiftly the years slip away..."

Mydei’s gaze softened. 

On his frequent idle days, he systematically fit visiting Daidalos in his schedule. This is all in hopes that someday, you’d see him beyond what nostalgia portrays.

Why can’t you see that he obsesses over you the way a man would to his woman?

Frustrating how YOUR visits became less warm and less frequent. Was it custom only that bound the two of you? That cannot be so. You refer to him beyond his station, as he does to you as well. 

Surely, you feel the same beating as he does?

There is no other possibility, is there?

The only thing that stands between you two and the altar must be the crowns you both will and have been carrying. If your people only loved him—- if both your people only cared for one another instead of a constant rivalry for Nikador’s gaze.

"It must be so. As it stands, the folk of Daidalos and Kremnos are far from sharing the civil discourse you and I enjoy." Mydei gently set his cup upon the blanket spread across the verdant earth. "In the quietest recesses of my heart, I wish for a day when my people might share a picnic with yours."

“Do you wish me to crayon a series of plans?” You teased.

“Do not mock me, King (Y/n).”

“The offer for a treaty stands.” You shrugged, your face turned solemn. “That is unless the brutal culture of Kremnos has a better idea of peace?” 

Mydei chuckled.

“How about an abduction?”

“H-Hah—”

His lips claim yours in a fierce, desperate kiss. It's as if a dam has broken, all of his pent-up desire and longing pouring out at once. His calloused hands tighten around its grip, holding you close as he deepens the kiss— his tongue tastes you with the desperation he's not articulate enough to voice. You'll just have to take him as he is. Rogue and animalistic.

You punched his chest. As expected, he didn't falter. Instead, his gaze was tender and his breathing was more… pleased.

“Y-You look ravishing in red.” He smirked. "And to think that bird thought he could please you the way I do."

A husky, ragged moan sneaked out of his lips as he seemingly devoured and shared his heat with yours in unison. No escape. This was far from comfortable. Your back was pinned on the cold Spoliarium walls. You gasped as you felt the subtle and slow motion of his hips grind against your smaller frame. Mydei tilted your head to the side slightly to deepen the kiss.

The worst part? Both your eyes were open, for two reasons on the opposite side of the same spectrum.

He wants to watch his cornered prey, and you're his frozen fawn.

A few years ago, you had shown him mercy in hopes he’d do the same. His eyes were a murderer’s eyes, his hands were a murderer’s arms. But he is without sin. Mydei did not choose to have a murderer’s eyes and hands. And you had refused that he will be treated as such.

You should have.

Just when you felt your eyes fluttering shut at the immediate danger of passing out— the prince graciously pulled away. You saw a sliver of saliva disconnect between both your lips. Almost insane how this had your legs threatening to lay on the floor. The fact that you can barely stand from his intensity boosted a pride greater than a long spar in him. 

Then, the prince hoisted your thighs up and forced them to wrap around him. Your back hasn't had a single moment wherein it hasn't had contact with the wall. Your body hasn't had a single moment wherein you haven't had contact with his warm skin. Your gaze was pathetically unfocused.

“N-Not…” You couldn't help but jest, like old times. “H-How I expected to have my first kiss.”

You felt your spine shiver but had the strength to not make that undirected fear known. Nothing feels right about that place. His Spoliarium was too cold, too dusty, yet his hands were too hot like a forever sun in his palm.

Slowly, he cupped your cheek. Even that loving gesture was rough and intrusive.

Mydei scarcely had a definition for what romance is.

“The fault is your own for expecting gentleness from me.” Mydei brought his lips to your ear. You shivered as he leaned down and nibbled your neck.

Divine. 

You tasted divine. If only you could taste him too, then maybe you'd be more enthused for a “rougher” expression of intimacy. If he could take you now—

You shrank back, terrified. Mydei has been difficult to read on occasion, but tonight his thoughts are blatant and disturbing. You hope your instinct was wrong.

“T-Truth be told, I expect no intimacy from you. I-Is this a—” you panted, weakly gripping his muscular arm. No matter how much willpower you had, you couldn't stand upright. “—form of punishment? I-I wasn't aware Aglaea has e-employed you to guarantee my c-capture.”

“I came of my own volition.” Unbeknownst to you, Mydei’s glare was chilling. “How dare you assume I'd betray you.”

“How dare I, indeed…” You winced. “Why did you come here—”

Unfortunately, the prince was quick to forestall further questions. You helped from the sudden jolt of both pain and pleasure as he bit your neck harshly while he slowly rubbed his hips against you. Mydei was leaving too many marks in his wake. The heat was becoming unbearable.

You gripped a fistful of his hair, hoping to yank him off. “M-Mydei— in Kephale’s name, I command you to—”

“You wanted this.”

He pulled away, and you cursed yourself for feeling almost needy as he created a reasonable distance between you two.

“King— no, MY (Y/n).” Mydei took strands of your hair, kissing it innocently but his eyes were anything but. “I have desired you for too long as well.”

His hand slid under your shirt. You jolted as he squeezed your waist. 

There are times his replies slip so easily that it makes you question their sincerity. This was not one of them.

“I presume with that visage that you’re regularly, at the very least, 3 hours of obliterating sleep.” He pulled your shirt up. “May I know the names of the men who’d find themselves in my Spoliarium soon?”

You almost mentioned Elio in defense of the Hunters, but kept your mouth shut.

“Curse you, Mydeimos.”

He clicked his tongue, snaking his fingers around your neck.

“What dishonorable struggle. I never thought you would have cold feet.” Mydei lightly tightened his grip on your throat. “I offered an abduction, and you agreed.”

“W-What? What abduction?”

Cold feet?

"Reflect further. You possess wisdom far greater than mine."

Your eyebrows furrowed, remembering the conversation. “I only replied because I thought it was said in jest!”

“I am not a man who would jest about entering such a solemn union.” He growled. "You know well that I speak with the full gravity of truth in every word I say."

You paused.

…

Cold feet. Abduction…

Wait…

“Abductions, are they a ritual of sorts…?”

Mydei closed his eyes, huffing in mild amusement.

“...You did not understand that custom, did you?”

“N-No…”

He leaned his face closer, his breath touching your skin.

“Marriage.” His gaze softened. “It is a marriage custom in Kremnos. You have verbally agreed to marry me. And I shall reap what promise is owed to me.”

You felt your energy drain away. A sickening chill.  

Most of your life— it was spent on becoming a perfect ruler. You were chalk honed and clawed with lessons upon lessons upon lessons of strength and wit. Your family did not care if you were even made of a fragile core. But chalk is brittle. Chalk cannot withstand any more of this madness. This lack of human regard. This inhumane treatment. 

You do not love Dei.

You can never bring yourself to love the prince you thought of as a little brother.

“B-But I… I do not…”

“You do not love me. I have heard that lie from you several times.” He kissed your hand. “You have stabbed and buried me several times, yet I will continue to crawl back in your arms.”

Mydei chuckled.

“And tomorrow, we shall have our wedding despite it all.”

He saw how the despair dawned on you. You were shaking. Your breath was shallow and uneven, and he noticed the twitch in your hands, far too unlikely the steadiness of the former warrior King of Daidalos.

No one truly listens to the King.

You are more puppet than king, and everyone revered you for it. You only do what is required of you. What was needed of you. What was desired of you. 

No one truly hears what you wish for yourself. No one cared enough to know you were hungry for the true sensations of what tastes and smells truly are. No one asked you questions as to why you were obsessed with observing nature in the first place. Each person just approaches your throne in hopes they’ll take what they want. No one listens, except for…

This was the part he had anticipated— the fear, the panic, the realization that you were trapped. But instead, you did something... unexpected.

“... Hah… Haha!”

And then, slowly, something twisted inside. The edges of your lips curled upward— at first, just a flicker. You clutched at her chest as though trying to hold yourself together. Your laugh broke free, starting in a soft, broken sound that grew louder, more manic until it was a full-throated, deranged cackle.

Marriage? 

Right.

“Going somewhere?” 

“Lord Elio?”

“Indeed. This is your first time seeing me in this form. And I assure you, this won't be the last.”

“Next time you come back, we'll have a giant feast for your return. No pomegranates. It's a feast that may just be more memorable than your previous birthday celebrations. Truth is, once our prodigal King returns, she shall become a Stellaron Hunter.”

Elio promised you a feast.

Who are you to say no?

You gave him a mugshot smile only a criminal with an enormous bounty would wear.

You were no longer King (Y/n) of Daidalos.

“Is that so?” You grinned wider.

You were (Y/n), the prodigal Stellaron Hunter.

If he haunted your dreams for so long,

you’ll just have to haunt him back.

You harshly grabbed him by his necklace, your breath fanning his face. A giggle escaped your lips at his shocked expression. You swerved and pushed him until your positions switched. With one hand, you clawed both his cheeks, staring at him with an empty glare while the other hand slowly uncloaked him...

"If that is the challenge you present, then I bid you bring forth your utmost strength, dear Husband."

Taglist: @naraven, @macaronilovingracoon, @notthefib987, @chryseis-lxve

Actor!au behind the scenes for this fic: Blooper 1, Interview with Sunday,

[theminecraftbee]

After he's done listening to the Archeologist's story, the Sheriff frowns.

"Well, that's not fair, is it?" Jimmy says.

"Fair?" Pix responds.

"Yeah, fair. It's not--it's not fair at all! You can't just end it with--they try to be friends for, for the first time ever. And the Codfather gets respect and the Count gets more mature. And they shake hands and, and share magic and stuff. But it turns out them being friends causes the end of the world? That's not fair! That's not a good story at all!" Jimmy says.

Pixlriffs shrugs. "I didn't make it up. It's what's been passed down, and the Ancient Capitol corroborates it to some extent. The Rapture was a very real event in the geological record, and what historical records survive from the Twelve Kingdoms era suggests at the very least some kind of symbolic rivalry between cod and salmon. Maybe a religious one? It's really all quite fascinating."

"Well, yes, but it's not really literal, that religion stuff, right?" Jimmy says. "I mean, uh, I don't know much about all this stuff, but it's like--don't tell Sausage, but Santa Pearla, she's not literal, right? She's like, the idea of the cycle of death and life and all that, but--"

"Recent excavations actually suggest that Empress Pearl was a real historical figure," Pixlriffs says excitedly. "I mean, it seems rather unlikely she caused all the fields in the Twelve Kingdoms to remain fertile until the Rapture on her own, but the number of statues and records we've found even today suggest that she was still a real person!"

Jimmy is silent. He crosses his arms and stares at Pixlriffs until, finally, Pix stops talking.

"It's still not fair," Jimmy says.

"It's not about being fair, it's about what actually happened," Pix says.

"Because the story as I told it went that they made friends to try to make the best of the rapture. And though all the rivers had dried up, the Codfather and the Count laid seeds in the desert, until one day we could go and build our towns there safe, because their seeds made a pond. And, er, that's not all literal either, you know? None of this is really--sorta like Joel is not literally a god, that'd be stupid," Jimmy says.

"Right," Pixlriffs says, nodding. "But we don't tell him that."

"But we don't tell him that," Jimmy agrees. "And I'm just saying that--it's not fair, saying that making up their differences is what made the world end. That's like, like if the moral was that we shouldn't bother even trying."

"I think you'll make yourself sad, looking for a moral in ruins," Pixlriffs says.

Jimmy swallows.

"That's stupid," he says. "That's stupid."

"That's life."

"And it's stupid. I'm going to go bother Joel."

"Good luck with that."

The Sheriff rides away. The Archeologist watches after him for a long time before sighing.

"...and good luck ending this one differently," he says, and he goes back to his dig.

[softness-and-shattering]

No but do imagine it a second. Cause hes still innocent till proven guilty.

And Im just a layperson over here but I dont think it was him. The original photo, the guy has very ruddy skin and Mangione is very olive. Their eyebrows are different. I got the impression that under the jacket the shooter has a fairly wide build, in the shoulders, Mangione is more average.

They just found a photo of Mangione in a similar-ish jacket at a similar location, found that he'd been staying under a false name and decided he was as good a candidate as any to pin it on. Why were the cops utterly clueless for multiple days and then suddenly all the evidence had pointed to Mangione all along?

And why would the shooter expertly leave the scene, only trace left behind was a bag with monopoly money and hes gone in the wind, only to be chilling at a mcdonalds with a shitty manifesto in his pocket that says "I cant explain it well, do the reading"? Thats not a coherent manifesto. Thats not the actions of someone willing to go down with the crime to have his message heard. Such a person wouldve waited at the crime scene, would have had a strong coherent message not "do the reading". They did leave a coherent message, they left deny defend depose and the monopoly money, and theyre definitely in another country by now.

Mangione said some of the 'evidence' had been planted. He said 'this is an insult to the intelligence of the american public'.

Abd more than anything else, regardless of his actual guilt, he is legally innocent until declared guilty by court following a fair trial. Until such a time, stop doing the cops and the establishment's job for them. Change your mind in which you have decided that he's guilty. Until AND UNLESS he is declared guilty in court, he IS just some Italian guy youre all cyberstalking having the worst time of his life. Thats probably confronting to realise. Its ok. You can change your beliefs and behaviour moving forward, you dont have to double down, youre not ruined forever for being caught up in a very powerful moment.

But Mangione IS innocent. If he is still legally innocent by the end of the year (how long do these things take?), thats another matter and we'll have to see.

Legally, he's innocent. Personally as not-an-expert I think in reality he's also innocent, the cops just *really* needed a scapegoat. Please try afford him some privacy.

i don’t have anything else to add

[anonymous-dentist]

Maybe there would be less conflict on the server if there wasn’t a faction whose entire life hangs on causing chaos and clip farming.

The admins said it themselves weeks ago- Tango even said it to Pangi directly on stream, the creative kills are meant to be clips. That’s why pvp doesn’t count even though there can be some REALLY creative pvp plays, and even though you can get some really popular clips out of it (see: Pangi killing Tubbo.) It’s also why it’s now against the rules for anyone to give their lives for Red Team like Foolish did, that isn’t ‘exciting’ enough

It’s the same logic that Purgatory was run under: everything had to have the capacity to go viral. Former admins said that the teams were split the way they were to create the most conflict possible, and that seems like what’s going on with the Realm.

A lot of people have started complaining about how much chaos and violence there is on the Realm these days, and they’re also following the Purgatory Way and blaming everything on one specific group of people (Red and Green Teams) rather than acknowledging the flawed server system as a whole.

If Red Team doesn’t get an ‘exciting’ kill, they all die. This is inherently flawed because it forces people into specific actions while ignoring the purpose of the server: personal choice and freedom. The server wasn’t meant for lore! Tubbo said as much before day one, but this was immediately changed as soon as the Red Team was introduced. Now, people joining the server are forced into the Red Team and told they have to kill. Sure, they can not- like Sausage and uh. The majority of Red Team, who haven’t really logged on past day one- but they’re still bullied and attacked by the other characters for the simple crime of being on Red Team. Unlike the other factions, Red Team never got a choice. They aren’t allowed to change teams, and nobody from another team can join their team (except Jack Manifold ig.) They’re all forced into the role of villains with no choice to join, say, Blue or Yellow.

All this has done is created the conflict that people are complaining about. Nobody on Green can show where they live because it’ll be trapped by Ros or Aimsey. Pangi and Pili can’t sit on a roof and talk without being condescended to and accused of wrongdoing. Foolish can’t talk to Pili without being looked down upon by his kingdom.

And then the players who wanted a low-stakes casual server can’t join anymore because everything ties back to ‘Us vs Them’. Slimecicle dipped on day one, probably because he’s done wkth MCRP. How many players stopped logging in once there started being lore and conflict essentially forced upon them by the server’s very rules?

Every time someone on the server has come up with an alternative to the violence and chaos, such as getting people who don’t join to voluntarily get killed by Red Team, it’s shut down by the admins. Meanwhile, there appears to be favoritism towards the server’s ’good guys’, like Ros’ and Tubbo’s protection butterflies or rule changes that only seem to benefit them. While some of those rule changes are because members of Red or Green find out ‘loopholes’, it’s also kind of crazy how every rule change has benefited Yellow and Blue and hurt Green and Red.

Is this favoritism purposeful? Almost absolutely not, but it is convenient for causing conflict. Tensions rise as a result of all these things combined, and it’s all manufactured and really just not fun to watch anymore. Yellow is sick of being ‘targeted’, Blue is sick of Green and Red existing, and Red is sick of having to kill. (Green is just kind of vibing tbh, they’re chaotic and violent even without the killing rule.)

Even if the factions event ends soon, which I hope it does for the sake of the server, the fandom won’t be any less toxic. The conflict will continue in some way because this is what the server has built up as its base for content: conflict. None of it is natural, it’s all manufactured, and it’s all extremely Not Fun.

So don’t get angry at Red for killing and trapping, that’s all they were created to do. And that will never change.

[lanf1an]

SEASONS lando norris x fewtrell sister pt. 8 - april 15 2025

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6 pt.7 wordcount: 1501

Of course, you felt bad. Dylan’s most important boarding competition of the year fell during the Monaco Grand Prix weekend, but you couldn’t not go. To Monaco. It wasn’t just the race—it was everything. Your whole life. Racing was in your blood, the paddock your second home, the people in it your family. Missing a race weekend wasn’t just unthinkable; it was impossible.

“It’s not this competition, I don’t care about that, it’s everything, not going to Japan, …” 

”Dyl, I’m sorry, you know racing is my life, it has always been part of my life, I can’t give that up.”

“I should be part of your life now too” you looked at him a bit confused. 

‘’You are’’

“I’m so sorry.. I love you and I really thought I could do this, that I didn’t care, not going to Japan, my competitions, all the time apart, but I’m tired of not caring” 

“Dyl..” your voice trembled, unsure of what to say. 

“I didn’t want to lose you, I liked that you had your own life and I had mine, but I want to share the same life as well, like you and your racing friends. I want that, someone to be at all my competitions and know everyone, I’m sorry, I thought I didn’t…” Dylan continued. And he wasn’t wrong to want to share a life with you—one that didn’t revolve around track schedules, podium celebrations, and flights halfway across the world. You were so happy you had found someone that could deal with that, it wasn’t easy. Turns out, it really isn't, not even for the coolest professional snowboarder. 

At first you didn’t cry. Not because you thought it made you weak, not because the overwhelming emotion wasn’t sadness. You were frustrated—at the situation, at yourself, at the inevitable clash between the life you live and the life Dylan and most other people wanted, this always having been a subject in your life. - Max showed up later that afternoon, letting himself in with the spare key you’d given him. You were still on the couch, staring blankly at the wall when he flopped down beside you.

“I heard,” he interrupted, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Dylan texted me. He knows I’d come to check on you whether you wanted me to or not. Are you okay?”

You blinked at him. “Dylan texted you?” your voice breaking.

Max held up his hands. “Just to say you’d broken up. Don’t worry, he didn’t give me a play-by-play. But I figured you might need your twin brother to cheer you up.” 

“I’m fine,” you said while crying, the words feeling hollow even as you said them.

“You don’t look fine,” Max said, his tone softer now. “You look like you’re trying to figure out how to not feel guilty about something that wasn’t your fault.”

You sighed, leaning back against the couch, trying to wipe some tears away. “It’s just...I don’t blame him. He wasn’t wrong. Racing is my life, and I couldn’t—no, I wouldn’t give it up. Not for him, not for anyone. But maybe that makes me selfish.”

Max tilted his head, studying you. “You’re not selfish. You’re honest. And honestly? If he couldn’t handle this part of your life, it’s better it ended now than years down the line.”

“It’s not about handling it,” you muttered. “He wanted a life I couldn’t give him. A normal life. And I wanted him to want this one.” It was a deeper problem that had been a problem in previous relationships and friendships, for Max and you the same.

Max gave you a wry smile, as if reading your mind. “Not everyone’s built for the chaos of our world. Doesn’t mean you’re wrong for living it.”

You stared at him, the only person who understood exactly what you meant being there for you, a lump forming in your throat. “It still sucks.” You hugged him, tears falling from your eyes.

“Of course it does.” he said, holding you. - Two days later, you were curled up on the couch in your London apartment, watching a mindless rom-com when there was loud thumping on your door. Max had texted you earlier in the day asking how you were holding up, but you hadn’t expected him to organize a rescue mission.

“You’re coming out with us,” Max declared the moment you opened your apartment door, his tone leaving no room for argument. Lando stood behind him, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“I’m really not in the mood,” you protested, but Max wasn’t having it.

“Too bad. You’ve been moping for days, and we’re not letting you wallow.” He glanced over his shoulder at Lando. “Back me up here.”

Lando’s smile widened. “He’s right. You need a distraction. And we’re excellent distractions.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden invasion

You really weren’t in the mood, but you couldn’t say no if Lando had flown over from Monaco for this.  - The bar was crowded and lively, a blur of neon lights and pulsing music. Lando stuck close to your side, his presence steadying amidst the chaos. Max, on the other hand, had already disappeared into the crowd, likely chatting up someone at the bar.

“Drink this,” Lando said, handing you a cocktail with a lopsided grin.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” you teased, taking a sip.

“Obviously,” he stated, leaning closer so you could hear him over the music. “It’s called distraction therapy.”

Max reappeared with shots, dragging you both to the dance floor. The alcohol had loosened your nerves, and you found yourself laughing as Max attempted to teach Lando some ridiculous dance moves. Lando’s face lit up with his usual playful grin, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

The bar Max had picked was exactly what you needed—loud, lively, and far removed from anything that reminded you of Dylan. 

As the night wore on, the three of you found a rhythm—dancing, drinking, laughing. Max eventually got distracted by a group of girls, leaving you and Lando alone near the edge of the dance floor.

“You’re having fun,” Lando observed, his smile warm as he watched you sway to the music.

“I am,” you admitted, surprised by how true it felt.

“Good.” He stepped closer, his voice low. “And good riddance by the way, we dont like Red Bull anyway” you laughed, rolling your eyes. - By the time you stumbled back into your apartment, you were drunk, feeling happy, and unsteady.

You had put Max in an uber to his apartment, too drunk to stay. Classic, having to rescue him during his rescue mission for you. Leaving Lando to stay with you ‘’He snores too much when he’s drunk and I don’t want to take care of him’’.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said, kicking off your shoes and sinking onto the couch.

“Anytime,” Lando replied, dropping onto the seat beside you. His knee brushed against yours, and neither of you moved away.

The silence stretched, charged with something unspoken. You turned to him, your breath catching at the way his gaze lingered on you.

“What?” you asked softly.

He hesitated, his hand resting on the back of the couch as he leaned closer. “You know what.”

You could feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitched as his eyes flicked to your lips.

“Lando…”

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

But you didn’t.

When his lips met yours, it was like everything you’d been holding back finally broke free. The kiss was hungry, desperate, months of tension unraveling in a heartbeat.

You barely made it to the bedroom, your clothes scattered in a trail behind you. It was messy and impulsive and everything it shouldn’t have been.

WN: Im so sorry guys, took way longer, I was sick :(((((

tl: @ash88-yep @lewishamiltonismybf @harrysdimple05@lex2205 @il0vereadingstuff @martygraciesversion381 @joannaln4 @obxstiles@chaoswithus@motorsportloverf1 @therovanperaastonmartini@acesofspadess @widow-cevans @irisesinthegarden @ncrsbrg @f1fantasys @norrisainz33 @mayax2o07 @ipushhimback

[just-watch-and-calculate]

ooh writing that is related to time loops but not conventional time loop narrative is interesting. the idea I have now is a bit of a different direction in terms of the underlying concept though

TW/CW: death (mentioned in the 2nd person, implied ending) (also a slight warning: the following is fiction written in the second person and is about being disoriented in spacetime, and about the existential dread from that; also I don't know how much other people get out of this without some rather specific physics knowledge)

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

The rest of your life is ahead of you.

You get ready to end the day by waking up into the comforting embrace of sleep. This is the end of the day, right? Mind already— or still?— groggy, you are not sure. Faint recollections of today make themselves known in your mind. Recollections of one of the two ends of your life. Just whether it is the celebrated or grieved one you are not sure right now. At least you are headed away from it, right?

Thinking about that, you realize that you might be moving away from the moment you will(?) end he day by waking up. You are awake enough to notice that the phrasing of that sounds… off, somehow. The sun is still a bit away from setting— or is it rising right now? By definition the night ends with the sun rising and starts with it setting, so that is no help in figuring out which way is future and which way is past.

You remember somewhat how today went goes. And you remember a bit less clearly how tomorrow yesterday the closest day one night from now goes. That is a sign that the future is that way, right? That we know little enough about that temporal direction to think we have free will there.

But you know better than to think you truly have free will, don't you? You know that when you learn about it you are shocked. And you know that at some other point in time you are not shocked about it, at that point in time you accept that the universe is deterministic.¹

But will that be in the future, or has that been in the past? You hope that that is your future, because you remember enough to know that one direction is much longer than the other. Something goes went will go goes wrong today.

You realize that you should not have such clear memories of both past and future. Maybe that is why today has been— will be?— so confusing. You do know that it does make sense for it to be possible though: the direction of time is surprisingly ambiguous unless entropy is involved, so those memories do little to help.

Entropy! You remember: you can find out what direction is generally regarded as the future quite easily. You grab an ice cube. As you hold it you remember that you have(?) let it go right as your hand hurts slightly from the cold. It slides across the floor towards/away from you. Your hand is wet and cold from it. You know enough about entropy to know that the cube melted from holding it.

Which means that today is still mostly ahead of you. And then… nothing. Not the faintest recollection.

You feel cold panic. You are clinging on to the irrational, desperate hope that somehow you can change this. But you know that you can't. Shattered, disjointed recollections of today are burnt into you memory so much deeper than anything else.

Has some attempt to go back just reinforced fate instead? But that isn't how causality works. It shouldn't be. You hope you are not doomed already. You know you are.

Maybe— maybe your colleagues can help you. They've been working on this kind of thing for some distance time (but it's a lot less in time than what that length would be in space, isn't it?). Your research group is working with small controlled systems to better understand what time is. Most that you remember coming of that research so far only has potential for some parlor tricks, but that can change, even on such a short notice, right? (Hah! 'Short' notice, as if we all already know that time and space are not that different.)

There it is again, that irrational thought that somehow the universe doesn't work as you know it does. That things you know cannot be changed, things you know you cannot change, could be changed.

You stand at the bus stop. Why would you have to wait there if you know the bus has arrived early at its destination will be late at the bus stop?

You are on the bus. You just look out of the window disinterestedly, watching the world go by, letting distance pass like time. Is the bus driving forwards or backwards? Are you headed towards your end or away from it? In any case, part of what has you so disinterested in the bus ride is that you know it is uneventful. You have already ridden here from one of the stops you got on/off the bus at and remember that part of the drive. You also remember the other part from/to the other stop you will get on/off the bus at.

You arrive at the laboratory. "Good morning!" you respond. "Morning!" is the answer you receive from the only other person currently at the lab. You can't shake the feeling you should've responded with 'bye'.

You look at the current setup: two almost identical experiments that can run simultaneously — except one of them has opposite charges and is mirrored. And most important of all, one of them starts as the other ends — one of them is backwards. And you truly do not know which one that is anymore. (Anymore? Or will you just come to learn it later?)

It looks different from the other times you see it. "Hey, could you check my calculations? Something's not adding up, I've found a configuration where I don't know where some of the energy comes from" your colleague asks. "It's just, trying to figure it out has kept me up all night. I'd really appreciate a second pair of eyes on this."

You consider what she says: 'all night', not 'all day'. That clears up how she perceives time. It does not fix how you do though.

You remember what is written on the piece of paper she hands you as you first read it. And she is right, it should all add up, it just somehow doesn't. It is as if the Formulas just 'know' that something will be there to fix things. And if not, who knows what would happen. You would rather not know. With a sigh you say "Whatever is wrong with that calculation, I can't spot it either."

"It's alright, I already modified our setup to test this. Want to give it a try?" she responds. Not waiting for your answer in her eagerness to learn she fiddles with the controls of the experiment.

You run between her and the experimental setup. You suddenly know where the extra energy is: with you, somehow. The setup is currently powering up/down. You have to do something or you really will risk finding out how the universe deals with mathematical inconsistencies.

She calls your name, voice full of worry. You are in the experiment room. The setup is powered. You know what fate lurks here. You want to leave this room so badly.

It is too late. Your path through spacetime is not exactly subject to causality — it kind of is causality. Your path through spacetime is not something you have carved out. It just is. And here it leads you. And one of its ends is here.

You want just one more day.

The last, or perhaps the first thing you know is just how wrong you still were about how time works.

_____ ¹ I'm too much of a nerd to completely gloss over quantum randomness possibly not being deterministic, but for the purposes of this story it can be ignored.

I love time loop stories. Really, I do.

But I'd love to see a story about what happens after you emerge from the time loop.

When, after months or years of repetition, you have to learn how to live with a choice you can't redo tomorrow.

When you meet someone new for the first time and have to figure out how to navigate this brand new conversation.

When you reach for the same day's clothes and realize that you can't wear them because they got dirty. Your laundry, your dishes, your body, your teeth, all the tasks that reset with the loop are suddenly stacking up and you need to set aside time to do them.

When you reach that first weekend and your schedule radically shifts and you don't know what to do with yourself, which is terrifying but also exhilarating in ways you can't explain.

When you casually drop facts learned from those books you spent a dozen loops reading, and you realize you retained something worth keeping.

How your memory gets weirdly good all of a sudden, despite not having all that repetition to fall back on, because suddenly every experience is fresh and new.

And when the seasons change, and your hair grows long enough that you want to cut it, and when you realize it's shocking because you didn't think you'd ever see something as incredible as the passage of time.

[2amriize]

.ᐟ RIIZE scenario: idol!reader meeting idol!riize ༉‧₊˚.

req: hi i love all of your riize stuff !! I’d love to see riize with an idol reader like you what group they would be in and how they would meet or interact ?? like an award show, mc, backstage , etc

note: hiii! i did my first exam today AAA! i can't wait to be free again and be more active...

pairing: idol!riize x idol!reader— masterlist

⭑.ᐟ shotaro

You had managed to debut in ILLIT thanks to your dancing skills, as you had caught people's attention as a professional dancer. For that reason, your manager told you that you would be doing the "Impossible" dance challenge with Shotaro. You were quite nervous because you knew how great a dancer he was; you were basically a fan of his and loved watching his dance videos. When you met in the hallway to record the video, both of you were a little nervous, but after a few takes, you relaxed. After filming, you talked for a few minutes, with you telling him how much you admired him, and him thanking you and saying he liked your dancing style too. From that moment on, you would greet each other whenever you met.

⭑.ᐟ eunseok

In NMIXX, you were always the one in charge of speaking because you were very outgoing and had a knack for capturing people's attention. Thanks to this, you were hired as an MC for a music show. Alongside you, they chose Eunseok from RIIZE as your co-host, as he was quite popular for his looks. At first, both of you were quiet and shy, but little by little, Eunseok started joking around, and you became closer. You realized you had many interests in common, and after your contract as MCs ended, you stayed in touch, meeting up occasionally when you both had time to go to cafes or PC rooms.

⭑.ᐟ sungchan

You had known Sungchan since you were trainees, but you hadn’t had the chance to talk much during that time. Years later, you finally debuted in AESPA, and he debuted in NCT, later redebuting in RIIZE. Not long after, the company informed you that you would have a stage together, so you practiced together for several weeks. Both of you had great respect for each other, knowing how hard you had worked to get where you were, even though you didn’t know each other deeply. After the stage, you would exchange supportive messages and sometimes send each other snacks and drinks.

⭑.ᐟ wonbin

Both you and Wonbin were quite awkward when meeting new people because you were both very introverted. In your group, IVE, you were known for being pretty cute. One of the poses you had created for fan meeting photos had become famous, with many idols imitating it. Wonbin was one of them, using it often in his photos. Although you had never spoken before, one day you ran into each other in the hallway before a stage, where you were both waiting. Wonbin, a bit shy, started talking to you, saying how much he liked the pose you had created, sparking a small conversation. You couldn’t help but be speechless at how handsome he was in person. After that meeting, you started greeting each other every time you met, becoming closer over time.

⭑.ᐟ seunghan

You and Seunghan had been invited to a new variety show where idols would teach their dances step by step. In that episode, you were going to teach Seunghan the new dance from KISS OF LIFE, and he was going to teach you RIIZE's new comeback. Before the recording, you had never spoken before, but you quickly became friends because you had very similar personalities. You also decided to exchange numbers, staying in touch and becoming closer friends. When the video was released, many people started saying you made a great duo, leading to you both being chosen as the main MCs of the show.

⭑.ᐟ sohee

RIIZE was a new group that was gaining a lot of attention. Your group, STAYC, although several years into your career, still had significant recognition. You, in particular, were known for your voice, being the singer for many soundtracks. So, it didn’t surprise you when your manager told you you would be recording another song for a new K-drama, but this time it would be a duet with Sohee from RIIZE. Of course, you already knew who he was, as he was also famous for his voice. During the recording, you didn’t talk much, but afterward, when the song became famous and you had to do stages together, you became closer. You often went out for dinner or drinks at night to celebrate its success, gradually becoming close friends.

⭑.ᐟ anton

Out of all the English-speaking members of New Jeans, they had chosen you for an award show. It was the annual K-drama awards, and they decided to have two idols who could speak English to translate some things since it was an international broadcast. You didn’t know who the other presenter would be until a few days before the event, but when you went to practice, you found out it was Anton from RIIZE. You had seen him many times on social media but had never met him in person. You connected quickly because, although Anton was initially quite quiet, you didn’t stop talking to him and asking questions, which helped you both build rapport. It wasn’t a surprise when, after the awards, you decided to exchange numbers to stay in touch.

masterlist // taglist: @regularsuh @gacktsa @totheseok @kkumistars @taroddori @enhacolor @ladylilith @electric-hearts @astrobymarwa @layluv123 @sunflowers1610 @nctrawberries @synkjellies @ramyeonzprincess @yuzuksi

[onceinablueberrymoon]

special report | salesman (recruiter) x reporter!reader

scenario: ever wonder how the VIPs watch the games before they arrive on the island? reporter!reader delivers the highlights of each game to viewers around the world. and a certain someone is their biggest fan.  setting: in seoul between the second game (dalgona) and the special game during season 1 warnings: reader can be any gender, but this was originally written with fem!reader in mind; reader also works for the games; they're both just not nice people lol (but we love them anyways!); no use of y/n; second person POV word count: 629 notes: someone in a reddit thread had a theory that the VIPs would watch highlight reels of the first few games and this story popped in my head. salesman is called recruiter here since that's his official title. i love this guy sm (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) please enjoy! borders by @strangergraphics-archive

“And that concludes our coverage for Day 2 of the Games. Please stay tuned for the Special Game, which will take place in two hours.”

You bowed to the camera, only straightening your back upon hearing the director yell “Cut!”. You shuffled the papers on the desk in front of you, then checked your phone. 

Three missed calls. 

You snorted, a small smile forming on your lips. You pressed on one of the missed calls, the number redialing on your screen. Bringing the phone to your ear, you waited for the recruiter to pick up. It didn’t even ring once before his smooth voice came through the speaker.

“Finally.”

You sighed, leaning forward to prop an elbow on the desk. “You know I’m at work. You of all people should know that.”

You could picture his cocky smirk.

“Care for a bite to eat? My treat,” he offered, which you accepted. There was still an hour and a half before you had to return to prepare for the Special Game.

You met at the tiny kimbap shop down the street. While you both could afford a fancier restaurant, a cheap, filling meal was all you needed right now.

“So,” you started, pouring hot barley tea into your teacups, “Did you catch any of the last game?” 

He nodded, resting his chin on his hands with his elbows on the table. “Very entertaining, as always. You never cease to impress me,” he praised.

Taking a big sip of tea, you scoffed, “Oh please. I’m the least interesting part of the show.”

“Oh?” He cocked his head. “Why is that?”

Shooting him an unimpressed look, you spoke, “Did you not see the same footage I did? The utter fear when they had to carve out the dalgona?” You laughed, “And when that guy got shot and slid down the slide… You just can’t make this stuff up!"

Pouring some more tea into your cup, you continued, "Seriously though, watching those players carve out the umbrella shapes was priceless. They were so scared!” With a shake of your head, you sighed, “I can’t believe some of them actually passed.” 

The recruiter chuckled, leaning closer to you. “While that was amusing, I found your performance to be far more enticing.”  

A blush crossed your cheeks, but you quickly shook it off, clearing your throat.

“I try my best. By the way,” you motioned towards him, “You’ve outdone yourself with the players this time. A perfect mix of competent and woefully tragic players. I’m not sure which I like more.” You shot him a smile, which he returned.

“Oh, and the group with the Host? Hilarious,” you grinned. “I can’t believe that 218 and 456 were childhood friends.” You tapped your fingers against your teacup. “But I guess, at the end of the day, trash is still trash.”

The lady running the shop arrived with your food, and the two of you ate in comfortable silence. However, you couldn’t help but notice the recruiter’s intense gaze lingering on you.

Once the recruiter paid, the two of you left the restaurant, and he walked you back to the office. 

“Same time tomorrow?” He asked, briefcase in hand.

You hummed, “Tomorrow is Tug of War, and there’s still lots to prepare before the final games.” You took a step towards him, a teasing smile on your face, “Why, miss me already?”

He huffed, “I can watch you any time.” Bringing his lips to your ear, he whispered, “But I prefer being near you instead.”

You tilted his head to look at you and kissed him on the cheek. Turning to enter your office, you looked back and called to him.

“Until next time, my dear recruiter!”

He flashed his signature smirk.

“Take care, my lovely reporter.”

[thydungeongal]

I mean your characterization of his list is also inaccurate. He also included people with notes like "? Anarchist leanings." Now, personally, even if his list had just been people he suspected to be Stalinists or pro-U.S.S.R. he would've still been a snitch willing to work with a liberal government on an openly anti-communist project. He was asked for a list of communists and he obliged, and I feel it is a ridiculous assertion to claim that he was specifically targeting people he thought were Stalinists or Russian sympathisers when many of the people listed contradict that classification even in his own terms.

And I feel characterizating this as him ratting out communists or pro-communists is not out of character for Orwell: the man may have been a self-described socialist and I think him fighting in the Spanish civil war was an undeniable W from him. But his actual political character and words are that of a liberal self-styling himself as a socialist and actually hostile to communism. And at the end of the day he snitched on a bunch of communists because he thought they were unfit to write anti-communist propaganda. :)

Edit; also we're not guys

It's called Orwellian because George Orwell wrote a snitch list of people he thought unsuited to working for a propaganda arm of the UK government because he thought they were pro-communist, anti-white, or had homosexual tendencies,

[si3nn4]

Couple of the Year: In the End, Love Overpowers Fame.

As the years passed, Katsuki's fame grew steadily. His name quickly became known in the charts, and despite not being the number-one Hero, his contributions were never overlooked. You, too, had your share of fame as an ever-rising supermodel. Despite the massive recognition both of you received, your private lives remained untouched.

"DYNAMIGHT!"

"DYNAMIGHT! OVER HERE!"

"ONE QUESTION, DYNAMIGHT! JUST ONE INTERVIEW!"

The Met Gala was always a spectacle, and every year, the crowd of paparazzi seemed to grow larger and more relentless.

"You know, with all your fame, I can't help but wonder when you're finally going to fall and fail."

Katsuki’s posture didn’t change, but his eyes shifted to the source of the voice. His anger flared at the sight of the man standing next to him, grinning smugly at the cameras. Yoshiki Kenai was tall, brunette, with perfect teeth and an annoying level of confidence.

He worked in the same modeling industry as you, and ever since you’d entered the scene, he’d made it his personal mission to flirt with you at every opportunity. Fortunately, this year, his advances were more restrained.

"I question your logic, Bakugou. Should you really be settling down so quickly when your job is so risky? It's a selfish decision, really. Your fame is honestly undeserved, a selfish wannabe hero is all you are." Yoshiki now turned his head toward Katsuki, his smirk widening as he awaited a response.

Katsuki knew his job was dangerous. Every mission carried a risk. But for Yoshiki—of all people—to lecture him? His blood boiled as he fixed the man with a scowl.

"What about you? Do you hear the crowd? You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who’ll never gain recognition unless your in my presence. The people need me. I can't be replaced. You, on the other hand, can be." Katsuki spat his words through gritted teeth, his face twisted with anger. Despite his fury, his posture remained casual, hands tucked into his pants, stance relaxed.

Yoshiki’s smirk faltered, and his face reddened in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Before he could fire back, Katsuki continued, his expression now calmer, though his voice still held a trace of irritation.

"At least you're smart enough to talk to me in front of the cameras. You know damn well that if you said this anywhere else, your ass would already be halfway across the world."

Katsuki turned his gaze back to the paparazzi, scanning the crowd slowly as he continued speaking.

"Smile bright, Kenai. Take advantage of this privilege. Maybe then you'll get some recognition just from being seen with me."

Yoshiki quickly walked off, his forced smile back in place, but his posture was stiff, and his cheeks were still burning with embarrassment.

"That was interesting," Kirishima said, appearing beside Katsuki, his expression a mix of amusement and mild concern. "Wonder how the paparazzi will spin this little interaction."

"Who gives a fuck?" Katsuki muttered, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as his earlier annoyance began to fade. His gaze shifted to you in the distance, gleefully interacting with the crowd. He was only at this event for you, and now, seeing you so happy, he didn’t regret it in the slightest.

"As long as that little fucker knows his place and stays away from me and my wife, the paparazzi can say whatever they want." You glanced over at your husband just as his eyes locked with yours, filled with affection.

You smiled at him, your eyes gleaming. No matter how many fans or events you attended, it was only Katsuki’s gaze that could disarm you so completely. Katsuki, too, realised how easily he folded when you smiled at him. Despite his fears about dangerous missions, it would always quickly disappear the moment his eyes met yours.

The next day, the cover of nearly every magazine and website featured you and Katsuki. You both stood a little apart, with Kirishima standing next to Katsuki. The crowd and flashing lights surrounded all three of you, but no matter the chaos, your eyes always seemed to find each other.

The headline read: Couple of the Year: In the End, Love Overpowers Fame.

Kirishima texted Katsuki in playful annoyance at being portrayed as the third wheel—though, in truth, he was always more than happy to play that role.

[nomie-11]

Chase After You

masterlist! | part 2 | part 3

synopsis: vi swears she doesn't have a soulmate, you swear that your soulmate is a masochist. Turns out you do exist, and turns out Vi plays hockey

pairings: vi x reader, lowkey ellie x dina

Your soulmate must have been an absolute idiot. 

Caitlyn said that he “or she, I don’t discriminate,” was probably a masochist because every day it seemed you woke up with another bruise or another cut. You couldn’t even count the amount of times you had woken up in the morning with a concussion—it was a miracle your soulmate was even alive at this point. 

“I’m just saying,” Caitlyn continued as she leaned against the counter of the campus coffee shop where the two of you had made it a ritual to meet after your clinical rotations. “Whoever they are, they’ve got to have the worst luck—or they’re actively looking for trouble.” 

You sipped your coffee, wincing as the hot liquid hit the tender inside of your lip. A split lip, courtesy of your soulmate, who had clearly been in some kind of fight last night. Again. 

“Maybe they’re a professional fighter,” you mused, though you were only half-serious. “That would explain all the bruises.” 

Caitlyn snorted. “Or just clumsy.” 

“Clumsy doesn’t explain the frequency, Caitlyn” you countered, setting  your coffee down. “If they’re not in some sort of contact sport, then they’re probably fighting for their life every day. Literally.” 

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You sure you didn’t end up with some sort of action hero? Like, next thing you know, they’ll show up at your rotations bleeding everywhere, and your soulmate bond will suddenly light up in a dramatic fashion.”

“Very funny,” you muttered, though the thought lingered. You were in your second year of nursing school, constantly surrounded by patients—maybe Caitlyn wasn’t too far off. But the soulmate connection was supposed to be this once-in-a-lifetime, world-shaking thing, and you’d never felt anything remotely close to that. 

The coffee shop door chimed, and a gust of cold air swept through as someone stumbled in. You didn’t look up at first, too focused on scrawling notes in your planner about your upcoming rotations. But then Caitlyn’s voice dropped into a low, surprising whisper. 

“Uh, okay. Forget clumsy. I think your soulmate might actually be a hockey player.” 

You glanced up, curious, and froze. 

Standing at the counter, looking half-dead but still smirking like they’d just won the lottery, was Vi, the captain of Piltover University’s Women’s Hockey Team. You didn’t know her personally, but you knew of her—how could you not? Every gay girl within a twenty mile radius knew of her. She was hot. From her cocky grin to her colorful undercut, which always seemed to peek out from beneath her helmet, there was no doubt about it. 

But that wasn’t what made your breath catch. It was the way your chest tightened, how everything in the room seemed to quiet for a split second. 

Then the pain hit. 

You instinctively touched your ribs, feeling a sharp ache that hadn’t been there before. At the same time, Vi winced, her hand going to the exact same spot. Her gaze flickered toward you after searching the coffee shop, her blue eyes narrowing slightly, like she was trying to figure something out. 

You felt Caitlyn’s hand on your arm. “Oh my god,” she hissed. “It’s her, isn’t it?” 

“No!” You bit back, immediately averting your eyes. “No way.” 

If you don’t see her, she doesn’t exist. 

—-------------------------------------------

Vi was convinced she didn’t have a soulmate. 

She had no visible soulmate mark, no timer and—besides her own—no tattoo. She didn’t see in black and white, didn’t have a red string of fate. It didn’t make any sense, the only explanation being that she doesn’t have one. 

Her friend on the hockey team—Ellie—had suggested that maybe it was a feeling soulmate mark. Maybe she was supposed to feel sick when you got sick, or maybe she was supposed to feel hurt when she got hurt. But she never felt… anything. 

That is, until the migraines started. 

It had been two weeks of relentless, skull-splitting pain, and Vi was on the verge of losing her mind. She’d never been the type to care much about school, but even hockey practice was becoming unbearable. The bright lights of the rink made her head pound, and the noise of her teammates shouting felt like nails being driven into her skull. She didn’t dare tell Coach—she had enough to deal with trying to keep her captaincy without giving them a reason to bench her. 

But she couldn’t hide it from Ellie. 

“You’re rubbing your temples again,” Ellie said as she sprawled on the locker room bench, laving up her skates. “What, you suddenly got old-person headaches or something?”

Vi shot her a glare. “They’re migraines. And it’s not funny.” 

Ellie’s smirk faltered, replaced by a frown. “Okay, but, like… you don’t just start getting migraines out of nowhere. You stressed or something? Got some secret essays piling up that I don’t know about?” 

Vi let out a frustrated groan, dropping her helmet onto the bench with a clatter. “I don’t know, Ellie! It’s not stress, okay? They just came out of nowhere, and I can’t get rid of them. I’ve tried everything—water, sleep, painkillers—nothing works.” 

Ellie tilted her head, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. “Huh.” 

“What?” 

“Well…” Ellie dragged the word out as she tied a perfect knot. “You don’t think this could be, like… soulmate related, do you?”

Vi scoffed, folding her arms. “What? No. I don’t even have a soulmate.” 

Ellie gave her a pointed look. “You don’t know that. Just because you don’t have a mark or whatever doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. There are, like, a million different types of soulmate connections. Feeling someone else’s pain is totally one of them.” 

Vi blinked, the idea sinking in despite her best efforts to shrug it off. “So what? You think my soulmate is walking around with migraines 24/7? Who the hell stays up late enough or is dumb enough to dehydrate themselves this much?” 

Ellie grinned. “Exactly the kind of person you’d be soulmates with. You’re a trainwreck magnet.” 

Vi rolled her eyes, but the knot of worry in her chest didn’t go away. “Even if you’re right—which you’re not—I don’t know who it is. How am I supposed to fix this? Walk around asking random people if their head hurts every time mine does?” 

Ellie snickered. “You could start with that cute girl from the coffee shop. The one who was staring at you like you were some kind of mythical creature last week.” 

Vi stiffened. “What girl?” 

“You know. Black sweater, big eyes, looked like she wanted to crawl under the table when you caught her staring.” Ellie’s smirk widened. “She bolted so fast, I thought she might leave a cartoon dust cloud behind.” 

Vi groaned, her hands dragging down her face. “You’re impossible.” 

Ellie shrugged, grabbing her stick and standing up. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’ve got migraines, she looked like she was about to faint—sounds like a soulmate connection to me.” 

“Ellie, drop it.” 

“Fine, fine.” Ellie paused by the door, grinning back over her shoulder. “But if she shows up at your next game, you owe me a drink.” 

Vi glared after her, her headache suddenly feeling worse.

————————

Your day had started out pleasant. 

You woke up on time, didn’t have a splitting headache or a new bruise, and had your fresh and folded laundry waiting for you from the day before as you finally pulled yourself out of bed. Even Jayce and Caitlyn seemed to get the ‘good day’ memo—the two of them swinging by your apartment with coffee before the three of you headed off to class. 

It was nice, until it wasn’t. It all went downhill when the throbbing started. 

It wasn’t your usual soulmate-related ache—no split lip, no bruised knuckles, no sudden stab in your ribs. This was different. Familiar, but different no less. A dull, creeping pressure that started behind your eyes and spread through your skull like a slow wave. By the time your second lecture had started, it was unbearable. 

“Are you okay?” Caitlyn asked, leaning over from her seat. Her voice was low enough not to draw the professor’s attention, but the concern was evident. “You look pale.” 

You pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to will the pain away. “Migraines,” you muttered. “Really bad one.” 

Caitlyn frowned. “You went to bed early last night.” 

“Apparently, that doesn’t do anything for me anymore.”

You barely made it through the rest of the lecture. By the time you were packing up your things, Caitlyn was hovering like a worried mother hen. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to skip clinicals today? Jayce can take your rotation, you look like you’re about to pass out.” 

“No, I’m fine,” you insisted, though your voice lacked conviction. “I’ll just grab some water and take something for the pain.” 

Caitlyn didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push further as the two of you made your way out of the lecture hall. 

You thought you were doing a decent job of toughing it out until you practically walked right into Jayce in the hallway as he excited his pathophysiology lecture. 

“Whoa, you good?” he asked, steadying you when you stumbled slightly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“Migraines again,” you mumbled again, brushing him off. “I’m fine.” 

Jayce gave Caitlyn a questioning look, but she just shrugged. 

The rest of the day was a blur. The pain didn’t ease up—it never did until you went to sleep—and every bright light or loud noise seemed to stab through your skull. By the time you reached the coffee shop for your usual post-clinical ritual, you were barely holding it together. 

Caitlyn was mid-sentence when the door chimed. 

“Do you think it could be stress? Your migraines never used to be so bad—”

Her words trailed off, her expression shifting to one of disbelief. 

“What now?” you groaned, not bothering to look up. 

Caitlyn’s hand gripped your arm. “Don’t freak out, but she’s here.” 

“Who?” 

“Don’t be an idiot. You know who.” 

You blinked up at her, confused, before following her gaze toward the counter. 

There she was again—Vi. This time, she looked even rougher than before, with dark circles under her eyes and a visible bandage peeking out from under her sleeve. She had her fingers pressed to her temples as she leaned against the counter, waiting for her friend to finish ordering. 

And then it happened. 

Your headache, which had been a steady, unrelenting pressure all day, suddenly spiked. A sharp, blinding pain shot through your temples, and you let out a quiet gasp, clutching your head. 

Across the room, Vi froze, and her friend immediately snapped up. 

Her gaze hit yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The pain in your head mirrored the way her hand shot up to press against her temple, and her eyes widened in recognition. 

“Oh, no,” you whispered, panic setting in. 

Caitlyn’s eyes darted between you and Vi, her mouth falling open. “It’s her. It’s definitely her.” 

You scrambled to your feet, heart racing. “Nope. Not happening.” 

You bolted.  

“Hey! Y/N!” Caitlyn hissed after you, but you didn’t stop.  

The door slammed shut behind you, and the crisp evening air hit your face like a slap. Your heart was pounding, your migraine screaming in protest at your sudden movement, but the overwhelming panic drowned it out. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you had to get away. Far away.  

Unfortunately, the universe—or more specifically, Vi—had other plans.  

“Wait!”  

Her voice was rough, loud enough to cut through the noise of the street and send a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through your veins. You didn’t look back, breaking into a full sprint.  

Behind you, you heard heavy, determined footsteps.  

“Oh, come on!” Vi groaned. “You’re really gonna make me chase you?”  

You didn’t answer, too focused on not tripping over your own feet. The ache in your legs spread quickly, your lungs burning as you pushed yourself harder.  

“Damn it,” you heard her mutter, closer this time. “You’re not even good at running!”  

“No one asked you!” you shouted over your shoulder, breathless and desperate.  

Vi let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious? You’re yelling at me while running away?”  

“Yes!”  

She groaned, and her footsteps quickened. “You can’t outrun me, you know. You might as well stop before you pass out!”  

Her voice was closer now, and you risked a glance back. Bad idea.  

Vi was gaining fast, her long legs eating up the distance between you with ease. She wasn’t even winded. Meanwhile, you were gasping for air, feeling like your legs might give out any second.  

“Leave me alone!” you shouted, panic edging into your voice.  

“Can’t do that!” she called back, her tone surprisingly light for someone who was literally chasing you down. “You’re my soulmate, remember?”  

Those words sent a jolt through you, and you stumbled slightly, your pace faltering. That split-second mistake was all she needed.  

Vi caught up in a flash, one strong hand wrapping gently around your wrist as she slowed to a stop. You tried to pull away, but she held firm, her grip steady but not painful.  

“Let me go!” you gasped, twisting in her grasp.  

“Hey, hey!” Vi said quickly, holding up her free hand in a gesture of surrender. “Relax, okay? I’m not here to hurt you!”  

You glared up at her, chest heaving, and she met your gaze with an almost apologetic smile. Up close, she looked even rougher—dark circles under her eyes, a fresh cut on her lip, and that same bandage on her arm.  

“Look,” she said, her voice softer now. “I get it. This is… a lot. Trust me, I wasn’t expecting to meet you today either. But running away? Not the best idea.”  

“Why not?” you snapped, still trying to catch your breath.  

Vi smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Because I’m an elite athlete, so now you’re even more exhausted, and I’m still here.”  

You glared at her, unsure if you wanted to scream or cry. “What do you want from me?”  

She blinked, her expression softening. For a moment, she looked almost shy, which was wildly unfair given how confident she’d been five seconds ago.  

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean, I didn’t even think I had a soulmate until, like, two weeks ago. And then today, bam, migraines, and here you are.”  

Yuo stared at her, dumfounded, and still too overwhelmed to make sense of her words. “That’s not an answer.”

Vi sighed, releasing your wrist but saying close enough that you couldn’t just bolt against. “Okay, fine. I guess I want to… figure this out. I mean, we’re soulmates, right? So maybe we could just… start there?” 

“Start there?” you repeated, incredulous. “You don’t even know me.”

“Exactly.” her lips curved into a small, lopsided smile. “Let’s change that.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, but the way she was looking at you—earnest, a little nervous, but stubborn enough not to let you push her away—made the words catch in your throat. 

Caitlyn’s voice rang in your mind: Whoever they are, they’re probably a masochist. 

Vi seemed to read your hesitation as a crack in the wall you’d been trying so hard to keep up. She tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes locking onto yours with unnerving intensity. 

“Look,” she said, her tone gentler now. “I’m not asking you to, like, fall into my arms or anything. I just want to get to know you. No pressure, no expectations. What do you say? Coffee after your next rotation? My treat.” 

You hesitated, your heart still racing. “Why should I trust you?” 

Her smile faltered, and for a split second, you saw something raw in her expression—something that made your chest tighten. She winced slightly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Honestly? I don’t know how much longer I can handle these migraines, so we need to find a cure or something.” 

That earned a startled laugh from you, despite yourself. “So, this is selfish.” 

“Totally,” she admitted, grinning now. “But if it gets me a chance to spend some time with you, I’ll take it.” 

You studied her for a long moment, torn between wariness and the tiniest flicker of curiosity. Finally, you sighed, crossing your arms. “Fine. One coffee. After my next rotation. That’s it.”

Vi’s grin widened, and for a moment, you were struck by how bright it was—how it softened the sharp edges of her features. “Deal.” 

As she stepped back to give you space, you realized something strange: your headache was already starting to fade. Grabbing a random business card from her pocket and a pen from another, she scribbled down her number and lightly shoved it into your hands. 

“See you around,” Vi said, giving you a little wave before turning and jogging off down the street. 

You watched her go, still unsure if you’d just made a huge mistake, or taken the first step toward something you couldn’t even begin to understand.

this is the first part in a three part series! read part 2 here! reader part 3 here!

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!