#but perhaps it helps for her to see what he feels

[muntitled]

Tic-Tac-Toe

Pairing: The Salesman x Fem!reader

Summary: Every Wednesday your schedule consisted of attending classes during the day, and satisfying the needs of a sadist through the night.

Warning: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Violence, Kidnapping, Isolation, SociallyAnxious!Reader, Blindfolds, Stalking, Knives, Blood, Gore, Stockholm Syndrome, Smut (+18) mdni, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Insertion, Fingering, Rough Sex, Erotophonophilia, Dom!Salesman, Sub!Reader, Dacryphillia, Sadomasochism, Gunplay, Deepthroating, Breeding Kink, Unprotected sex

A/N: Hell is empty

4k Words

You're strapped in a chair, like always, and you are blindfolded because he doesn't trust easily.

It's terribly annoying.

At any point of during and after your little 'arrangement' you could have called the cops. Doesn't he understand that?

Every Wednesday, you're taken from the warmth of your apartment, and you're delivered right back at 00:00 on the dot, every Thursday with barely an inch of life left in your bones. You'd either always come back wet, with semen sliding between your thighs, or with mysterious marks- old and new- crawling underneath your sweater. Whatever mood he was in, he'd always leave you feeling sore.

It should have bothered you.

The thought of seeing this large, domineering shadow-in-a-suit every Wednesday should not overwhelm you with all these feelings of excitement. Instead, you should do like all the mentally ill girls do and just get some fucking help.

But you want him to trust you, for some reason.

Which was utterly ridiculous considering the fact that to him, you were something akin to a porcelain wind up toy for his amusement. You had no business requesting he remove the blindfold aspect but still, you asked anyway. Toy's couldn't be trusted, could they?

"I'd really appreciate it if I didn't have to wear one of these everytime I visit your place." He removes the blindfold, and in a second, your vision is filled with nothing but him. One moment you were in the cozy warmth of your dorm room. Curled up on the couch while your roommate spends her youth effectively- out with boyfriends and friends and everything you didn't have. You answered the front door when you heard his special knock, like you always do. You walked with him to the cab. You let him put on the blindfold. You said 'I'm fine’ when the taxi driver got a little too nosy and you let him lead you away from your boring life.

If only for a few hours.

You'd let him do whatever he wanted for those few hours because such surrender was almost sacred. You forfeited your safety in his hands, to do with it whatever he pleased and in that, you found rest. Whatever happens, happens.

Forget this room- what was essentially his personal dungeon, windowless, red and boasting various torture objects- your eyes are only on him.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't feel the need to kidnap me anymore? We do this every Wednesday," You become more childish around him and he lets you. Like you forgot you are a fully autonomous university student. There was power in that too. "Surely we've established some sort of trust?” He doesn't respond to you immediately. You crane your head up at him, hungry to lock eyes with his cold, empty slits that enchanted you body and soul.

You are in love with him, perhaps.

That's a logical response isn't it?

You laugh almost.

Listening to yourself try to rationalize your fondness for such a horrible man.

Said horrible man is silent. All you hear is the clicking of his dress shoes as he moves to the leather seat directly across from yours. Your eyes scan over all his movements.

The right corner of his lip quirks up. A small coffee table creates the only distance between you and he bends over to pour you both a generous glass of Brandy on the rocks. You don't drink it. Ever since he's been bringing you here, you never do. He knows this, yet still he pours.

"This relationship isn't about trust." He says finally. Something inside you, that is perhaps a little broken, actually purrs at the sound of his voice. You're hyperaware of your thighs squeezing together on the leather seat. They're spilling out of the sundress you purposely wore today.

Lots of your clothes were for the function of comfort. Your body was full and curvy and not always something to be advertised, unless you wished it to. Tonight, you wanted to show off as much as possible.

A thick leather band is keeping both your wrists locked to the armrests, while he sits back, free and so irrevocably in charge it should scare you. It should. But the sick and incredibly deranged thing is that it doesn't.

Outside, the rain is beating down on whatever building you're in, casting a thick veneer of grey all across the city.

But inside this velvet room... your heart is hammering inside its cage as you watch him undo the buttons of his crisp suit. A black one today. Jet black like his hair.

Although-

"You've got more grey in your hair than last week." You can't help but say.

He tilts his head in inquisition. "Are you insulting me or complimenting me?"

"I'll leave that up to you to decide," you shrug your shoulders as much as you can under these limited restraints. At least he hasn't restrained your ankles this time. Progress. "In here, you're the boss. Right?"

He takes a sip of his drink until finally, you've finally locked eyes. Your bare toes curl and your back arches slightly as you sit a bit straighter in your seat. Like you're in a lecture hall, although he is far more interesting than any of your professors.

"I'm not as young as I used to be," he finally says as he takes one more sip of his drink before bringing his briefcase onto the coffee table. Its presence is ominous and so horribly loud for an inanimate object. It kickstarts all your dormant nerves, revving up all the rest of your senses that have yet to catch up to the fact that you were facing the man of both your desires and nightmares once again.

"Who have you told about our arrangement?" The question causes you to roll your eyes. He watches the petulant movement with that same, silent smile and blank eyes. He unclicks the briefcase. Your stomach lurches and your thighs squeeze together. Pavlov's dog.

"Every time you ask me-" an object clinks onto the table. A butcher knife.

You try to pull your eyes away from the objects he's placing on the table, one by one. "Everytime you ask me if I've told anyone about our arrangement-" another object. A wooden spoon beside the knife. "Everytime I tell you the same thing."

Your throat closes when he uncovers a dildo. Bright pink and fucking menacing. "Carry on talking." He says, snapping your gaze away from the objects lining the table.

"I don't have any friends." Your voice is wobblier. You try to deny the sight of the rabbit vibrator, "It's the reason you picked me." You clear your throat as you hoped to clear all the nerves beginning to fog your mind. "Someone could've followed me here. B-But I don't really know anyone enough to care." The final object that clunks onto the glass coffee table and this time, you're unable to look away.

"Are we ready to begin?"

The metal revolver laying quiet and undisturbed beside the rabbit vibrator makes everything else on the table look like children's toys. Even the butcher knife.

You pull at the restraints, your legs quivering slightly as you shift and writhe in the seat. He studies you as closely as you were once studying him. You can see the excitement begin to flood his eyes at the physical manifestation of your discomfort.

"Now you're getting it." He nods sardonically, taking another sip from his glass before placing the briefcase on the floor beside him. "You were a little too happy to see me," he joked, letting out an airy exhale of laughter.

"You wanna hazard a guess as to what we'll be playing today?" He's smiling, genuinely. With that look in his eyes you can tell he's hovering in the clouds. Meanwhile you've begun to feel real fear. No matter how regular these visits might become you'd never get used to him. It's impossible. Not when he found new and daring ways to torture and pleasure you every single week. You couldn't get used to something as brash and unconventional as him. Like the conditions of a child in a broken home, he kept his tactics inconsistent so that every week is a new hell or perhaps- depending on his mood- heaven.

"If I guess wrong?" You swallow thickly and something dark in him settles. He spreads his legs more, there's a twitch inside his lips before he smiles again.

"Well, guessing isn't the game, so you'll be fine."

You nod your head... assessing the objects. There's menacing objects and household objects. Even just looking at them you can tell what they all have in common.

"Am I going to have to insert-"

"You're not guessing." His voice booms. He rests his elbow on the armrests, his hands corded with veins seem itching to do something, you're not sure what. "I said guess." He commands.

"Hide and seek?"

He snickers, "A favourite-"

"More like your favourite." You snip back, "I couldn't sit down the whole week." You frown at the memory. That week he'd brought you to an abandoned warehouse, letting you run the entire perimeter full.

"It's in your best interest to keep coming to our sessions-" he reminds you, snapping you back into the present.

"You're paying my university fees, I'm not complaining." You nod, before plastering a thin smile on your face, "All I have to do every week is prostitute myself to a literal sadist-"

"Have you given up on guessing today's game?" He didn't like you making him hyper aware of the fact that this dynamic, whatever it is, is considered objectively bad. And so you're not surprised when he swiftly moves past the topic.

He leans forward. His large hand disappears under his chair before uncovering a small whiteboard. Four lines- 2 horizontals are running across 2 verticals, creating 9 blocks. He stands up, while your eye is still focusing on the board. From your point of view it sits underneath the row of objects on the table. You don't even realize your right wrist strap is being untied.

"Colour?" He asks, pushing a crate of whiteboard markers towards you. With your now free hand you pick the pink one.

He snickers. "Predictable." He whispers before placing a large, domineering hand on your head. He presses down your braids, patting you like a stray he's rescued from the cold. You stare aimlessly ahead, fearing you won't be able to contain everything you've begun to feel for him if you lock eyes now.

"We're playing tic-tac-toe," he relents. His hand lingers on your head a bit longer before he's stepping away.

"With a twist, I presume?"

"Clever girl," he nods, walking back to his seat. "So you're aware of the objects."

"Place a gun in front of a girl and she's going to notice."

"Paranoid girl." He tsks before leaning forward.

"You want to start or should I?"

"Wait-" you swallow, "What happens if I win?"

He smiles that dazzling, debonair smile.

"You pick which one goes inside you."

Lightning cracks across the sky. A chorus of thunder roars all at once like some kind of phenomenon and your lips stutter open.

"Th-That's insane I-"

"I shouldn't have to remind you that you came here out of your own volition. "

"What happens if you win?"

"Then I choose." He says.

Your eyes skate over the object. It doesn't take an ivy league graduate to hazard a guess as to which of the objects he's itching to stick inside you.

"There's a fucking knife here-" You're trembling. Tears are pooling in your eyes. It doesn't even matter that you're a somewhat decent tic tac toe player. It doesn't matter that you're confident in this game. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

"And there's also a spoon," he nods, neutrally, "And a vibrator, and a dildo. Etcetera. Etcetera." He leans forward, unclicking his whiteboard pen, "your words are just words, Darling. You're just listing things. Start," he says, with a deadly lilt in his voice. "Or I will."

You scramble to uncap your marker with one hand, all while he watches with dead and black eyes. You knew that whoever starts the game was placed at a big advantage and so you're nearly scrambling to place that dignified X in the center block.

"Clever girl." He says once again, drawing his blue 'O' directly beside your pink 'X'. You aim for the block above him. He blocks it. You aim for the block beside the center. He blocks that too.

Your victory comes too quickly. You barely feel it as you strike a line vertically through the blocks. 3 X's.

Relief washes over you but it's overcast with doubt. Like you're celebrating in trepidation as you watch him stand up.

"Congratulations! Which do you choose?"

"I can pick anything?" You ask, staring up at him, bright eyes wild with the adrenaline that comes with wanting to preserve your organs.

"Anything you want, my little winner."

You begin to lean over. His eyebrows quirk up when you wrap a small hand around his wrist.

"I pick that." You say breathlessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his hands at his side. And you watch as he walks towards you, as if compelled by an unforeseen force. His palms are calloused underneath yours and you blow out several unstable breaths as he stands above you. So imposing it's breathtaking.

"You sure?" It's the way he asks it that has you second guessing. And perhaps he sees the caution seeping into your eyes because there's excitement lurking in his. Before you're even able to formulate a response, his hand is locked tightly around your esophagus, vacuuming all pathways shut until you're writhing for air.

"A fine, fine choice," He's becoming more and more riled up the more you writhe in your seat, trying to scrounge for a single breath of air. He doesn't let you. Instead he moves behind you, before leaning down.

If you could breathe, you would shiver at the feeling of his lips behind your ear. "Here we go-" he whispers, before reaching around your torso with his free hand before forcing your legs open. The second he lets his three digits stab into your cunt, he uncurls the grip on your throat as you make a horrid sound somewhere between a moan, a scream, and a haggard gasp. "FUCK- Sl-Slowdown-" you knew better than to request something like that. All you hear is a snicker from behind you as pain blossoms all across your nether regions. He's not gentle. He's not kind. He doesn't allow you to adjust to his fingers before he's scissoring them inside you, causing a blood-curdling scream to rip itself out of your throat. Your back is arched and you're trying to get away from him but the fucking persists.

"You've been wet like this for me the entire time?" He sounds absolutely demented, behind you, "You wanted this didn't you?" He bites at your ear as the first tears begin to pool at your eyes, "My little winner."

"P-Please stop-" His fingers are restless inside you. Curling and uncurling. Scissoring and stabbing as if wanting to open you up and split you all the way in half.

"What a pretty little pussy, huh? Look at what a mess you're making."

"When-" you can't form words. "When- Stop?" It's all you're able to say as your nails dig into the material of his suit.

"The sooner you cum the sooner it stops."

You doubted your ability to cum under these circumstances. He's setting an ungodly pace and it's all so hurried and in a frenzy, it's like your brain does not have time to understand if you even like what's currently being done to you.

"What- Do you want you want my help?" you begin to shake your head. "I'll help you, baby-"

His other hand reaches over and pinches your clit.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your orgasm is quite literally forced out of you. Your hips writhe and your ass tries to leave the seat as the first feelings of pleasure rip through you by force. "That's it, Clever girl," he coos, still curling his fingers inside you, "That's my Clever girl." He says once more before stilling his movements. For a second you just sit there, trying to collect your breath while he's still inside you. All at once, his hands are removed from your body.

He grabs a handkerchief from his breast pocket and you watch him clinically wipe his hands before erasing the marks on the board with the same cloth. A very clear boner pushes against his black slacks yet still his face is calm.

"Alright, My turn to start-"

"WHAT!? B-But I won." You scream, absolutely seething with desperation.

"You know everyone who plays 'X' has a significantly higher chance at winning-" You say with your eyes narrowed. He nods.

"And you know that too, which means we each should be granted alternating times to play ‘X’. Regardless if you won or not." You slump in your seat, suddenly far too aware that your bare cunt is exposed.

"Don't mope." He says, "It's not cute." Before drawing his 'X' in the center.

You close your legs, sitting upright with a new zeal of self preservation as you grab ahold of your marker.

You draw your pink 'O' underneath his.

You both play many more rounds. All ending in ties. This is how you play- with a frazzled grip and closed legs. A shiver every now and then overcomes you with the gravity of your aftershocks. His snickers bring your eyes up to his. He speaks as he makes his move.

"You're so focused on blocking," he sighs, "You're not even trying to win anymore-"

"I'm not letting you stick a knife in my cunt." You nod in finality before blocking another move.

"Not even if I say please?" He asks, making a faux pout.

"Fuck off."

"In that case, I have to win."

Your heart kickstarts as he pushes his pen to the board. Images flash across your mind. Blood splattered across his gorgeous face. Your blood as he fucks the sharp end of a knife inside you. You nearly vomit while he speaks. “Easy as-" you block him.

"Tic-" you block him again.

"Tac-" you block him some more

"Toe- I Win."

A victory that somehow escaped your vision. He strikes a line diagonally through the squares and your stomach sinks. He stares at you from across the room. His eyes so deeply satisfied you can feel it radiating off of him in waves.

You lower your teeth to the other restraint, violently trying to free your left wrist from its oppressive hold. And you watch as the devil slowly rises.

Your heart aches. Your brain is sent into complete alarm as your flight or fight kicks in and your sympathetic nervous system fires.

"Now, which one would look pretty inside you?" He drags his fingers along the objects, undoubtedly an act of taunting. You stomp your feet on the ground. You try to push the chair underneath you but it's plastered to the floor.

"Please!" Tears are running thickly. They cloud your vision. You don't even see the way his smile falls enough for him to rub over the bulge in his slacks.

"Fuck," he says gravelly as he relents and picks up the gun. "You're so fucking pretty when you're scared out of your fucking mind. You know that?"

You shake your head as he nears, wondering if this might really be the end. Has your body become too worn out by his games? Has the time for him to discard his toy finally dawned on you both? Is he all grown up with no need for such things as toys?

"PLEASE-NO-"

"Open your mouth." He's standing in front of you, your head directly in front of his raging bulge.

You shake your head, trying to move away but he rips your face towards him. "Listening to me is the only choice you have to make it out alive, Baby. You wanna live, don't you?" He's nothing but a tall figure, with the overhead lights shining around his head like a halo. Your face right by his bulge.

"Little girl needs to go to school." He nods, eyes fluttering shut, "She needs to complete her studies and get a good job so she wouldn't have to meet with scary men like me- Fuck-" it riled him up to no end to have you scared of him. You suppose it triggered a part of him that craved attention. He needed to feel like he existed and if that was reeped from fear then so be it.

"Stick the barrel in your mouth," the bottom of his hand coaxed open your jaw, and, as if on autopilot, you listen. Perhaps there is a way out of this. Perhaps you should just listen.

"That's it... Fuck," he brings your free hand up to rub his erection "That's it, Baby, stick it inside your mouth." Cold metal hits your lower teeth, "Stick it in like you would a cock." He says, looking down at you intently as your tongue unfurls and you suck the barrel in. "Shit-" he places his other hand on the back of your head before forcing you to take the gun deeper down your throat. He's trembling. Far too badly. And so is his finger on the trigger.

"Fuck, you're such a fucking whore, you know that?"

You're gagging and flailing around the barrel, saliva slides down.

So desperate to please him.

In your hast you don't even realize your left hand that had been restrained is now free. Your eyes are closed.

Please him.

Just please him and you'll live.

"That's my brainless girl..." he praises and that rouses something in you. It has your hips bucking against nothing.

"Such a stupid girl..." he continues, "You're gonna ride me, aren't you? You're gonna fuck me so good-" You're not about to tell him that sex wasn't supposed to be apart of this game. You're not stupid.

You faintly hear the sound of a belt unlooping. A zipper siding down. "You're making me so happy, baby." He admits before effortlessly lifting you from the chair until you're straddling him.

You're free.

When did that happen?

"F-Fuck, I need you to ride me." His head is leaning back against the chair. His tie hangs messily from his shirt that has two buttons undone.

You're free.

"Don't try anything," he warns, as he lifts you enough to pull his cock out of his pants. "Matter of fact. Keep it in your mouth while you ride me-" He slams you down onto his cock the very second those words leave his mouth. He's fucking into you with recklessness and fury and violence. His hair falls in his face but the gun is too heavy, without a hand there, it nearly slips from your mouth.

He's careful to catch it, forcing the barrel back in your mouth as he places a hand on your ass, controlling how your ass bounces on his lap. The gun offers motivation like no other. It has you arching your back and swirling your hips as you tighten your cunt around him.

He sticks the gun down too far and you gag. "You trying to get me to cum, huh? You little slut-" you nod, the tears still spilling as pleasure begins to stream through your brain. It has you excited by the prospect of being held at gunpoint. You realize with grave certainty that you've arrived at the point of no return.

"What a good girl- fuck-" he's ramming up into you, his hand on the gun twitching like his cock does. "I'm gonna fucking cum- FUCK-" he does and your orgasm immediately barrels into you at the exact same time. You try to ride him, to milk it as much as you can, to continue to make him happy.

"Such a stupid fucking slut-" he whispers, eyes hooded as his hips still spurt cum into you.

Your ears perk. You see his finger on the trigger move. You squeeze your eyes shut as you hear a click.

"Such a silly girl." You hear him say. "Don't worry, Baby, it isn't loaded." You're still in your body. You're still alive, on his lap, your sundress unfurling around you both.

"Not yet anyway."

[guiltyasdave]

epiphany

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

word count: ~2.8k

tags/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, fluff, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n

summary: after a helicopter crash, frankie wakes up in a strange place.

a/n: once again i apologize for the pain i'm about to inflict on you. this was written for @almostfoxglove's angst challenge which i'm so so soooo late for (i'm sorry freya!) and this was originally @sizzlingcloudmentality's prompt/moodboard, but we were both going through the worst writer's block of our lives and thought switching might help (it did not), so the first thousand beautiful words are hers! <3 also thank you for beta reading and for all the yap sessions about this one in particular my love!

for an extra sad experience, listen to epiphany by taylor swift while reading :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

notifications blog -> @guiltyasdavenotifs & full masterlist -> here

It is all noise, deafening noise, roaring rotors, beeping instruments, flickering lights, blinking warnings, screaming metal, screaming people, his own voice, so loud it made his ears ring. Then he saw it. Again. His mom, cradling him, his dad, telling him he was a good boy, Juan, his first cat, curled up in his lap. Friends, his brothers, most of them dead now, rotting in graves, the women he loved. His baby momma. His child, smiling up at him, tiny, fat hands grabbing into the air. Fuck, his life was flashing before his eyes. Again. How often would he have to see this, all his good moments and why were there bad moments, too?

A massive jolt goes through the helicopter as he hits the ground and now the smell of copper, fuel and earth fills his nostrils. Wet, dark, quiet earth. The smell of a grave. The beeping and whimpering blurs into one soundscape, a wave of sounds on which Frankie slips away as his eyes close shut. Dark, quiet earth. Like a grave.

A sheep. Or more than one? They bleat. They coax him out of his unconsciousness, every sound a beacon for his mind to find his way back into consciousness. Out of the dark peacefulness, back into the light. Frankie groans, everything hurts, not only his body, his whole existence hurts, feels broken and ripped. The sunlight cuts through between his eyelids, blinding him, but that is what he wants, the light. He needs the light.

He shields his eyes and finds himself in a meadow. Poppies, cornflowers, grass. Wet, rich earth under his palm as he tries to push himself up. The buzzing of insects. And the bleating sheep. He finds himself in a dream of cottage life. Then he turns his head and sees the helicopter, the carcass of the metal beast he tried to fly too close to the sun. Like Icarus he came crashing down.

He doesn’t have to check, he knows “a fatal crash with zero survivors” when he sees one. Frankie got lucky, again. Somehow death spared him, he always does. Maybe the old fella took a liking in watching Frankie fuck up his life over and over again. 

Military training kicks in, he checks himself for injuries and finds no major ones. Maybe a broken rib or two, a concussion for sure. He grunts and pushes himself onto his knees, crying out in pain that he doesn’t even know where it’s coming from. 

A furry head appears out of the tall grass, white curls, pink nose, floppy ears, black and vigilant eyes. The snout opens and a bleat comes out. Like a complaint for this human being. To better not disturb the peace in this meadow any further with his mediocrity of surviving yet another accident that should have killed him.

“Sorry,” Frankie mutters and finds the energy to rise to his feet. Shaky, wobbly, the scent of earth and grass clinging to his damp clothes and skin. “You know somewhere for me to find help?”

Another bleat, then the sheep turns and starts wading through the tall grass with all the time in the world. Frankie watches the little bum disappear between green blades dotted with red poppies. He might as well follow the animal. Perhaps he will find a shepherd this way. Or a good shepherd may find him. God knows Frankie is in desperate need of some guidance. Or at least medical attention.

So he starts walking, more limping than anything else, his boots cutting a swath through the grass and flowers, every step causing mayhem for bees and bugs. The sheep, a few steps ahead of Frankie, sways through the meadow like a ship through green waves. It doesn’t turn around once, doesn’t turn towards its herd, the animal simply follows an invisible path that Frankie can’t see. Maybe he is losing it now, following an animal after having a fatal crash like it was his guide. But he had done weirder things in his life. Maybe he had hit his head really hard on the ground when he got thrown out of the helicopter. 

His head hurts, his legs hurt, breathing hurts as well, but the scent of summer and peace fills his hurting lungs and every breath soothes the stinging and rippling in his chest.

It takes some time, but finally, after hobbling behind the sheep, the meadow opens into a clearing, a gravel pathway starting to show and leading to a cottage. A small house with walls made out of stones, big and small, various shades and colors, a crooked roof, ducking under some trees as if it was hiding from the eyes of anyone who was not welcome. The birdsong sounds different now, too. 

Another bleat and the sheep starts trotting towards the house, the front door open wide. Silence. There is no sound to be heard, no voices, no music playing, no banging of pots and pans. Just birds, humming insects, the sheep drinking water from a bowl. Peace, comes to Frankie’s mind as if someone had seeded the word into his brain.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there, on a creaky bench in front of the house, basking in the last warm rays of the sun before it hides behind the trees. Ten minutes maybe, or an hour. His thoughts were flowing molasse thick behind his forehead. Thoughts about the crash, thoughts about the lives he has on his list, thoughts about who might miss him if he disappeared for good this time. 

His eyes flutter shut. The sunlight is warm on his skin, painting the darkness behind his eyelids orange. It’s like he’s floating away, on his way to the sun once more.

“Francisco?” 

Your voice is soft, almost as if the wind had whispered his name. He opens his eyes, turns his back on the painless bliss of unconsciousness once more.

Rays of the setting sun frame you where you’re standing in front of him, giving you a warm glow, illuminating the flowing fabric of the dress that you’re wearing. He doesn’t question how you know his name, how you feel familiar even though he’s certain that he’s never seen you before. He must have hit his head really hard.

“I— I crashed,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and the words scraping his throat on their way out. 

His hand vaguely gestures in the direction he came from, but he can’t see the helicopter anymore, no sign of the crash either, only seemingly endless fields of grass and wildflowers, with trees in the distance. How far did he walk? 

You nod, seemingly unsurprised. The sheep that led him there nudges your hand with its snout and you scratch through the wool around its ears, muttering what sounds like thank you. It bleats at him once more, before finally trotting back to its herd, blending into the white dots among the green. 

You pick up the wooden basket you had been carrying and tip your head towards the open door. Your eyes had been trained on his face, but when he stands up on unsteady legs, they trail down his frame, lingering on his side where blood has been seeping through his shirt and the stained fabric is clinging to his skin uncomfortably. He barely registered the pain while he was sitting there, but now, it grows to full intensity. Maybe it’s more than a concussion and a cracked rib after all. 

He follows you over the threshold, taking in his surroundings. The stony walls, littered with mismatched wooden shelves, filled with books and flowerpots. Small windows through which the evening light is filtering in. Worn down furniture, cushions that he would love to sink his tired body into right now. An earthy, heavy scent, cleansing his mind and his lungs. 

For the first time in years, there’s no underlying need for the artificial high that has kept his head over water and simultaneously pulled him under. 

“We need to clean you up,” you say, eyeing his bloody shirt again. 

You lead him up a wooden staircase, creaks accompanying his every step, and into a small bathroom. The light from a round window reflects off forest green tiles, mesmerizing him. You fill up a bathtub, adding oils from little glass bottles, until a herbal scent is wafting around him. 

Carefully, you help him strip off his clothes down to his underwear. Lifting his arms hurts like hell and he sucks in a harsh breath when his shirt unsticks from the open wound on his left. Some of the pain eases as soon as he sinks down into the warm water, a grateful sigh falling from his lips. You smile at that, a small, timid thing, and he wants to keep looking at you, wants to make you smile again, but you settle on the stone floor at his back, pushing down on his shoulders until most of his body is submerged. 

With a cloth, you start on his face, cleaning off mud and dried blood, so gently that it barely stings when you touch scratches on his skin. You move on to his hair, letting him lean back, your fingers massaging over his scalp, easing the tension, the worry that he’s carrying around with him. Finally, you probe at his rips under the water’s surface, fingertips dancing over the open wound there. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it feels less heavy, less biting somehow. 

Your hands trace over the scars littering his torso in gentle touches, soothing phantom pains that have long passed. “I’m sorry about these,” he thinks he hears you say, so quietly that he’s not sure if the words were meant for him to understand. 

“‘s not your fault,” he murmurs, his eyelids drooping shut once more as he sinks deeper into the warm water. 

He awakens surrounded by soft white bedding, a wooden ceiling with exposed beams over his head and the light of early sunrise falling into the room, painting it golden. He stretches without thinking, only a sting at his ribcage reminding him of the day before. 

It all feels like he’s walking through a dream, one too beautiful to disturb. So, he doesn’t wonder how he came here, who you are, why you seem to know him, how you seemingly healed most of his injuries simply by giving him a bath. If this is what an actual dream feels like, not the nightmares he usually has, he doesn’t want to wake up. 

Everything feels easy, here, with you. There don’t seem to be any clocks in the cottage, so he has no idea what time it is, but it must be early morning. Still, he finds you in a small garden behind the house, tending to vegetables that you’re growing there. 

He feels your gaze flying over him, like you’re checking what state he’s in. Then, with a smile, you start explaining what you’re doing. Which plants to water, which vegetables are ready to be harvested. He works alongside you, naturally, like he’s always done this. It feels good, using his hands and body like this. Growing something, helping someone, doing good. 

He follows you to the small kitchen, watches you prepare things, storing them in a pantry. You explain which herbs you are growing in small pots on a windowsill, handing them to him one by one to let him smell them. 

The sun is rising higher, warming the air floating in through the open backdoor. You take his hand and pull him outside again, walking down an invisible path through the green fields surrounding the cottage. Bees are buzzing in the wildflowers around you and the sheep are bleating occasionally, watching the two of you with curious eyes, but not coming closer to investigate. 

You’re wearing a dress again, the skirt flowing around your ankles in the light breeze and the sunlight illuminating your figure as you skip a few steps ahead of him. Frankie can’t help himself, picking a few of the flowers and handing them to you. His heart almost cracks at your wide smile when he gives them to you, your fingertips grazing his. 

Back at the cottage, you put them into a vase on the kitchen counter, the flowery scent mixing with the house’s earthy notes in no time. It’s a small thing, but in a way, it's a trace of his presence here. It’s almost scary how much Frankie likes that thought.

It becomes a routine, as easy as breathing. The two of you taking care of the garden first thing in the morning, then a walk through the fields. The sheep start coming closer, even though they don’t let him pet them the way they do with you. He barely hurts anymore, the wound at his side almost completely healed. 

In the evenings, you make tea from the herbs that you’re growing. Frankie has never liked tea, always proud to be a black coffee guy, but this one is different. It calms him, slows his thoughts down and fills him with a peace he didn’t know life had to offer. And it’s something that you made. For him, to care for him. 

One night, you’re both sitting in front of the fireplace, watching the flames and listening to them crackling. He starts telling you about his past, about all the regrets that haunt him. About the men that he’s killed, about all the pain and sadness that he’s responsible for. About the woman and child that he abandoned, all to chase a high that he knew was unreachable. 

He feels lighter, afterwards, like a shadow has lifted from his heart. You take his hand and rest it on your thigh. Your fingertip dances over his open palm, drawing delicate shapes over the calloused lines of his skin. 

“All the violence it took you to become this gentle,” you sigh. 

Your smile is sad, and he wants to kiss it off your lips. He’s never felt gentle one day in his life, has always been made of brute force and rough edges, but here, with you, he thinks you might be right.

With every passing day, the peace seeps deeper into his bones. Maybe it’s not a dream. Maybe everything that happened before was the dream, a nightmare, and he finally woke up.

That evening, you’re singing while preparing dinner. He puts down his knife and the potatoes he’s been chopping and takes your hand instead. You grin at him, still singing as he sways the both of you around to the melody. His heart aches at the sound of your laugh. 

He pulls you closer, leaning in, eyes darting to your lips. For a second, he could swear that you’re moving towards him too. Then you sigh, one hand coming up to rest on his chest, stopping him. He freezes. 

“Frankie, you— We can’t. You can’t stay here” 

Suddenly, his whole body feels cold.

“Why not? I want to be here. With you.” 

Under other circumstances, he’d be ashamed of the whine in his voice. 

“Your time hasn’t come yet.”

“What do you mean, my time hasn’t—” 

Tears well up in your eyes. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip. 

“I’ve already kept you longer than I should have. I’m sorry, Frankie. You have more life to live. I’ll protect you, just like I have before.”

Before he can say another word, before he can even attempt to understand, your arms wrap around him. Your lips sink down onto his, just as soft as he imagined, just as sweet. 

Then, everything dissolves. The stone walls around him, the setting sun through the window, the scent of herbs and fresh flowers. It leaves only the feel of your warm body, your lips on his. Until that disappears, too.

His eyes fly open, seeing nothing at first. Sound erupts around him like an explosion. Blurry shapes move in his periphery. The air is thick with smoke, his ears are ringing. His mouth tastes of blood. Hands are frantically pulling at him, moving him, shouting at him, around him, in words that he can’t make out. 

It’s like he’s watching, barely present in his body as someone feels his wrist for a pulse, shines a light into his eyes, checks his body for injuries. He doesn’t understand. He was good, he was healing. He was at peace. 

His body is limp as he gets strapped onto a stretcher. They may be talking to him, he thinks.

“He must’ve had a guardian angel,” someone next to him says. 

Frankie isn’t listening. He’s scanning the treeline, the landscape around him. It was all right here, the sheep, the meadow. 

It’s like you’re still right there, the phantom of your presence next to him, but he can’t see you anymore. Just like it was before, he could swear he hears you whisper.

thank you so much for reading <3 as always, comments and reblogs are love, i'm so excited to hear what you think!

[evieelyzabethh]

What would be worse would be a yandere Jayce back in the apocalypse universe or a yandere Viktor who turned into the herald, why not both. What would it be like if the two were in love with the reader, but never declared themselves... well until these events, perhaps magic corrupted that love and turned it into something dark, perhaps a yanderes fight, perhaps a reconciliation between the two... Could you make a fanfiction of this, perhaps if possible with a female reader?

This came at such a perfect time because I've been having a lot of yandere Arcane thoughts, and it is too far from October to wait to do it for some sort of Halloween event. Needless to say, get ready for Yanuary (everyone say thank you mina for coming up with the name) because I am about to be insufferable. I'll certainly do more with these concepts a bit later, but for now I will leave some headcanons...

tw for obsessive behaviors and Herald!Viktors very flawed line of logic

While both loves start out pure, intentions take a turn for the worst after the world starts to go to shit. While I don't think it's canon, I am a firm believer that Viktor died during that explosion and what is left of him is a persona puppetted around by the Arcane. All of Viktor's raw ambitions; notoriety, an able body, and desire to help the Zaunites all become corrupted. Viktor deeply regrets taking a back seat to negotiations surrounding the fate of those from the Undercity, his pride was too great to beg for scraps from those seated at the table, and thus his genuine want to help those from his home gets sidelined because of his pride and want of glory.

Love is not a corruptible force. When Viktor died, so did his love for you, but those intense feeling certainly linger. That admiration turns to obsession, the need to be adored turns into desperate overcompensation. He feels it is his calling to save the world, he develops a very focused tunnel vision and a savior complex that motivates his every action to not only save the world, but more importantly, save his world. To save you, to preserve you. His dream is to keep you infinitely, that really is the root of his Glorious Evolution. He wants perfection in the human form, the human mind, the human capability. He wants to perfect the human condition, he wants forever.

You must see it his way, you must be his accomplice, he wants you to be by his side every step of the way. The Sky he hallucinates is nothing but an astral projection of a perfected version of her, at times a manifestation of his humanity and why he kept going. She was his regrets, his comfort, she was the bad he was making good. But you. You are what he is striving to build. You are his goal, his muse. Every bit of him that respected you then yearns so deeply for you now. And he hasn't found you yet, you disappeared before he woke up and even Jayce didn't know where you were, but he is sure that if he were to find you, you would understand.

Jayce going yandere would occur after his trip to whatever hell dimension he was left to. Time works differently everywhere, he was only gone for months in the main verse, but it could've been years for him. Years in not just solitude, but a wasteland of death. Jayce is someone who so thoroughly, and at times naively, believes in humanity's capability for good. It's his passion. Him signing his notes, his dedication to his craft, his willingness to learn the ways of politics, his kicking Heimerdinger off the council, his gullibility, his willingness to move wherever the wind from someone's lips takes him, it's all because of faith and a passion for good. Now, everywhere he looks isn't just death, but remnants of war.

Everything he's worked tirelessly to avoid has not only come true but disproves his entire way of thinking. It takes more than him to save the world, it takes more than the help of others to save the world, it may take more than even exists to save the world. Even worse, it may take him not existing to save the world. While Viktor's yandere nature is built from a need to preserve what is right, the only thing that is right, Jayce is a man who is completely and utterly lost.

He doesn't know what's right anymore, but he knows he needs to do something to make it right. He doesn't cling to the thought of you for guidance, he clings to you because it's all he knows. You could've been the worst person in the world, but he would've hoped for you in the end of the world because you were there. You were real. His dream may not have been, but he touched you, and you believed in him, and you were as magical as a wish but as tangible as a physical star. You were bright, and you were warm, and you were real.

And he sits there in that cold, damp cave, nothing but stones, insects, and death around him, and every time he scrawls your face it looks a bit different. Your smell gets mingled with mildew and dampness as that slowly becomes his home, the drops of rain and rock start to sound like the twinkling sound of your voice, everything becomes you. Not for the sake of his sanity, that left him when time began to wave through him until he was convinced he would begin to vomit tick marks, but for the sake of survival. You were his faith. He would've worshipped the ground you walked on, and though you were nothing but dust here, he could find you everywhere. He went through a transcendental awakening; belief needed faith, and faith was all he had. You had to be real, why else would the insects chirp, why else would water flow, why else would he bleed, if not for you, if not because of you. If he believed, then you were real, and he would get back to you one day and be rewarded by his conviction.

When he finds his way back, he is searching for you immediately. Even when his surroundings blend and his ears bleed and he's overwhelmed by life once again, he is convinced that he will find you. You have to be out there. You can't be dead. He's lived in a world without you for too long, he would finally break if he couldn't be with you again. He's possessive. You have only existed in his mind for years; this world has had you all to itself while he suffered endlessly and eternally only wanting you. He's feels entitled to you. He knows you don't need his protection, but you are ignorant to what's out in the world. It's not a matter of if he finds you, it's when. A believer as devout as him wouldn't just go to the ends of the earth, he's already done that. If he must, he'd go beyond. He's been through hell; he is more than deserving of heaven. He knows he was wrong for believing in humanity when he had his God in front of him the whole time.

As for who's worse, it really depends. Physically, Jayce. He doesn't realize his strength, he hasn't had to worry about the delicateness of flesh in a while. His hands have held nothing but harsh rock. He would never intentionally hurt you; he would spiral if he even accidentally caused you any harm. He's far more fragile that Viktor, he's more prone to outbursts, though his violence is always inflicted inward. He believes he's ruined; he only wants to be saved. Viktor is the complete opposite. He would be worse mentally. Like Jayce, he would never physically harm you, but he's not above manipulation. He won't give up on you, you're too precious, but you have to see it his way. Why won't you see it his way? He'll just have to make you.

These two are diametrically opposed. An immovable obstacle and unstoppable object. They would butt heads forever over you, they wouldn't be able to reach a compromise or any sort of agreement. Viktor is dangerous. His evolution is actively killing people, Viktor himself is already long gone. Jayce would sooner die than let him have you and Viktor wouldn't mind killing Jayce and leaving his dead body to rot. Jayce isn't worth saving to him, you can lead a horse to water, but you can't teach it to drink. If Jayce doesn't want his salvation, he isn't worth convincing, he can die painfully in that clumsy mortal vessel and decay on the hill he chose. He can't have you; he doesn't deserve you.

[uconnwbbcrashout]

last winter break

chapter ii: “haven’t seen you since last winter break”

paige x azzi

word count: 3.1k

content: underage drinking (again, i do not condone), swearing, angst, and perhaps a bit of fluff (?)

chapter list: here

author’s notes: i heard there were a few requests for a second chapter...here you go! also shoutout to the anon who gave me an idea for this chapter. you’ll know who you are when you get to that part. :) enjoy!

Winter 2021-2022

Moving across the country for the first time—alone—is absolutely terrifying.

Basketball has taken Azzi to faraway places—from East to West coast with her AAU team, to different countries for FIBA tournaments. Hell, she’s even been to Maryland more times than she can count, having visited there as soon as they offered her a scholarship in the sixth grade.

Even so, she wasn’t prepared for how isolating it would feel when she first got there. How much she’d miss her family even though they came out to help her move. How lonely it would feel in the dorms when she opted to move in a few weeks ahead of most of her teammates. How she’d wish she hadn’t taken all the little things about her home for granted.

For a while there, it was just her, a stack of books, an empty apartment, and her endless thoughts.

Then—finally—things had started to fall into place. Roommates moving in. Practices starting up. Early morning lifts in the weight room. Team bonding activities in the summer. Back-to-school parties. New friendships filling up her time.

All of it, culminating into something she hadn’t felt so deeply in a very long time—genuine happiness.

She was finding herself again. Finding her place on the team, in the world. Sure, it took her a little while to get her shot back, to build up that chemistry with a new team. But things were finally starting to look up.

And even though she was sidelined for the moment—her recurring foot injury deciding to become a problem again—she was still happy, still grateful that it wasn’t something worse. That it wasn’t anything like what she experienced two years ago.

After all of the chaos and turmoil and just overall mess from the past few years, she felt like she could finally breathe.

There was, of course, just one little spot in heart that she couldn’t quite fill.

But she didn't expect that to ever fully go away.

*****

She’s clearing out her locker, grabbing the last of her things after the team’s dominant win over Coppin State, when she sees a pair of sneakers fly into the locker next to her.

“Thank God for this break,” she hears Diamond mutter before flopping down into the chair in front of her locker. “I need to catch up on at least three months’ worth of sleep.”

Azzi chuckles at that, shoving a pair of her own sneakers into her bag. “I hear you.”

“You guys all goin’ home for Christmas?” Diamond asks the few players still lingering in the locker room. There are a few nods and murmurs of affirmation around the room. Diamond turns to Azzi, poking at her arm. “And back to Minnesota for you?”

Azzi bobs her head. “Yeah, I’m flying out tomorrow. Gonna see my family and stuff. Should be a good time.” She thinks for a second, folding a warmup shirt. “Some guy from high school is having a house party, I think. Might stop there if my old teammates are going.”

Diamond taps her chin, seeming to think her answer over. Then she’s smirking, pushing at Azzi’s arm again. “Your girl gonna be there?” she teases.

Azzi’s face flushes. She hears Angel snicker from the other side of the room and hurls a pair of socks at her. “Not my girl,” Azzi mumbles, ducking her head into her locker.

“Huh?” Diamond says, the smirk not leaving her face. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said she’s not my girl. Exes, remember?” Azzi sighs, not ready to have this conversation with her roommate again.

Especially not in front of the rest of the team.

“Mhm,” Diamond hums, disbelief in her voice. “She gonna be there?”

Azzi drags a hand down her face. “Oh my God, I don’t know. He said anyone in the neighborhood could go. How would I know if she’s going?”

Diamond puts her hands up in surrender. “Hey, I was just asking. I mean clearly you still care about her,” she adds, nodding her chin behind where Azzi is standing. Azzi follows her movements, her eyes settling on the lanyard hanging from a hook in her locker. The well-worn keychain there, "PAIGE+AZZI" spelled out in pink and purple bracelet beads. A gift Paige had given her some five years ago, back before either of them understood that their love for the other went far beyond just friendship.

She wants to deny it. She’s done so much to get over her. Went on an entire journey of rediscovering herself this past year.

She’s moved on, she thinks. As much as she feels like she possibly can.

Paige was more than just a girlfriend, though, and more than just a best friend. She was her person. For so much of her life. There’s no point in denying that.

There’ll always be a little corner of her soul, a little box reserved for all the memories of Paige that she can’t quite let go of.

And maybe that’s okay.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Azzi brushes her off, and Diamond, thankfully, leaves it at that.

*****

Azzi regrets going to this party before she even walks through the front door. For one, the thought of willingly spending time with people she went to high school with sounds absolutely awful. Yeah, it’ll be good to see her old teammates, but she can live happily without seeing most of the other people here again. It’s also fucking freezing, as per usual for Minnesota in late December.

And then, when she finally gets there, she nearly gets tackled by some Hopkins jock running with a football across the front lawn. She rolls her eyes as she weaves her way past three people in varying states of drunkenness laying across the front porch.

When she pushes through the front door, a few of her teammates are upon her almost immediately, pulling her into side hugs and patting her on the back. One of them pushes a drink into her hand and takes her hand, leading her to where the rest of the team is standing in the living room. And then there’s even more hugs, even more smiles, even more catching up to do and, okay, maybe this isn’t all so bad.

She’s so caught up in talking and sharing stories that she hardly has a chance to survey her surroundings, to really take in the scene around her. Her eyes roam around the room, from the mass of bodies moving with the music to the ornate chandelier hanging above them all.

Then she’s searching harder, her eyes scanning for a familiar form.

She spots her almost immediately. It’s hard not to, actually, with the mob of people surrounding her. People begging for autographs, asking for pictures, talking her ear off. People she’s sure that Paige barely recognizes, suddenly trying to attach themselves at the hip.

Sometimes Azzi forgets that her ex is bigger than just a local celebrity now.

Those piercing eyes, always so perceptive to Azzi’s movements, flit about the room, before finally landing on her.

Azzi turns away, downs the rest of her drink, and tries desperately to lose herself in the story her teammate is telling the group.

When she looks up again, Paige’s burning stare is still locked onto her.

This is going to be a long night.

*****

It’s some hours and many drinks later when she feels Taylor jab an elbow into her side, and she moves her hand to swat it away. “Ow, what the hell was that for?”

Taylor winces and moves her arm back quickly. “Sorry, I just…” she trails off, exhaling heavily. She cocks her head toward the far side of the room. “How long are you gonna pretend like you don’t see her staring at you?”

Azzi glances up at the corner of the room that her eyes have been drifting to all night, her brown eyes locking with blue ones. She swirls the ice around in the cup in her hands and takes a long drink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Azzi, come on. You’re so obvious with it.”

“Am not.”

Taylor’s shaking her shoulder then. “Yes, you are. Why don’t you just go talk to her or something?”

Azzi laughs incredulously. “You want me to go talk to her. My ex. The one who broke up with me.”

“Oh my god, I’m not saying you have to go kiss her or something,” Taylor sighs. Azzi feels her face get hot. “Look, it’s been a year since the last time you saw her, right? I dunno, maybe things will be chill now. Just go say ‘hi’ or something. You obviously want to.”

“I second that,” Kelis pipes up from beside her, and Azzi glares daggers in her direction.

“Me too, actually,” someone else adds.

“Yeah, why not?”

“I think it’s a great idea.”

“I think she wants to talk to you, too, Azzi.”

“Just go do it, come on!”

What is it with my teammates and not understanding that striking up a conversation with my ex is an absolutely terrible idea?

Azzi opens her mouth to protest, ready to defend herself, but she catches sight of Paige in her periphery again and the words die on her tongue.

This is insane, she thinks. This is an insane thing to do.

“You guys are actually the worst,” she mutters, but even still, she finds herself slipping out of the circle, striding across the room toward the far corner. She rolls her eyes at the sounds of laughter and clapping coming from her old teammates behind her.

Azzi’s palms start to feel sweaty as she steps closer, and she tries to wipe them off on her jeans. She walks past a set of speakers, the thumping bass rattling her brain around inside her skull. She squeezes past the throngs of bodies mingling about the room, tries not to trip over her own feet anytime she catches a glimpse of familiar baby blue eyes.

She finally pushes past the edge of the crowd, where there’s nothing separating the two of them besides a few feet of empty space.

Paige is leaning against the wall, crutches propped up under her arms, a plastic cup in one hand and her phone open in the other. She’s alone, Azzi realizes, the group around her having dissipated at some point in the night.

She has a UConn bomber jacket and sweats on, her usual air of coolness about her. Azzi watches her click her phone off and slide it into her pocket. She slowly, agonizingly drags her eyes up over Azzi’s figure, her eyes lingering on the sliver of skin showing above her waist. Spends a moment spent too long on her belly button piercing, before finally locking her eyes onto Azzi’s own.

Fires ignite across Azzi’s skin, scorching her. It’s mystifying how Paige can get her feeling this hot just by looking at her.

Paige is silent, her bottom lip snagged between her teeth, clearly waiting for Azzi to do something.

Azzi takes in a shaky breath.

“Hi, Paige.”

“Hey, Azzi,” Paige replies, the corner of her mouth turning upwards. She feels Paige’s gaze on her again, moving lazily downward before stopping at the floor.

There’s a light tap on the front of her boot, Paige’s foot pushing gently against her own. “How’s the foot?”

“Not so fucking great,” she admits, lifting some of her weight off the injured foot in question. Before she even realizes what she’s doing, her hand is reaching out and tapping softly against the brace on Paige’s leg, her knuckles brushing against the cotton of her sweatpants. “How’s the knee?”

“Not so fuckin’ great,” Paige repeats back, a small smirk on her face. “Bein' injured sucks, man.”

Azzi chuckles at that. “Tell me about it, P.” Paige’s smile only grows wider, and Azzi has to look away for a second before her heart actually beats out of her chest.

Paige coughs and Azzi watches intently as she pulls at her earlobe.

“So...how’s that Maryland life been treatin’ you so far?”

Azzi rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t really know—I’ve only played four games.”

Paige clicks her tongue. “Fair point. Still, you gotta have somethin’ you can tell me.”

“It’s…intense,” she pauses, reflecting on the past few months. “It’s tough, but it’s really rewarding, you know? Diamond’s one of my roommates and she’s been helping me memorize all the plays. And Shyanne’s been pretty fun to hang out with, too.”

“I’m happy for you, Az,” Paige replies, her focus drifting to the ground.

“Thanks. It’s always nice to make new friends, right? The whole team is pretty tight-knit.”

It takes Paige a beat too long to respond.

“Noticed you and Angel been gettin’ pretty close,” Paige mutters, so quietly that Azzi isn’t quite sure she’s hearing things correctly.

Azzi raises an eyebrow at that. “Reese? What do you mean?”

Paige shrugs, the skin around her thumbnail suddenly requiring the utmost attention. “I’on know. You guys just seem close is all.”

'Close'? What the hell is she talking about?

“I don’t understand.”

Azzi cannot for the life of her figure out what Paige is getting at. Sure, Angel is her friend. She more or less took Azzi under her wing, was one of the first people at Maryland who helped her figure out her place on the team. They hung out sometimes, recorded a couple TikToks, posted some pictures together, whatever.

What was the problem with that?

Azzi looks at Paige again, really looks at her this time, scanning her face for anything that can give away what she’s thinking.

She finds it—in the unhinging of her jaw, the narrowing of her eyes, the creasing of her brow, the refusal to make eye contact.

Oh.

Paige is jealous.

Azzi has no idea what to do with this information. Has no clue whether she should be infuriated or amused by this whole situation. Has to remind herself for what feels like the hundredth time that Paige was the one who broke up with her.

What the hell does Paige have to be jealous about?

An uncomfortable silence stretches between them then, just the reverberating bass and the rumbling crowd behind them filling the air.

Paige shrugs again. “She’s pretty,” Paige mumbles.

“What are you saying?” Azzi asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m not saying anything. I just—,” she runs a hand through her hair, tipping her head back against the wall. Azzi trails her eyes over the muscles in her neck, wishing—not for the first time—that Paige wasn’t so effortlessly, undeniably attractive.

Focus, Azzi.

Paige rolls her neck around and drops her gaze back to Azzi. She shakes her head. “It’s, like, chill if there’s somethin’ there or whatever.”

There's no way this is happening right now.

Azzi wants to laugh. Instead, she brings a hand up to rub at her temples. “I—You know she doesn’t swing that way, P. What’s the point of even bringing this up?”

Paige shrugs for a third time, and Azzi is actually going to lose it if she does it one more time. “Just, like, if there is someone, it’s fine, you know?”

“I don’t need your permission to date other people, Paige.”

“Who said that you did?”

“You, apparently.”

“Not at all what I said, but 'kay.”

“It was implied.”

“Literally wasn’t.”

“Whatever. I just—I don’t need your input, P.”

“I know.”

“Then why does it seem to matter to you?”

“Fuck, Azzi.” Paige pinches at the bridge of her nose, her eyes screwed shut. “I’on wanna fight every time we see each other. Look, I’m sorry. I really am. Can we just drop it?”

Azzi hates how fast she caves at the pained look on Paige’s face. “Fine,” she relents, uncrossing her arms.

“Thank you.”

But Azzi isn’t quite finished, her tongue feeling loose and her lips moving freely. “You’re actually so confusing. It’s infuriating. You know that, right?”

Paige’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Huh?”

Azzi finds herself taking a step closer into Paige’s space, the scent of her cologne filling up her lungs, threatening to suffocate her. “You’re confusing. First, you breakup with me,” Azzi sticks out a finger to start counting on her hands. “You tell me, ‘Azzi, things just aren’t gonna work out.’ Then you text me, nonstop, for months—‘Azzi, I fucked up. Azzi, I’m sorry. Azzi, I miss you.’ Then you tell my mom that you wanna see me again over break. Then you try to tell me I’m making a mistake by not going to UConn.” Paige opens her mouth like she’s going to protest, but Azzi continues on, “No, lemme finish this. You try to get me to go to UConn. Then you try to act like you know what’s good for me. And now you’re jealous that I’m making friends who aren’t you, jealous at the possibility of someone having me the way you did? And all the while I just know that you’ve been seeing other people. Does that make any fucking sense to you?”

Paige releases the inside of her cheek from between her teeth, exhales upwards, fluttering the few loose strands of her hair that have fallen around her face. “No, Azzi. It doesn’t,” she admits.

Azzi’s eyes feel a little wet, but she wills herself to make it through what she wants to say.

Against her better judgment, she steps forward again, reaches down, gently holds Paige’s hand in her own. She’s close enough to hear Paige’s breath hitch when she links their fingers together. “I miss you, too, sometimes,” she confesses, tracing her eyes over their hands, intertwined between them. “Even though you drive me a little insane some days, I miss you.” She smiles wistfully. “But I’m just, fuck, I’m not there yet, alright? I’m not ready to try to be friends—or whatever—again.” She takes her bottom lip in between her teeth before releasing it. “Do you understand that?”

She feels Paige squeeze her hand. “I gotcha, Azzi. I hear you.”

“I’m not saying ‘never,’” she clarifies. “I've got things to work out, feelings to sort through, people to meet, new things to see. I just need a little more time.”

“Hey, it’s alright. Do whatever you need to do, ‘kay?” Paige reassures, flashing her a tentative smile. Azzi notices a glossiness in her eyes, too.

“Thank you, P.”

“’Course. Imma be there, whatever you decide you want,” Paige adds.

Azzi breathes out, a pressure lifting from her shoulders, one that was more overbearing than she realized.

Paige squeezes her hand again, willing Azzi to look back up at her. Azzi almost gasps at the sincerity she finds etched across her face.

“I’d wait as long as you asked me to, Az.”

[profeyandere]

𝐅𝐈𝐘𝐄𝐑𝐎 𝐓. ─── ☾ 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔

ʟɪɴᴋꜱ ↪ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ↪ ᴊᴏɴᴀᴛʜᴀɴ ʙᴀɪʟᴇʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ↪ ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ

ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏꜱ ↪ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.4ᴋ ↪ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜰɪʏᴇʀᴏ ᴛɪɢᴇʟᴀᴀʀ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ↪ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: "ᴡɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ" ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀꜱ, ꜰɪʏᴇʀᴏ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇᴄʀᴏᴡ, ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇꜱ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ʟᴏᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ.

English is not my native language, so I apologize for any mistake and if you can help me improve it, I will greatly appreciate it. I hope you enjoy it :D

The Scarecrow felt too lost since your arrival in the group. You were like a light of hope for Dorothy, like an older sister she would follow to the end of the world with your loving and sweet attitude that helped her understand that new world a little better; you were the heart the Tin Man needed to understand the feelings of others, perhaps in a somewhat questionable way because you gave him little taps where the feeling was supposed to reside; you were the bravery the Lion needed to face the Wicked Witch every time it was necessary, also showing with her the kindness you always offered Dorothy; and you were the brain he needed to act according to the situation. You were what each of them was missing, but above all, you were the reason he felt a great warmth in his chest when he was not really burning; he had already suffered that situation with the witch, so it wasn’t a truly new sensation, but deep down it was because he wasn’t burning at those moments. When his bluish eyes stopped on your friendly face, always smiling even in the most difficult or intense moments, he could feel that deep warmth that seemed to spread all over his body and caused a strange tingling in his stomach; as mentioned, that was strange and new to him, so he preferred not to question these sensations.

"Are you alright?"

Your sweet voice made his thoughts shift, making him turn his neck to see your figure slowly emerging from the shadows, joining him where the yellow brick road lay, which would guide you to the Emerald City, where you hoped to find answers and get the wishes that the wizard was supposed to fulfil. But as soon as he saw you, he again felt that burning in his chest.

"Of course, I’m fine," he affirmed quickly, although his head turned back to the front, to the road, leaving you again with that feeling of distress that reflected your concern and had appeared the very instant you met him for the first time with Dorothy. "Do you need some stuffing for the fire?"

His question caught you by surprise, but you simply shook your head and approached him until you were standing by his side. Somehow, his presence calmed you and made you smile in ways you didn’t expect, because of how familiar he was, how close he seemed, and how warm he appeared.

"No, you know we manage just fine with some twigs and the stones from the road," you said, wanting to calm whatever fear he might have had about seeing his straw stuffing burned in the fire to keep them warm during the nights as they headed toward their destination. "I don’t know how close you are to the others, but I’ve noticed that you avoid my company more than I would’ve thought."

Your statement hit him hard. It was true, he had kept his distance from you in an attempt to make that feeling of warmth fade at some point while you were out of reach, but whenever he saw you or you were closer to him, it came back stronger, to the point of making him think that only putting distance between you would make that feeling fade. But what he didn’t know was that you had felt something similar, not exactly the same, but similar, and you had chosen not to create that distance in an attempt to stay close to something so familiar in him.

And he knew you didn’t deserve such bad treatment from him, so unpleasant or rude, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to understand what was happening to him before acting without reasoning.

"I’m missing a brain, I don’t have one, but sometimes I think I don’t have a heart either because I don’t understand what I feel," he explained, placing his fabric hand over his chest, where his heart was beating strongly and quickly, the only truly human part in his being. "There’s something in my heart that warms with your presence, with your closeness, and I feel like I’m burning. And you know that a scarecrow when it burns… Well, it burns."

You couldn’t help but laugh at the end of his explanation, nodding your head slightly before looking at his chest, his jacket more specifically. That emerald green colour you had seen before, and those golden ornaments that decorated the chest, back, and shoulders, you had seen them too, specifically in the same pattern, on another person, in the wardrobe of a student’s room at Shiz; that garment made you sigh for the memories that came to your mind because of it, and maybe that was why you wished to be so close to the Scarecrow.

"Of course, you’d burn," you agreed with him, lifting your gaze to see his bluish eyes still fixed on his chest as one of your hands, unconsciously, was already on his hand, feeling the rough fabric that could have been a potato sack, so different from what Fiyero’s skin was like. "You remind me a lot of him."

The Scarecrow looked at you with confusion, slightly furrowing his brow, and as soon as he saw your eyes slightly teary, he knew something had been troubling you for a long time; the pain you showed was unusual, and he was deeply worried about those feelings you had. Your smile still remained, but it was trembling, while your hand seemed to want to grab his as if searching for some sort of comfort in his presence, a comfort that perhaps no one else in the group could give you except him because it seemed that in him you were looking for your love.

"Who do I remind you of?" He dared to ask, making you take all the air you could before slowly letting it out as you spoke.

— Fiyero, my Fiyero.

What he hadn’t thought about was that you were suffering from the loss of someone for whom you had felt something similar to what he felt for you, but whose feelings you already knew and could identify, not like him. You weren’t scared of that, but the truth was that you had to focus on your duty, on the only task you had set for yourself, before doing anything stupid or getting your hopes up for something that wasn’t real. That was why you had avoided being close to him in some way when you first met. Fiyero left without saying anything the next morning after Elphaba was declared a public enemy across all of Oz. You saw huge posters, banners, and statues of her figure burning in just the span of a night, and Fiyero wanted to go after her, rescue her, and maybe help her escape to a place where she wouldn’t suffer any harm, and he could return to you. But you had to be stubborn and ask him to take you with him. You asked him to call you before he left so you could accompany him and help him, to protect and care for him while you searched for Elphaba, and that didn’t fit into his plans; Fiyero didn’t want you to be in danger. You woke up completely alone, in a university where all the students were terrified, and your boyfriend had gone off to find the one person who could explain what had happened and possibly fix all the turmoil that had been caused in Oz.

"It must’ve been someone very important to you," murmured the Scarecrow, without pulling away from him, without distancing himself from you either, even if his chest was on fire.

You nodded slowly and watched as he slid his fabric hand so your hand could rest on his chest, where you could feel that very particular heartbeat that made your tears fall. Anyone could have called you exaggerated or could have said you were crazy for recognizing the heartbeat of a person when they were supposed to all beat the same, but only one beat with such strength and speed when you were near.

"Tell me it’s you, please…"

Your voice, pleading and soft, touched a sensitive chord in the Scarecrow, one of many he had. You had hope that he was Fiyero, that he was the person you had been looking for, the one you would have hugged during the nights as you headed to the Emerald City, the one you would have kissed like in fairy tales to see if the spell would break with a true love’s kiss, the one you had been loving for so long. You had assumed it. No one danced and sang like that if it wasn’t him, no one did that leg play in such a funny way if it wasn’t him, no one was as fun as he was, and definitely, no one could match his way of being or resemble him in the slightest if it wasn’t him; you had your hopes based on the Scarecrow’s actions, and you just prayed that it was him.

"What if you’re wrong?"

His question didn’t go unnoticed, and you knew perfectly well that was an option. But you knew it, you felt it in your heart, in his presence, in everything; it was him, only him, just with a different body and with his mind a little altered. Literally.

"Let’s find out, together," you proposed, standing on your tiptoes to gently kiss his lips, or at least where they should’ve been.

Of course, it wasn’t a kiss like the ones you had shared with Fiyero. The Scarecrow was rough and dry, and Fiyero was soft, warm, and tender, but that didn’t stop your hope from flaring up with more strength, and you from feeling like you were burning when he gently brushed your waist with one of his hands in an attempt to hold you, just as he felt himself burning while the reflection of different flashes seemed to pass before his eyes, where you were always there. Your smile, your voice, the way your eyes closed when you laughed, the way you held his hand, how you hugged him in the afternoons while you watched the sunset from one of your rooms; at every moment, there you were, with him. The way you stumbled sometimes when you danced together was endearing, at least the situation always helped him to have you back in his arms, just like now.

The Scarecrow didn’t know where all these images had come from, but he knew they weren’t a coincidence or hallucination because he felt that he had missed you, longed for you, and wanted to hold you in his arms over and over again.

Dorothy, who had been watching your interaction from the moment you had left the group, slowly removed her hands from her eyes so she could see how you pulled back after your kiss, which she had wanted to avoid seeing to give you both the moment of intimacy you seemed to need. For a moment, both of you remained completely still, just looking at each other while small shy smiles appeared on your respective faces, but you were surprised when you saw the Scarecrow’s arms wrap around your waist and lift you off the ground, hugging you against him with all his strength so you wouldn’t escape, to the point that the girl thought he was trying to hide you in his stuffing, but hearing your laughter alongside his filled the young girl with surprise. Toto, who was also observing the scene, wagged his tail quickly as if sharing the happiness you were both exploding with.

At that moment, while she saw you both embrace joyfully under the moonlight, spinning like two lovers that you really were, Dorothy knew it wasn’t the brain the Scarecrow lacked, but his memories. The body wouldn’t be right, but his memories seemed to have been buried among so much straw, memories of you, of his past, of your past together, and now it seemed his wish had been fulfilled without the need for the Wizard of Oz to operate on him.

— It’s me, my love.

[kirain]

Emmrich forgetting Rook's birthday and feels guilty so he makes it up to her?

Emmrich doesn't strike me as the type of partner who would forget important dates like that, but what if he simply didn't know? Hopefully this is still a fun read:

A soft breeze swept through the Necropolis, interrupted only by the crisp snipping of shears. Emmrich, working in peaceful silence, pruned the vibrant flowers that twisted around the graves, their blooms not wild or unruly, but rather tributes that seemed to spring forth in honour of the dead.

Across the way, Vae moved with an elegance he couldn't help but admire. She wasn't simply tending to flowers; she handled each headstone with care, brushing away the dirt and arranging the petals to frame every name.

"You're putting a lot of thought into this," Emmrich said, her quiet reverence bringing a smile to his face.

Vae glanced up at him, a strand of hair falling loose from her tie. "Like you always say, the dead deserve dignity," she said, her voice warm. "It feels right to take my time."

Before he could reply, the sharp echo of boots broke the tranquility. Both turned to see a young courier enter the Necropolis, his gaze uneasy as he scanned the shadowy cemetery; clearly not a local, and clearly unsettled by the view.

"Over here!” Vae called amicably, hoping to sooth his nerves. Quickly, she set her shears aside and wiped her hands on her pants.

"Are you Vae?" The man approached, clutching his satchel tightly. "The, uh... death folk told me you'd be here."

"That's me."

Relieved, the courier handed her a small parcel wrapped in unassuming brown parchment. "This is for you. Straight from Antiva."

"Antiva?" Vae raised an eyebrow as she accepted the delivery, her expression curious.

She couldn't guess what it was or who had sent it, but she had no intention of bombarding the poor man with inane questions he probably couldn't answer. With a grateful nod, she reached into her pocket and handed him a generous tip.

"Th-thank you!" he stammered, tipping his hat. Then he mumbled a quick, "Pleasure," before scurrying off, eager to leave the solemn atmosphere.

"Now, what could that be?" Emmrich asked, tilted his head.

"I'm not sure." Carefully, Vae peeled back the paper to reveal a folded letter and a box of chocolates, the label embossed in gold. "Oh, how nice! It's from a friend of mine in the capital. She sends me these every—" She flinched, her lips curling. "Every so often." Yet she set the package aside without inspecting it further, then turned back to her work. "I'll tear into it later, when we're back at the Lighthouse."

"A friend?" Emmrich pressed, genuinely interested in learning more about the woman he loved. "She must be a remarkable friend indeed, sending you chocolates all the way from Antiva. And by personal courier, no less. That's a costly service. What's the occasion?"

"It's just a sweet gesture," Vae replied with a dismissive wave. "She's thoughtful like that."

Something in her tone gave the fervid necromancer pause. They'd been together for months—he knew her well enough to recognise when she was being evasive, dodging questions. As his eyes drifted to the unopened letter and neatly tied box of expensive treats, a thought struck him.

"Vae... today isn't your birthday, is it?"

She froze, then turned to him with a sheepish smile. "...Maybe?"

"What?" he gasped, his muscles tensing. "Why didn't you mention it?"

"I forgot," she shrugged. "We've been so busy, it didn't even cross my mind."

"Forgot? Vae, I would have—"

"Emmrich, it's fine. I promise," she chuckled, refocusing on the headstone in front of her. "It's just a day, anyway. No big deal."

Emmrich stood in stunned silence, his gaze flicking from the graves to Vae's overworked figure. Then, his jaw tightened.

"No big deal?" he huffed.

With a dramatic flourish, he raised his hand and wove it through the air, as if conducting an orchestra—and perhaps he was. Bones rattled in the nearby pavilion as the skeletons stationed there sprang to life, their fingers deftly strumming the instruments they carried even in death. Soon, a soft, lilting melody hummed through the Necropolis, haunting yet strangely beautiful.

"Emmrich," Vae squeaked, turning to face him, "what are you doing?"

He grinned, the expression handsome, dignified; then approached her with a polished bow. "May I have this dance?"

Vae quivered, pulling away. "But... I'm filthy," she stammered.

"Never, darling. You're radiant as always."

Her cheeks flushed. "And the graves—"

"Aren't going anywhere," he quipped, extending his hand.

Vae stared at the undead ensemble, swithering between disbelief and amusement. But when she looked back at Emmrich—and their eyes met—she sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You're impossible."

"Is that a yes?" he asked, his fingers beckoning.

"Fine." Defeated, she slipped her hand into his. "But just one."

"We'll see," he teased, gently drawing her into a casual waltz.

With his guidance, they moved in slow, fluid strides, the music wrapping around them like a spell. When he spun her, Vae laughed, the moment surreal, yet undeniably perfect. Though she lacked experience in dancing, Emmrich ensured she never felt out of place, his flow seamless and accommodating.

"Where did they even get the instruments?" Vae asked playfully, gesturing to the breathless band.

"They were donated along with the bodies," Emmrich answered excitedly. "Specifically so they could continue playing after death. It's a Nevarran tradition."

"Of course it is," Vae tittered, relaxing in his arms.

The world around them seemed to fade as he led her through the motions, his hand resting lightly on her waist, their fingers clasped together as they swayed in harmonious circles. The music played on, enchanting and serene—though, after a while, all Vae could hear was the quiet rhythm of their steps, and the steady, calming cadence of Emmrich's breath. His eyes never left hers, his gaze adoring in a way that made her heart skip a beat.

"Manfred?" he called after a while, addressing the curious spirit who lingered nearby. "Can you take a message to the kitchen for me, please? Tell them I'd like some strawberry cheesecake to go along with our tea time. It's Vae's favourite."

The bubbly skeleton nodded and clattered off, his bones clicking as he ran.

"What?" Vae stopped, her brow arching. "Emmrich, you don't have to do that. I know how much it bothers you when I—"

"You've been eating what I eat since our relationship began," he contested.

"You didn't ask me to."

"I know, but you have, even though I can tell it's been difficult for you." He shook his head. "Today is your day, and I want it to be as special as you are."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he silenced her with a kiss—deep, tender, his arms wrapping around her as if to anchor her in place. When he finally pulled away, she looked up at him, her cheeks glowing, pure ecstasy etched across her face.

"Thank you," she whispered, brushing her thumb along his chin.

He smiled. "Happy birthday, Vae."

[ginnyw-potter]

Precariously hoping (AO3)

Harry woke up alone. He stared up at the ceiling as he processed his latest nightmare. He rubbed his scar out of habit though it did not hurt the slightest bit.

The door opened softly and even though he gave no sign he had seen her, Ginny slipped into bed beside him and stared up at the ceiling too. Her elbow brushed against his arm.

"Tell me," she said lightly.

He shook his head slowly. "It's weird to have nightmares and they're entirely my own. They're not influenced by him anymore."

Of course they weren't. Voldemort was dead, but it was not something he was accustomed to.

"It's like he's still lurking in the corners of my mind."

"It takes a while, but it goes," Ginny told him quietly.

He turned his head to look at her and she met his eyes.

"Does it come back?" he asked. "For you?"

She nodded. "Sometimes. Less and less."

"That's good." He glanced down her body.

She was showing a lot of skin. Her shirt was short enough to show off her stomach and her shorts showed off a whole lot of leg.

"Great outfit."

She beamed at him. "It's summer out there, Harry. No dementors to bring the temperatures down. You can bet I'll enjoy it."

He glanced at her again. "Has your mother seen your outfit yet?"

"No." She shook her head lightly and her gaze came to rest comfortably on him again. "That's why I came to see you first."

"Ah?" He turned onto his side and let his fingers slip teasingly across her stomach before he wrapped his arm around her middle. "And for what purpose?"

She smiled broader. Easily. She turned onto her side towards him. "Mainly for that blush." Her finger ran across her cheek.

He chuckled and kissed her softly.

"You know if you weren't on the premises my mother would be okay with this outfit. Would've been okay with you here before we both hit puberty perhaps."

"I'm not past puberty," he said with a playful frown. "I'm still lanky."

She smiled and her fingers ran from his jaw to his neck. "That's due to circumstances. It'll be gone soon. I can see it going."

"Keen observer?" he teased.

She nodded. "Quite. After all we've lost, I need to see you heal."

His demeanor shifted immediately. "You're not losing me. Not in any way."

Her smile didn't meet her eyes now. "I'll have to wait and find that out on my own. You'll have to forgive me for not taking your word for it."

"I'll show you." He kissed her again. "But you have to promise me something."

She squeezed his upper arm. "And what's that?"

"Heal with me."

Ginny exhaled. "I'll try. It doesn't feel like I can right now."

"I know." He wrapped her into his embrace. "Just know you don't need to be strong all the time."

"My family needed me to." She pulled him closer. "I'm not afraid of the darkness. I can carry it."

He didn't know how to convey to her what he thought. Perhaps she would feel ready eventually. He knew if he pressed on she would be inclined to do the opposite.

"Mum and dad lost a son, Percy's guilt for not being here is eating him up. George lost a twin," Ginny said. "If I can help out, I'll do it."

He looked her in the eye. "I'll hold your hand every step of the way."

Her gaze slipped over his face, looking thoughtful.

"What?" he asked.

She turned onto her back again. "You never made me such promises before." She shook her head and breathed out. "That you'd be here for me."

"I knew I couldn't. Not then," he said. "Now I have every intention to."

She swallowed hard and her hand went blindly in search of his. He clasped hers.

"How much time do you reckon we have before Ron bursts in here?" he asked.

She met his gaze with twinkling eyes. "A while. I told him I'd distract you for him."

"And he agreed to that?" he asked in disbelief.

Ginny nodded eagerly. "He's in the garden with Hermione. You know how new couples are."

"Ha." He snorted. "And we are not?"

"We are and we aren't," she said as she took his hand between both of hers and played with his fingers mindlessly. "We are our own special thing."

"Yeah... unfortunately that sounds about right," he mumbled.

"Harry," she said firmly. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

He shook his head. "I think you do."

"I don't know. It's not perfect, but if things were different you wouldn't be you and I wouldn't be me." She squeezed his hand. "And I like who you are a whole lot."

He shifted closer to her. "I love you too."

"That's not what I said." She grinned at him, their eyes locked.

He placed a kiss on her lips. "It was subtext, I just know it. It always is with you."

"My secret is out," she told him quietly, her gaze fond. "How terrible."

[nmakii]

once upon a dream

— yukimiya’s been dreaming about a mysterious girl for a week and a half now. and, you haven’t been able to sleep. what happens when you finally talk? love at first sight.

stp i wrote this insane in like 7 hours icb this is 3.4k words!!! wtf i dont even like yukki that much 😭 this is j word vomit bro AHHAA

you were familiar with the mortal god known as kenyu yukimiya. he was everything your friends wanted in a boyfriend. he was kind, charismatic, gentlemanly, not to mention extremely handsome.

his status as a teenage model and athlete didn’t help his popularity either. girls were always asking him to hang out (hint: ‘hang out’ means ‘date’), to which he always agreed, even offering to pay for them.

that’s just how he was.

and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t fallen under his siren spell too. not when his charming smile kept luring you closer to your death.

but, you could never pull him! not in a million years. with the status quo as it is, you two are in two different worlds.

at least, that’s what you think.

to yukimiya, you were familiar, perhaps even special. he saw you once in passing while you were leaving your classroom, and he suddenly had a sense of deja vu; it was as if he’s already lived this before. it could always just be nothing. it could just be stress since nationals is coming up soon.

but even so, you still catch his eye. he’s always wanted to talk to you, but he’s had the secret anxiety that you wouldn’t be too interested in talking to him. so, he enjoys the short times he see you pass him in the hallway, or coincidentally pick the lunch table beside his in the cafeteria.

but, he still feels as if there’s more to it than just a friend crush. the way you carry yourself, and the tone of your voice— it all makes him feel a familiar way.

his dreams as of late have revolved around a faceless girl. he can never recall her face after he wakes, but he always awakens with a sense that a part of him is missing.

it’s late in the day, 20 minutes before 6 PM. and, training has just finished. yukimiya catches his breath as he takes off his goggles, switching them out for his everyday glasses.

“…see you, guys!” he bids to the rest of his team, taking his leave with his school bag and training gear in hand.

the walk home is silent. before black spots begin to appear in his vision. ‘damn it…’ he thinks, ‘right now of all times..?’. he internally groans before hurrying his pace, quickly making it home.

he takes off his shoes and calls, “mom! i’m home!”.

his mother hums in acknowledgment and responds, “kenyu, we’re having katsu curry for dinner!” ah, that sounds delicious…

“alright..! i’m gonna go lie down for a bit though. my vision is a bit blurry again…” he comes into the kitchen, greeted with the salivating smell of his mother’s homemade curry.

“dear, if that’s the case, go rest for a while. i’ll save you a portion, alright?” his mother smiles. yukimiya frowns a bit but he nonetheless, obeys. “alright, mom. i’ll just take a nap.”

he sighs as he climbs the stairs up to his bedroom, and flops onto his bed. today was exhausting, he almost immediately falls asleep.

he looks around— he’s back at school. the sun outside looks as if it’s about to set, so classes must be over. but, he’s still in a classroom.

he leans on a desk, while the familiar faceless girl sits on one of the chairs. “…hm… so, blueberries improve your eyesight, huh..?” she hums. he’s not quite sure what got him in this moment, but he nods. “that’s right. they strengthen the blood vessels behind the eyes.”

something about her was ethereal, have it be the delicate way she presents herself, or the way her hair gracefully frames her blurred face. whatever it was, the only thing that could come to mind when he saw her painted orange and pink by the setting sun was, ‘divine’.

“hah, maybe you’d benefit better from chocolate-covered blueberries rather than chocolate-covered strawberries then.” she snickers.

“ahah, i wouldn’t hate that too much… why not?” he shrugs, laughing as well. there’s a scary tension in his shoulders, he feels pretty stiff. he feels pretty nervous— it feels like dread, but at the same time as if he has swallowed a kaleidoscope of butterflies, fluttering their way into his heart.

“really? maybe i’ll get you a box of chocolate-covered blueberries for valentines’ day then!” she innocuously proclaims this, unknown to the fact that yukimiya’s heart gets caught in his throat.

“i..is that so? i guess that just means i’ll have to return the favor on white day.” he hums, retrieving his school bag and training gear which had been thrown carelessly on a random desk.

his body was moving, but not to his mind’s command. why was he leaving?

he turned his back to face the mysterious girl again. a lithe hand moves to cover her mouth as she yawns, small pearlescent tears forming atop her lower eyelid.

her speech gets slurred. and his dream fades to black.

when yukimiya awakens, it’s 1:14 AM. talk about an after-school nap…

he scowls. his dream ended so suddenly, he has the desire for closure to give rest to the many ‘what if’ scenarios for what she could have said. ‘what was she going to say? was she asking why i was leaving?’ he wonders.

putting his disappointment aside, yukimiya decides to go and shower first. he leaves his room and goes into the bathroom beside the stairs to shower. all before changing into some clean clothes.

putting on a clean t-shirt, yukimiya sighs. clean clothes felt good. his stomach gurgles, and he groans at the sound. he did sleep for 7 hours. he shouldn’t be too shocked that he’s starved.

making his way down the stairway, he goes into the kitchen and finds a plate of katsu curry and rice being covered by one of his mother’s large baking bowls. there’s condensation of steam dripping from the metallic bowl from when the dish had been warm. the katsu by now has lost its’ crunch after absorbing the curry, and the rice isn’t quite as sticky anymore.

it’s not ideal, but yukimiya doesn’t have it in himself to complain. he can’t do anything about it anyways.

he throws the plate into the microwave to heat for two minutes. and as the dish spins on the microwave’s glass plate, his mind wanders back to his dream. now, he could only vaguely recall details, but he knew that it felt real. the sensation of his school bag’s rough fabric, and the sound of her melodic voice pouring into his ears— it all felt real.

the microwave beeps, and his train of thought is quickly stopped as he takes his food out of the microwave, and sits lonely at the dining table.

‘geez, this is depressing…’ he internally sighs. he might as well stay up until he has to get ready for school.

in another home however, you’ve only fallen asleep. you’d been closing your eyes, as well as tossing and turning in your bed for about 3 hours now, unable to fall asleep. you’ve tried everything— sleep ASMRs, melatonin candies… but, none of them have been able to help you sleep earlier.

it’s been like this for a week and a half now. you’ve noticed the dark circles under your eyes are much more pronounced now, making you resemble an undead creature, rather than a high school student.

your friends have been teasing you with a corny, deluded saying— “if you can’t sleep, then it’s probably because there’s someone dreaming about you.”, they say. what nonsense! it was more likely that it’s the stress of your projects, than someone dreaming about you.

nonetheless, you simply relish in the fact that you’re now asleep. not dreaming about anything in particular, just having a sort of good night’s sleep.

you groan when your alarm on your phone goes off. it sounds like an emergency alert system alarm. your father suggested after the first two times you were late last week due to oversleeping. your hand mindlessly moves, looking to turn off the irritating noise.

when it’s finally off, you lie in your bed for an extra minute or two. your body feels so stiff, everything hurts…

your heavy eyes open once again, and you turn your head far enough to see your phone and check the time. 6:18, did you oversleep for 20 minutes? you should get ready soon…

you reluctantly get out from your comfortable bed and stretch, cracking all the stiff bones in your body. you go about your daily routine and go on your way to school. you walk hurriedly, in hopes of taking a quick cat nap before classes start.

that hope is sadly not reached, as you only arrive just about a minute or two before the bell rings.

you manage to soldier through the day, staying up and diligently taking notes, as well as taking a very well-deserved nap during lunch. it really is a feat— for you, at least.

the day goes by horrifyingly slow, and having to stay late for club these days is a nightmare. as much as you want to say you’ve been putting all your effort into club activities, you really have been idling through until the time runs out.

sitting in one of the desks, you’re chatting with one of your club mates as your club president approaches you, “ah, sorry to bother you, but there’s a box on my desk in classroom 3-6, could you get it for me please..? i’m a bit busy to do it myself..” she explains.

“hm..? ah, sure. don’t worry.” you nod in response. she sighs, relieved that you aren’t too annoyed. “yay! thank you!” she hums, and you set on your way to classroom 3-6.

you climb your way up to the third floor, and let yourself inside the classroom. you quickly identify your president’s desk by the large box filled with goodies. “oh?” an airy yet warm voice hums. “what are you doing here?”

you turn your back and see yukimiya; bags in hand and everything..! “ah, hey..!” you awkwardly greet him. you’re not quite sure what you should say. “just… doing a favor. what about you?”

“i just forgot my lunchbox before i went down for training.” he hums, quickly grabbing his aforementioned lunchbox. at the mention of a lunchbox, you perk up. you hadn’t eaten at lunch, so you were awfully hungry. “ah..! you looked at me the second i mentioned my lunchbox!” he chuckled. “are you hungry? all i have is some packaged snacks.” he warns. he carelessly drops his school bag and training gear on another desk, and starts to move in your direction. all whilst opening the lunchbox, looking for something that you could to snack on.

you awkwardly laugh, embarrassed that he caught you. “honestly, i’ll take anything… thanks, yukimiya.” you graciously take the packaged rice cracker snack from his hands. yukimiya hums, “call me yukki; my friends call me that, and it’s much less formal too.”

your eyes go down, downcast to avoid eye contact.

a popular boy just told you to call him a nickname his friends call him..! is this what it’s like to have a love life..?!

as your eyes remain low, you catch a glimpse of a stained container, it looks as if barney the dinosaur had died in it. “what did you have for your recess? it looks messy…” you bluntly ask, not even thinking that it was probably a bit weird to ask.

“oh? i just had some blueberries. they were pretty lukewarm by the time break time came, though..! some of them got crushed. hence, the mess…” he laughs.

“blueberries? …i’ve never really liked the taste. or… it’s more like the lack of taste…” you place the box on a random desk and sit on a chair. you could kill some time, club was technically over anyways. he raises an eyebrow at your words, “really? i think they’re pretty good. plus, they help with my eyesight.”

“your eyesight? is it that bad? i feel like i only started seeing you wear glasses about two months ago.” yukimiya looks hesitant to answer, you probably crossed some sensitive territory…

“ah… not exactly… i guess, i just want to maintain my vision as it is. so it won’t get worse, is all.” he explains, and you nod. “ah, that makes sense.”

there’s an awkward moment of silence. where do you go from this..?

“…hm… so, blueberries improve your eyesight, huh..?” you clarify, hoping that he’d go into further detail. he pauses for a second. his muscles grow tense, as if he has realized something. but, he nods. “that’s right. they strengthen the blood vessels behind the eyes.”

he’s lived this before. his nails claw on the desk, itching to ground himself to reality.

this isn’t a dream.

this is real life.

and, he’s finally talking to the faceless girl.

like in his dream, he turns his head, and sees you painted orange and pink by the fading sunset. you look even more exquisite now that he can see and recognize your face. your eyes shine in contrast to the setting sun, and your lips quiver, as you try to think of something to say.

your hair is a bit more messier than in his dream. and your posture is quite stiff— no, awkward is a better word. your frame is awkward and anxious, he thinks. but, you still look just as divine as he dreamed you to be.

“hah, maybe you’d benefit better from chocolate-covered blueberries rather than chocolate-covered strawberries then.” you laugh.

“ahah, i wouldn’t hate that too much… so, why not?” he shrugs. again, that pesky nervousness in his shoulders is back. seeing the girl he has, quite literally, dreamed of for a week and a half now is something he’s wanted for a while now. his rose-tinted view of the mysterious girl is makes him feel nervous now that he’s met you.

“ah..!” you audibly gasp, “really? maybe i’ll get you a box of chocolate-covered blueberries for valentines’ day then!” you joke.

he’s heard those exact words before already, but it still flustered him.

i..is that so? heh, i guess that just means i’ll have to return the favor on white day.” he laughs. it’s getting late. the teachers are gonna lock the classroom doors soon, so the two of you should probably leave. he grabs his school bag and training gear, as well as his lunchbox.

you seem to get the hint, and stand up as well. you yawn, covering your mouth to save yourself some dignity, and small tears form in your eyes. “ahh… anyway, i have to take this down to my club room… i’ll see you, yukki.” you bid goodbye, trying on the new nickname for size.

but, yukimiya’s not ready to say goodbye just yet.

“ahh.. do you want me to carry that for you..? you seem pretty tired, so…” he wanders off, “are you okay?”

you reluctantly let him carry the box, and the two of you begin to walk down the stairs to your clubroom. “yeah, i’m alright… i just haven’t been sleeping well.” you hum, “i’ve tried basically everything… but, i can’t seem to sleep.”, you sigh.

“ah, seems annoying… but, i can’t do much to fix that. sorry…” he responds. his response seems a bit absent-minded though, as if he wasn’t focusing on what he said.

that was because his attention was directed to the lack of distance between the two of you. he’s been this close to other girls before… but, being close to you seems to make his heart pound right outside of his chest.

“eh, it’s not your fault. don’t worry to much about it.” you wave it off, as if it was a minor inconvenience.

the rest of the walk was uncomfortably silent but soon enough, you’re at your club room. you graciously open the door for yukimiya, which lets him get inside easily and place the box on a nearby table.

“heh… thanks, superman.” you smile. and yukimiya’s eyes move to avoid contact, embarrassed by the nickname. “oh, uhh… it really wasn’t a problem, so don’t worry about it.” he awkwardly laughs.

“i didn’t keep you too long, did i?” you ask. he’s not too sure what else he could’ve been busy with, but he’s touched by your concern. “nope, don’t worry too much.” he chides.

“just a habit, hehe…” you explain yourself as you move to grab your own school bag. “a—anyways, i’ll see you, yukki..!” you bid him goodbye for the second time today, waving your hand goodbye.

but again, yukimiya still isn’t quite ready to say goodbye.

“oh— do you want me to walk you home..?” he offers, quite forwardly, at that.

your face scrunches at his offer, anxious to be taking up so much of his time today, “n..no, that’s asking too much now… it’s fine, don’t worry too, okay?” you laugh, throwing back his own advice.

yukimiya scoffs, recognizing his own hypocrisy. he’s a bit saddened by the fact that you rejected his offer, but he has to respect your decision. “alright… then, maybe you wanna… hang out sometime..?” he sounds nervous. he’s never had to be the one asking someone out, so he doesn’t know how to ask someone to ‘hang out’.

“i..i can pay too if money’s a concern. i’m the one who’s asking you out after all, it’s only fair.” he rationalized. you mull it over for a quick minute, and you finally respond, “sure, but you really don’t have to do all that..! it’s not like this would be a date…” you reassure him.

for some reason, that last part hurt. he wishes that it was a date. his shoulders visually slum down in disappointment, but there’s still a sense of hope to his expression.

he’s willing to put time into this. he wants to know more about you; know why you’re appearing in his dreams. he nods, “yeah, that’s fair enough… are you free this saturday? we can just go around the city.”

“mhm. sounds like a plan.” you nod.

he grins, “great. i’ll see you—,” he pauses. he never asked about your name..! here he was disappointed about dates, and wanting to know more about you, but he doesn’t even know what your name is..! he should probably just disappear, this is too embarrassing. there’s no recovering from this—

“s/o.”

what?

“my name is s/o.” you inform him.

yukimiya snaps out of his humiliated state long enough to respond, “ah, i see..! my mistake for not ever asking for your name. heh, i guess i just got a bit too comfortable.” you laugh at his scatterbrainedness, and wave it off. “it’s fine, i got a bit comfortable too, so i forgot to tell you my name.”

he’s glad that you also felt comfortable with him, but he has a feeling that you have a different meaning for comfortable…

he felt as if he’s already known you. but, you simply thought of him as a schoolmate that you’re familiar with. it was his mistake for thinking of you as the faceless girl from his dreams, rather than the much more lifelike girl that stood before him.

“right… well, i’ll see you, s/o.” he smiles as he waves goodbye, his smile much wider than it had been before he met you in that classroom. you nod, waving goodbye as well. “yeah! bye, yukki!”

the two of you walk toward the school exit together before finally parting ways, leaving yukimiya feeling as if he’s separated with a part of him.

it was odd that he’s already this attached to you. but, maybe that was just because of the fact that the two of you just naturally clicked. or, the fact that he’s seen and talked with your faceless self in ephemeral periods when time stood still— all of it in romantic, rose-tinted glasses.

the moment he came home, he has just been a ticking time bomb, waiting for the moment he can see you again. he’s never felt quite as nervous as he does right now.

his heart feels like a heavy weight in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. he can’t have a crush on you already… can he?

it’s a question that haunts yukimiya as he lies in bed, anxious and unable to sleep.

and for the first time in a while, you have a good night’s rest.

[sanjisleggy]

the warlord and his bodyguard (crocodile x reader)

req: Could you do a Mihawk or Crocodile x Marine reader. Like it's her job to watch them on missions or be in contact with the Warlords. And whoever you pick fell hard for the Marine but knows he shouldn't. Maybe he flirts with her and she tries to remain professional because she could get fired or way worse. But the man is determined

a/n: aaaa!! this was one of my earliest requests but i held off on writing it since i wasn’t sure if i wanted to write for Mihawk or Crocodile :’) luckily since then i’ve got to meet Crocodile again in the impel down arc so i feel a bit more comfortable trying to write for him :D i tweaked the plot a little to fit the ideas i had so i hope the requester doesn’t mind!

contents: reader is a not a good marine (lol), Crocodile is kinda down bad, pining, reader has devil fruit powers, a somewhat graphic depiction of violence, near-death experience (not violent), some fluff, very little angst

wc. 2.3k

wanna be on my taglist?

i. 

“tell me,” the imposing figure says, his voice so deep you swear the ground beneath your feet trembles ever so slightly. “did the World Government send you to mock me?”

Crocodile taps his hook against the surface of his mahogany desk, his heavy-lidded eyes peering sharply at you as he awaits your response. though he may be one of the Seven Warlords, you find it difficult to feel threatened by him, having faced and escaped more dire situations in your past as a cadet. besides, it’s rather rare for your potential cause of death to be so visually appealing.

“i should say no but both of us know that isn’t truly the case.” your response seems to have caught him off guard, his eyes widening ever so slightly. to your surprise, Crocodile follows it up with a smirk, all the while keeping his lit cigar held firmly in between his teeth.

“so what is the reason you’re supposed to tell me?”

as though reciting a script, you share how out of the goodness of the World Government’s hearts, they’ve decided to begin a new initiative to improve relations between the Warlords and the Marines. “thus, every Warlord will be provided with a bodyguard.” you’re unable to hold back the contempt in your tone and Crocodile picks up on it instantly.

“think you’re too good for the job, officer?” he replies in a disinterested manner.

“no, the job’s fine,” you admit, seeing no reason to be dishonest, “i just think they could’ve at least tried to come up with a better lie. i am glad i was assigned to you, though, and not Gecko Moria or Donquixote.” you can’t help but scoff.

the Warlord’s laugh catches you off guard. the fact that the sound alone causes a stirring in your chest alarms you even more.

what an interesting woman you are.

“so what will it take to keep your mouth shut?” Crocodile gets straight to the point, already fully aware of how your daily duties include a report back to headquarters on his activity. in all honesty, he’d meant it partially as a joke or, perhaps, a final attempt at sending you a message: you’re no threat to me.

“i don’t know,” you reply, taking a few steps to get closer to his desk before you lean forward slightly to level your eyes with his, “what’re you willing to offer?”

the Warlord can’t tell if you’re joking–and he’s not sure how he feels about that.

ii.

two months go by and business at Rain Dinners has been the same as always.

contrary to Crocodile’s expectations, your sudden arrival hasn’t impeded his progress on the casino and Baroque Works. his initial concerns over an influx in Marine officers storming Rain Dinners or a Vice Admiral showing up to tear down his secret organisation quickly go unfounded when it dawns on him that you’re truly not interested in taking him down.

if anything, he’s been enjoying your company. you’re an intelligent person whom he’s surprisingly able to have pleasant conversations with. you seem to have a keen sense of perception, knowing when to simply watch events unfold and when to interfere–though the latter instances have been rare considering his status in Alabasta deters trouble-making in his place of business. 

after the first few weeks of having you trail behind him everywhere he goes, Crocodile finds himself getting used to being in your company. today, however, marks the first time the Warlord feels a need for something more.

though the Warlord is surrounded by beautiful women all vying for a crumb of his attention–a common occurrence when he makes his occasional appearance at his own casino’s bar–he can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if you’re the one sitting beside him instead. not the kind of man to let his imagination run wild, however, he quickly reminds himself that you’re standing a distance away behind him as you always do.

before Crocodile can fully return to enjoying his evening in the presence of the women around him, though, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as a familiar sense of danger snaps his attention to the lady on his right side. within the span of a second, he readies himself to activate his devil fruit powers but before he can even fully register what she’s trying to pull, you make your move.

recognising the stained needle held in between the woman’s fingers as being composed of sea prism stone, your body reacts on its own volition.

“shave.” 

to nearby onlookers, a blurry figure shoots its way across the room before you reemerge right behind the wannabe-assassin. without any warning, you place your right palm against the back of her head.

“twist.”

with a sickening crunch that reverberates throughout the once bustling casino, the woman’s body from her neck downward begins to turn a full 360 degrees whilst her head remains completely still in the palm of your hand. as her corpse flops to the ground, you hear the combined sounds of onlookers retching and gasping–but no running. the only one seemingly completely unbothered by the cold blooded murder is the assassination target himself.

“i could’ve handled it myself,” Crocodile sighs, puffing a cloud of smoke from his cigar, “though admittedly i am impressed by your efficiency.”

“were you aware the needle was made of sea prism stone?” your question catches him off guard; and he’s only further surprised when you bend down to pick it up from the floor with your bare hand.

“poisoned? i figured,” he admits, “but made of the stone? truth be told i was not aware.” the Warlord’s eyes travel slowly from the tiny needle held in between your fingers up to your face. as expected, you’re affected by the sea prism stone–he can tell from the droopiness of your eyelids and the way you furrow your eyebrows. “i could kill you right now,” Crocodile adds, unable to help his curiosity in what your response might be to such a suggestion.

“feel free,” you reply, a tired smile appearing on your tired face.

“don’t be ridiculous.” he shoots a glance at a random employee and gestures to the corpse. once it’s been taken away, he nods at the now-available seat. “take a seat, drink with me… and throw the needle away.”

iii.

three weeks later, you come storming into Crocodile’s office unannounced. normally he doesn’t tolerate such behaviour–the guest he’d been hosting even flinches outwardly, as though steeling himself to witness your impending death–but once the Warlord’s eyes lay on you, all anger flies out the window.

“why’d you do it?” you ask, clutching a crumpled letter in your hand as you make your way to his desk. with a wave of his hand, he dismisses his guest and remains silent and still until the two of you are left alone in the large room.

now that he’d had some time to take a closer look at you, the expression on your face screams less anger and more confusion–contrary to the way you’d nearly kicked down his door to get in. eyes flickering to the letter in your hand, the familiar material of the paper reminds him of a particular event that happened just a week ago.

“something troubling you, Miss Bodyguard?” the Warlord asked while in the midst of handling a mountain of paperwork.

“my village is in danger,” you’d replied without hesitation, not seeing any need to hide the truth from him–it was a trait he very much appreciated in you. “we used to always get harassed by pirates but lately it’s gotten worse and the berry i send home isn’t enough to keep them away anymore.”

a part of him expected you to drop a subtle plea for help but you never did. once you’d answered his question, you went back to being silent, eyes trained on the crumpled piece of paper held in your trembling hands.

“what’s the name of your village? and on what island?”

“remind me what you’re accusing me of?” Crocodile replies in his usual monotonous tone.

“you sent people to my village,” you say almost breathlessly, unable to help the tears welling up in your eyes as your heart pounds within the confines of your chest. “you’ve been protecting them, haven’t you?”

“yes.” 

“why?”

i hated seeing you worry.

“you wouldn’t be a very efficient bodyguard if you’re constantly thinking about your home, would you?”

for a long while, you simply stare at him in silence, your widened eyes glued to his deep-set ones. your gaze is so intense it’s almost as though you’re trying to peer straight into his soul; for a split second, the Warlord wonders if you’ve perhaps passed out while standing up with your eyes open.

“thank you,” you say softly with a smile on your face–the mere sight of which sends what the Warlord thought had been dead and cold in his chest into overdrive. for the first time in years, his heart races not from anger or adrenaline but from something else he’d long forgotten the feeling of.

iv.

four days pass by and Crocodile once again feels a strange sensation in his chest but this time it’s from worry.

within the course of an evening, you’d gone from perfectly healthy to deathly ill. first you’d collapsed after dinner–nearly hitting your head on the cold tiled floor had he not been fast enough to catch you–before a dangerously high fever started to set in. without hesitation, as he carried you to your quarters, the Warlord demanded for the best of Alabasta’s doctors and nurses to make their way over immediately.

now as the moon hangs high in the desert sky, its light shining through your windows just enough to illuminate your room barely, you find yourself accompanied by the Warlord himself. sitting quietly in a chair set beside your bed, you watch him as he reads a folder full of documents, using only the moonlight casting in as his source of light.

you feel terribly hot and extremely cold at the same time as you lay under the weight of your comforter, a wet towel resting on your forehead. your throat feels dry no matter how much water you drink so you’ve long since stopped asking for more–now only drinking when he periodically offers a glass to you.

in your fevered haze, you faintly recall some instances after you’d collapsed: the feeling of strong arms carrying you away, holding you close to a warm chest; the anger in a familiar voice it barked orders at others; the feeling of a large hand caressing your cheek as you laid barely awake.

“she will be okay, thankfully we made it in time to pump all the poison out of her system,” the leading doctor shared with Crocodile outside your bedroom door after a grueling few hours of medical care.

“poison?” the Warlord furrowed his eyebrows.

“yes, Sir Crocodile, we found a large trace of various poisonous substances in her stomach. frankly, she’s lucky to be alive.”

“is my face really that amusing to stare at?” he asks in a tone that lacks any bite as he directs his attention to you.

“you are quite handsome,” you admit with a weak smile. he feels his face warm up and hopes it at least doesn’t show on his skin. “you frown too much, though.”

“oh, really?”

“yeah. especially tonight.” you slowly take in a deep breath only to start coughing uncontrollably when the air gets lodged in your throat. Crocodile responds quickly but without haste, handing you a fresh glass of water as you sit yourself up. you drink it all before continuing to speak. “you’ve been frowning in a sort of angry way ever since the doctors left… what’s wrong?”

the Warlord takes a moment to look at you. there’s a thin sheen of sweat covering your skin and the bags under your eyes look the darkest they’ve ever been since he met you, frankly you look terrible but at least you’re alive. as much as he wants to pretend he doesn’t know why your survival makes him feel so relieved, he’s too smart to be fooled even by himself.

“you nearly died from an assassination attempt.” Crocodile hands you the folder he’d been pouring over while you rested. “i sent my best agents to investigate after the doctors told me you’d been poisoned.”

although your eyes burn with exhaustion, you managed to scan through all the documents with ease. you feel your already-weakened heart twist in a bizarre mixture of sadness, indignation and resignation as you learned the truth of your near-death experience.

“the World Government must’ve thought i was quite the threat to send Cipher Pol 8 after me, huh?” you say, laughing half-heartedly as you hand the folder back to Crocodile. “i guess i must’ve defected without realising.” you speak with an air of nonchalance that piques the man’s interest.

“knowing the World Government, you’ll probably have a bounty on your head once they realise you lived.” 

“i know,” you sigh, “the smart thing to do would be to leave Alabasta once i’m all better, don’t you think? i will miss keeping an eye on you, though.” the way you’re looking at him as you wait for his response is strangely playful and he feels the initial pang of disappointment morph instead into a tiny bit of hope. 

“join me,” Crocodile says exactly what he knows you want to hear. “i happen to have grown quite fond of being watched by you.” you smile widely and it sends his heart into a fit.

“join Baroque Works?”

“no.” he reaches out to grab your clammy hand, engulfing it with his much larger one; with an uncharacteristic gentleness, the Warlord brings it up to his lips before pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. “not Baroque Works, join me. stay by my side.”

“i’d like nothing more.”

—

taglist: @irethepotato @i-reblog-fics-i-like @grierpilots @appalost

[muxshwriting]

articulate

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

summary: Feyd realises how much he misses his wife despite seeing her everyday || warnings: grovelling?, guilt, violence, anger || word count: || masterlist

read the precursor to this: voiceless

REQUEST: would you be able to write a part two to voiceless, where feyd becomes more interested in spending time and being seen with his wife, even around others while she grows more content without him (maybe finding other people/friends for company). kinda like a “falling in love too late” kinda thing? thanks sm ❤️

You had withdrawn from your husband, done the bare minimum that was expected of you. It was what was expected of you, and the members of Harkonnen High Society were glad to see you taking your proper place. It seemed the only person not enjoying your new role was you. Even your husband was far more contented by having his days without bother and to not be questioned everytime he did anything.

But as time wore on, it started as the little things Feyd noticed he now lacked: the small glances you shared with him across the table, a squeeze of his hand before he stood, a gentle kiss to greet him. Now he ate alone, with you eating in your own chambers. You greeted him in the morning with a cold nod, no words exchanged.

He wondered what you did with your days, supposing you now lived a very lonely existence. He supposed that was the life of all noble woman, for that was the tradition of Geidi Prime and House Harkonnen, their women were nothing more than grabs for power and means to an heir.

But the more he thought, the more he doubted his family’s tradition. His familial tradition was to murder one another, why should he follow a tradition that would have his son murder you once he came of age. Perhaps tradition needed changing, perhaps he would pay you a visit, invite you to join his some days. Then again, maybe that was guilt. And Feyd-Rautha didn’t feel guilt, for anything or anyone.

“Wife!” His voice echoed as he walked into your shared chambers one evening. You were sat reading a book and glanced up as he entered.

“Yes husband?” You replied to him, placing your book down and moving to stand.

“I want to accompany me tomorrow.”

His words sent a wave of confusion through you. There were no noble visits scheduled in the coming days, nothing that would require you by his side. “Accompany you? May I ask where?”

“To my duties.” Feyd said it like it was obvious. “I have been neglecting my duty to you. Is it an offence for a husband to require his wife’s company?”

The words were said without true care behind the words and you felt your stomach twist as you reached for your book once more. “I regret to inform you that I have engagements tomorrow that I must attend to.”

“Cancel them.”

You look up at his incredulously. “Excuse me? I cannot simply cancel my plans on a moments notice because of your whim.”

Feyd bit back his anger at your rejection, ignoring the sting of pain that sat at his heart. “Very well. When do your engagements cease?”

“I am a busy woman, I barely spend a day alone nowadays. Forgive me for not keeping my schedule free and spend my time wallowing in loneliness. I can free up the day after tomorrow. Is that satisfactory for you Na-Baron?”

His wife’s coolness towards him made him doubt his intentions in the first place. Finally, he nodded solemnly, turned on his heel and exited the chamber.

Unknown to Feyd, his wife had been finding her entertainment and pleasure in other ways, finding any way to spend a day with others. It had began with her handmaiden, just a few hours helped a friendship blossom that then extended to her friends within the servants. They had created a bond that could not be broken, a space where they were not servants and she was not Na-Baroness.

Many of the servants were slaves from off-world, much how she was a slave to her husband and had been ripped from her own home and her own family to join his. There was a solace in their space she knew Feyd would not understand.

True to her word, she joined Feyd days later, sat in her seat at the breakfast table, and followed three steps behind as she did in the beginning. But there was no longing threaded into every move she made. She did not long for his love anymore, there was not a begging for attention and affection. You didn’t go out of your way to squeeze his hand or press a kiss to his cheek.

Feyd had been expecting your affection. And yet you showed him none. He was your husband but he would not be your lover.

He wished he could be, an affection from you only to him. He wanted the devotion of his wife the same way he wanted air to breathe but you would not be his air. You had found a contented life on Geidi Prime that did not involve bending to your husbands will and crawling at his feet for his love. You would perform your marital duty and spend your days in your chambers or in hidden rooms with your friends where your duty would escape you and your title would be worth nothing.

[wtfdemother]

Sue me

CW: fluffy filth ft. König 👑

König gets mad horny in the middle of the night, he can’t help it, not when the love of his life sleeps in his arms every night, plush body molding between rough hands in every damn place he squeezes.

He’ll lure you out of sleep, kissing the shell of your ear and muttering words of desire into your slumbering conscious.

“Liebe… ich brauche dich, baby… I need you.”

He places the softest of kisses along your peaceful expression, coaxing you awake. “Schatzi,” he’ll whisper in one breath, hand moving from the softness of your belly to your clothed mound, cupping it, using his middle digit to drag along your slit.

Again and again, he massages your pussy, never rushing it, always taking his time. He has nowhere else to go other than home.

“See? She needs me, baby… all alone and empty, let me fill her, ja? Come on, my love…”

Your panties start to feel damp, König rests his lips on your temple, both your mingled breaths begin to synch, in and out he breathes and you match his tempo. He loved those quiet mornings like this.

König takes his time alternating between soft nips and wet kisses to your cheek and neck, his breathing grows faster once he felt the slick of your juices gathering inside the fabric, penetrating through the cotton fibres onto the pads of his fingers.

He takes your quiet whimper as a sign, “More?” He asks and you nod, he kisses the corner of your mouth and smiles tiredly, expression full of affection for his little liebling. “Braves Mädchen, I’ll give you more, I’ll give you plenty…”

He’ll give you the world, you just have to ask.

Carefully he hooks his index underneath the fabric, peeling your panties away from your sticky folds, he dips a finger in. You suck in a sharp breath, shuddering in relief when his thumb meets your clit.

“Shh… shhh…”

He flips you on your back to kiss you deeply, neither of you know which one is losing themselves in the other.

Perhaps you’re both gone for each other.

König makes love to you until you both fall asleep peacefully in each other’s arms. He cradles you, fingers mindlessly fiddling with the strands of your hair, thanking God for you.

He prays it takes… what he wouldn’t give for his seed to take.

[cinnamanz]

# DARLING, I — chapter thirty-seven!

when new york city’s widely-known spider-woman's life becomes unknowingly entwined with a member of the rising global girl group katseye, she learns that juggling superhero duties, university, and a sudden crush may or may not just be the downfall of her. but hey, at least she's helping people, right?

SPIDER-WOMAN

it wasn’t often that manon left the house on her own — either dragging daniela or megan along with her to stroll around the streets of nyc to shop or simply have a breath of fresh air — being strictly forbidden by management in case a fan or a stalker had managed to find them, regulating safety in numbers every time.

however, after the events that occurred the past few weeks, the girls decided that it was better if manon was given time for herself. it was something to get used to, the feeling of loneliness stacked on top of responsibilities within the group. and if it were a few weeks ago, she could just go on twitter and stalk y/n, see what she’d been up to or think of ways to talk to her, perhaps hint for a second date, or try and find spider-woman’s whereabouts to distract herself.

though it’d dawned on her, on a friday night after finishing up a call with her father that maybe she had missed the photographer a bit too much, never being able to quite focus whether it came to learning a new choreography, or paying attention to conversations in general.

it was odd. they hadn’t talked for that long or gone on many dates, a mere few months with barely meetings in person, yet she couldn’t get her out of her head. it was like she’d imprinted herself on every nook and cranny of her brain, pushing any other thoughts she might have that wasn’t about her.

an experience it was, truly, to watch who may be the love of your life slip through your fingers and have nothing to do to prevent it, and she’d never felt so low and weak her entire life. what could’ve been-

“hey!” 

a startling shout pierced through the air, snapping her out of her reverie and flicking her eyes up to the source of noise and oh my god, is that spider-woman? the woman in red spandex swung towards her and landed expertly in front of her, the ghanaian woman blinkling in confusion. though before she could get a question past her lips, spider-woman had carried her bridal style and swung past buildings, arms wound around her waist as the strong gust of breeze felt like a slap to the cheek.

a delayed yelp was lost in the air as the two were flung up mid-air, spider-woman glancing down at her in confusion. “did you not see the news? rhino’s escaped prison, and he was heading your way.”

the hero's voice was strained, something manon had dismissed as effort from both carrying her and swinging at a fast rate, feeling her stomach drop when spider-woman had made a particularly large drop and coming hurtling down before swinging back up, the arms that were around other other’s neck tightening as she buried her face in her neck, eyes screwed shut.

landing beside a cop car, spider-woman gently placed manon down on her feet. standing there for at least a few seconds and staring at manon before reaching a hand up to fix the scarf she’d had wrapped snugly around her neck, adjusting the grey fabric and making sure it was back to how it looked before.

“stay safe.” what the absolute fuck.

masterlist 🕸️🕷✮⋆˙ next

guys this is so ass bear w me im so fucking rusty

taglist : @yeetaberry127 @urmom2314 @lararajjj @artrizzler19 @ninguitar @ohmyhaely @firstclassjaylee @meganskiendielsbtc @sed7ction @modanisgf @vrtualstar @ssamlovr @grahstumhurts @sixflame438 @fearnotfearmore @c-yerim @taikabui @saturn-projector @uchinagai @goofymickeyr @rosiehrs @lunawriteskstuff TAGLIST OPEN!

[mysterialistic]

I have an issue with the fact that Qiao Ling and Xiao Li are dead too. (Long ramble)

For me, this undermines Lu Guang's complexity and motivation. Why? Because they're portraying him as some kind of hero—the great "last hope."

For over a year since the Season 2 finale, we've believed the opposite about Lu Guang. We saw him as hypocritical and deceitful because he was trying to change the past and break a death node—a rule he established and even scolded Cheng Xiaoshi for disobeying. At the end of Season 2, Lu Guang says, "I want to use the last chance to go back to the beginning and save YOU." For so long, it’s been clear that he only cared about saving Cheng Xiaoshi. They've repeatedly emphasized and convinced us through songs and promotional material of this: that his sole focus was Cheng Xiaoshi, and no one else mattered to him.

The fact that Lu Guang prioritized saving Cheng Xiaoshi, despite the potential consequences for others (like the theory that avoiding Cheng Xiaoshi's tragic fate caused the deaths of Li Tianxi, Chen Bin, and Emma), is what made Lu Guang a great character. He wasn’t a typical hero—he was human. He was afraid of loss and suffering, of living without his best friend. This fear consumed him to the point where he never even allowed himself to grieve. Cheng Xiaoshi brought meaning and color to his life, and Lu Guang deemed him the only one worthy of saving because of his good intentions and kind heart.

If they now include Qiao Ling and Xiao Li among those Lu Guang wants to save, it completely changes the essence of his character. It takes away the personal, deeply human motivation that made him so complex and relatable. We could relate to him because, if we were in his position, with the power of going back in time after tragically loosing a loved one, many of us would do the same or at least consider it. And now, instead of Lu Guang being driven by personal loss and denial, he becomes a stereotypical hero trying to save everyone. It’s an absolute cliché that even goes against the main principle of the series back in season 1: "past or future let them be".

Maybe Qiao Ling being dead could make sense, since she’s close to him, but even that feels off. Lu Guang has never shown a strong desire to save her specifically. Besides, it doesn’t align with what we’ve seen: in Lu Guang’s memory, Qiao Ling didn’t see herself die like Cheng Xiaoshi did. Killing her off would also strip away an interesting aspect of her character—her determination to protect her younger brother. In Season 3, she could confront Lu Guang about his actions and actively try to help him. If she’s meant to die too, it reduces her to a damsel in distress, reinforcing the unfortunate tendency of Link Click to mishandle its female characters.

As for Xiao Li, his inclusion feels completely random. He wasn’t close enough to Lu Guang to justify being a major motivation for him. If anything, he would be at the very bottom of Lu Guang’s list of priorities.

Anyway, I’m sorry for the long ramble—I just needed to get this off my chest. I still hope this might be a red herring and that they’re not actually dead yet. Or perhaps they died in the first timeline, but Lu Guang managed to save them while still being unable to save Cheng Xiaoshi, no matter how hard he tried. I don’t know. I’ll trust Link Click and wait to see how they justify or resolve this in a way that makes sense and preserves the characters’ essence.

[aventurineswife]

Only for the psychic damage... Jiaoqiu, Fu xuan and Ruan mei X that your forger levels cook! reader... please. btw I love your writing

A Recipe for Chaos

Tags: Jiaoqiu x Reader, Fu Xuan x Reader, Ruan Mei x Reader, Fluff, Comedy, Domestic Shenanigans, Cooking Disaster, Found Family Dynamics, Mentorship, Slow Burn.

Warnings: Mild Language (Fu Xuan's sharp comments), Food Descriptions, Mentions of Poisoning (in a humorous context), Slightly Chaotic Kitchens, Embarrassment.

A/N: HII!! THANK YOU FOR LOVING MY WORKS!! 🤭💕

Jiaoqiu adjusted the feather fan in his hand, his sightless gaze tilted slightly toward the clatter of pots and pans in the corner of the kitchen. Though he couldn’t see, the cacophony of sounds and the occasional, rather alarming hissing noises painted a vivid picture in his mind.

“Are you…boiling something that shouldn’t be boiled?” he asked carefully, his voice soft but tinged with skepticism.

You huffed from across the counter. “It’s an experimental dish! I think you’ll like it. It has, um, protein, carbs, and a healthy dose of…creativity.”

Jiaoqiu suppressed a chuckle, his sharp fox ears twitching at the sound of liquid bubbling ominously. “Creativity, yes. Poison, no, I hope?”

“It’s fine! You’re such a worrywart.”

The smell hit him first — a mixture of something charred, something sour, and something unmistakably wrong. Jiaoqiu stiffened, his fingers brushing against the edge of the table for reassurance. “This is precisely why I offered to help you.”

“No offense, Jiaoqiu, but you’re blind. Cooking might not be your forte.”

He let out a sigh, his golden irises remaining hidden beneath closed eyelids. “And yet, even without sight, I suspect I’d be a safer pair of hands than yours.”

You waved a spatula in his direction, not that he could see it. “You don’t trust me? Just you wait. One bite, and you’ll be begging for seconds.”

Moments later, you placed a bowl of steaming…something in front of him. Jiaoqiu hesitated, his elegant fingers brushing the bowl's edges. “Should I pray first?”

“Rude!”

With a soft laugh, Jiaoqiu brought a spoonful of the concoction to his lips. The moment it touched his tongue, he froze. His expression shifted subtly — a twitch of the mouth, a furrow of the brow — before he coughed politely and placed the spoon down.

“Ah,” he said with a practiced healer’s diplomacy. “It’s…unique.”

“See? You love it!” you beamed, completely missing his strained tone.

Jiaoqiu cleared his throat. “Perhaps next time, we could try cooking together. I’ll guide you, and you can…be supervised.”

“Are you saying I’m bad at this?”

“Not bad,” Jiaoqiu replied with a small smile. “Just catastrophically ambitious.”

Fu Xuan stood in the doorway, arms crossed and gaze sharp as she surveyed the battlefield that used to be her kitchen. Spills of mysterious sauces streaked across the counters, vegetables lay discarded in odd corners, and the unmistakable scent of burnt…something hung heavily in the air.

“You’re lucky I’m benevolent,” Fu Xuan announced, tapping her foot. “Otherwise, you’d be arrested for crimes against food.”

You turned from the stove, sweat beading your forehead. “Hey! I’m trying my best here. Cooking is hard!”

“No, it’s not. You’re just terrible at it,” she retorted, stepping closer. Her usually pristine demeanor faltered as her gaze landed on the pot you were stirring. “What is that?”

“A stew.”

Fu Xuan peered over your shoulder. “It looks like a potion from the Alchemy Commission gone wrong.”

You rolled your eyes and muttered, “Everyone’s a critic.”

When Fu Xuan noticed you adding an entire handful of salt without measuring, she snapped. “Enough! Step aside before you poison someone — most likely yourself.”

“But I wanted to surprise you!”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “The only surprise here is that the kitchen hasn’t exploded yet.”

With a flourish, Fu Xuan grabbed an apron and tied it over her dress(?). “Watch and learn, rookie.”

You tried not to feel offended as Fu Xuan effortlessly salvaged your disastrous stew, adding precise dashes of seasoning and adjusting the heat with expert hands. Within minutes, the smell of something actually edible filled the air.

She handed you a spoonful, smirking. “There. That’s how it’s done.”

You tasted it, your eyes widening. “Whoa. You’re amazing.”

“Of course I am,” Fu Xuan said smugly. “Now, never touch my kitchen again.”

Ruan Mei was known for her patience and nurturing demeanor, but even she was beginning to question her life choices as she watched you attempt to bake a cake. Flour dusted your hair, frosting was smeared on your cheek, and the batter in the bowl had somehow turned an alarming shade of green.

“I don’t remember asking for a radioactive cake,” Ruan Mei teased gently, resting her chin in her hand.

“It’s matcha!” you defended.

“I see,” she said, though her doubtful tone suggested otherwise.

You poured the batter into a pan, and as you slid it into the oven, a strange sizzling noise emerged. Ruan Mei blinked. “Is it supposed to sound like that?”

You hesitated. “…Yes?”

She sighed, standing up and dusting off her hands. “Alright, let me help you. Cooking is about love and precision, not whatever chaotic energy you’re bringing to the table.”

“But I wanted to make it special for you!”

Ruan Mei’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on your flour-covered shoulder. “That’s sweet, but it’s okay to ask for help. We’ll make it together, okay?”

With Ruan Mei’s guidance, the two of you managed to create a passable — if slightly lopsided — cake. When it was finally done, she handed you a slice and smiled.

“See? Teamwork makes the dream work.”

You took a bite and grinned. “Not bad! Maybe I’m not so hopeless after all.”

Ruan Mei chuckled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But with a little practice, you might just become my sous chef someday.”

“Dream big, right?”

Ruan Mei laughed, her voice warm and musical. “Yes. But maybe stick to small goals for now.”

[daemour]

banner by @kwanisms

✿ Title: I Wish You Roses

✿ Pairing: platonic - Wooyoung x f! florist reader

✿ Genre: Angst, hurt/slight comfort, T for Teen, hanahaki au, florist au, established relationship (wooyoung and unnamed character)

✿ Word Count: 1570

✿ Warnings: Mentions of blood, implied risk of death, light descriptions of the flower growth in the body

✿ Summary: Although you shouldn't have, you fall in love with the customer buying flowers for his wedding. Choosing between your love and the surgery is the easiest choice you've ever made.

-

This is written for the title exchange collab, and my title was given by @mingsolo <3 I hope I did it justice even though y'all were not made aware of my idea shift LOL

-

“Hi…I’m here to pick up an order for a wedding. It’s under the name Jung.” Wooyoung walks into the flower shop he’s too familiar with. The shop owner greets him with a casual smile, her hair falling in messy strands around her face.

“Hello, I have your order ready in the back,” she hums, her face calm. Seeing it pinches Wooyoung’s heart. As he waits for her to return, he glances around. Not much has changed since the many weeks he’s last been in. The flowers all remain the same.

But, if he looks a little closer at the register, the picture of him, his fiance, and the owner holding their initial bouquet idea has disappeared. It sends a sharp pain through his body and his smile turns tense.

“Why do you look like someone just kicked you in the shins?” The shop owner chuckles as she comes out with a large cardboard box filled to the brim with roses. “Shouldn’t you be happy? The wedding is this weekend, if my sticky notes have informed me correctly. Not sure why I have a sticky note with the date, though…”

Her voice trails off in thought and Wooyoung chuckles politely. “You’re invited to the wedding, remember? We wanted you to come.”

Her eyes brighten. “Oh, I must’ve totally forgotten! I’m so sorry! I don’t know what’s gotten into me…I will definitely be there, though! Just text me the date and time again, and I’ll show up.” Her face morphs again back into a look of concern. Wooyoung loves just how expressive she can be. “Now, that didn’t answer my question. Why do you look so sad?”

Wooyoung debates for a long moment before heaving a sigh. “A friend of mine…recently went through something and I just wish I could be there for her. But…she doesn’t remember exactly who I am to her.”

The florist’s face falls, her eyes widening. “Oh…that’s terrible. But I’m sure, deep down, she feels warmed by your efforts.”

Her words are comforting, but hollow. She doesn’t know just how untrue her words are.

Wooyoung’s lips pull into a crooked smile. “I will choose to believe you,” he finally settles on saying.

—

The bell of the flower shop rings once more as Wooyoung walks in, his face flushed pink from the cold weather. “Hi,” he greets you like an old friend. And perhaps, at this point, you’d be considered one. With how often he comes into your shop for his wedding flowers, you probably see him more than your own family.

Against your will, you can’t help but to have developed a sort-of crush on him. With how kindly he smiles at you, asks about your day, and tells you about his life, it was hard not to.

But almost ironically for you, or perhaps it’s quite fitting, flowers have started blooming around your heart. Carnations, dahlias, and most fitting of all, poppies.

At first, they started slowly. You didn’t even notice it for months. A lingering cough, a petal here and there in your mouth, but you worked in a flower boutique. Finding petals in your mouth is expected. But one day, on a day the shop was closed, you woke up with a sudden urge to throw up.

The surprise you felt when flowers piled up in your toilet. Your mind raced as you tried to figure out exactly who caused this. Perhaps, deep down, you knew. You didn’t have many friends, and the ones you did have were not crush-material. And who else made you smile so softly if not your engaged customer?

It was probably because he was married and you knew from the start he was unavailable that made it develop so slowly. You had written it off as some light crush that you’d get over, but every time he smiled at you and brought you a coffee, the stems growing out of your heart stabbing into your lungs just a bit harder.

Curse Jung Wooyoung for being so kind, so friendly. You wished he wasn’t so social, that he would come in, finish business, and leave. But he’s gotten an idea in his head that the two of you are friends, and God, you want to be. You want to be able to laugh with him and his fiance, a kind woman who always greets you with just as much enthusiasm. You can’t bring yourself to hate her, she makes just as much an effort as he does.

If she was mean, rude, standoffish, maybe you wouldn’t hurt so much. But although she’s shy, she tries just as hard.

Maybe that’s why when she comes by herself, to finalise the wedding flowers without Wooyoung because “he does so much for me, and I want to surprise him”, and you throw up flowers across the counter, she doesn’t become upset at the realisation you’ve fallen in love with her husband-to-be.

“He’s nice to everyone,” she hums, patting your back and handing you tissues. “It’s hard to not fall in love.”

“Why are you being so nice?” you rasp out. “You’ve basically found out I fell in love with your fiance.”

She laughs, a tinge of understanding in the light tone. “I would be a hypocrite if I was upset over it. Before I met Wooyoung, we were in very similar situations. There was a man I loved, and he loved someone else. I understand more than I let on.”

The pinch in your lungs grows more. “Did you…did you pick the surgery?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her expression shift to one of surprise. “I did,” she admits after a long moment. “I didn’t want to say it because I don’t want to pressure you into it. No one should be pressured to partake in a surgery.”

You cough again, blood splattering on the glass counter. “I want to, but I kept putting it off. I…don’t know why.” You rest your head against the cool glass.

“I understand…” she hums, handing you some water. “It’s nice having someone to love. Even if they don’t love you back.”

You wipe your eyes carefully, your breath tasting of flowers. “Yeah…” you concede tiredly, “it’s just a warm feeling sometimes. I can’t shake it.”

She opens her mouth to say more, but before any words can exit her mouth, the store bell jingles. You move your gaze up and your breath catches in your throat and the plants growing in your body make you choke on your blood. Jung Wooyoung, in all his glory, stands in the door. His expression shifts from happiness to one of concert, his brows knitting together and mouth dropping open.

“Are you okay?” His voice is tight with worry as he hurries forward, reaching out to try and help.

As much as his presence makes the ache in your heart ease, it also heightens the pain. His fiance reaches out and grabs the edge of his sleeve to keep him from hurting you further involuntarily.

“Is it…” Wooyoung’s voice trails off as the realisation hits him at the same time.

You shake your head almost imperceptibly. “I– Don’t worry,” you rasp out. “I’m getting the surgery.”

Both Wooyoung and his fiance’s heads snap towards you, neither of them expected such an answer. The surgery carries high risk, as they cut around your heart and lungs to free you from the deathly blooms. But amidst their concern, you wave away their worries with a weak smile tainted with blood and petals.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind it. In the end, all will be as it should. You both will be just customers to me.” As much as my heart hurts to say it, it comes with some relief. “And I’ll make sure to write enough notes for myself so I won’t forget you totally. I still want to come to the wedding.”

You chuckle, but it dissolves into a cough as more petals come out. Wooyoung’s hand twitches, like he craves to help you through it. “Please…be safe…” both he and his fiance echo, and you smile up at them.

“Don’t worry…I’ll be right as rain. Maybe a little forgetful, but I don’t think I could ever truly forget your smiles. Now, I should probably book my appointment. I’ll make sure to schedule it so that I’ll be completely healed for your wedding date.”

And as much as they try to protest, you manage to shoo them out of your little store, the bell tinkling behind them as you lean against it to support your weight. It’s for the greater good. You don’t want to die, and you don’t want to miss their wedding.

With great effort, you make it back to your desk, writing a letter to the both of them.

-

Dear future Jungs,

When this letter reaches you, I probably won’t remember it. I probably won’t remember you properly either. But the memories you have given me have been some of the highest points in my life. It hurts me endlessly to know I will forget Wooyoung’s laughter, and the coffees he would bring me. I hope, even after I forget my feelings for Wooyoung, the warmth remains. Thank you for all you’ve given me.

If your future bouquet doesn’t turn out right, I will do my best to make it perfect for your special day, and the love you both share.

I wish you roses.

[turtle-paced]

Revisiting Chapters: Bran II, ASoS

Happy new year! Have a story.

The story so far…

Having made their escape from Winterfell and deciding to head north beyond the Wall, it’s now a matter of travelling for Bran and company. Lots and lots of travelling.

The Northern Landscape

The land is the first thing we’re hit with this chapter. Trees with autumn colours have given way to evergreens, the Wolfswood to flint hills into grey mountains. The land is scattered with long lakes and devoid of roads - game trails only, as we find out later. And it’s cold. Bran, Hodor, Meera and Jojen are heading north, following the blue eye of the Ice Dragon constellation, going up and down and occasionally getting turned around for short amounts of time.

Bran is not loving it.

But Bran’s life had turned into endless chilly days on Hodor’s back, riding his basket up and down the slopes of mountains.

Meera is also not loving it, or maybe she is. She has mixed feelings about mountains, which she tries and fails to explain to Bran. Jojen has the more poetic take that opposites, whether it’s fire and ice, marsh and mountain, or love and hate, aren’t so different after all. The land is one, he says. Meera replies that the land's too wrinkly.

Weather and food both are becoming issues as the group travels. Game is scarce. The temperature is cold. They get caught in a sleet storm, which sounds incredibly miserable. Bran wants to go to the Kingsroad, but Jojen says it’s too dangerous. They’ll be spotted.

That said, Bran soon points out that they’ve already been spotted. Summer’s seen them. There are people in these hills. Sometimes Umbers - usually to the east and usually in summer. Wulls to the west, Harclays to the south, and around where they are now there are Knotts, Liddles, Norreys, and Flints. Bran’s maternal grandmother was a Flint - distant family.

The concerns about witnesses are proven valid when rain drives the group into a cave with a Liddle man. No names are exchanged. Lots of helpful information is. Bran asks how far to the Wall; he’s told it’s still a decent journey if you can’t fly over the hills. They’re warned off the Kingsroad:

“When there was a Stark in Winterfell, a maiden girl could walk the kingsroad in her name-day down and still go unmolested, and travelers could find fire, bread, and salt at many an inn and holdfast. But nights are colder now, and doors are closed.

More immediately, the ‘Bastard’s boys’ are on the road. They’re paying silver for wolfskins and maybe gold for walking dead (no, not the zombie kind). The way the Liddle puts this leaves little doubt that he knows exactly who Bran is. Ramsay’s people also know full well that Bran and Rickon escaped. The news that Bran and Rickon are alive cannot be hidden indefinitely. There are just too many people who know. A bit later, the party circles back around to what happened at Winterfell. They noticed a lot of dead Ironborn and no dead women. The immediate conclusion is that it wasn’t Theon who did the killing.

The Liddle also warns Bran off heading towards the Wall, where Sam’s ravens without messages have at least effectively communicated that some deadly serious shit happened north of the Wall. Which tells Bran and company that at the very least, they’re not likely to find meaningful help at the Wall. Perhaps not even safety.

But they can have sausage and oatcakes instead.

One day there would be Starks in Winterfell again, he told himself, and then he’d send for the Liddles and pay them back a hundredfold for every nut and berry.

This is just about the power of small kindnesses. What follows that is more empathic landscape - a bit more sun, a bit smoother a slope. Just a little bit more bearable all round. And with that, it’s easier to tell stories.

The People of the Crannogs

It’s overshadowed by certain other things this chapter, but it’s definitely worth getting into how much we learn about the residents of the crannogs in this chapter. First we see Meera hunting (and Bran’s developing first crush). She’s a lord’s daughter, but skilled at both hunting and spearfishing. Quite what this says about food security in the Neck, or various recreational pastimes, or gender roles, isn’t clear.

In one of the most hopeful moments of the series to date, Jojen promises the Liddle that he will not be left with ghosts - the wolves will come again. He’s dreamed it. “There are dreams and dreams,” he says. Without more of a sample size you wouldn’t like to say that the crannogpeople culturally have respect for true dreaming and perhas the associated mysticism - but Jojen is confident in referring to those dreams as authoritative. He’s not afraid of sounding ridiculous, he’s used to the idea that dreams can give foreknowledge. Given that Meera refers to “the magics of my people”, it seems that there's a level of respect for magic within their society.

Bran asks for stories after a while. Stories about knights! Jojen tells him there are no knights in the Neck. Meera corrects him that there are no knights above the water - lots of dead ones below, though.

“Andals and ironmen, Freys and other fools, all those proud warriors who set out to conquer Greywater. Not one of them could find it. They ride into the Neck, but not back out. And sooner or later they blunder into the bogs and sink beneath the weight of all that steel and drown there in their armour.”

Thus speaks Jojen. Which is another very informative passage about the people of the crannogs. They have a very different fighting tradition, even to the North. The armour the crannogpeople seem to prefer, it seems, are shirts sewn with bronze scales, plus a leathern shield; the weight is not the best when fighting in the marshy ground. Even their greatest castle is camoflauged or otherwise hidden, which again doesn’t seem to invite the whole siege and straight fight. Instead, the crannogpeople seem happy for their enemies to charge around carelessly and get themselves killed. We’ll see in future books that this isn’t the end of their strategies, but even from this admittedly partisan viewpoint, this seems like a brutally effective strategy.

We get some more details by implication as Howland Reed himself is introduced in the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree:

“He grew up hunting and fishing and climbing trees, and learned all the magics of my people. […] He could breathe mud run on leaves, and change earth to water and water to earth with no more than a whispered word. He could talk to trees and make castles appear and disappear.”

Another point for hunting and fishing being appropriate for the upper strata of crannog society. And a good hint at Howland’s moving castle.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree

With spirits a bit higher, the party starts swapping stories. Meera nominates the tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Oddly, Jojen says that Bran must have heard that tale a hundred times. But no, Bran hasn’t heard it even once.

Since it’s Meera telling the story as it was told to her by her father, it starts with Howland Reed (not named within the tale). Howland Reed, who wants to see a bit more of the world than just the crannogs, and who goes to find the Green Men on the Isle of Faces. After a productive winter visit, he heads off when spring arrives, and wanders right into the Tourney of Harrenhal. Meera doesn’t use family names, but the identities of the attendees are clear: King Aerys, Rhaegar, all the Kingsguard, Mace Tyrell, Robert Baratheon. Tywin’s had a spat with the king and didn’t show, but there are a lot of Westerlands lords there.

But women also attend (though Bran asks with suspicion if this is going to be a love story - there’s no other reason for women tot be present in a story except romance!). Elia Martell counts as a fair maid, and she’s brought a full dozen lady companions, with the men flocking around them.

But almost no sooner has Howland Reed shown his face than he’s set upon by vicious Walders. As Jojen says, “sometimes the knights are the monsters.” Squires or not, all of them are bigger than Howland Reed. Howland marks their faces as he’s being beaten - but even as that happens, a “she-wolf” arrives and sends all of the squires packing with a tourney sword. Lyanna Stark insists Howland come with her, first to meet the other Starks (explicitly noted in this is that Brandon’s the leader), and then to the feast.

Throughout the description of the action, Meera uses heraldry to identify the characters, rather than names. While this makes sense - did Howland know those names? What’s easier for the audience hearing this story spoken aloud? - It does mean a little piecing together is needed for the reader. Among the more important interactions are Lyanna crying at Rhaegar’s beautiful music (and then pouring wine on Benjen when he laughed at her), and Brandon asking Ashara Dayne to dance with Ned. Tragically, the woman the readers already know committed suicide is described here as having “laughing” eyes - a good bit of writing that implies the terrible things that happened to her over the course of Robert’s Rebellion.

Central to Meera’s story, though, is Howland spotting the Frey squires at the feast. Benjen offers to find Howland a horse and armour, but Howland is conflicted. He has his pride, and he knows jousting isn’t his forte. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself or his people more than he already has.

“You never heard this tale from your father?” asked Jojen.

At the jousting the next day, a mystery knight shows up, sure enough. Bran thinks the knight was the crannogman - they were short, in mismatched (obviously borrowed) armour, and the small crannogman fits the bill. The knight, named in the story for the device on their shield as the Knight of the Laughing Tree, challenged the masters of the squires. They won the jousts, demanding that the knights discipline their squires for the return of their horses and armour. Afterwards, at the feast, others swear to unmask the mystery knight (including Robert Baratheon), with King Aerys sending Rhaegar out to unmask the knight. But though Rhaegar returned with the shield, the knight vanished into thin air.

Bran thinks the story is…okay. Look, he’s got some opinions about what would be dramatically satisfying here. They needed to commit to making the knights the bad guys. There needs to be more violence, with the knights killed at the end. And for all that Bran complained about love stories, he wanted that romance subplot in - and resolved. (Though this does tell you a bit about how women are perceived as standard rewards in the in-universe fiction. The bloody eight year old has bought into it.) Meera tells Bran that Lyanna was indeed named the Queen of Love and Beauty: “but that’s a sadder story.”

“Are you certain you never heard this tale before, Bran?” asked Jojen. “Your lord father never told it to you?”

Because what Bran hasn’t realised is that this isn’t a far off tale of times long gone. This happened less than twenty years ago. This is his family’s recent past - part of events that shaped his family and the politics of the world he lives in profoundly. What Bran misses is right there for the readers.

Chapter Function

This chapter mostly exists for Meera’s story and the promise that the wolves will come again. The rest of it’s mostly walking.

There are very few ways we can get insight into these key events of the backstory with all these child protagonists who weren’t even born when these Big Deals happened. The mechanism of a story for children is actually a really good one, since it tells us about another culture, another time, and two different families.

In writing terms, it’s also an excellent way of showing the readers what’s important through the implications of what’s not told. Meera’s main narrative is about Howland’s experiences, so the ‘camera’ glances at Lyanna, at the interactions between the Stark siblings, at Rhaegar and Aerys, but doesn’t focus on them. They’re unmistakeably there, but they’re not gone into, which leaves room for speculation and mystery and the certain level of ambiguity that GRRM's stories thrive on.

Even more than this, there’s the in-universe meta-level of what’s not told. Ned’s been dead for a book and a half, and we’re still learning about him just for knowing that he couldn’t bear to tell his own children this story.

And why can’t Ned tell this story? Lyanna. Lyanna is the hero of this particular story, even more than Howland Reed. From the very beginning she’s an active presence. This is a story Lyanna drove, first by rescuing Howland from the Freys, then by taking him into the Stark tent, then by avenging Howland’s honour when Howland could not avenge his own. What we’re shown is a girl with both physical and moral courage. She’s daring, ready to fight squires, stand up for her father’s bannerman, and defy social convention to joust in the lists herself. Even in this little story for children, Lyanna’s a memorable character.

Through this, more than just telling us about Lyanna, GRRM shows us the effect all this had on Ned. The pointed, grief-stricken silence is palpable even as the implications fly over Bran’s head. It keeps Ned’s character and his silence in the reader’s view. Which is going to be important when at the end, GRRM has to talk about Ned’s character, his grief, and his silence - again relating to Lyanna.

Miscellany

This chapter is far more about what’s going on around Bran than his internal experiences, but even then:

He followed it with his eyes, wondering what it would be like to soar about the world so effortless. Better than climbing, even. He tried to reach the eagle, to leave his stupid crippled body and rise into the sky to join it, the way he joined with summer. The greenseers could do it. I should be able to do it too.

That said, it’s worth noting that Bran flips back to explicitly preferring knighthood at the end of Meera’s story. Acceptance is a process. Bran's going through it.

The internalised ableism continues strongly. And on that note, mind Bran’s interaction with Hodor. Hodor likes stories about knights, Bran says. Hodor doesn’t like love stories, Bran says. Are these Hodor’s preferences, or is Bran using Hodor as an excuse? On one level it’s childish behaviour from a child…but on another, it’s Bran using Hodor’s voice for his own ends.

Who doesn’t love Jojen’s shade about “Freys and other fools”?

It’s flagged that Howland Reed did meet the Green Men, “but that’s another story.”

We also learn in this chapter that not-yet-Ser Barristan entered a tourney as a mystery knight when he was ten.

Clothing Porn

The Liddle man wears a squirrelskin cloak with a pinecone-shaped clasp in gold and bronze.

Food Porn

Bran fantasises about the eel, fish, and hot crab pie that Osha might be eating at White Harbour. Later, there’s actual blood sausage and oatcakes. Oatcakes with pine nuts and oatcakes with blackberries.

Next Three Chapters

Tyrion V, ACoK - Eddard X, AGoT - Sam V, AFFC