#despite knowing everything you know about him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bjlipss · 3 days ago

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— i would love to go back to the old house;

★ synopsis: you and satoru make a promise to marry each other if you’re both still alone by thirty.

miyan’s notes: no curse au, no warnings, maybe some realness, just fluff and smut. wc: 3681.

you’re both seventeen, laying on the grass behind the school gym, where the sun’s dipped low enough to cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

it’s late spring—almost summer—and the scent of cut grass clings to your clothes, sweet and sharp. someone’s left a soccer ball abandoned a few feet away. the world feels lazy and endless, like nothing important could ever happen here.

you’re side by side, arms brushing but never quite touching, your pinkies just barely grazing sometimes when one of you shifts. satoru’s sunglasses are crooked on his face, and he doesn’t fix them. his white hair is fanned out messily over the grass, and there’s a blade of it stuck behind his ear. he hasn’t noticed.

he was dumped yesterday. you heard about it from someone else before he told you—his ex apparently said he was too much. too loud, too intense, too everything. it made you kind of furious, but you didn’t say that. you just sat with him today, like always.

your first real relationship ended last week. it wasn’t even dramatic. just two people slowly realizing they didn’t quite know how to hold each other anymore. still, it left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you’re pretending isn’t there.

he exhales, slow and dramatic. “you ever think we’re just… cursed or something?”

you snort. “that’s a little dramatic.”

“it’s me,” he says, turning his head toward you, and you can see the curve of a grin forming. “drama is my whole thing.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t say no. he quiets down again, goes back to staring at the sky with a look that’s a little more thoughtful than usual. birds are flying overhead in little staggered v’s, and there’s a faint breeze brushing your skin.

then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, he says, “if we’re both single at thirty, let’s just marry each other.”

you blink. the silence after feels loud.

“what?” you laugh, eyebrows lifting. “what kind of pact is that?”

he shrugs, still looking up. “a realistic one. we already know each other’s worst habits. you can tolerate me. that’s rare.”

“you’re an idiot,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “but sure. yeah. a backup plan. solid.”

you mean it like a joke. like a throwaway thing. but then he turns his head toward you, and his glasses slide down his nose just enough that you can see his eyes—really see them.

“no,” he says. “i’m serious.”

you stare at him. he’s not laughing. there’s something oddly earnest in the way he says it, like he’s offering something fragile and important without realizing it. like a promise he doesn’t expect you to keep, but wants you to want to.

your heart does a weird thing. tightens. pulls.

you swallow. “okay. me too.”

neither of you says anything after that. the sun dips lower. the breeze picks up. the world moves around you, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that quiet stretch of time, young and bruised and hopeful.

your pinkies brush again.

this time, neither of you pulls away.

—

years pass.

at first, the promise is a soft, silly memory tucked into the back of your mind like a note in a locker you never emptied. you think about it sometimes—on your birthday, when your heart gets broken again, when you see a wedding invitation in the mail and wonder how people keep getting so lucky. the pact becomes a kind of quiet comfort, a lighthouse in the distance. not real, but there. always there.

you go to university. he does too. different cities, different people, different rhythms. you both grow into yourselves slowly, awkwardly, like plants reaching for light in the wrong season. you learn how to love better. how to walk away when you need to. how to be alone and not hate it.

you date people who are kind. people who challenge you. people who hurt you in ways that teach you something. some of them ask about him, the boy in the old photos, the one whose name still slips out when you’re tired or wine-drunk. you always brush it off, say he’s just someone from your past. nothing more. nothing to see here.

he dates too. once, you find out through a mutual that he’s seeing someone seriously—a girl who’s smart and sweet and nothing like you. it bothers you more than you want to admit. but you never say anything. you just keep your head down, push it away like you do with everything else that hurts. you’re happy for him, you think. you should be.

life moves fast, and slow, and fast again. you move cities. he changes jobs. there are stretches of time where you don’t think about him at all—and then suddenly everything reminds you of him again. a song he used to hum under his breath. the way someone else laughs. a white-haired stranger passing by on the street, so close to the version of him you remember but not quite right. the ghost of him lingers, not haunting you, but following you in the corners of your life.

and then, there are the moments when life tangles your paths back together.

—

it’s your friend’s birthday—an old classmate who’s turned their tiny apartment into a chaos of people and warm lights. the kind of party that’s too loud, too crowded, but you’re here anyway because it’s easier to go than stay home. the tension of being alone hits you in the chest as soon as you walk in. everyone’s happy. everyone’s with someone. everyone’s moving forward, but you’re stuck at some point in the past, lingering in the gap between where you were and where you should be.

you almost don’t go, tired from work, emotionally drained. but you show up, because something tells you to. maybe it’s because you promised yourself you’d stop running from things that make you uncomfortable. or maybe it’s just the weird way life works, pulling you toward the people and places you’re not ready for yet.

you’re standing near the kitchen, sipping a drink you don’t really care about, when you hear it—a laugh that cuts through the noise, familiar and unexpected. a laugh you know instantly, one that hits you in the chest like a familiar song. it’s a sound you haven’t heard in years, but it’s like it never left.

you turn, the crowd of people blurring out of focus, and there he is.

satoru.

he’s leaning against the fridge, talking to someone you don’t recognize, his hair a little longer, his shirt untucked, uncuffed. still so him, but also… different. his face is older, but still beautiful in that effortless way, the same white hair, the same sharp eyes that seem to know you even from across the room.

he sees you. he freezes. and for a second, it’s like time holds its breath.

“hey,” he says, voice soft, almost surprised. “you look…”

he doesn’t finish the sentence. but you hear it anyway. you look the same. you look different. i didn’t expect to see you here.

you smile like you’re not unraveling. like it doesn’t matter that your heart just skipped a beat. “it’s been a while.”

he hugs you then, warm and solid. it lasts a second too long. too much unsaid between you both, but it’s all there in the tension of his arms around you. the promise is still alive in the quiet air between your breaths. but neither of you mentions it.

he leaves before you do.

—

months later, it’s a late-night convenience store in tokyo. you’re tired, bleary-eyed, the kind of exhausted that comes from too many late shifts and not enough sleep. you’re reaching for instant noodles and a bottle of tea when you hear the shuffle of footsteps behind you. you don’t look, too focused on the shelves in front of you. but then you hear it—his voice, soft but unmistakable.

“you live around here now?” he asks, stunned.

you freeze for a moment. and then you turn.

there he is, standing in the aisle like he’s part of some strange dream. his hair is tied back messily, longer than before. he’s holding a bag of sour candies, blinking at you like he’s not sure if you’re real or if his tired eyes are just playing tricks on him.

“yeah,” you say, suddenly self-conscious. “just moved a couple months ago.”

“me too,” he says, a little sheepish. “just moved last week. tokyo’s a lot different from what i remembered.”

you laugh, and for a moment, it’s like you’re both seventeen again, standing in the hallway after class, talking about nothing. only now, it’s quieter. more knowing. there’s a little more space between you both, but you don’t feel it as much as you think you should. he’s still satoru, after all.

you talk for a few minutes, small things. the weather. work. how both of you somehow managed to end up in the same city again after all this time. his hair’s longer now, and so is yours. there’s something different about him, something worn into the lines of his face, but you’re still the same. you’re still the same. the realization hits you like a wave.

when you say goodbye, there’s a small flicker of something in his eyes. like he wants to say something else. something important. maybe you do too. but you don’t.

you both go your separate ways, the moment slipping away with every step, but neither of you forgets it. not really.

—

another year passes. you’re invited to a mutual friend’s engagement party. you don’t know it’s mutual until you arrive and see him standing on the balcony, glass of wine in hand. his back is to you, but you recognize the way his shoulders sit under the weight of the world, the way his posture softens when he’s trying to relax.

you hesitate. for a second, you think about leaving. about turning around and pretending you never saw him, never heard that familiar laugh or felt that same ache in your chest. but you stay. something inside you says that this is the time. that maybe, just maybe, the universe is ready for you to have the conversation you’ve been avoiding for years.

you walk over. he turns, and his eyes widen when he sees you.

“this is getting ridiculous,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “we keep showing up like we’re being summoned.”

you laugh, but it’s a little more nervous than you mean it to be. “maybe we are.”

you talk for fifteen minutes, small talk mostly. his girlfriend is waiting inside—he doesn’t say that, but you can tell. he’s polite, but distant this time. something in his eyes is different, more guarded than you remember. and it’s strange. it feels like a wall has gone up between you both, and you can’t figure out why. you want to ask, but you don’t. it’s not your place.

something tightens in your chest, a quiet jealousy you don’t want to feel but can’t help. so you excuse yourself early.

—

and then there’s the funeral.

someone you both knew in high school. someone you weren’t close to, but close enough to go. it’s raining—of course it is—and your coat is too thin for the chill. the crowd is subdued, the kind of heavy silence you only get at funerals. you stand off to the side, trying not to draw attention, but then you spot him across the crowd.

he’s standing alone under an umbrella, his jaw clenched. his eyes are cast downward, but when he looks up, he sees you. his gaze sharpens, like he’s unsure if you’re really there. but then he steps toward you, slow and hesitant.

you don’t speak much. just stand side by side beneath the gray sky, the rain soft on your faces, like a veil between everything that was and everything that could have been. you don’t know if it’s the weight of the moment or something else, but it feels like you’re both seventeen again, standing in that quiet space between friendship and something more.

afterward, when you’re on the train home, your phone buzzes. a contact name that hasn’t been on your phone for a while.

satoru: thirty’s not that far.

you stare at the screen for a long time, the words sinking into your chest like a stone. the promise that’s always been there, waiting for the right moment to be spoken. but now, in the quiet of your apartment, you don’t reply.

you think about it. about everything. about how he said it, softer than usual, quieter than you’re used to. you think about his eyes, the way they followed yours. the rain on his umbrella. the years that have passed.

you think about his voice, and you wonder if he remembers the exact words. you wonder if he ever stopped.

—

… you almost don’t go. again.

the invitation sits unopened on your counter for days before you cave, peeling it open with the tip of your key. you don’t recognize the name on the envelope immediately, but inside, there’s a handwritten card. a friend-of-a-friend, someone you once shared a table with at a dinner party, who remembered your smile. you had forgotten about them, honestly. but here they are, inviting you into their life, into their celebration. their quiet reminder that life moves on, and people keep finding their paths while you still seem to be standing still.

“it’ll be nice,” your coworker says when you mention it offhand. “dress up, eat fancy cake, forget your life for an evening.”

you smile. nod. pretend it’s not terrifying—the thought of being surrounded by people who’ve figured it out—who’ve found their person, their path, their place in the world. the thought of seeing them again—the ones who chose their someone. and you’re left holding only the pieces of a promise, one you had never quite stopped waiting on.

but you go anyway. because you said you would. because maybe, just maybe, it will be easier to let go of things you’re holding onto by showing up. by being there.

the venue is small and beautiful, tucked in a quiet corner of the city. ivy climbs up stone walls, winding their way to the second floor, the kind of building that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something important to happen. soft music spills out from the inside, cascading into the courtyard where the last rays of the day spill gold over everyone’s skin, turning them all into something fleeting, something perfect.

you wear a color you’ve always liked on yourself, something soft and simple, but still carefully chosen. it’s funny—how you’ve started choosing your clothes more for yourself than for anyone else. how you’ve learned to dress for the person you’ve grown into, not the one you thought you’d be. you smile as you check your reflection one last time. and then, you spot it—lipstick on your teeth. for the first ten minutes, you don’t know, and then someone kindly points it out, their laugh light and warm. you laugh too, grateful for the small kindness. you take a drink from a glass of champagne that’s almost too pretty to touch, as if it should be saved for something special, and for a second, you almost feel like you belong here.

you don’t know many people at the party. that’s fine. you’ve never been one to throw yourself into the middle of things. you’ve always been the one to drift at events like these, skimming the surface, smiling politely, offering a few words here and there, but keeping your hands folded in your lap when you sit, staying small, staying unnoticed.

you make it through the ceremony. the vows are sweet. you clap when you’re supposed to. you eat a few hors d’oeuvres, and when the music gets too loud and the voices start blending into a buzz, you slip away to the balcony. it’s quiet out here. the city hums beneath you, distant and untouchable. for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

and then you hear it—laughter. soft, familiar. close.

you turn, already knowing. already feeling the weight of it before you see him.

he’s standing a few steps away from the doorway, talking to someone you don’t recognize. sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie a little loose like he’s just been letting the night happen around him. his hair’s still white—shorter now, messier, and there’s something about the way the years have softened him in places you never thought could soften. his eyes still hold that distant glimmer, the one you always tried to make sense of. but now, there’s something more grounded in him—something that matches the tiredness you’ve started carrying around yourself.

he’s changed. and he hasn’t.

your chest tightens.

then, like some invisible thread has tugged at his spine, he turns.

his eyes land on you.

and the world tilts, just slightly.

he goes still.

you don’t move either.

something deep in your ribs aches with how long it’s been, with how many almosts have collected between you over the years. so many moments where he almost looked back, where you almost said something, where life almost collided and made sense. but it didn’t. not then. and maybe not now.

his expression shifts—surprise first, then something warmer. softer. something like disbelief, but there’s a flicker in his eyes, one that you can’t ignore. maybe it’s a memory. maybe it’s hope.

“hey,” he says, stepping closer. his voice is quieter than you remember, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “i didn’t know you were coming.”

you swallow, suddenly aware of how dry your throat is. “me either. i didn’t know we had mutual friends.”

he lets out a breath that sounds too much like a laugh. “of course we do. fate’s had a weird sense of humor since we were seventeen.”

you don’t say anything. you just look at him.

his eyes scan your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. he looks at you as though you’re someone he never quite expected to see again, and it feels like he’s seeing all of you, not just the parts he remembers. he’s still beautiful in that effortless way—how he’s always been—but now, there’s something real in it. something tired, something weighted, something that speaks of the years between. of all the things that have happened since.

you speak first. “you look good.”

he smiles slowly, his mouth curving up in that easy way that always made your heart trip. “so do you. better than good.”

you roll your eyes a little. “still laying it on thick, i see.”

“you used to like that,” he murmurs, and there’s something vulnerable in the way his voice dips, something nostalgic, almost like he wants to reach back through time and pull out the version of you that used to smile when he flirted. the version that used to think it meant something. “used to smile when i flirted.”

“used to,” you echo. but your voice is gentler than the words. there’s a quiet understanding between you now. something that was there before, buried beneath everything that has passed.

a beat passes.

and then he asks, almost cautiously, “are you still with anyone?”

you shake your head.

his eyes flicker, searching yours for something. for a sign. “me neither.”

your stomach flips.

there’s something there in his gaze—something that feels like an opening, like a crack where the past might slip back in. you both stand there, framed by the golden glow of the setting sun and the hum of music drifting in from the party. it feels like the air around you is waiting. like the universe has been holding its breath, waiting for this moment, just to see what you’ll do now. to see what the two of you will decide to do with all the time that has passed, with all the unspoken things between you.

“you remember,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “what we said, back then?”

you don’t pretend you don’t. you nod. “yeah. i remember.”

his hands slip into his pockets. he shifts a little, as though unsure of himself, and his eyes stay locked on yours. “at some point i started to think it was just a joke. something we said to make the world feel less uncertain.”

“me too,” you admit, the words soft and honest. “but it never stopped feeling real.”

he tilts his head, watching you, and you can feel the weight of everything hanging in the space between you. “i kept waiting,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. “not on purpose. not always. but every time something ended, every time i felt alone again, i’d think—maybe we’re still heading there. maybe we just haven’t caught up to the promise yet.”

your breath hitches. it feels like the air is too thick. too much. too many years folded up between you.

“and now we’re thirty,” he says, a small, stunned smile tugging at his lips. “and you’re here. and i’m here. and i don’t want to waste more time pretending like i don’t want this.”

you look at him. really look at him. and suddenly, all the years, all the almosts, all the moments where you left too early or he looked back too late, they don’t feel like failures anymore. they feel like steps—each one leading you toward this. this moment. this chance to finally make good on something that’s been waiting.

you take one step now.

closer.

his breath catches when your fingers brush his, like he’s not sure if this is real, if it’s happening. And then, when you don’t pull away, when you stay there, your fingers lacing together as though it’s always been that easy, something shifts. The years that kept you apart, the missed chances, the long silences—they start to fall away.

you lean in.

and when you kiss him, it’s not loud, not dramatic, not bursting with fireworks.

it’s quiet.

it’s soft.

it’s like coming home.

it’s like finally keeping a promise you never really stopped waiting on.

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formulaonecrumbs · 3 days ago

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he’s so pretty

Lando Norris x gf!reader

summary: lando’s so beautiful and reader makes sure he knows it.

warnings: NONE.

A/N: (i’m getting to more requests bare with me, i’m not used to having this many) i got inspo for this cuz i was on pinterest and saw some pictures of lando looking BEAUTIFUL and i just sat there in awe of him. had to translate it into a fic 🙏🙏

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

you never really remembered when it started, calling lando pretty.

maybe it was the first time he showed up to your house dripping rainwater, curls stuck wetly to his forehead, cheeks pink from the cold. or maybe it was the day you watched him laugh so hard at something you said that he couldn’t catch his breath, his whole face lighting up like the sun had made a home inside him. maybe it was even earlier than that, when you were just kids and you thought he looked like the boy version of a storybook character, the ones whose smiles made you believe in magic.

you didn’t know when it started. you just knew you loved it. and now, being able to say it whenever you wanted — being able to kiss his pretty face after — felt like the biggest kind of magic.

“you’re so pretty, lando,” you said once, casual as anything, as you both lounged on the couch, your feet kicked up on his lap, his hand absentmindedly tracing shapes against your ankle. he didn’t react right away, only glanced over at you with this small, almost shy grin, like he still didn’t know what to do with the compliment even after months of being yours.

but you said it again the next day, and the day after that, and eventually it became a part of the air between you.

“pretty boy,” you’d hum as you adjusted his tie before some event he didn’t want to go to. “prettiest boy i know,” you’d tease as you ruffled his hair, ruining whatever careful styling his team had done, and he’d just shake his head and pull you into him, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead like he couldn’t help it.

you loved the way he reacted every time, like he couldn’t quite believe you meant it but wanted so badly to.

and lando, for all his confidence on track, was soft around you. soft in a way he wasn’t with anyone else. soft in a way you adored.

you’d say it after a race when he was sweaty and exhausted, pulling him close despite the mess. you’d say it in the mornings when his curls were wild and his voice was rough and he looked at you like you were the first good thing he’d ever seen. you said it because it was true, and because he deserved to know it every second of every day.

one lazy afternoon, you ended up at the lake near his place — your place, now, sort of, with how often you stayed over — where you always went when everything felt a little too loud.

he was stretched out on the grass, eyes closed, face turned toward the sun, and you sat beside him, knees pulled to your chest, just watching him breathe.

he looked… peaceful. and stupidly beautiful.

and before you could even think about it, the words slipped out again. “you’re so pretty, lando.”

this time, he opened his eyes slowly, blinking up at you with a lazy, fond smile. “you say that like it’s new information.”

you laughed, tossing a blade of grass at his chest. “it is. every day. new levels of pretty achieved.”

he caught the grass and twirled it between his fingers, the softest blush creeping up his neck. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you love it,” you said easily.

he sat up then, reaching out to tug you toward him until you were half sprawled across his lap, giggling as you went. he held you there, arms looping loosely around your waist, looking up at you with a kind of wonder that made your heart trip over itself.

“i really do,” he murmured, like it was a secret.

you leaned in, brushing your nose against his. “good. because i’m not planning to stop.”

he kissed you then, slow and lazy and full of sunshine, like he had all the time in the world just to love you.

and maybe he did.

later, as you lay tangled together on the grass, his fingers playing with your hair, he whispered, “you’re the only person who sees me like that.”

you blinked, tilting your head to look at him properly. “like what?”

“like… i’m something more than just a driver. like… i’m enough, just like this.”

your heart twisted, too full of everything you felt for him. you pressed your hand over his chest, right where his heart beat steady and sure. “lando… you’re enough. always have been. always will be.”

he pulled you in tighter at that, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

and you knew then — the way you always had — that you were going to spend the rest of your life telling him how pretty he was.

pretty when he won. pretty when he lost. pretty when he was laughing. pretty when he was hurting. pretty just for being himself.

because he was.

and because he was yours.

THE END :>

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clare-875 · 2 days ago

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Distraction or Devotion (Zoro x Reader)

_____ Pairings: Roronoa Zoro x Female Reader Summary: You think your love is one-sided, but is it? Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Jealous Zoro, Soft Zoro, Alcohol A/N: Been obsessed with Zoro lately 😅 [One Piece Masterlist] _____

You were transfixed by him.

Roronoa Zoro.

He had found his way into your heart and had taken the undue liberty to consume all of its devotion. You didn't know how friendship had morphed so suddenly into the hopes of something more, but that was the predicament you found yourself in now.

What had started as general respect for the other had turned into sparing sessions, light bickering and laughter, drinking and confiding in the other. The days spent at sea spared you much time to get to know the green-haired swordsman, no matter how rigid he stood behind his walls. You chipped and chipped away at them until he let you in on small details, let you pull laughter from him and let you linger in his presence.

The bond you both shared was built on loyalty and an undying trust forged through time and trial. You knew to him, you were a rare individual: one he trusts, one he protects, a comrade and a friend. But to you, the more you chipped away at his walls, the more you got to know the man, stoic and strong and silent, the more he crashed through your own borders and delved straight into your heart.

To you, he was everything, but everything you were so sure you could not have.

"Oi, [y/n], you're zoning out again."

Your eyes snap upwards, and you are met with the sight of Zoro, his sharp eyes on you as he lifts an ungodly amount of weight back and forth over his head, mimicking the movements of his swords. Both of you were out on deck, the only crewmembers that lingered outdoors apart from Luffy, who was somewhere on the figurehead.

"I'm sorry, were you desperate for my attention?"

You tease as you go back to the duty of polishing his swords, a frequent task you found yourself undertaking, but one you did not take lightly. You knew how much Zoro treasured his swords, how much worth was forged upon their blades. They lay heavy in your hands: heavy with responsibility and the weight of Zoro's trust. You didn't know of anyone else he would allow to even breathe near his swords, let alone touch them.

The thought of that made your heart warm.

"Shouldn't you be focusing on your training?"

"Tch, whatever woman, I only said something cause you looked like you were about to fall asleep on the blade. Next time I'll just watch it happen."

You roll your eyes, but a smile lingers on your face as your eyes meet his. The sun had fallen, just mingling with the ocean as it delved deeper into the Earth, bringing forth warm lights that traced the muscles on Zoro's skin. His irises swim in the fervour of the lights, and you swear you see something deep within as he abruptly breaks away from your gaze, the pink on his cheeks surely from his workout and nothing more.

Nothing more, right?

There is more silence as Zoro shifts his focus to his weights once more, the rhythm of his training the only sound that touches the cooling air, until you decide to break the quiet.

"Hey, Zoro..."

You murmur, eyes locked on the blade carefully placed in your lap and the cloth that delicately traces it until you see your own unwavering reflection.

"Yeah?" Zoro grunts as he brings down the weights towards the deck.

"Have you ever thought about love before?"

There is abruptly the seizing of movement, but when your eyes travel upwards again to meet his, he merely looks at you incredulously.

"What kind of question is that?"

You grin at his expression, but continue on, nonchalantly, despite the way your heart pounds against your chest at your own boldness.

"Oh, come on, Zoro. You've never been tempted? I can't count on my hands the number of times women have literally fallen at your feet. Beautiful women, too good for you, of course, but nonetheless."

A beat of silence, and he answers.

"Nope, never thought about it."

His words are blunt, and he continues his training as though nothing was said. You can't deny the slight disappointment that filled you at his abrupt words. But you decide to push a bit more. You want to know more, more of what he thought about you. If you had a chance, if another claimed his heart, if his words were true.

"Really? What about Tashigi? She even knows her way around a sword, you know-"

"Nope."

"Perona? You guys literally spent two years together-"

"So? Still no."

"Hiyori? You two seemed all cosied up-"

"No."

You roll your eyes, unsure as to why your heart starts to feel heavy even as he rejects women you were so sure he could sweep off their feet. Maybe it was the lack of interest in the topic of relationships. Maybe it was the voice in the back of your mind mocking your hopes that he would turn around and say he would choose you instead.

"Nami, Robin??"

You ask, a teasing tone in your words despite the smile that strains on your cheeks.

"What? No way, they're crewmates-"

"You've actually never been tempted? They're literally all so perfect."

You sit in slight disbelief, analysing his expression, but his gaze does not falter, and he reveals nothing. If anything, you witness the tightening of his jaw as he moves to a silent rhythm. You wonder if you have pushed the topic too far.

"It's nothing against them, I have a responsibility and a goal. To become the world's strongest swordsman and to see Luffy become the pirate king. I don't have time for distractions."

His words are blunt to you as they are confirming. You allow the silence to consume the space between the two of you for a moment longer, and yet your heart twists unbearably.

He doesn't have time for distractions.

Of course, he doesn't.

You had witnessed more than anyone the way he trained from daybreak to sundown, every minute for the dream he held, and in support of Luffy's ambitions. What time could he spare for relationships, for women? He already had so much on his mind, so much responsibility on his back. And yet, a question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself.

"Not even time for me?"

You whisper, but Zoro misses your words, his eyes trained on his weights, the crease between his brows a show of his concentration, but the glint in his eyes, one that unravels frustration.

Why? Maybe this conversation was one he did not wish to partake in.

"Did you say something?"

Zoro's words touch the air once more, as sunlight travels his face until it lies static as he meets your gaze again.

"Nothing," you say, more dejected than anything else, despite knowing you should feel unsurprised. You watch as he continues his workout, the air solemn as you let out a quiet sigh, unsure why your heart feels so heavy despite a lack of rejection.

You supposed it was the lack of recognition that had done it.

In-tune crew members had already witnessed your gravitation towards the swordsman, but it was clear to you that your affections were not recognised, nor could they be considered anything beyond friendship by Zoro. Though stupidly relieved to know that he did not have a favourite among the women you listed, you felt stupid in your hopes that maybe, just maybe, you were his favourite.

That he recognised that the way you polish his swords as you do now wasn't out of mere generosity but deep-rooted admiration and care. The way you saved a seat for him beside you at dinner wasn't out of mere friendship but out of hope to get to know him more. The way you seek him out and spend hours by his side, even when there is nothing to be said, was from a yearning to be beside him for as long as he would let you be.

You loved him.

Roronoa Zoro.

Loved the way he would smirk when he teased you to the point where you were sure to combust. Loved the way he is so protective of crewmates in battles, his strength and loyalty unmatched. You loved the way he was so unwavering in his values, so predictable in the best of ways. Loved the way that he cared and was kind, no matter how hard he tried to keep up the tough-guy facade. You loved the quiet moments stolen with him, the way his eyes would soften in the presence of you and the presence of crewmates, the faint smile he bears when he has had too much to drink.

Loved the way he would listen quietly.

Loved the way he ruffled your hair.

Loved the way he searched for you after battles.

You loved him.

But as you watch his devotion to his swords, to Luffy and to his crew. Deep down, you had resigned yourself to knowing that you could never be anything more than a friend. No princess, swordswoman or model could turn his head. How could you?

What did you offer that they didn't?

Emotion fills you suddenly, but you force it away, scolding yourself and quickly finishing off the last of your task. Zoro releases his hold on his weights, stretching lightly as he readies another workout, but he is surprised as you stand and go to walk away.

"Hey, you okay?"

He asks, and you hate the way your heart lurches at his concern, the way you can feel his eyes burning into your back.

"Yeah, I just promised Sanji I'd help him for dinner, I'll see you later!"

Your words are as cheerful as you forced them to be, wandering towards the kitchen unseeingly. You don't see the way Zoro's brows furrow in his confusion, the twitching of his hands as though he wants to stop you and ask why you would indulge in the cook's company over his own. But he merely nods and continues his training.

You merely walk away.

.....

A week has passed, and you didn't know what you were doing.

Were you moving on? But from what exactly?

Exploring other opportunities? Maybe, but why?

You weren't rejected.

Didn't have the hammer beat down on your budding devotion to the swordsman. You were just provided an unspoken resignation by his words.

"I don't have time for distractions."

Like, ever? Was that long-term, short-term, or were you even a card in his hands that he would play?

You were confused and downtrodden, but you were also tired.

One-sided love.

So focused on possibilities and what-ifs, you had forgotten how exhausting it can be. How burdenous longing can be. How the dichotomy of your mind and of your heart can feel like you're being torn in two. Was that dramatic? Maybe a tad. But you now realise how long you have loved Zoro, the years you spent by his side. How can you teach yourself to let go, even a little bit, to seek distance so that if he does choose to reject you in the future, you are not utterly shattered?

You hate that you still hope.

Hope that because you had not named yourself, and because he had not rejected you, that you still had a chance, even if it was years down the line. You grit your teeth as you take a rough swing of your beverage, alcohol burning as you force it down your throat, trying to quieten your mind, trying to forget your feelings.

"Hey, slow down, it's not water, you know?"

And there it is, the provocative tone in his words. The glint of amusement in his sharp eyes as he catches your gaze. The swordsman laughs at your distasteful expression as he downs his second bottle of the night.

"I know that, but do you? You're downing that like it's nothing."

You ask incredulously, deadpanning at the way liquid disappears from bottles. He smirks, much more at ease next to you and with his sake, though he couldn't let you know that. Couldn't let you see how you have him so wrapped around your finger. Couldn't let you know that the smile you bear had him fighting to remain nonchalant, to remain strong in the face of temptation. The temptation in your lips, in your gaze, in you.

"I know, but I can handle it."

You roll your eyes at that.

He notices, but you turn away quickly, hiding your gaze in the dim light of the bar the two of you found yourselves in. Zoro can hear his Captain laughing with a stranger, can hear the love-lorn cook as he talks to Nami and Robin, can hear Brook chatting with the musicians in the bar, and yet he finds himself next to you. He always finds himself next to you. Always you he looks for after battles, always you he sits by when he naps, always you who lingers when he works out, always you he celebrates with, always you.

He wonders why you have been acting strangely this week.

Recently, it hadn't been you who lingered, or you he sits beside. You hadn't been saving the seats you usually do for him, with your bright eyes and wide smile. More often, you had been absent as he worked out, left wondering why the empty space you usually sat in was left cold and dull without you. More often had he taken notice of the unspoken things you do - reminding him of dinner, polishing his swords, filling the quiet in between - disappearing. He wondered if he had taken you for granted.

Even now, as he sits next to you, the closest he has been for days. You are quieter, more sullen, more lost in your mind. The heart in his chest that he didn't know could fluctuate in the face of another, missed you. God dammit, he missed you. And he didn't know what he had done wrong.

You take a glance to your side, only to see that Zoro was now lost in his head, drinking from bottles, with thoughts behind his eyes. You are about to ask what burdens him, but your pursuit is interrupted by that of another.

"Excuse me, love? Can I buy you a drink?"

Your gaze snaps upwards when you meet the eyes of a stranger who has approached your side without your notice. He hadn't been the first to approach you tonight; in fact, you were used to men approaching you with hope and admiration and lust twisting in their irises. It had been so easy before to brush them off in favour of Zoro's company, so easy to say no. But you find yourself considering the offer. Zoro is still distracted by a thought you cannot see, and this man was charming and attractive.

What harm was there really?

"Okay," you say, your words more unsure than you hoped they would be, but the man does not care nor seem to notice, all too pleased to have you on his arm. That is, until you feel a sharp tug on your other hand that lies limp to your side. Your gaze snaps to your left, and you are met with sharp eyes you have memorised all too well.

"Oi, where are you going?"

Zoro's voice is low, protective, his hand lingering on his swords. But his irises betray confusion, and was that hurt that lingered on the crescent edges? Zoro's insides twist uncomfortably at the sight of your hand on another man's arm.

You never indulged in the company of such men; why now?

"I'm just getting a drink, Zoro."

You say confusedly, missing the smirk on the man beside you, missing the tension in Zoro's jaw as he meets his cocky gaze. You feel Zoro's fingers twitch against your skin, his grip not painful but sure against your skin. He didn't want to let you go. But you were now confused.

Why was he acting this way?

But before you can say anything, Zoro lets you go silently, and the man next to you takes you to the bar for a drink.

.....

When you make your way to the Sunny, the sun has touched the horizon, leaking light onto the earth.

Your eyes were trained on the pavement, steps slow and deliberate, but your mind was churning. Along the way, you had seen crewmembers sprawled together on the streets and in bars, but paid them no mind, knowing it was merely a symbol of them having had a good night. Happy to see them indulge in an evening of laughter, drinks and food and each other. You hadn't expected to be out so long, but you found the need to wander a little.

The man who had taken you to the bar was okay at first, that is, until you saw the lust that travelled his features, move to his hands. He had mocked your crew and Zoro in his drunkenness. Had earned himself a good slap to the face and your swift absence, only for you to find that Zoro had left the bar already. You had only been gone for an hour at most, but following everything you had walked the length of the island several times, leading to the sun rising, signalling the beginning of another day.

You travel up the steps and onto the deck, expecting silence, expecting nothing. But you are surprised to see the swordsman, your mind had lingered all night on - had lingered years on - sat looking to the horizon with a pile of bottles scattered around him. Your heart picks up pace quickly, both in concern at the sight of him so adrift he does not notice you and of the devotion you still try to bury. Approaching hesitantly, you are met with the strong scent of alcohol, a sign that he has drunk too much, despite himself.

"Zoro?"

You murmur, nudging his shoulder gently, unsure of his reaction. He turns to you slowly, eyes masked in rare emotion, bottle clunking onto the deck from his grasp, spilling its contents. You furrow your brows, but his voice is low as he speaks to you, avoiding your gaze once more.

"How was he?"

You are taken aback, shocked that despite his inhibited state, that is what he suggests to you. Though you suppose that is what conclusion you would come to if Zoro disappeared with a woman, only to return to the Sunny in the daybreak.

"What's it to you?"

You ask lightly, watching the way his grip tightens on his own skin, sharp eyes on yours as he watches you closely. He is about to bite back until he watches you sigh and pick up the bottles that have been scattered and some shattered, cleaning the mess he has made. He meets your eyes that are on his, and he sees the concern you bear. His heart twists painfully against his chest as he pictures you with the man he left you with.

You.

You were meant to be his.

You were his angel, the one he protects, the one he looks to in quiet moments and laughs with in the confines of the other. He was meant to be the one you adored, the one who came first, the one you sought out. He was the one you were meant to nudge teasingly and drink with and celebrate wins and comfort losses with. He was the one you were meant to grace your presence with. Not some leechy stranger, not some unworthy man he can only now picture in your bed, in your arms, in your heart.

"I asked first." He says, voice quiet, tone low, eyes adrift again.

You smile half-heartedly at his stubbornness, but as you brush away bottles and put them away, you let the silence linger for a while. Once you are done you sit by his side, Zoro hates the way his heart spikes just by your warmth, you hate the way your heart does the same.

"He was an asshole."

You say, feeling Zoro's gaze meet the side of your face as your voice touches the air, but you do not turn yet, admiring the sun as it rises higher. "Wanted me in his bed long before our first drink, talked shit about me, talked shit about our crew..." You feel as Zoro tenses at your words, and that is when you meet his gaze, his eyes widening at your gentle smile, at your adoring eyes, at your proximity.

"... talked shit about you."

You grin as you see his eyebrows twitch, but you don't move, overindulgent in his presence. Yes, you might not be his, not now or ever, but you would take what you got, even if it was the show of his protectiveness from time to time. But to Zoro, he was fighting so hard not to allow his hands to travel to yours, to spill the words he constrained. You turn away quickly before you get too lost in his gaze, though he is already too far gone in yours.

"That was the last straw, you know," you grin teasingly at the sun, "had to give him a good slap to the face to bring him back to reality, then wandered around the island for a good few hours because somebody decided to leave early."

Zoro's gaze widens a fraction of a millimetre, but you do not catch it, yours still to the sky. You don't notice how his chest loses the tightness that had plagued him the whole night. The way he had used the alcohol he usually loved to force an escape from thoughts of you and the man he had regretfully left you with. He couldn't handle it, the thought, the sight of you with another. Couldn't handle another day where you continued to place distance between the two of you.

Then it comes to Zoro so clearly, after so long in despair.

He loved you.

He can't let you go.

There is a warmth on your hand, and it takes you a while to realise that it is Zoro's hand over yours, hesitant, hovering. Your eyes snap to his so fast, he is almost taken aback. He fights the blush on his cheeks as he lowers his calloused hands onto yours, pulling warmth to your own face.

"Zoro?" Your words are hesitant, but his are blunt and unwavering.

"Don't do that again, woman," he says, voice even, eyes far from yours. Two beats pass in silence until his voice reaches the air again, in turn, rendering you temporarily speechless.

"I think I like you."

There is no teasing in his words, no underlying joke. He is vulnerable under your gaze, touch faltering on skin, uncertainty clouding his mind. But to you, a wave of shock travels through your system, and you can't help but let out a yell of surprise.

"What?!"

Zoro winces as he squeezes his eyes shut, not used to the effects of too much alcohol.

"Damn woman, do you have to be so loud?"

You hurriedly silence, before returning to your spot next to him, mind buzzing. Is this a dream? Did you hear correctly? Have you gone and lost your mind? You quickly come to your senses, gathering thoughts that have scattered, until one question clouds your mind.

"But I thought- I thought you said you didn't have time for distractions?"

Zoro pauses, his mind travelling to the conversation the two of you had a week ago. A week ago, when you named women, he could never have considered that way. The frustration he felt when it sounded like you were writing yourself off the list of options, forcing people onto him when all he wanted was you. Was that why you put distance between the two of you? Was that the question that plagued your mind? Was that what you thought?

You hear him sigh, but he pulls you into his side, still a mixture of drunkenness dictating his movements.

"You're not a distraction, just another focus, a vulnerability maybe, that I choose to have," he smirks slightly at your surprise spilling into your stare. "But you're mine, or I want you to be."

Silence touches the air, but Zoro takes comfort in knowing that you have not moved from where you sat, have not moved from his touch, have not wilted under his vulnerable words. In a movement, he feels your hands touch his face, a shine to your gaze that has him blushing to his ears. A hammering against his chest like he has never known.

"I want to be yours."

And somehow, that was all he wanted to hear.

His lips touch yours, in a mix of warmth, of roughness and of the taste of too many drinks. But you feel his hands, strong, secure against your skin, pulling you closer. Your mind is a haze as he moves, still tipsy off of alcohol, still stumbling with nerves, but lost in the place you have wanted to be for so long. He growls low under his breath, his hands moving as though to erase the touch of any other. When you pull away, you are breathless, and so is he. You sit on his lap, and he holds you closer.

A moment of bliss travels the two of you, and yet a yawn comes through your system, exhausted emotionally, of the time spent last night wandering, of the thoughts that raged through your head. And yet now, next to him, you can't find the courage to drift asleep, afraid to wake to your bed and to harsh reality. Zoro seems to be having the same thoughts as you, but in the caress of soft hair, he murmurs against your skin.

"Sleep, woman. I'll be here when you wake up."

Your eyes meet his hesitantly, and though you know alcohol is still in his system, you don't think that is the reason why his eyes soften when he meets your gaze. No, you knew that look, it was familiar, shining with care and softness and that unspoken emotion you had seen all too much before. That unspoken emotion, now free of its speechlessness, is only for you to know. You nod to him, surprisingly comfortable, like everything was how it was supposed to be.

When sleep consumes you, it takes only a beat more for it to consume Zoro, too. Finally free of his burdenous thoughts, of regret, and of needing alcohol to erase his feelings. Zoro now indulges your warmth, the softness of your skin, the weight of you against his broad chest. As a smile lingers on his face, it is then he realises how often you pull the corners of his lips upwards, how often you bring him to a place of peace in a world clouded with anything but.

A distraction? How could you ever be?

He was utterly devoted to you.

And you were now his.

When both of you wake the next day, it is to the incoherent screaming of Sanji, the laughter of your Captain and the agape expressions of Chopper, Brook and Ussop. Nami, Franky and Jimbei look on, unsurprised and grinning. But Robin looks to the two of you asleep in the arms of the other knowingly.

"Finally..."

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thehoneybeestings · 1 day ago

Text

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲

𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚!𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐚!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Word Count: 3.3k

Synopsis: Sevika has grown awfully fond of the owner of Zaun's only bakery; in fact, she'd do anything for her. So, when a hard heat hits the baker, Sevika can't help but offer a helping hand.

Content/Warnings: omegaverse! if it's not your thing don't read it; nsfw, top!sev, bottom!reader, soft dom!sev, reader is referred to w fem terms/pronouns, reader has female anatomy, sev has a dick bc i think all alpha's do?? idk im new here

A/N: so... heyyyy guys... yes i know this is not on my wip list but i was struck with divine inspiration and who am i to work against higher forces! this is my first time dabbling in omegaverse so i hope it suffices...

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

──˚₊୨ৎ•‧₊˚──

There’s something tugging at Sevika.

She’s already scanned the room for what it could be, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. The booth she routinely occupies at The Last Drop feels no different than it ever has, the playing cards and poker chips littering the rickety wooden table in front of her are just as beat up as they always are, and her drunken opponents are as easy to beat as ever.

She’s slouched back against the wall behind her, brows furrowed and eyes trained on the half-empty glass of whiskey dampening its paper coaster. The anticipation buzzing around her shouldn’t feel so foreign; the woman’s M.O. is to be at attention, at all times, with no exceptions. Still, there's a hum of urgency that's much louder tonight than usual. Something is telling her-something is demanding her-to remain alert, attentive, ready to be of service.

Her flesh hand twitches, fingers squeezing around the rim of the glass she holds for a split second.

Someone needs her. Someone needs her now.

She can’t put her finger on who it could be, or why it could be, so she taps at the glass’s rim with it instead.

A voice, gruff after nearly a lifetime of smoking, pulls her from her concentration on ripples running through liquid amber.

“You even payin’ attention?” The ash of his cigar falls onto the table as the hand that holds it gestures towards her chips.

On an ordinary night, she’d shoot the shit. Give him a playful scoff. Tell him that she wasn’t paying attention at all, and somehow, she was still kicking his ass.

But, despite the normalcy of The Last Drop’s Friday night debauchery, despite the inventory she’d taken of her surroundings telling her that everything should be okay, she still can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

It’s pulling her to her feet now. She downs the rest of her whiskey as she stands, mumbling something about everyone splitting her earnings evenly as she walks off. Her opponents are left entirely confused and a little bit richer as they watch her stride away with her usual purpose.

Where this pull is taking her, she has no idea. Frankly, she doesn’t care. She no longer feels her stomach wrenching as she tries to fight off the force yanking at her cloak, begging her to go wherever she’s going now. With every step, there is clarity.

Someone needs her. Someone needs her now.

She's getting closer to them. With every step she takes, she finds that her lungs are easier to fill now that she knows this person needn’t worry any longer.

When she ends up at your door, her entire body melts on exhale.

Of all the people in the world, there’s no one else she’d rather be needed by.

Be it the chaos that had ensued just before meeting you for the first time, or the way you seemed to calm her stormy seas at first glance, she remembers it like it was yesterday.

She remembers swinging the bakery’s door open in a panic, eyes wide and wild as they hurriedly scanned the room for a head of fluffy hair dyed blue.

“I’ve got her,” a voice rang out. A voice like honey to match your honeysuckle scent, she immediately noted.

You stood behind the counter, placing a piping bag down and wiping your hands on your blush-colored apron with a shy smile.

Lo and behold, there sat Isha, perched on the marble countertop next to you. She stared up at Sevika with big, innocent eyes; far too innocent for a girl who’d just escaped Sevika's grasp and booked it to the bakery she’d been begging to visit for weeks now.

“She’s quick,” you chortle. “Sugar may not have been the best idea, now that I think of it…”

You look over at the small girl whose mouth was now opening as wide as it could go to take a bite of the blueberry muffin you’d given her. It was too late. She was hooked and sure as shit to be bouncing off of the walls, now.

Sevika’s eyes trail from the crumbs stuck to Isha’s lips to the affectionate smile gracing your own. It was too late. You were sweet as honey, and she was hooked, too.

That was nearly a year ago, now. Trips to the bakery slowly but surely changed from Isha’s demand to Sevika’s suggestion. Eventually, Sevika began visiting on her own; before work to get a coffee, during her breaks to grab a cheese danish, after work to pick up a blueberry muffin for Isha.

It would have been less-than-chivalrous if she hadn’t begun offering to hang around until you closed shop so she could walk you home, would have been impolite to decline the Sunday afternoon taste-testing sessions you’d started inviting her over for.

She’s a gentlewoman. It’s only principle. That’s what she tells herself, at least.

That’s what she tells herself as her knuckles tap thrice on your door.

She starts to feel antsy again when you don’t come bounding to the door as usual, when your honeyed voice doesn't call out that you’ll be right there. She worries even more when you do reach the door, but it doesn’t swing open to reveal a bright smile, a pretty girl covered in flour and smelling of vanilla. Instead, you flick the deadbolt to the right, trail back to your room, and leave the door unlocked for her to enter of her own accord.

Her stomach turns like the doorknob she’s grasping, but as soon as the door opens, she knows what’s wrong.

The blossom of honeysuckle in the spring floats through the air. This much was a given; she knows this is what she’ll smell when she’s around you.

Tonight, though, it’s honeysuckle and something else. Something thick, hitting her like a brick wall. A white musk that nearly knocks her back when it crosses the threshold of your apartment door to meet her in the hallway.

She’s quick to step in and even quicker to close the door behind her. That scent was sure to attract unwanted visitors: Alphas looking to sink their gnashing teeth into something sweet.

She twists the deadbolt back to the left, her eyes darting across the room to find you. When that doesn’t suffice-when you’re nowhere to be seen- she follows your scent trail instead. Follows it back to your room, where her heart nearly breaks at the sight before her.

You’ve got what she figures must be every pillow in the house propped up against the headboard, every blanket you own pushed down to the foot of the bed, and you sit at the center of it all with your legs pulled into your chest, your head buried in your knees, and your arms wrapped around the ball you’ve curled yourself into.

There’s a pedestal fan pointed directly at you, despite the oversized sweater you adorn. You’re refusing to take it off, she bets. Want something soft and warm wrapped around you at all costs, even if it means you’ll sweat through it.

A soft grin spreads across her face as she approaches, slow and steady. It was her turn to calm your storm, now.

She sinks to her knees next to your bed, elbows resting on the flower-shaped throw pillow she remembers you buying when you were out shopping in the square with her one day. She’d taken a liking to it herself, always opting to rest her head on its pink petals as she stretched her long legs along the length of your couch, or holding it close to her chest as the two of you watched yet another horror movie you both knew damn well would keep you up all night.

She tries not to think too much of the fact that of all the pillows stacked upon your bed, it's the one you’ve got right next to you.

Her voice is nearly a whisper when she finally speaks, grey eyes soft and warm as they gaze up at you from her place on the floor.

“Hey, doll.”

All you manage to muster in response is a weary groan.

She exhales through her nose, eyebrows knitting together in concern.

“Rough heat?”

Your muffled sob cuts through the quiet, and her hand flies out to knead your thigh.

Her eyes widen in sudden consternation. Your skin is a brazier underneath her large palm.

“Janna,” she suddenly calls out, eyes frantic as they travel across your figure. “Y/n, you’re burning up. How long have you had a fever?”

She trades flesh for cold metal, anchoring her mech hand to your thigh in hopes that it’ll cool you down. Her right hand splays across your back, rubbing large circles across its expanse as you sniffle into your knees.

“Two days,” you mumble weakly, and much to her dismay.

Two days was too long for you to be in this state, nevertheless alone.

“I thought I’d have been claimed by now,” you admit, your voice wobbling.

“Don’t talk like that,” she commands. “There’s no timeline for this stuff. It’ll happen when it-”

“It’s not like that!”

Your head finally snaps up from your knees, teary eyes locking onto hers.

“It’s not… It’s not that I can’t find anyone. It’s that I can’t…”

Your voice breaks, and her hand trails up from your back to rest on the back of your neck, her thumb massaging the tightness at the base of your skull as she waits patiently for you to gather yourself.

You’re well aware that in the crux of an already grueling heat is not the best time to share an admission that very well could permanently alter your relationship with the woman you hold dearest. You’re also aware that you won’t be able to keep lying to Sevika for much longer.

You wouldn’t be able to keep lying to yourself for much longer.

Your words are still shaky despite the bracing deep breath you take before speaking.

“I can’t stand anyone else’s scent…”

Her hand stills, but her touch doesn’t falter. Her face doesn’t fall.

She’s still here. She’s still steady, still constant, but she needs you to be sure.

“Anyone else?” She asks, her voice low.

A small huff escapes you. You know Sevika. She doesn’t do vague.

She’s going to make you say it.

“I can’t stand anyone’s scent but yours.”

A pregnant pause settles in between the two of you.

And then, her hand is moving from the back of your neck to tuck a tendril of hair behind your ear.

“Do you want me to help?”

You nod fervently, words tumbling from your lips before you can stop them.

“Want you so bad, it hurts; please, Sev, I-”

Her lips crash into yours, stealing your breath away. Your heart is already racing, your core is already throbbing, you’re already whimpering into her mouth.

It was too late. You were sweet as honey, and she’d just gotten a taste.

──˚₊୨ৎ•‧₊˚──

It’s been hours. She’s been fucking you for hours.

You nearly feel bad for being so insatiable; only nearly, because she had made it very clear very quickly that you needn’t ever apologize for lasting so long, for needing the next round not even five minutes after the last, for wanting it faster, harder, deeper.

You needn’t ever apologize for allowing her the opportunity to take care of you.

Much to your dismay, sometimes taking care of you meant that she would slow down to check in, insist you take a breather, or get you a glass of water. Sevika knows that what you want is to be ravaged, to let your mind go all fuzzy and your body go all limp as she takes you, claims you, breeds you. Sevika knows that what you need is someone looking out for your best interest when you’re all-consumed by your heat, someone who knows that the responsibility of an alpha is to provide far more than a good fuck.

Still, she isn’t surprised that you nearly burst into tears when her pace begins to relent. Janna knows how hard it is for her to stop when you look so pretty laid out for her like this; legs thrown over her shoulders, hands desperately grabbing at firm muscle and cool metal, brows knit together in pleasure as you cry out for her.

She leans down to press a kiss to the beads of sweat forming on your hairline, and knows she needs to stop anyway.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you plead, wrapping your legs around her waist and rolling your hips up into her own, “please don’t stop, please keep going, Sev…”

She plants a kiss on your shoulder this time, the salt of sweat-sticky skin on her lips.

“You’re getting too hot, baby,” she purrs. “We’re not done, I promise. Just need to make sure you cool off for a second.”

You whine in defiance, and she hums in understanding, but you’re too fucked out to do anything but lay there and let her press a cool rag to your forehead and your flushed chest.

“You feelin’ okay, mama?”

She doesn’t miss the way your lip quirks up into the beginnings of a smirk.

“What?” She asks with a grin, bearing the gap in between her teeth. You’d told her it was cute once. The tips of her ears were dark red for the rest of the day.

“Don’t call me that,” you smile.

She just quirks a brow in playful curiosity.

“Not unless you plan on putting a baby in me.”

Her hands still. Her grin falters. For a moment, you worry that you’ve crossed a line.

Then, glittery grey irises go dark like a storm cloud rolling in. Her eyes are lidded, full of desire. Her jaw clenches, her nostrils flare, her muscles twitch for a split second.

Her head dips down to hide in your neck, but there, she finds that honeysuckle and musk hit her even harder here. You don’t miss the way her body writhes atop your own.

“Careful joking around like that,” she husks.

You buck your hips up in a challenge. “Who said I was joking?”

And then, she whines. Sevika whines.

“Couldn’t get you pregnant if I wanted to, doll,” she resigns. “I’m on suppressants.”

“That’s okay,” you coo, hands stroking up and down the length of her back, her skin warm and her muscles strong underneath your palm. “You can pretend. Jus’ want you to cum inside of me.”

This time, she growls, and you don’t miss the way her canines scrape across your pulse point.

She trails open-mouthed kisses from your neck, to your jaw, to the corner of your lips, breath shaky along the way.

Her resolve is crumbling, her restraint weakening. She had found you in need, and now, here she was, just as desperate as you had been.

“Come on, baby,” you urge, voice just over a whisper. “Take me.”

You're flipped over and pinned to the bed in a second. She yanks you up onto your knees by your waist, and her mech hand travels down your spine to push you further into the mattress while her flesh hand works to line herself up in between your legs. You gasp when you feel her sliding through your slick, whine when she presses an inch in before slipping back out and dipping down to nudge your swollen bud of nerves, groan when she finally presses into you completely, the head of her length prodding at your cervix.

She pants above you, both hands settling on your waist as she gives you a moment to adjust, and as soon as you're pushing back against her, she’s snapping her hips into you. Her grip is bruising as she pulls you back to meet every thrust. Your hands fly out to grab at the sheets next to you, your heady cries of pleasure muffled by the soft pillows piled at the head of the bed.

“How’s that? Huh?”

Her voice is gravelly from exertion. Sexier than it already is. How that’s even possible, you’re not sure. You don’t care. You can’t even think.

Sevika leans down to nip at your earlobe.

“Talk to me, baby,” she rasps. “This what you wanted? Wanted me to fuck a baby into you, hm? Wanted me to make you mine?”

You nod frantically, babbling out a yes, sobbing into the pillow. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, hiccupping against the breath you can’t seem to catch.

“I’ve got you,” she croons, her pace gentler now. “Deep breath for me, doll.”

Her flesh hand interlaces with your own, her thumb rubbing soothing circles into the meaty flesh between your thumb and your forefinger. You nod with a whimper, following her command.

“Good girl.”

She reaches down in between your slick-covered thighs to circle at your clit, rubbing lazy circles in tandem with her slow, deep strokes. She hisses at the feeling of your velvety walls clenching around her, grits her teeth as she begins to speed up.

You make it so damn hard for her to keep it together, reaching up to grab the hair at the nape of her neck and pushing her head down into your shoulder. She knows exactly what you’re asking for.

Her bite.

You’re asking her to sink her teeth into sugar, and Sevika’s always had a sweet tooth.

She clenches her jaw even tighter. Takes deep breaths through her nose. Fucks you into the mattress instead.

The bite will come later. When you’re not in heat, when you’re thinking clearly, when you can comprehend that what you’re asking for is to be bound to her. When it does come- when you do ask for that- she’ll say yes. No question.

She’s been yours since the moment she walked through the bakery’s doors nearly a year ago.

But right now, she’s here to take care of you. Nothing more, nothing in return.

A voice like honey rings out like music to her ears.

“Oh- fuck, don’t stop. Mm- gonna… gonna cum…”

“That’s right, baby. Give me another, yeah?”

And when she latches onto the juncture between your shoulder and your neck, sucking just hard enough for you to feel a dull pinch, you fall apart, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

That’s when she liked her name most. When it came from you.

This time, it’s what pushes her over the edge. It’s all nearly too much; the sound of you moaning her name, your scent inundating her senses, the feeling of you tightening around her, the pulse that thrums against her canines.

Shimmer doesn’t even make her feel this feral.

You can feel her twitching against your walls as she fucks you through your release with a new vigor.

“Fuck,” she grits, “say the word and I’ll pull out.”

“Don’t.”

Sugar meets spice. Your command is stern, and Sevika is good at following orders.

She ruts into you with a broken moan, hissing with each involuntary twitch of her hips as she spills into you.

Soon, she joins you in a leaden slump, her warm body caging you in and her cock still sheathed inside of you. The hum of the pedestal fan and the rasp of your pants fill the room like white noise.

And then, you giggle. A blissed out, breathy giggle that has the corner of Sevika’s mouth quirking up into a smile.

“What?” she pants.

“Nothing. Jus’ happy.”

She hums in contentment. “Feel better?”

“Much better.”

And Sevika can’t ignore the way her heart flutters, the pride she feels knowing she was able to take care of you, the desire she has to take care of you for as long as she lives.

The bite will come later, she reminds herself. Right now, there’s just you. Sweet as honey.

“Good,” she muses. “That’s what I’m here for.”

𝐄𝐧𝐝 ୨ৎ

──˚₊୨ৎ•‧₊˚──

p.s. anybody want pt.2 feat. reader getting sev's bite...?

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #alpha!sevika #sevika one shot #sevika smut #sevika arcane #arcane #arcane smut #arcane one shot #sevika imagine #arcane imagine #lesbian #sapphic #wlw

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theemporium · 3 days ago

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[4k] things have been a bit rough since luke accidentally confessed more than he ever intended to. as bye week comes to an end, he is all set to bottle his feelings until he could forget about them. as it turns out, talking about your feelings is far more productive. who would have thought?

series masterlist

Luke Hughes didn’t like being alone, but it was something he got used to pretty early on in his life.

Despite the age difference not being massive between him and his brothers, Luke learnt early on that he was the one left behind. His mother would always try to squeeze him in, try to get Quinn and Jack and their friends let Luke join in on the fun. He didn’t even mind going last most of the time, he was just glad he got a shot.

And the older they got, the more that resonated with everything in their lives—not just street hockey games played before dinner with the neighbourhood kids. Quinn was the first one to go to college, to get drafted, to eventually join the NHL. Jack joined months later, after his own draft, completely foregoing college and jumping straight into the deep end. Both of them went forward, achieving the goals they would always whisper to each other when they were young and hopeful and excited for the future. The goals the three of them shared.

Luke was always the last one to have a shot, to reach the milestone. He was always playing catch up and, whilst it wasn’t his favourite thing, he was used to it. He was good at acting like it didn’t bother him.

Luke might take a little longer to get there, but he always got there eventually. He was always sure of himself.

That sureness was nowhere to be seen when he woke up the next morning and found the apartment completely empty.

At first, he had just assumed you had woken up before him, that maybe you were in the bathroom or in the kitchen or lounging out on the couch. But the eerie silence in the apartment made him second guess himself, made him sit up in his bed and let the sheets pool by his waist as he tried to blink the sleep away from his eyes.

The first time he went around the apartment, he thought he was still dreaming. The second time made him notice that all the little knick-knacks you had left around were gone—your lip balm on the coffee table, your phone charger in the kitchen, your headphones on the counter. The third time was when he truly accepted that you had left, with no note or message or proper goodbye.

The worst part was that he remembered why as he stumbled through the different rooms, trying to see, on the off chance, if you had just moved your bags from his room. He remembered what he had said, the words he had whispered to you. He remembered and he felt the shame pool in the pit of his stomach, but he still didn’t understand.

He felt like a child again, aimlessly running and trying to play catch up, except this time he didn’t really know where he was going or what he was trying to catch up to.

It was downright stupid of him to blurt those words out, to throw that confession at you after everything the two of you had done whilst he was half asleep and still reeling in the post-orgasm haze. It wasn’t fair for him to say that to you with no real build up or follow up.

But it still fucking stung that you ran off.

It stung that you didn’t try to wake him up and make him explain himself. It stung that you didn’t stay the night and try to at least let him down easily in the morning. It stung that you ran and didn’t look back, not even bothering with a note or any sort of message.

It stung that Luke had been up for less than an hour and had already messaged and called so many times, just to get absolutely nothing in response. If it weren’t for the fact he could see the messages going through, he would have honestly assumed you had blocked his number.

Luke Hughes didn’t like being alone and, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t even fucking sure how to hide it.

Maybe it was pathetic to admit—even to himself—but he really was waiting for the whole thing to be a joke. He pinched himself as he managed to scavenge the fridge for breakfast. He pinched himself after he spent far too long in the shower, until his skin was red and hot at the touch. He pinched himself as he sat on the couch, staring aimlessly at whatever sitcom rerun was currently playing.

He waited for himself to wake up from this twisted dream. He waited for you to message with some sort of explanation, some sort of emergency that forced you to leave. He waited for you to come back, to walk back through the front door and slump into the spot next to him like this was your place too—like you had been acting for the last few days.

He waited and waited and waited, but nothing ever really changed.

Luke had faced heartbreak before. He was an athlete, there wasn’t a time in his life where he hadn’t faced disappointment, whether it was on the ice with a loss or off the ice with an injury. He knew the feeling well, it was almost like an old friend.

But this kind of heartbreak was different.

This kind of heartbreak made him want to curl into himself until everything was magically better. He didn’t like the constant twist in his stomach. He didn’t like the way his head snapped around at every buzz or ping from his phone. He didn’t like the way he felt like a hermit, felt as though he needed to stay until you came back home—to him.

As an athlete, he was used to the negative feelings that would quickly fade and be replaced with determination and pure driven grit to move on, to do better, to win.

This time, Luke didn’t think he could do that. He didn’t know what he could do. He didn’t know who he could go to. He didn’t even know if he wanted to go to anyone.

Both brothers were in Toronto, running around with countless media duties and appearances for All-Stars. His friends back in Michigan are all busy with classes and assignments and their hockey season. His teammates are all sprawled on sunny beaches with their phones turned off and their glasses always full. He didn’t even want to imagine having a conversation with his parents right now, to try even explaining everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

Luke Hughes was alone and he didn’t know what the fuck to do with himself.

And it was only the hardwired brain of an athlete that had him getting up, eating and working out every day. It made him feel like a robot, listening to the demands of his body that had been programmed into him since he was a child. He didn’t need to think, just did. His whole body just moved on autopilot.

The days passed, his phone’s notifications remained empty and Luke Hughes tried to accept the fact that he had truly fucked up one of the best things that had happened to him this season.

And he had to do it alone.

…

It had been arranged and agreed with the Devils management that Luke and Jack were allowed to fly out to Vancouver earlier than the rest of the team. It was their first game back after the All-Stars break and it made sense for them to monopolise the few days they had before their season continued.

At the start of the season, Luke was buzzed at the prospect of spending more time with his oldest brother during the season, which they would never usually get to have. Now, it was almost the complete opposite.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t excited to spend extra time with Quinn, but more so that he wasn’t ready for both brothers to see right through him.

Because Luke would be a fool to assume his brothers—his bestest fucking friends in the world—wouldn’t pick up on his mood instantly. And that is only if the less-than-enthusiastic responses in the groupchat over the last week or so didn’t give him away first.

Much to his surprise, Quinn and Jack had managed to hold off until the second night before they finally questioned him—which was almost two whole days longer than he really expected.

Small victories, he guessed.

“So, are we going to talk about it?”

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to avoid the topic for as long as he could.

“Talk about what?” He questioned, feigning ignorance as he kept his eyes glued on the random movie that was playing on the tv. He didn’t even remember what Jack picked or what it was about, but suddenly the random A-list actors were far more interesting than the pointed looks he could feel his brothers giving him.

“Luke,” Quinn said in that tone of voice, the same tone their parents used to use on the both of them when they didn’t give Luke a shot at whatever they were doing.

He let out a small sigh, resisting the urge to visibly recoil. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” Jack corrected. “You’ve been acting wack for the last week.”

Luke stayed silent.

The silence continued to linger before Quinn spoke up, his voice much softer this time. “You know you can tell us anything, right? We’re your brothers. We’re here for you. We are worried, we just want to help.”

And the funny thing was that no matter how much Luke wanted to keep his mouth shut, no matter how much he wanted to pretend the last week wasn’t the absolute worst with no one to talk to and no one to confide in, he couldn’t.

He couldn’t because, no matter what, his brothers would always be his soft spot, the only people on this damn planet that could break through his own stubborn wall he has tried to put up with everyone else since that night.

“I’ve fucked up,” Luke blurted out before he could stop himself, finally turning his head away from the tv screen so he could look at both of his older brothers.

Quinn’s face remained blank and untelling, just looking at Luke as though he could read every damn thought in his head with that intense, haunted glare of his. Jack, on the other hand, had a more visible reaction as his eyes widened, the concern and alarm written all over his face.

“Okay,” Quinn said slowly. “Have you broken any laws?”

“I—” Luke paused, frowning a little. “No.”

“Have you knocked someone up?”

“No?” Luke answered, the confusion in his voice making it sound more like a question.

“Then it’s something we can fix together,” Quinn stated, like it was obvious.

“Wait, fucking roll back,” Luke straightened in his seat, giving his eldest brother a look. “I tell you I fuck up and that’s the first two questions you ask me?”

“I wanted to know what we were working with,” Quinn said with a shrug. “If you commited a crime, there’s only so much we can do. If you got a girl pregnant, that’s between you two. Everything else though? We can fix it.”

Luke resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Hit us with it,” Jack challenged, looking oddly serious for once. “We can handle it.”

Luke sighed, his chest tightening uncomfortably as he tried to figure out how to word the last week he had.

Then, in a timid voice, Jack asked, “is it to do with Cherry?”

Something in Luke’s expression must have answered the question for him because Jack continued.

“Did you two break up?”

“I don’t know,” Luke answered honestly. “I don’t even know if we were even together to break up.”

“Oh,” was all Jack managed to say in response.

“Tell us what happened, it can’t be that bad,” Quinn spoke up, trying to reassure his youngest brother but it just felt a little patronising instead.

“You don’t get it,” Luke said helplessly.

“So help us get it,” Quinn retorted.

“I fucked up!” Luke’s voice was louder this time, louder than he intended and loud enough to make both brothers freeze a little. “I fucked it all up and I can’t fix it, okay? No one can fix it.”

“Bud,” Jack murmured softly.

“I fucked it,” Luke’s voice cracked a little. After a few moments of silence, he let his eyes close as he muttered out his confession. “I told her I loved her. Or, like, I was falling in love with her.”

There was a small pause before Jack spoke. “That’s not…that bad.”

“It was just after we slept together,” Luke added.

“Oh.”

Quinn cleared his throat, catching Luke’s attention enough for him to slowly blink his eyes open again. “So the timing wasn’t ideal, but it could have been worse. I assume from your moping that she didn’t feel the same way?”

“I—” Luke frowned a little. “I don’t know. Probably not. I fell asleep after I said it and she was gone the next morning.”

“Yikes,” Jack muttered under his breath. He winced when Quinn sharply elbowed him.

“It could still be worse—” Quinn started, sounding more like a reassuring captain after a bad period than a brother.

“It really couldn’t.”

Quinn sighed, almost sounding patronising again even if he didn’t intend to. Even if he didn’t realise it. “Luke, it’s shit but it’s not the end of the world that you kinda confessed your feelings to a girl after you slept with her.”

It irked something in Luke. It made him act before thinking, blurting out the words before he could take them back.

“It was the first time we slept together.”

Jack frowned. “Really? But you’ve been seeing her for months.”

Quinn nodded. “Okay, that makes it a bit more awkward—”

“No, like, that was the first time we ever had sex. That was the first time I ever had sex,” Luke said, his stomach twisting and churning as he finally confessed the secret he swore he was going to take to the grave with him.

“With her?”

“With anyone.”

Quinn blinked.

The silence felt suffocating for the few seconds he stared back at his brothers before one of them finally broke it.

“So you’re telling me,” Jack began. “That I could have been making virgin jokes this whole time and now I’ve missed my chance?”

Luke opened his mouth to reply but couldn’t find the words to reply.

“Dude,” Quinn sighed.

“What?!” Jack glared, shifting away before Quinn and his pointy elbows could jab him again. “You were thinking the same!”

“I really wasn’t,” Quinn retorted.

Jack shot him a look.

Quinn sighed. “Okay, I was thinking it a little—”

“Ha!”

Luke stared helplessly at his older brothers, watching them bicker back and forth until his brain finally caught up.

“I can’t believe we missed out on so many good jokes,” Jack said, almost sounding wistful before he turned to finally look at Luke. He froze for a moment before flashing him a sheepish smile. “In a good way, obviously. Like good jokes in a good way.”

“Uh huh,” Luke deadpanned.

“Quinn said he wanted to make jokes too!” Jack retorted.

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you guys,” Luke grumbled, feeling the heat burn his cheeks and creep down his neck. He didn’t even want to think about how red his face was right now.

“Hey, it doesn’t mean shit to us. We’d make fun of it the same way we make fun of Jack’s lack of fashion and inability to wear anything but Air Forces,” Quinn assured him.

“Pot meet kettle,” Jack scoffed.

“The point is that we don’t care about the fact that you were apparently a virgin until a week ago,” Quinn continued, ignoring the way Jack was currently pouting beside him. “What we care about is the fact you’ve been moping over this girl.”

“She’s just—” Luke paused, cutting himself off before he let out a sigh. “She gets me, you know?”

“I’ve seen them talking on the phone, it’s nauseating,” Jack confirmed, nodding his head. “Luke is teaching her to cook.”

Quinn’s nose scrunched. “Luke can cook?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Just because I don’t cook for you dipshits doesn’t mean I can’t cook,” Luke pointed out, rolling his eyes at how affronted both boys seemed by the revelation. “The point is that I fucked up things with her and I have no one else to blame but myself.”

Jack frowned. “Luke—”

“Can we just drop it?” Luke interrupted, snapping a little. “I have spent the last week thinking about it, I’d rather not spend anymore time.” He paused for a short moment before continuing. “Please.”

Quinn gave him a long look before eventually nodding. “Alright. We’ll drop it.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “But—”

“We’ll drop it because that is what Luke wants,” Quinn stated, staring pointedly at Jack until he sighed and nodded.

“Okay. We’ll drop it.”

“Thank you,” Luke murmured, the words laying thick in his throat as he shifted in his spot on the couch before turning back towards the tv screen. “Since when did this chick get powers?”

Jack let out a noise of complaint. “Don’t even get me started, she has done nothing but whine—”

…

The game against Vancouver was…certainly a game.

It wasn’t the worst game he had ever played but it was far from his best. But the worst part was that Luke knew no one would have really cared if it was any other game during the season. However, the fact it was against Quinn’s team meant all eyes were on all the Hughes brothers, and he knew his performance was going to be questioned and picked at in the post-game interviews. He also knew there was no chance he nor his brothers would be able to skip media either.

Luke felt drained by the time the journalists left the locker room, still dressed in most of his gear as he leaned back in the cubicle and let out a heavy sigh. Their plane to Edmonton didn’t leave until tomorrow morning and he already knew his parents would be waiting outside for whatever dinner reservations had been booked.

But in all honesty, Luke could think of a million other things he wanted to do right now rather than get undressed, shower and change back into his game day suit to sit through a dinner with his parents where he would constantly be on edge about them bringing you up into conversation. They had done it every other time he was on the phone with them since the last Hughesbowl.

Luke just wanted a few moments where he wasn’t thinking about you or hockey or anything. He just wanted his brain to shut off.

He hadn’t even noticed someone sitting beside him until their knee nudged his, and even then he kept his eyes closed as he let out a sigh. “I told you Quinn was gonna bitch about reservation times if you let him be in charge of dinner.”

“I think reservation times are a fair thing to bitch about.”

Luke’s eyes snapped open, his head turning to find Nico sitting in the spot he suspected Jack to be in. “Oh.”

Nico gave him a soft smile. “Got a few minutes?”

He swallowed before nodding. “Yeah, of course. Jack can handle Quinn’s bitchiness.”

Nico’s smile widened a little before he took a deep breath. “Just wanted to check up on you. You’ve seemed down since Bye Week.”

Luke raised his brows. “It’s been a day since you came back from your holiday.”

“And a day is more than enough time for me to realise something is up with you,” Nico retorted with a knowing look. But when Luke didn’t respond instantly, Nico’s face softened as he lowered his voice so that any lingering guys in the locker room wouldn’t hear. “Look, I was serious about what I said at the start of the season. This is your team too. And I am just as much your captain as I am your brother’s. I care about my team, Luke, and you’re a part of that team.”

Luke flashed him a small but grateful smile.

“I know you stayed in New Jersey for the break so I don’t know if something happened or if you even want to talk about it,” Nico continued. “But I want you to know I’m here if you wanna talk. I know you have Jack but sometimes you need someone else to confide in. A friend, not a family member.”

“It’s stupid,” Luke said, wincing a little before he quickly continued talking. “But it won’t affect my hockey, promise. Today was just a fluke, just a little rusty after the break. I’ll be all good for Edmonton.”

Nico frowned, a crease forming between his brows. “It’s not your hockey I’m worried about, Luke. We all have our bad days. It’s your well-being and happiness. You seem…kinda sad since we got back.”

Luke’s gaze instantly shifted to the random ball of tape on the floor between his feet instead of his captain.

“Is it something related to the team?”

Luke shook his head.

“Jack?”

Luke shook his head again.

“Something in your family?”

He shook his head a third time.

“Relationship stuff?”

The small pause before Luke could even react told Nico everything he needed to know. Nico gave his knee another nudge until he finally looked back up at his captain.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Nico reassured him, a kind and comforting smile on his face. “But relationships are tough as they are, whether they are platonic or romantic. It gets harder when you’re in the league. A lot of lines get blurred and intentions can be clouded, but the good ones matter that much more when you find them.”

Luke pressed his lips together.

“You’re in your rookie year. You are the youngest brother in a hockey family dynasty. You have a fuck load of pressure on your shoulders,” Nico listed off like they were facts—and they were. “I know what my rookie year was like. And I was here for Jack’s rookie year. It’s fucking hard. But you’ve been handling it well, you haven’t let hockey become your everything and that’s better than most people can say, even with years under their belt in the league.”

“What are you trying to say?” Luke eventually asked, his lips turned downwards.

“I’m saying that it’s clear there’s something outside of hockey that you care about. And I’m saying don’t let hockey or anything else get in the way of it if you genuinely think it’s worth it. Each one of us could lose hockey tomorrow and there’s nothing we can do to change that. But having people by your side makes it easier, having people who want you for you and not hockey is even better.”

Luke swallowed harshly. “And if I fucked my chances of having that?”

Nico smiled. “You’re not that much younger than me and I know it sounds patronising for me to say this, but I promise you things aren’t as fucked as you think they are.”

Luke opened his mouth to disagree but Nico beat him to it.

“Trust me,” Nico said, grinning a little as he gave Luke a more playful shove. “Plus, you’re an athlete. You should know better than anyone else that it’s not worth the win unless you really worked for it.”

Luke snorted. “Funny.”

“I try,” Nico grinned. “And even if you really did fuck up, there are other people out there who like you for you, Luke. It may not seem like it and you might not even want someone else right now, but they are there and they exist.”

Luke's expression softened. “You’re a good captain.”

Nico flushed a little but nodded. “Having a good team makes it easy.”

Luke scoffed. “Dude, take the compliment.”

“I am just saying—”

“Oh my god, how do you even deal with Jack praising you all the time? Wait, please don’t answer that! I don’t want details!”

Nico just cackled in response.

…

hockey boy: i know you have been ignoring my other texts but we really need to talk

hockey boy: please cherry

#luke hughes #nhl #new jersey devils #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes fic #luke hughes one shot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

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glamorizethechaos · 3 days ago

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Baby You’re a Firework | Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: just a fluffy little 4th of July party at Robby’s house with your boyfriend Jack

Warnings: fluff, ptsd mention, age gap (reader is 30, Jack is 49), mentions of sex, hickey

Word Count: 1.5k

Not Beta Read.

Not even proofread. Reading my own fic gives me the ick.

It’s been exactly 2 years to the day since you first met Jack Abbot, and the two of you were driving exactly where you felt that electric spark for the first time. His hand rested on your knee as the radio plays softly over the hum of his truck. He pulled up in front of the Robinavitch house for their annual 4th of July party. The two of you walked up the driveway, his hand resting on the small of your back as you carried a dessert of angel food cake, berries, and cream. He unlatched the gate and you found everything to be the same as the year before, and the year before that. Robby at the grill, his wife Julie yelling at him to stop burning the burgers, their kids screaming and splashing in the pool- which is exactly where you were when Jack first laid his eyes on you.

When Jack begrudgingly showed up to the party two years ago, his eyes immediately fell on you. Gravitated like a moth to a flame. You were splashing and tossing around Robby’s youngest daughter, Maeve. You are best friends with Robby’s wife, and he was surprised he’d never seen you before. All the beers he and Robby shared on the back patio, all the kids birthday parties, the school plays, and yet the two of you never crossed paths. He was honestly pissed he never him about you. But there you were, electrifying and full of life. Beaming brighter than the sun. It didn’t take long for you to notice the mystery man either. You’d be lying if it wasn’t the prosthetic that first caught your attention- but as your eyes traveled up you began to study his face and frame. His arms were deliciously toned and defined, dog tags dangled from his neck, his salt and pepper hair was perfectly curly, and his eyes, well… they told a story. A story you were desperate to hear, and when he glanced at you, your heart nearly stopped. The two of you left together that night- and spent nearly every night together since.

Two years later, he still looks at you like it’s the first time. He still can’t keep his hands off of you. Despite being much older than you and having the grey hair to show for it, you made him feel like a kid again. He gave your butt a squeeze before you walked into the house to put your dessert in the fridge, and you shot playful eyes at him. He looked back at you, hungrily, as if an hour ago he didn’t have your legs pinned behind your head.

When you changed into your bathing suit and jumped into the pool, he wasn’t far behind; pulling your body flush against his and planting kisses along your collarbone. Enough for Dana to scream, “get a room you two!” as she walked into the party. Jack was never one for PDA, he preferred to keep things in the bedroom; but he wanted everyone to know that you were his.

You two spent most of the party in the pool, your fingers wrinkled like raisins. Jack loved the water, hydrotherapy was an integral part of his rehabilitation. It was one of the few things that alleviated his pain, floating on his back and letting the weight he carried (literally and figuratively) just melt away.

As night fell, Jack and Robby started building a fire as you sat and talked with Julie and Dana. Maeve sat on your lap and her older sister Ali stood behind you braiding your hair.

"Whats that on your neck?" Ali asked, exposing the hickey you forgot you had. Dana glanced over and chuckled under her breath as she sipped on her third glass of wine. After blaming it on your curling iron you made you way over to Jack who was adding some logs to the fire. You smacked him on the back of the head and he turned furrowing his brow but still smiling.

"Ali found the little gift you left on my neck two nights ago." you blamed as you sat down reaching for some marshmallows, and grabbing his hand to join you. You shut your eyes, warmth of the fire illuminated your face. Jack sat beside you and pulled you into his lap, inspecting his work on your neck.

"You cant blame me when you're so damn delicious." he bit your neck once more, burying his face into your hair that smelled of chlorine and barbecue.

"Speaking of," you finished roasting your marshmallow. "Say ah", Jack followed and you fed him, letting him take a bite of a s'more. Chocolate stuck to the corner of his mouth and you giggled, wrinkling your nose.

"I'm a mess" he laughed, wiping graham cracker crumbs off his lap and wiping his mouth of the sticky chocolate and melted marshmallow.

"You missed a spot." you whispered, leaning in you kissed the corner of his mouth. Over and over again, licking his sweet lips until he was kissing you back, humming quietly.

Soon the kids began to make their way over to light sparklers and roast their own marshmallows. Pulling away from Jacks embrace you checked the time.

"It's almost time for the fireworks." you whispered, giving his hand a squeeze. Jack put his arm around you, pulling you close to him once more. You rested your head on his shoulder and he rubbed your back in slow circles.

"I'll be alright." he whispered to you assuringly. Jack had gotten better with the idea of fireworks. Unexpected loud noises were still difficult for him, and while on days like today his heart beat it a little faster, and his mouth was a bit more dry- he was able to prepare. Therapy helped a lot too. On the other hand, you loved fireworks, and him watching the awe on your face helped ease his anxieties.

At the first whistle and pop of the fireworks, everyone’s eyes moved to the now lit sky. Illuminating with red, white, and blue.

You felt Jack shift, and when you glanced over you saw his jaw was clenched, his brow was furrowed, and his posture was stiff. You grabbed his hand, his palms were a bit sweaty. You watched his chest rise and fall a bit quicker. Reaching over you started to draw circles on nape of his neck, hands traveling up and ending up massaging his ear lobes.

“I’m with you, you’re safe.” You wrapped your arms around his torso, giving him a squeeze. “Eyes on me.” He looked at you, eyes love drunk, and planted a tender kiss on your lips. You traced your finger along his jaw and he slowly started to relax. Slowly you grounded him. Slowly you saw his dimple creep back as a faint smile returned to his face. And slow you saw him reach into his pocket and get down on one knee.

“Wh- Jack…”

“I wasn’t nervous because of the fireworks,” beads began to spin, Julie nudged Robby’s gaze away from the sky, Dana stood with her hand over her mouth, Langdon held a beer shaking his head with a goofy smile on his face, “this is where I met you. This is where fell in love with you. So I thought it was only appropriate for this to be the place I ask to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

“Jack… Jack yes.” Your lips crashed onto his, tears flowing freely from your eyes. Cheers began to erupt from the party, the sky still lit up behind you. He slipped the ring on your finger, a beautiful blue sapphire surrounded by small diamonds. His hands trembled as he slid it on, and you teased him asking how those were surgeons hands. When the moment was over, Robby came over and smacked Jack on the back and Julie and Dana, and Robby’s girls rushed to see the ring.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.” Robby nudged him, and your head shot sideways.

“You knew!?” You and Julie said in unison.

“Michael Robinavitch, why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” Julie sputtered and quickly apologized to the little ears listening.

“You can’t keep a secret to save your life. Even the mailman would know.” And Julie’s mouth fell right open, but she didn’t argue, she knew he was right.

“I didn’t think a public proposal would be your thing.” Langdon chimed in giving his congratulations in the only way Frank knew how.

“They aren’t.” Jack sputtered immediately. “But this day is special to me…us,” he wrapped his arm around you “So unfortunately I had to propose in front of the circus.”

By the end of the night your face hurt from smiling. You walked as if you were walking on air. You couldn’t take your eyes off Jack or your ring. As you drove home that night you pulled out your phone and opened Pinterest.

“Okay so… I was thinking about a color scheme…”

“Already?”

“Jack I’ve had my wedding planned since I was 12… anyway so I was thinking about a color scheme…”

It was going to be a long year.

#the pitt #shawn hatosy #hbo max #dr abbott #fanfic #jack abbott x reader #jack abbot x reader #dr abbott x reader #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbott #jack abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x you #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction

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loveinhawkins · 2 days ago

Text

ao3

Robin’s double-triple-quadruple checking that Steve is okay—well, okay as he can be, gritting his teeth as Nancy wraps hastily made bandages around him—when she sees Eddie turn away out the corner of her eye.

She follows the movement unconsciously, but then she really looks, and at first she thinks it’s just this god-awful place draining the colour out of everything, but wow, he looks bad.

“Hey,” she says as brightly as she can, “you just checking out the scenery over here or…?”

Eddie shakes his head, and that immediately seems like a bad idea because his face gets even paler, which Robin didn’t even think was, like, possible.

“Just needed to—” he says faintly.

And that’s all he gets out before he weaves where he’s standing, and Robin reaches for him instinctively, grabs a hold of his hand; his palm is cold with sweat, and she suddenly finds herself thinking that the rumour going around a couple years ago, that Eddie passed out in the middle of a dissection in Biology, must have some truth in it.

“Okay, we’re okay!” she says quickly, and holds on as tight as she can. “We’re just gonna stand here and breathe.”

She says it a few more times, “We’re just gonna breathe,” and she’s got no idea if it’s the right thing to do or not, whether it’s just deeply annoying or making everything worse.

Eddie closes his eyes, and she worries about that initially, but the grip of his hand gets stronger, and he doesn’t sway again, and when he opens his eyes and looks at her, they’re clear and focused.

He squeezes her hand twice. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t let go, and he looks embarrassed about it, so Robin says that her sense of balance is so incredibly shit, and this is very helpful of him, thank you.

It works at least a little bit; he almost laughs. Then he swallows, and she can feel his urge to look back over despite himself. He stops the motion just in time.

“Is he—” His fingers twitch uneasily. “Is he okay?”

“Yes,” she says immediately.

She really hopes it doesn’t sound like she’s pacifying him. It’s just, she knows by now what to watch out for, she doesn’t even really need to be looking; an awareness of Steve in her periphery is enough.

She rushes to try and clarify, “Like, I know it seems like I was panicking with the rabies thing, I mean, I kinda was super panicking, but I got it all out my system, like I’m a worrier first and foremost, that’s my secret default emotion, you’re welcome, so when I say there’s nothing to worry about, obviously there are plenty of things to worry about, look where we are, but I promise nothing major currently in the Steve department, and I can tell you, like, instantly when that changes, it’s a sixth sense.”

Eddie blinks, looking slightly stunned. Shit, she forgets sometimes that it’s only really Steve who’s used to these monologues.

A big breath. “And I know it seems like I’m panicking because I’m rambling which—okay, that’s sometimes true, but in most cases—this one included, I swear!—me talking way too much just means I’m comfortable with whoever’s listening.” Eddie’s eyes widen. “So, um. Congratulations? Sorry? Take your pick. Does that, um, make sense?”

There’s a pause before Eddie replies—he’s probably still processing just how many words were thrown at him.

“I don’t think you talk too much,” he says in a taken aback kind of way. Then, “And yeah, sure, that makes sense. Just, uh, questioning your judgement.” A slight self-effacing smile. “I’m not typically the kinda guy folks are comfortable around.”

“Is it really so shocking?” Robin says, meaning it as a tease but—

“Yes,” Eddie says, and while he matches her tone, the word teeters between a joke and something vulnerable.

They both turn at a sudden grunt of exertion—Steve’s standing up, supporting himself with one hand leaning on the rock he’d fallen against. Nancy watches his movements with an anxious intensity; Robin follows her eyeline and notes with relief that the bleeding’s stopped.

“We can go to my house,” Nancy says like she’s trying to convince herself it’s a good idea. “There’ll—there must be some bandages or something just. Just in case.”

Steve lets go of the rock and stands up to his full height. It’s a deliberate show of reassurance, Robin thinks, as much for himself as it is for Nancy.

“Sure,” Steve says. “And guns too, right?”

Nancy’s startled into a laugh. For a second, the weight of concern leaves her face. “And guns,” she repeats.

Eddie catches Robin’s eye with an air of bewilderment. “Guns?” he mouths.

Robin nods.

Eddie looks, if possible, even more lost. Then his eyes slide away from Robin’s, and his expression changes; he starts to frown. At first Robin can’t tell what he’s noticed except that there can’t be any more blood, thank God, because he doesn’t look away. Then she sees it too as Steve takes a step forward with a nonchalant, “What are we waiting for? Let’s go,” like the determined normality of his voice can somehow hide the fact that he’s shivering.

Nancy bites her lip, looking like she’s come to the same unwelcome conclusion as Robin: that no matter what they say, it’ll just result in Steve arguing against it.

There’s a rustle off to the side. Robin glances over only in time to see a blur of denim; Steve catches it against his chest. Eddie’s vest.

“For your modesty, dude,” Eddie quips like it’s no big deal, but Robin can instantly sense the care he’s taken in how he’s said it, that he’s guessed intuitively about the kind of person Steve is: the kind who, when Robin once forgot her umbrella, shared his and made sure she was fully covered, despite him getting soaked in the process.

It’s like she can physically see the path that Eddie’s flippancy has opened up. This way Steve accepting the vest is just continuing the joke; he doesn’t need to admit that he actually needs it.

And it works. Steve expertly sidesteps around the vulnerability and shrugs on the vest, echoing Eddie’s levity right back at him.

“Oh, my modesty, sure. Well, in that case, don’t wanna offend you, dude.”

“You know me, propriety is my middle name.”

Steve laughs. He fiddles a little with one of the buttons on the vest then says lightly, as if an afterthought, “Didn’t know you cared.”

It still walks the line of a joke, but Robin can hear his sincerity, and from the look of surprise on Eddie’s face, so can he. And it’s not like Steve being genuine is a surprise to her, but—

The ground gives way beneath her feet; her stomach lurches as she loses her balance, and it’s only when she accidentally catches Eddie’s shoulder that she realises she’s not going to fall through an endless chasm, that the world is just shaking violently—still not a comforting prospect, but she’ll gladly take it over the alternative.

She barely has time to feel the relative relief before another shudder sends her straight to the ground; she’s too caught off guard to even protect her face with her hands. But her landing isn’t nearly as painful as it should be—as everything finally grows still, she finds the reason why: Eddie, who from the awkward twisted position of his legs looks like he was caught equally off guard, and yet he’s still managed to fling an arm around Robin, bracing to keep her from the worst of the impact.

“Did anyone touch the vines?” Nancy asks breathlessly.

Robin and Eddie shake their heads.

“Any, uh, particular reason why?” Eddie says in the tone of someone who’d really rather not find out.

“It’s a hive mind,” Steve and Nancy say simultaneously, in a very hive mind like way.

Robin hums the theme to The Twilight Zone; everyone laughs, some pressure finally released.

“So killer demon bats weren’t enough, we’ve gotta deal with booby traps too,” Eddie says.

Steve snorts. He glances childishly to Robin as if looking for approval; she rolls her eyes with an irrepressible smile. Seriously?

There’s a split second of disbelief before Eddie just grins in delight. “Real mature, Harrington.”

Steve shrugs. “Sorry, man,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Just providing what Dustin would’ve done.”

They sober slightly at the reminder that their group’s been split.

“You think they’ve figured out that we’re…?” Eddie wiggles his fingers vaguely. He’s slower at getting to his feet than everyone else had been—he’s still hunched over slightly, rubbing at his knee.

“They will,” Nancy says with conviction.

“Don’t underestimate them,” Steve says mildly.

“Oh, I’m not, believe me. They’re kinda terrifying.”

“Terrifying?” Nancy echoes, laughing again, right as Steve says, “Exactly.”

As if in response to their laughter, there’s a distant growl punctuated with ominous clicking. Steve and Nancy both go rigid, and Robin thinks of the night after Starcourt, when Steve stayed over at her place because neither of them wanted to be alone; and he told her how everything started for him, his voice tripping over the words like he was reliving it all over again: running back to Jonathan Byers’ house, hearing the snarl of a monster.

“Yeah, I’m all for going to the Wheeler sanctum,” Eddie says weakly.

But he doesn’t move initially, so Steve and Nancy end up leading the way. Steve repeatedly sweeps the beam of his flashlight back and forth, making sure that the path is lit up for everyone, and Robin wonders whether he’s so focused on that that he hasn’t yet noticed—

“You’re hurt,” she tells Eddie softly. She’s up and looped her arm through his without thinking—which is kind of a big deal considering she nearly threw up with nerves when dancing with a boy at her middle school Snow Ball—and she realises that, for once, she forgot to be nervous about it.

“It’s not that bad,” Eddie says dismissively, but she can feel him leaning on her so it must be at least a little bit bad. “Hey, we kinda even each other out like this, huh? Your balance is pretty good, actually.” He pauses, then, “I’m okay, promise, just didn’t wanna…” He shrugs, nods towards Steve. “Gotta prioritise, y’know?”

Robin doesn’t push back on it for now, just slows her pace so Eddie isn’t jostled. “Thank you,” she says instead, lowering her voice. She nods toward Steve too. “For the…”

“Style improvement? Yeah, you’re welcome.”

This time Robin only lets him get away with belittling it for so long; it’s important, she thinks, that he knows.

“I mean it. He wouldn’t have taken it if you hadn’t—he’s…” She sighs. The greatest Tammy Thompson impersonator. Stupidly funny. Serious, when he has to be. Caring. Selfless. My best friend. “Stubborn.”

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Oh, and you’re not? What the hell was that back there?” He drops into a gently mocking impression of her voice, “I made that shit up.”

“I was just being honest!”

“Way to give me a heart attack.” She feels him squeeze the crook of her elbow. “Don’t do it again.”

And there’s that balancing act again, joking but not. Robin hears it for what it is. Don’t leave me alone. She squeezes back.

“I won’t.”

She expects Eddie to change the subject quickly. Instead he laughs—smaller, sadder. “Shit, sorry. You must think I’m—”

“No,” she says firmly. “I don’t.”

Eddie looks down like he’s just watching his step, nothing more. But his hold around Robin’s arm tightens again. He clears his throat.

“Thanks, Buckley.”

“Hey, Robin, Eddie,” Steve calls; Robin feels Eddie jump. “There’s vines up ahead, like…” He turns around and indicates where with the flashlight. Then he catches Robin’s eye, knits his eyebrows slightly. You okay?

She smiles in reassurance before subtly tilting her head towards Eddie, wrinkles her nose.

Steve’s forehead relaxes. The tiniest nod. Yeah, I know. Got my eye on it.

Because of course he’d noticed the hurt knee despite Eddie’s attempt to hide it; Robin recalls now one of Steve’s rants about his time at school, how he’d often clock injuries during basketball games before the borderline neglectful coach.

And then she realises that Steve’s been walking backwards throughout their silent conversation, alternating between lighting the way for Nancy, and for her and Eddie.

She rolls her eyes, briefly draws a circle in the air with her finger. Now you’re just showing off.

Steve grins, waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. Oh, yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?

But he obligingly turns around, as Nancy gives him a sidelong, questioning look. He answers, too far away to hear, points behind him with his free hand like he’s explaining something. Then his hand goes to the vest, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly over the denim near the collar; Robin smiles.

“So, uh, how likely is it that I’m gonna get that back?” Eddie asks. He sounds amused, like he’s just noticed the same thing as Robin.

“Like, out of ten?” She pretends to think about it. “Two point five.”

Eddie snorts. “Wow, thanks.”

It’s a compliment, Eddie, she thinks, recalling the select few sweaters that Steve fiddles with in winter. He only does that with clothes he really loves.

“You’re not the first. He steals my sunglasses all the time.”

Eddie bursts out laughing. “Figures. He’d look good in anything, it’s so unfair.”

And it doesn’t sound serious; it’s said off the cuff, like it doesn’t have to mean anything. But Robin’s growing more certain that she can hear what’s hiding underneath—that, however hesitantly, she’s being tested.

“Yeah, but we’re not supposed to actually tell him that, he’ll never shut up about it.” As Eddie laughs, she elbows him gently, reaches across to tug at one of the zippers on his sleeve. “So are you providing a permanent service with your clothes? Cause I call dibs on your jacket.”

Eddie laughs again; the mix of disbelief and joy in the sound is familiar—Robin’s heard it come from herself not all that long ago. It takes a while to sink in, that friendship can be found so easily—an uncomplicated, earnest type of love once thought lost to kindergarten; it doesn’t have to hurt.

(“I didn’t need the truth serum to say it,” Robin had confessed during a terminally slow day at Family Video. “I think, deep down, I trusted you.”

“Oh,” Steve said softly and watched the rest of the movie they’d thrown on dewy-eyed.)

There’s a spring in Eddie’s step now despite the limp. He calls out like he’s on a summer hiking trail, “Are we there yet?”

Nancy chuckles. “No. Are you five?”

“Wheeler, I’m shocked that you’d repeat the baseless lies of the school faculty.”

Steve turns, his grin caught by the flashlight—and he looks younger suddenly, Robin thinks, like he’s in class, sneaking a look at someone in the seat behind.

“Wow, dude, I’m so sorry. Are you bored? I forgot to book the entertainment.”

“Did you, Steve?” Eddie asks, all innocence. “I thought you were the entertainment.”

And as they go back and forth, it’s as if the darkness of the woods can’t reach them anymore—as Steve starts a game of I spy, and Eddie encourages Nancy to come up with equally outlandish guesses, the two of them barely keeping their giggles under control, violets, vixen, velociraptor?

“Vines, you losers!” Steve says, still grinning, walking tall like he’s totally forgotten about his injury; and Eddie turns to Robin like that had been his aim all along, “Your turn, Buckley.”

Oh, you’ll fit right in, Robin says to herself before jumping into the game—as they all, at least for a little while, leave fear behind.

#an s4 scene rewrite #recontextualizing “for your modesty dude.”#pre steddie #eddie and robin fic #robin buckley fic #steve and robin fic #steddie #steddie fic #eddie and robin #steve and robin #steve and robin and eddie and nancy #robin buckley #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie

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jungwnies · 2 days ago

Text

f1 rookies | finals season

୨ৎ : featuring : kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, isack hadjar, jack doohan, gabriel bortoleto, and liam lawson ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : the 2025 f1 rookies try to help their high school senior girlfriends with essays in subjects they’re terrible at...except for one smarty-pants.

୨ৎ : genre : comedy & fluff ୨ৎ : word count : 2061

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : no race this weekend ... unfortunate.

ʚ・kimi antonelli

you sighed dramatically, forehead pressed against the cool surface of your desk, your statistics textbook open to a page that looked more like ancient runes than math.

kimi peeked into your room, hair still damp from his post-training shower. “you okay?”

“no,” you groaned. “i have to write a proof essay for stats and i don't even know what the question is asking. like. what even is a chi-square test? is it edible?”

kimi padded over, curious despite the visible fear creeping into his eyes the closer he got to the math. “show me.”

you pushed the textbook toward him like it was radioactive.

he sat beside you, peering at the assignment sheet, lips moving silently as he tried to read it.

“…it’s just numbers,” he said finally, like he was offering wisdom from the gods.

“not just numbers!” you cried. “it’s probabilities. it's… math with extra steps and suffering.”

he frowned, tilting his head. “okay. maybe… we do it like a race.”

you blinked. “a race?”

he nodded, warming up to the idea. “look — the data points are like racers. the chi-square thingy tells you if they finished where they were supposed to finish or if something weird happened. like… if max verstappen somehow finished last.”

you stared at him.

“that’s actually—” you blinked. “that’s… kind of good.”

kimi perked up immediately, straightening in his chair. “yeah?”

“yeah! like expected vs. observed outcomes.”

he grinned, proud like he just set a world record. “see? i’m a genius.”

you giggled, reaching out to ruffle his damp curls. “you’re a genius and my emotional support calculator.”

he flushed slightly, smiling as he leaned over your notes. “okay, now write that down. but make it sound smarter.”

together, you cobbled together a rough outline — him offering racing analogies every five minutes, you translating them into statistics lingo — and slowly, your essay started to take shape.

by the end of the night, you were half asleep on his shoulder, your laptop still open, and kimi was scrolling through chi-square memes on his phone like he was actually invested.

“next time,” he mumbled, kissing your forehead, “pick an easier subject. like, uh… tire pressure.”

ʚ・ollie bearman

you flopped onto your bed dramatically, clutching your crumpled list of socratic seminar questions to your chest.

ollie sat at your desk, spinning lazily in your chair, sneakers kicking the floor. "alright, hit me," he said confidently. "what’s the topic?"

"free will versus determinism," you mumbled.

the spinning stopped. "versus… what now?"

"basically if we’re actually making our own choices or if everything’s already determined by fate or whatever."

he blinked. "that’s—" he paused. spun half a turn. "that’s horrible."

"right?"

you sat up, tossing the paper at him. he caught it clumsily, holding it like it was evidence in a murder trial.

"okay," he said bravely. "let's prepare. like sparring. you ask the question. i'll answer. we'll crush it."

you grinned, feeling slightly more hopeful. "alright. first question: do humans have free will?"

he sat up straighter, nodded like a professor. "yes. obviously. i chose to have cereal for breakfast instead of toast."

you stared.

he stared back.

"expand on that," you said, trying not to laugh.

"i… woke up. thought about toast. but then thought about cereal. then chose cereal. therefore: free will," he said, counting on his fingers like he was delivering the sermon on the mount.

"that’s not exactly the level they’re expecting," you said gently.

he looked personally offended. "what do they want from me? a thesis?"

you giggled, crawling over and tapping his forehead. "less toast. more philosophy."

he groaned dramatically, throwing himself backward into the chair. "you know what? tell them life is like… racing."

you blinked. "go on."

"you think you're choosing everything — when to brake, when to turn — but a lot of it’s already decided by where you start, how good the car is, who’s around you." he shrugged. "you're choosing. but also, you’re not."

you stared at him, jaw dropping slightly.

"wait. that’s… actually brilliant."

he looked smug. "yeah. i have like… two brain cells. but they’re powerful."

you burst out laughing, shoving his chair lightly. "you're my philosophical weapon, bearman."

he grinned, reaching out to boop your nose. "go in there, say something about cereal and racing, and you’ll win life."

ʚ・isack hadjar

you sighed dramatically, slumping over your laptop. “isack. i’m going to fail biology.”

he flopped onto your bed like a ragdoll, arms spread wide. “what’s the topic?”

you pointed to your screen. “i have to write a research paper on parasitic mind control.”

he sat up immediately, looking way too excited. “like zombies?”

you nodded grimly. “fungus that takes over ants' brains. worms that control fish. it’s horrific.”

isack beamed like you just told him christmas came early. “that’s so sick.”

you gave him a look. “yeah. sick. and confusing. and complicated. and i have no idea where to start.”

he scooted closer, peering at your half-typed notes. "okay okay okay. listen. this is easy."

you raised an eyebrow. "you failed high school biology."

"details," he said, waving a hand. "first, write something dramatic. grab their attention."

you frowned. “like what?”

he grinned. "start it like: 'imagine you're walking through the jungle… and a fungus eats your brain from the inside out.'”

you blinked. "that's… actually kind of good?"

"i'm french," he said smugly. "we know drama."

you laughed, slumping against him. "okay, what about the actual science part?"

he shrugged. "google it?"

you gave him another look.

he grinned wider. "or we make it up."

"isack."

"kidding! kidding!" he said, throwing his hands up. "we'll be semi accurate."

you sighed, grabbing your textbook again. "alright, fine. help me brainstorm."

two hours later, your "brainstorm" session had devolved into him pitching increasingly insane theories about zombie ants building secret underground cities and whether or not humans were already infected without knowing it.

(you were 60% sure he wasn’t joking.)

by the end of the night, your essay actually had a strong intro, a rough outline, and a lot of isack’s terrible but weirdly inspiring ideas scribbled in the margins.

he flopped onto the bed dramatically as you typed. "you're welcome for the nobel prize."

you laughed. "you’re lucky you’re cute."

"obviously," he said, already dozing off beside you.

ʚ・jack doohan

you groaned, flopping onto your desk dramatically, your french textbook sliding dangerously close to the edge.

jack leaned over your shoulder, chewing gum casually like he wasn’t about to experience a full-blown existential crisis. "what's wrong?"

"i have to write a whole essay in french," you moaned. "about my childhood memories. and i can barely even say bonjour without crying."

he grinned. "alright, alright. let’s do it together. how hard can it be?"

you gave him a flat look. "do you even speak french?"

jack paused.

then, without missing a beat: "no. but i know how to say croissant."

you buried your face in your arms.

"okay, okay," he said, standing up dramatically. "don’t panic. i have resources."

you peeked up at him. "resources?"

he pulled out his phone, typing aggressively. "pierre gasly. we’re calling for backup."

you stared at him. "jack. you can’t just facetime pierre for my homework."

"watch me."

three rings later, pierre’s blurry, confused face appeared on screen. "mate? everything okay?"

jack grinned, tilting the phone so pierre could see you buried under a pile of french worksheets. "yeah bro, can you help my girl with her french essay? she's suffering."

pierre blinked. smirked. "of course. what’s the topic?"

"childhood memories," you mumbled from under your arm.

pierre laughed. "easy. start with quand j'étais petit(e), je… then you just lie for the next five sentences."

jack nodded like he was absorbing ancient wisdom. "got it. lie. good plan."

you giggled despite yourself, sitting up. pierre rattled off a few starter phrases, jack repeating them horribly with a thick aussie accent that made you laugh so hard you almost fell off your chair.

thirty minutes later, you had the rough beginnings of an essay — half of it thanks to pierre, half of it thanks to jack’s chaotic moral support.

when you finally hung up, jack grinned, ruffling your hair.

"see? teamwork."

you beamed at him. "you’re ridiculous."

"and you’re gonna ace it," he said confidently. "just… maybe don’t pronounce anything the way i did."

ʚ・gabriel bortoleto

you slumped dramatically against the back of your chair, spinning aimlessly as your world history textbook lay open on your desk.

gabriel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling knowingly. “homework?”

"yeah," you groaned. "i have to write a five-page essay about how the roman empire influenced modern society."

he perked up instantly. "i love the roman empire."

you blinked. "of course you do."

he jogged over, pulling up a chair like he was about to host a ted talk. "okay, first of all — aqueducts. engineering marvels. you have to mention aqueducts."

you scribbled it down obediently. "aqueducts. got it."

"and roads," he added, already starting to gesture with his hands. "they basically invented the highway system. you ever think about that? roman highways."

you nodded, typing faster.

"and then there’s the legal system!" he continued, eyes sparkling. "so much of what we use today — courts, contracts, property laws — came from roman principles."

you stared at him, slightly overwhelmed. "how do you know all this?"

he shrugged, grinning. "i read. also, tiktok sometimes. but mostly reading."

you giggled, glancing at the growing list of topics he was rattling off. "okay, but i need, like, structure."

"structure!" he clapped his hands dramatically. "introduction: why the roman empire mattered. body paragraphs: engineering, law, military, politics. conclusion: the vibes are still alive today."

you snorted. "did you just say vibes in an academic plan?"

he winked. "scholarly vibes."

you tried to focus, typing as he ranted — but soon enough he was deep-diving into random side topics like roman concrete, weird emperors, and the fact that vending machines were technically invented by ancient engineers (somehow???).

“gabriel!” you finally laughed, cutting him off mid-rant about julius caesar's calendar reforms. “stay on topic!”

he blinked innocently. “i am on topic.”

you giggled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “you're my favorite chaotic historian.”

“and you're welcome for the best essay of your life,” he said, proudly tossing your pen onto the bed.

ʚ・liam lawson

you groaned, dramatically sliding down the couch until you were nearly horizontal, a stack of history books balancing dangerously on your stomach.

liam glanced over from where he was gaming on the floor. "what's wrong now, princess?"

"i have to write an essay about the economic effects of the industrial revolution," you mumbled. "for advanced history."

he paused his game.

turned.

and gave you the most falsely confident smile you’d ever seen.

"easy," he said, tossing his controller aside. "i know all about that."

you blinked. "you do?"

"yeah," he said, nodding seriously. "the industrial revolution… that’s when people invented factories. and, uh… steam. steam was big."

you stared.

"lots of steam," he added, deadpan.

"liam."

he grinned. "okay, fine, i don’t know shit. but i am great at making things sound convincing."

you laughed, tossing a pillow at him.

he crawled over, plopping next to you, skimming your textbook like it was written in alien language. "alright, so… just say that people started making stuff faster. like, mass production. and the economy got booming. profit. money. cha-ching."

you scribbled a few notes, giggling. "you’re literally just saying capitalism noises."

"exactly!" he said proudly. "that's history, babe."

you groaned, but couldn't stop smiling. he peeked over your shoulder at your half-written paragraph.

"also mention… pollution," he said, squinting at a random heading in your book. "people were coughing and stuff. very historical."

you laughed harder, shoulders shaking. "you're the worst tutor."

"and yet, you're smiling," he teased, bumping your shoulder.

you shook your head, finishing your messy draft while he threw in random "facts" like, "probably some guy tried to steam-power a horse" and "definitely child labor, don't forget that."

when you finally set your pen down, exhausted but a little triumphant, liam wrapped his arms around you from behind.

"see? history made easy. just add steam, money, and mild suffering."

you leaned back into him, laughing. "remind me to never let you help me again."

he smirked against your hair. "you’ll come back. i’m irresistible."

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expedition333 · 1 day ago

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SKAM was such an experience. I was in my freshman year of college at the time. I started watching it late, Isak’s season had already started, but it was such an original and interesting idea. The social media accounts, and the way they incorporated phones, texting and social media into the show was so cool. Clips in real time throughout the week, then clipped together at the end for the full episode. The feed with all of their posts and text conversations. So interesting and immersive. It made the characters and their lives feel all the more real. The show also intentionally built really good, in depth conversations between the characters that really showed the aspects of being a flawed but caring human and trying to navigate your way through the world and school as a young person. The differences between being an actual harmful person and making mistakes and showing how people can grow. None of the characters are perfect but you love them and care about them anyway. It does a good job of showing community and how people help people I think. (I think of the friend groups. The girls being there for Vilde and Noora, standing up for Eva when they don’t even know everything. The boys being there for Isak because they know something is going on with him. I also think of William and how patient and caring he is for Noora when she thinks she’s been assaulted. He trusts her and never forces her to tell him what’s going on. Despite his flaws (and there are many) he cares for her, writes her article, ensures she sleeps and wakes her up in time for her plans with her friends. (These are just a few examples)). I think it’s an important show.

no you guys don’t understand how insane the skam experience was. if you weren’t in norway, you were literally waiting for one of the many norwegian angels to take the clips that dropped in real time on the skam site on a daily basis, and translate and upload them to a google drive so everyone else could watch them. i literally watched that show via google drive and it was all thanks to the regular fans who took the time to translate the clips so others could enjoy the show. a whole community was built via google drive. and then a whole universe was built with about eight different remakes of the show coming out of one little show that started in norway and was only meant to stay in norway.

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pnutbutter-n-j-elyy · 2 days ago

Note

Hiiii! Could u maybe write for skz being in a secret relationship (like secret from the public cause reader ain’t an idol) and getting caught by paparazzi during a date? U can just make 3racha pls if u don’t feel like doing all 8 ! Feel free to refuse too ofc! I loved your Spotify wrapped hcs btw! Seungmin’s was so funny! 😆

I made them reaction bullet points! But if you guys like them then I'm totally up to making them into longer fics!!

Stray Kids | Secret Relationship → Getting Caught by Paparazzi

Bangchan

Chan is so careful usually.

Dates are always super lowkey - private cafes, quiet beaches at night, movie nights at home.

But today was your birthday, and he wanted to do something special.

He rented out a tiny rooftop restaurant just for the two of you, candles, flowers, the whole thing.

Everything was going fine...until you both laughed too hard at a joke and he leaned across the table to kiss you.

Flash.

Click click click.

Both of you froze mid-kiss like-

🧍‍♂️🧍‍♀️...

Chan immediately tensed and went into protective mode, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from the ledge.

He spends the rest of the night furious at himself, feeling like he failed to protect you.

“It’s my fault. I should’ve been more careful, baby, I’m so sorry…”

You have to literally cup his cheeks and remind him that you knew the risks from the start, and you still chose him.

Later when the photos surface, they’re actually really sweet and respectful - the caption is like: “Bang Chan spotted in sweet rooftop date - fans speculate he’s in a relationship.”

His company releases a statement saying they won’t comment on private matters, and surprisingly, most people are supportive.

In the end, the incident kinda soft-launches your relationship 💛.

Lee Know

Lee Know thinks he's a secret agent.

Always plans escape routes. Dresses down. Times everything.

“Trust no one. Speak to no one. Blend into the crowd.”

But you went out for bubble tea one afternoon, and he just couldn’t resist teasing you.

He poked your straw when you weren’t looking, got your drink all over your shirt, and then tried to "help" wipe it off.

You were laughing and swatting at him, and he kissed your forehead without thinking.

Flash.

😐😐😐

Minho freezes.

“Did you see that?”

“...Yes.”

“Abort mission. Run.”

Grabs your hand and books it through side streets like a literal action movie.

Later, when the photos go viral, they’re weirdly cute - you’re laughing, he’s looking at you with soft eyes, and fans are melting.

He doesn’t say anything publicly, but a few days later, he posts a dance video wearing a shirt that says “Not Sorry.” 😎

Changbin

Changbin is PARANOID about getting caught.

He wears hats, masks, sometimes even sunglasses at night.

He’ll make you walk separately in public and only link up when it’s super empty.

But today, he was feeling bold.

You were walking by the river, and he just couldn’t help it - he grabbed your hand.

You warned him. He didn’t listen. He was too busy smiling at you like an idiot in love.

Then:

Click click click click.

Changbin drops your hand and looks around like a scared puppy.

“Was that what I think it was-”

“Yes.”

“@$#%&.”

He immediately pulls you into a side street, calling his manager with one hand while trying to shield you with the other.

“I think we have a problem.”

Despite his panic, you kinda find it cute how protective he gets, constantly glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re okay.

The photos blow up fast - he’s recognizable even under the hat and mask because of his build.

Surprisingly, the fans argue that he deserves to be happy and start trending “#HappyForChangbin.” 🥹

He won’t relax until you both sit down and personally go over every nasty comment and good comment together, promising to only listen to the good ones.

“They don’t know our love, jagiya. Only we know. That’s enough.” 💌

Hyunjin

You were museum-hopping for your date - very chill, very lowkey.

Hyunjin wore glasses and a mask, blending in as just another artsy boy admiring sculptures.

You thought you were in the clear.

Then you reached to point at a painting at the same time and your hands touched.

Hyunjin looked at you, smiled all dreamy, and brushed your hair behind your ear like a damn movie scene.

THAT’S when the paparazzo got you.

Flash.

Hyunjin didn’t even flinch, he just kind of...blinked and kept smiling.

“Let’s keep going. Pretend nothing happened.”

(Internally he was PANICKING.)

Later he has a minor meltdown about it, pacing and chewing on his sleeve.

“WHAT IF THEY FIND YOU? WHAT IF THEY HARASS YOU? I SHOULD’VE BEEN MORE CAREFUL!”

You calm him down with forehead kisses and pinky promises.

The photo goes viral because it’s just so beautiful - you two look like characters out of a romance drama.

Fans nicknamed you “Hyunjin’s Mona Lisa.” 🎨🖌️

Han Jisung

Jisung is...not careful. Like at all. 😭

Like, he tries - really he does - but his excitement always gives him away.

You two went on a simple late-night drive, windows down, singing along to whatever’s on the radio.

You driving of course since the chubby cheeked boy still had yet to get his license.

You pulled over to a convenience store to grab snacks,

When he came back with a pile of candy and two hot coffees, he opened the drivers door and buckled you in as if you were sitting in the passenger seat.

After making sure you were secured he shut the door, and leaned into the car window and kissed you.

Like full-on swoon-worthy type of thing.

…Right in front of a paparazzo who was tailing idols that night.

FLASH.

You both screamed. Like actually screamed.

Jisung dropped everything he was holding, candy and coffee flying into the air. ☕🍬

“RUN!” he shrieked, diving into the passenger seat as you two sped off like a maniacs while you gasped laughing in the drivers seat.

Later, he’s freaking out. But tries to cover it up with joking.

“Do you think they got my good side?” (You smack his arm.)

The photos come out with the caption "Mystery lover? Han spotted on late night date!"

The company tries to spin it as “just hanging out with a friend,” but nobody buys it because of the kiss photo LOL.

In the end, you two have to lay low for a while, but honestly, Jisung just jokes about it constantly.

“If I’m gonna get caught, at least it was a kiss that looked straight out of a K-drama, am I right?” 💋

Felix

Honestly?

Felix would straight up take you on a nature walk for your dates.

Forests, hidden parks, lakes - anywhere with sunshine and minimal people.

You were sitting by a lake one afternoon, feeding ducks, and he kissed your cheek.

A photographer hiding in the bushes (like a weirdo) got the shot.

(Felix: 🫠)

(You: 🫠)

He immediately covers your face with his hands in the CUTEST protective way.

“Stay still, baby, don’t look, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Back at home, he hugs you and promises it’ll be okay no matter what happens.

“If they hate me, it’s fine. If they hate you, it’s war.”

The fandom goes wild, but mostly in support because...well...it’s Felix...

Even people who don’t stan Stray Kids are like, “If Felix found love we’re all cheering for him.” 😭

Seungmin

Seungmin is sneaky with dates.

Like, coffee shop hidden inside a bookstore levels of sneaky.

But today, you convinced him to just do something normal - ice cream at a park.

You were eating together on a bench, Seungmin roasting you for dropping your scoop.

“Are you five years old?”

“You’re gonna be single if you keep talking.”

He laughed, leaned in, and kissed your sticky nose.

You heard a camera shutter.

Both of you paused.

Seungmin squinted at the photographer like 🧐.

“You dropped your scoop and got us caught. Great job, genius.”

(He’s teasing. But he’s freaking out inside.)

Later when the pictures come out, Seungmin’s fans are laughing because he looks so deadpan in every photo.

Someone even memes it:

Caption: "When you drop your ice cream... and the fact you're in a relationship, too." 🍦😅🍦😂

I.N

Jeongin is careful because he’s still the “baby” to a lot of fans.

But he really wanted to take you to the little zoo near the city.

He wore a hat so low it almost covered his eyes, mask up to his nose, hoodie two sizes too big.

Adorable.

He was so focused on making sure you were comfortable he didn’t even realize a paparazzo had been tailing you guys.

The moment that got caught?

You feeding him a french fry outside a food stall.

Jeongin holding your hand to guide the fry into his mouth.

Giggles and hearts in your eyes.

The flash that the paparrazzo had forgoten to shut off startled you two.

Jeongin dropped the fries in horror.

You were more worried about the wasting of the fries more than anything else.

Panic.exe.

Later he’s apologizing over and over, voice so soft and guilty:

“It’s okay if you wanna break up with me...I get it…” 😔

(You bonk him on the head, lovingly of course.)

Turns out the fans think it’s the cutest thing ever.

“Our maknae is growing up 😭💖.”

Jeongin turns bright pink every time someone mentions it for the next month.

You say he owes you a large fry.

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

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9 @minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg @leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon @night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz @rockstarkkami @emilyywhyy

#skz reactions #stray kids #stray kids reactions #skz fluff #skz x reader #skz imagines #skz stay #skz #christopher bang #lee minho #seo changbin #hwang hyunjin #han jisung #lee felix #kim seungmin #yang jeongin #straykids #skz ot8 #pnutbutternjelyy

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pedgito · 2 days ago

Text

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 | Jesse (TLOU) x reader

summary | During a tense moment, Jesse has a devastating realization.

author's note | built around this request - this fit with an idea i already had sorta half outlined a couple weeks ago. this is unbeta'd, so if there's any mistakes just let me know!

content warning | 18+ MDNI, established friendship, loss of parents mention, tommy/joel being a father figure to reader, angst, unrequited feelings come to the surface, teasing, reader taking care of jesse in small ways, protected piv, very earnest dirty talk lmao, mentions of past relationships - can be pictured as either game or show jesse, i just adore young.

word count — 4.3k

He’s witnessed the best and worst of you.

And you, him.

The worst being when you parents died during a night attack on Jackson, a group of clickers hitting a weak point of Jackson’s bordering walls—you were lucky enough to survive because you were staying at Tommy and Maria’s that night, watching Benjamin while they used the freed up time to treat themselves to some normalcy, a date.

Jesse had held you in his arms while you cried, ordered by Tommy to stick close with you and Benjamin while he and a few other patrolmen dealt with the bodies, gave them a proper burial.

Tommy hadn’t meant to take you in so quickly, but you often drifted to his home for comfort.

Maria sensed the deep abandonment you felt, also realizing how much Benjamin clung to your presence. It helped relieve some of their worry knowing you had something to distract yourself and that they could catch up with more of the repairs around Jackson while you kept their son busy.

Eventually, you’re old enough for patrol.

Tommy starts you out with Joel, similar to his brother, he treats you with a soft, but firm guiding hand and after six months of consistent patrolling, Tommy pairs you up with Jesse.

Though, with minor hesitation.

He’s your leader for group patrols, but as you show more interest in wanting to go out in pairs, he was the safest bet—Tommy was also quick to pick up on the spark of friendship you had with him.

Shy and quiet, but there was trust.

He’d also given Jesse the talk about keeping you safe.

The sort of protect her with your life or it was his ass type deal.

Jesse isn’t surprised to see how well you handle patrol, killing infected without even a flinch, rolling with any punches thrown your way—you’ve always been strong.

He’s only surprised by how easily you’ve become the closest thing to family outside of his own, and Dina, who he seemed to have a tumultuous relationship with most of the time.

You never judged, only listened, joked with him about their unsteadiness on occasion.

Were they on? Were they off? It was always a gamble.

Based on the way his head was bowed, trudging around the snowy property without speaking a word, they were off—like…off off. Usually it lasted a couple days, sometimes a week, but he’s been this way for a month, looking increasingly more somber as time went on.

He never went into his and Dina’s fights—what they were about or who, why he often distanced himself from you when they were together despite his habit of sneaking in a few patrols with you just for the ease of it.

Everything was easy with you.

You’re always checking on him, fussing over him—Jesse doesn’t seem to mind, almost expecting it with how much he’s received from his mother or Dina, but with you, it was less about undermining him.

He felt reassured, knowing you didn’t worry about him in the same way they did, fearful of his fearless nature, carrying some of that yourself, you just wanted to keep him sharp and let him know that you had his back.

That’s why you spot it first—the fraying strap on his thigh holster, one good tug away from snapping in half.

"You’re gonna rip that thing and then whine about it the whole ride back," you break the silence, staring at him until his eyes drop to his leg, stopping in place as you’re already dropping to your knees in front of him without waiting for permission, “do you have any tape left? I know we stopped using it for marking but Joel likes to keep it in his pack and—”

Jesse chuckles low in his throat, his stomach doing a strange flip as you settle into the cold, wet snow without a care. "I’m not a whiner,”

"You are absolutely a whiner," you fire back easily, fingers working the strap loose from the buckle. Your gloves slip awkwardly against the leather, so you peel them off and toss them aside, “a goddamn cry baby, actually.”

Bare fingers are quicker, more precise.

Jesse swings his pack over his shoulder and digs through it quietly, pulling out an unpleasantly colored green role of tape and hands it to you, finding amusement in the scrunch of your nose in disgust as you spot the shade, “Gross,” you mutter, ripping it apart with your teeth as you situate the holster until it feels secure enough and tape it excessively.

“What a great thing to say while you’re down there,” Jesse jokes, shaking his head with a furrow in his brow as he slips his backpack back on, “really boosts egos, you know?”

“Who’s boosting your ego?” you ask accusatory, the slick smirk following like clockwork.

You don't even realize you’ve braced your free hand on the inside of his thigh for balance, fingertips pressing lightly into the warm, solid muscle there, even through the fabric of his cargo pants, peering up at him in question, “S’not me.”

Jesse does realize, though.

It was a strange feeling, fleeting, a glimpse of you he’s never seen before.

Every muscle in his body goes tight, locked up like you’ve got a knife to him instead of the gentleness of your touch. He’s breathing slow and shallow, willing himself to stay still as you lean in, tilt your head as you secure the holster in place properly, nearly eye level with his groin and focused entirely on fixing him.

Like you always do.

For a moment, he forces himself to look away, hands settled into his jacket pockets as he squints under the bright winter sky, praying the snow would blind him for a brief moment.

When his eyes do finally flick down, he catches the way your brows draw together in concentration, the way your mouth tugs into a little frown, your teeth biting into your bottom lip.

And for a moment, so briefly Jesse thinks he’s gone insane, he imagines you making that face for him in a specific way that he blames on the frustration that has built within him the past few weeks and immediately hates himself for it.

"Almost done," you say softly, tugging at the wrinkled fabric of his pants until the holster is fit properly again, glancing up curiously.

That's when it hits him like a pile of fucking bricks.

You're looking up at him from between his knees, face soft despite the harsh breeze of snow, hands finding purchase with confidence on his body, almost surgical. Calculated.

There's nothing flirty about it. Nothing intentional. Nothing sexual.

Yet still, he can’t breathe.

You make a small noise of satisfaction, a squeak that Jesse wouldn’t have heard had he not been so tuned in to your every move, smiling as you stand, additionally fixing his beanie on his head for good measure and only a small attempt to tease him.

You slap his chest lightly as he stares, attempting to break him out of his strange stupor and it takes everything in Jesse to not grab your hand, curl his fist around your wrist, and drag you back into the building where your other supplies lay dormant in wait for the night to come.

Instead, he stays frozen. You're already shifting to stand, brushing snow from your knees, acting as if nothing was wrong—because for you, there wasn’t. But, you notice Jesse’s silent gaze as he follows your movement and you pause, waving a playful hand in front of his face.

"You good?" you ask, cocking your head at him.

"Yeah," Jesse says after a moment of hesitation, almost as if he had to force it out. He clears his throat, forces his eyes away from your mouth as you notice his gaze linger there. "Yeah. Thank you.”

Weird, you think.

But, Jesse had a strange sense of humor on occasion, assuming this was just a ploy to fuck with you, unsettle you a bit.

Though, something lingers as you step away, feeling his gaze return as you turn your back.

It seemed better to be left unspoken.

–

The fire crackles as you feed it a few more broken twigs, coaxing the flames higher to battle the cold. You shiver, pushing aside your dirty plates from dinner, pulling your sleeves over your hands as you sit back on your heels and cross your legs, sitting snug beside him against the wall.

And Jesse’s quiet.

He’s been quiet.

Strained quiet, not cautious like there was an impending sense of danger looming.

It was the kind of quiet that screamed avoidance.

"Careful, stare too long and you’re gonna scare the fire out," you tease him, nudging his foot with your boot, his hands curling into fists against his knees at the totally and completely normal gesture on your end.

Jesse snorts— but it isn’t him, a little too forced. "I’m just thinking…bored, you know?"

This was ridiculous—and unfortunately for Jesse, you had always been a straight shooter.

Plainly, you confront him, turning slightly in place to face him, "You’ve been acting weird ever since I fixed your thigh holster. Did I make you uncomfortable? Because, if you’re ever bothered by it, you can tell me—"

Jesse glances at you once, then down, and guiltily back up at you.

He doesn’t even have a response. He’s locked up, cornered.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Jesse offers eventually.

“Well, something is—you’re never this quiet with me,” you point out, resisting the urge to nudge him with a finger, scared he might scurry away.

“It’s really fuckin’ stupid, actually,” Jesse decides, forcing out an awkward, quiet laugh.

“Hey, tell me,” you urge him gently, your eyes widening with earnestness and Jesse hates that look—it is impossible to counter, seeing the creeping sense of emotion in your eyes.

Jesse avoids your gaze and shifts where he sits, propping his elbows on his knees, intertwining his fingers as he stared into the fire like it might spare him from answering and cause him to burst into flames.

"It wasn't anything you did," he says after a minute, voice low. "You were just—"

He cuts himself off, huffing out a breath of disbelief that he was having to admit this to you.

You lean in a little closer without thinking, hand curling around his forearm thoughtlessly, chasing after the words he won't give you.

"Jesse, just spit it out," you prod, a laugh mixed in with your sincerity.

Jesse lets out a slow, rough exhale, the kind that sounds like it's been sitting in his chest all day.

"You were just lookin' at me," he says finally, looking at you with a sudden weariness you’ve never seen with him, "Touchin' me. And I—"

Oh.

But, Jesse would be lying if he said this was just a lapse of judgment.

There had been hints for a while, sprinkled throughout your friendship.

Both of you cared a little more than just friends, but left the heaviness of that unspoken.

“I touch you a lot,” you joke lightly, hoping to ease his worry and maybe even convince yourself of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face; deep down, there was always that flutter in your stomach when Jesse smiled at you, but you often brushed it off.

He was your best friend—it was natural.

“Someone’s gotta take care of your shit,” you continue, pointing at the tattered strap of his backpack, “this shit is a damn hazard.”

He almost laughs.

But Jesse’s still tense, jaw working like he's fighting a war inside his mind.

You see the exact moment he gives up trying to hide it too—when he turns to look at you fully, really looks at you, and there’s nothing friendly about it.

You reach for him instinctively, your hand scratching over his cheek with blunt nails, gentle as you feel him lean into the caress, “Jesse,” you say quietly, his name loaded with emotion.

Respect, trust, fear, admiration.

“Tommy would fuckin’ kill me,” Jesse jokes, “Shit, Joel, too.”

“I’m not their kid,” you counter, “I’m not a kid. S’that what you’re worried about? Them?”

“I’m not really worried about them,” he says quietly, his voice tight, but it’s a half-truth.

Tommy did scare him on occasion, knowing how protective he had grown over you, “I’m worried about this,” He pauses, swallowing hard. "We’re friends, I like that. I’d die without it, I think."

He pauses for a moment, then suddenly, it flows out.

“I saw you, looking up at me,” Jesse shakes his head, “on your knees—”

You snicker softly, “O-kay,” you’re beginning to understand now.

You’re not sure why, but you move.

Not to him, rather in front of him, stripped of your jacket and the front of your top droops slightly as you shift to your knees and offers a full view of your chest, hands curling around his boots.

“What are you thinking now?” you ask curiously, hands curling over his knees as you move in closer, his legs spreading to accommodate you as you scoot forward on your knees.

“This isn’t funny,” Jesse retorts, sinking as far back into the wall as physically possible before you’re settled back on your legs, spread out underneath his, his feet planted as you rest your hands against his knees.

“I’m not laughing, am I?” you challenge him, “Seriously, what are you thinking right now?

“I can’t even,” Jesse shakes his head in disbelief, “I don’t know—”

“I’m trying to test temporary insanity as an option,” you offer, though it was mostly a joke—you were just fishing, curious of how often he thought about you in such a way, “it could have just been a lapse in judgement, so let me hear it,” you lean into his space, tilting your head to meet his as he turns away, “what are you thinking about?”

There’s a subtle glance at your face that leads to your chest and Jesse, if you would let him, would have you spread out over his lap without a moment of hesitation—but there is hesitation.

“Jesse,” you tease, singsong in the way you say his name.

And then he moves.

It’s fast—so fast that you barely register it until his hand is gripping your wrists and pulling you toward him. The movement is fierce, raw, acting purely on feeling, without thinking.

His grip on your wrist is firm, possessive, as he leans in close, pulling you to him as you settle in his lap without needing to be directed, his lips so close that you can feel them even before they touch you, breathing hot against your mouth.

The moment he gives in, it isn’t gentle or kind. It’s a collision of everything that’s been building between you two, all the unspoken emotions, the buried desires that neither of you have acknowledged until now, laying dormant.

His kiss is hungry, demanding, and when you try to pull back, his other hand comes up to cup the back of your head, keeping you there, gasping softly into his mouth. Your entire world spins at a dizzying speed as you exhale a breathless laugh of disbelief into the kiss.

When you finally pull away, it’s only enough to catch your breath, face close enough for your nose to bump against his cheek, the closeness almost sending you reeling again.

He’s still holding your wrists, this time with one hand as the other squeezed tenderly at the back of your head, yearning to pull you in close again, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

He’s ready to mutter an apology or excuse, but you don’t let him.

You move quickly, shifting slightly as you lean back, tugging at his wrists, guiding his hands down your chest and over your stomach, under the fabric of your shirt until his hands make contact with bare skin.

Jesse swears he’s going to die from the simplicity of it all—again, how easy things felt with you—the soft skin there, the way you settle back into his legs, the curve of your ass grazing his lap, aware of how hard his cock was against you.

You smirk at the way his gaze heats with his explorative touches, it was clear that he only needed the push and reassurance, his lips parting to release a long sigh.

“Say it,” you urge him, knowing exactly what he looked like when he was keeping something to himself, itching to speak his mind.

Jesse groans, a low, needy sound that makes your stomach flip, “Shit,” he says, “you’re gonna tease me for sayin’ it, I just know—”

“No, no,” you assure him, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips that quickly heats, shoving his beanie aside as you toss it to the floor, running your fingers into his hair, “I won’t.”

“I’m thinkin’,” He begins, chasing your lips as you pull away, “about how bad I want to fuck you right now—jus’ right here, it might fuckin’ kill me.”

You grin, satisfied with his answer and the hoarse, raw way he delivers it, “Then maybe you should,” you breathe, “ya know, fuck me.”

Jesse pulls you in further, his hands sliding over your hips and up the center of your back, between your shoulder blades as he lifts your top over your head, giggling at how quickly his face presses between your breasts, mouthing gently at the swell of skin, so soft and supple.

Within his distraction, you reach for your bag, unzipping the small pocket in the front to reach for the small roll of foil squares you kept squared away—it was a long story, actually.

Jesse doesn’t let it slide either, hearing the sound and pausing immediately as he looks over his shoulder. His face a mix of amusement and disbelief.

“Oh, don’t fucking look at me like that,” you go on the defense immediately with a playful smile, “I know you have some in your bag, too.”

Jesse knew briefly of a small stint you had with one of the men who filtered through patrol and watchtower patrol through the seasons, having found you in an awkward situation or two that didn’t give away much, always finding you after.

Either way, you were both guilty.

Jesse opens his mouth to speak, but you slap your hand to muffle any noise.

“Stop talking,” you order as he peels your bra off without trouble, swatting your hand away as his mouth latches immediately to your chest, tongue slick against your nipple, “and oh—fuck me—”

He can’t tell whether it was a demand or a pleading moment of desperation, it didn't really matter.

You’re already pulling at his coat, fumbling with the zipper as he drags you closer into his lap, his mouth never lulling in the attention he’s giving you, his teeth dragging over the tender skin of your chest as he lets out a desperate groan when your hips rub impatiently down against him.

It’s urgent, now, how he moves, almost frantic as he paws at the button of his jeans, the rasp of his zipper loud above the sound of your sharp breaths and the crackle of fire—you work in tandem, standing to slip your jeans and underwear down your hip, both of you too caught up to let the moment breathe as you settle back over him, stripped naked and vulnerable despite his state of dress, but you’ve never felt more secure.

You watch with a quiet smile as he fumbles to rip the packet open with shaky, adrenaline fueled hands, slipping the latex over his hardened cock, gripping himself at the base as you rise higher on your knees and extend your palm out in front of your mouth and spit into it with a lingering eye contact that could undo Jesse on the spot, bringing your hand to your cunt to smear the saliva between your folds, aching for the stretch of him, underestimating the stretch until the head of his cock is pressed against you, both of you releasing a slow breath as his hand searches for your hip, squeezing gently as you sink down onto his length.

You still suddenly, adjusting to the way he fills you.

It’s overwhelming how quickly the two of you had gotten here.

Jesse grips your hips tightly, distracting your fleeting thoughts, lifting you off of him with a strong grip before dragging you back down with a low moan of his own when your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt.

He holds you with a sudden possessiveness that leaves you crying out softly against his cheek, rocking his hips up to meet your rhythm as you bounce over him, his eyes barely leaving your face as he watches you fall apart on his cock, eyes wide and wondrous as earlier that day, the subtle twitches to your face when he brushes a spot so sensitive inside of you, gasping sharply.

The pace is desperate, both of you burning hot with the urgency of a handful of years building up like a house that finally caught fire, crumbling down to nothing but this moment, and the slide of him inside you is so slick, his body molding against your own, hands fitting perfectly against your body as he moans softly into the shared space between you, head lulling back against the wall as you follow, yearning for closeness.

"Jesus," he breathes, almost awed, the warmth of you wrapped around him, the tightness, the way you're taking the reins when he finds himself distracted, your hips dragging in slow, languid rolls over him. "jesus fuckin' christ, baby,"

The drag of his cock inside you is intense and fulfilling, your hands planted firmly against his chest, twitching into the fabric of his shirt to brace yourself as you ride him, his wandering and squeezing grasps to pull you impossibly closer indicative of how close he was.

“You like me fussing over you” you tell him breathlessly, fingers twisting into his hair to tilt it back, his eyes landing on you through a heavy, heated gaze as he huffs a laugh through his nose, “don’t you?”

He nods without a moment of hesitation.

“I take such good care of you, huh?”

You aren’t expecting the words to set him off, but they do.

You squeal at the quickness with which he moves, snatching your backpack with quick thinking as he lays you out on the cold ground, your gasp melting into a loud as he quickly, smoothly situations himself between your legs again and pushes inside of you, his hand curling around the back of your neck to tilt your chin up, jeans hanging low around his legs as he settles on his knees to create a mind-numbing angle as he thrusts into you.

“I feel it,” he whispers cockily, your cunt squeezing around him at his words, “you feel it?”

You nod dumbly as he continues to speak, “She loves me,” he tells you, “god—she’s squeezing me so tight,”

There’s something about it that breaks the line of reality, feeling as if this was all some dream, that there was no way Jesse knew your body this well, like it hadn’t been craving him from the start.

“Show me how you touch yourself,” Jesse orders, though it was more pleading, ultimately followed by the simple word, “please—fuck, please—”

He’s locked on the quick work of your hands, legs spread around and locked behind his back, his cock sinking inside of your greedy cunt with needy thrusts, chasing a high that he didn’t want to end.

When it did, it was slow.

You come apart with a cry, his mouth hot against your neck as he groaned into you, your cunt squeezing him like a vice as your body worked through the aching pulses of pleasure and it was few more long, sharp thrusts before he followed, fingers digging harshly into the skin of your thigh as he slowed himself to a gentle rock of his hips as he spilled into the condom.

When the high settles, you can’t help but laugh, feeling his head slump against your chest as he echoes your elation, “I think we fucked through your patrol slot,” he says through a heavy sigh, pulling out of you with a slight wince.

You grab at his wrist, glancing at his watch.

Sure enough.

“Oh no, we’re going to be devoured by clickers,” you say jokingly, a grin spreading across your face, pausing for a moment to shrug, “worth it.”

Jesse helps you redress with an unspoken protectiveness when you’ve both let the moment settle and pass, painfully reminiscent of the way you’ve cared for him before under entirely different circumstances, realizing how easily it was for your mind to wander like Jesse’s had.

“Tommy’s so gonna know,” Jesse speaks after a while, “Dude’s a fuckin’ knower.”

“No,” you snort softly, “you’re just a terrible liar. Just keep shit simple.”

“Dina was right,” he says quietly, reaching for the rifle leaning against the wall to take watch for his turn, “We were both never fully invested with what we had, she never really said why, but—”

“It isn’t something we have to dive into right now, Jesse,” you assure him, “or, ever.”

You bend down to grab Jesse’s beanie before handing it over.

“We’re still friends, that doesn’t have to change,”

Unfortunately, for Jesse, he knew that wasn’t possible.

He’d been missing something for a while, he just hadn’t realized it was something that had been with him the entire time.

You.

#the last of us #tlou #jesse tlou #young mazino #jesse tlou x reader #jesse tlou x you #jesse tlou fic #jesse tlou smut #tlou fic #the last of us fic #my writing

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livinghalfway · 2 days ago

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Bury Him with the Roses Pt. 2

Masterlist

Summary: Damian learns that his twin is alive only to learn that he was dead and buried a few hours before his impromptu arrival to the Fenton household. When he goes to visit Danyal's final resting place he finds two individuals digging up his brother's grave. Word Count: 1129

A four hour flight.

His brother was only a four hour flight away, and yet it has been five years since they’ve last seen each other. Damian isn’t sure why Danyal hasn’t reached out to him. Sure, his brother did not get to learn the name of their father, but there is no way he was able to avoid the Wayne name. Danyal must have seen the announcement of him joining the family, or at least a picture of him with them after all these years.

The town had some kind of media block, but that only pertained to hiding information coming out of Amity Park, not going in. It was frankly a miracle that Damian even found the article about the gorillas.

Whoever put the block up was good admittedly, but there was nothing Oracle couldn't crack into. A single crack in the wall, and it all came crumbling down.

The "ghost" attacks, the GIW, Phantom, but most importantly the Fenton's. So much information was now available to them, and yet the only thing he searched for was the address of his brother's home. That was the only thing that mattered.

Which is why Damian finds himself in the Wayne private plane not even an hour later with his Father and Dick sitting next to him. The others stay behind to look after Gotham, and investigate more about the strangeness of Amity Park. While making sure to give them any useful information about the Fenton’s they find.

From what has been found so far doesn’t paint the most stable of households, and Damian has every intention of taking Danyal home with them when they leave for Gotham. He’s … he’s excited to show his twin the life he’s built; that he has changed for the better from the boy that he once was.

“So, Damian,” Dick snaps him out of his thoughts, “What was Danyal like? With all the chaos I don’t think anyone got the chance to ask about him.”

With this question Bruce becomes much more attentive to what is happening around him. In a voice far too soft for Damian as he speaks nostalgically about his twin and their youth, “Danyal was as skilled with a blade as he was kind. Ra’s did everything he could to take that gentle nature from him, but nothing ever phased him. Despite striving in the league, it was obvious how much he hated being there. … He would have loved it in the manor.”

“He still has plenty of time to make the manor a home.” Dick reassures him. “It sounds like you really admire him.”

A humorless laugh escapes his throat at those words. “I hated him. Danyal was so much better than I was, and yet he never cared for Ra’s or Mother’s approval. By the time I truly recognized that we were never meant to be rivals he was already gone.”

Damian hopes that with this second chance he’ll be able to make up for all the years spent being jealous of the only other person who truly knows what his childhood was like. Someone who should have been a confidant was instead seen as nothing more than a competitor.

He knows why Danyal didn’t reach out, it’s because of him. Damian’s sure of it.

“Dami, do you care about Danyal?”

“...Yes.”

“Then just talk to him. I’m sure you two can get through this together.”

Damian hopes so; he wants to get to know his brother. He’s not going to miss out on this second chance to do so.

It’s late by the time the three of them finally reach the Fenton household; the sun is already beginning to set.

The building itself looks like one big safety hazard. Damian is honestly surprised that it’s liveable. Walking up to the front door he notes just how filthy the doorstep is. Dirt covered shoes and gloves lay littered about. He silently takes note of all of this as Bruce knocks firmly on the door.

To everyone else you would think the man is as cool as ice, to Damian though he can recognize the signs of nervousness and worry coming from his Father. No doubt feeling unsteady from the fact that they have the bare minimum amount of information for what they’re about to walk into.

Heavy footsteps can now be heard from inside now.

When the door opens it is to the face of Danyal’s adoptive father, Jack Fenton. The man looks tired; his shoulders are slumped and a melancholy smile graces his face.

“Oh! Bruce Wayne? Hello! Is there anything I can do for you folks?” Jack asks as he looks between the three of them, obviously confused by their presence. His eyes widen when his gaze lands on Damian. “Danny?”

“That’s actually what we’re here to talk about,” Bruce clears his throat before continuing. “It was recently discovered that my son Damian and Daniel could possibly be twins. We’re here to confirm if that is true or not.”

Strangely Jack looks almost relieved at those words.”Come- come inside.This conversation might be better done inside.”

As they are led inside towards the living room Jack calls out for his wife Madeline that they have guests; notably not calling for Danyal as well. While they get situated in their seats Damian takes this time to take a look around the room for signs of his brother.

He sees photos of his twin all along the walls, in most of them he was standing next to the Fenton's daughter, Jasamine. As he looks through his eye eventually notices a red blossom of some sort lying innocently under one of the side tables.

It’s unlike any flower he’s ever seen before. Just as he’s about to ask about it, Madeline finally joins them in the living room as well. Her eyes widened too once looking at Damian. It looks like she’s about to say something, but before she can Jack quickly whispers something in her ear.

Dick, who is sitting next to him, gently squeezes his shoulder as the Fentons sit across from them, and is the first to speak up, “Should we wait and get Danny to join us before we start this?”

The two Fenton’s look towards one another with pained expressions; a silent conversation occurs between them at that moment. After a few tense seconds Madeline quietly speaks up, “That … will not be necessary. Danny is- We- I’m sorry to be the one to tell you after you’ve traveled all the way here, but Danny is no longer with us, in fact we laid him to rest just a couple hours ago.”

At those words Damian knows that he had just lost his second chance to reconcile with his brother.

#dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #damian and danny are twins #dc x dp au #angst #danyal al ghul #dpxdc #dcxdp

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unadulteratedsoulsweets · 2 days ago

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A DC X DP IDEA #46

Monks?

Imagine dis…

I don’t know if im late to the trend or what, but recently a feed came and it featured Batman’s ridiculous set of skills and when asked he always answered the Tibetan monks.

Like come on, I would understand if the sorcerer supreme taught you how to astral projection and the mental barrier against I don’t know against a species that have evolved telepathy,

But this isn't Marvel.

…..

The Tibetan monks, an enigmatic, unknowable, and allegedly not real, were the whispered origin of some of Batman’s more peculiar skills. Astral projection. Mental shielding. The ability to remain entirely unreadable even to a Martian. When asked how he learned such things, Batman only offered a cryptic, “I trained with the Tibetan monks.” He never elaborated.

That was all it took to spark a minor obsession in his children and allies alike. If the monks could turn him into Batman, surely they were worth finding. And so they searched from combining every high-tech gadget, satellite scan, magical locator, and favor they could think of. Damian even tried to guilt-trip his father using a technique called “puppy dog eyes” courtesy from Dick. Nothing worked. Every lead crumbled like dust. The monks, if they ever existed, were impossible to trace.

The truth? The monks didn’t exist.

There had only ever been one monk.

And he was not a monk at all.

Years before the cowl, before Gotham knew the name Batman, Bruce had limped and escaped out of the League of Assassins with more bruises than bones and a fresh set of enemies. Refusing Ra’s al Ghul and his daughter had not gone over well. He’d wandered half-dead into the snowy wilds of the Himalayas, not sure where he was going, only that it needed to be far, far away.

Then darkness. Cold. Silence. A silhouette. And unconsciousness.

When Bruce woke, he was alive, bandaged, and lying on a bed of hay that smelled suspiciously like goat. A fire crackled nearby. His host was tall, silver-haired almost white, and moved like a shadow in silk robes. He claimed to be a monk. He never gave a name. He also radiated the kind of energy that made even Bruce’s paranoia sit up and go, “Hmm. That’s not normal.”

Bruce watched him from the sidelines. The man sparred with the air itself, performing forms Bruce had never seen before effortless, fluid, almost theatrical in how they ignored gravity. Despite claiming to seek peace, he kicked boulders in half during his morning stretches. Bruce knew what a formidable warrior looked like. This guy wasn’t just good. He was absurdly good.

Eventually, Bruce asked to be trained.

The monk agreed but with a devilish smirk that should have warned him.

It started with traditional exercises. Then came... less traditional ones. One day Bruce was balancing upside down on one finger. The next, he was chasing wild goats through the mountains with a blindfold on. There was a week he still refuses to talk about, involving fermented yak milk and interpretive dance. No explanation was ever given. Just a barked command, followed by a smirk, and Bruce reluctantly obeying because despite everything he was learning.

And the monk? He never moved when Bruce attacked. Not once. Bruce would lunge, strike, ambush, even beg the man to just flinch, and every time, the monk would remain motionless. The result was always the same with Bruce face-down in snow or mud, groaning, while the monk calmly re-wrapped his bandages and offered nothing but that smirk. That infuriating, soul-crushing smirk.

Name?

Bruce had asked and rasped, wheezing after yet another humiliating fall.

The monk merely chuckled and replied.

When you land a hit.

Bruce did not land a hit. Not that week. Not that month. Not ever.

And eventually, it was time to go. Bruce bowed, still never having won, still never knowing the monk’s name and returned to Gotham.

He never forgot the man.

….

What Bruce didn’t know was that his “monk” had a name, Dan.

Or, more accurately, Dan Fenton. Known in his own dimension for blowing up timelines, developing catastrophic anger issues, and eventually retiring from ghostly overlordship after a few centuries of introspection and really intense therapy. He took a page from Ellie and become a traveler, He’d been vacationing across dimensions, mostly avoiding interdimensional politics and his own mess of a reputation as well to avoid his younger self of a king when he stumbled on Bruce half-dead in the snow.

On a whim, maybe redemption, maybe boredom, maybe the sheer novelty of it, maybe his younger self and clone had finally rubbed of him, he saved him. And since he had time to kill, not that he would ever hurt Clockwork, he trained him.

Using ghost powers very subtle about it, just enough to freak Bruce out and maintain the illusion that he was a living, breathing über-warrior with mystical vibes and killer reflexes. The smirking was mostly for fun. The cryptic one-liners? Also fun. No wonder Clocky liked to say weird shit to his younger self.

What Dan didn’t expect was to actually like the guy. Sure, Bruce was intense, broody, and had the emotional range of a brick, but watching him faceplant into snow every morning had been surprisingly somewhat therapeutic. There was something calming about teaching someone who didn’t know who he was, who didn’t flinch at his name, or whisper “Phantom” like it was a curse. It helped Dan heal too, in his own weird way.

Years passed. Dimensions that he traveled and went. Dan forgot about it.

Then he remembered.

He missed his “student.”

He remembered Bruce mumbling something about Gotham in his sleep, something about a cave and a promise and since Dan had nothing better to do, well other than to laugh at his younger self for winning and taking the crown of the Infinite Realms, he decided to pay a visit.

On foot. Across dimensions. Because why not?

….

Meanwhile, in Gotham…

Bruce was panicking.

A letter had arrived. Just a simple, handwritten note. No return address. No explanation. But the handwriting sent a shiver down his spine.

I’ll be visiting soon. Hope you’ve gotten better.

Bruce dropped his coffee.

His children thought it was a threat. Jason offered to shoot whoever it was. Tim tried to trace the paper’s origin with four different forensic tools. Cass read the note and signed something to the others about posture and unresolved duty. Damian called it a threat that someone could rattle his father with one sentence.

But Bruce knew.

He was coming.

His old teacher.

The man who once made him wear a llama costume for a full week to “teach humility.”

He was coming to Gotham.

Bruce wasn’t sure whether to install extra security or book out every gym in the city to train. He hadn’t stopped pacing in two hours. Alfred found him shadowboxing in the Batcave while muttering things like, “I’ve got better reaction time now,” and “Surely… surely I can land one hit.”

Across the city, chaos was brewing, but not because of the letter.

Gotham’s entire vigilante network, Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Spoiler, Orphan, Batgirl, even Signal were neck-deep in the investigation of the Joker’s sudden, mysterious death. Dead, now struggle no physical or chemical cause somehow. No evidence.

No struggle.

Just… gone. The only lead was a single blurry silhouette from a rooftop security cam. The figure was massive, hooded, and moved with a kind of fluid, terrifying grace none of them had ever seen before.

Nobody recognized him.

And Bruce hadn’t said a word, too busy to train or join Alfred in cleaning the manor.

While the rest of the Batfam poured over footage, mapped potential escape routes, and debated theories, Batman was notably absent, still in the Cave, still pacing, still trying to steady his breathing every time he glanced at the letter.

Because Bruce knew who it was. And for once in his life, Batman was torn between abject dread… and the tiniest, most humiliating spark of hope.

Maybe this time, I’ll land a hit.

Maybe I’ll finally learn his name.

Maybe I’ll even win.

…Or maybe he’d end up face-first in an alleyway again while his teacher laughed and handed him his own blend of yak milk smoothie.

Either way, Gotham was not ready.

And neither was Bruce.

…...

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this, you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me, though.

PPS: I felt like posting a bit early. How was it?

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #dp #danny fenton #ghost king danny #dan

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five-thirtyfive · 2 days ago

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“not a lot, just forever”

plot summary: the pair break up six months into paige’s rookie year and azzi’s final year at uconn. this is the story of how everything falls apart before they find their way back home.

authors note: okay this may or may not turn into a series depending on if people like it + my motivation. let’s see. please let me know if you actually enjoy reading this or i may assume i am just speaking to the void which is kind of embarrassing anyways hahah

PART ONE - PAIGE.

they break up on an uncharacteristically humid and rainy afternoon in September, exactly six months after they started living one thousand seven hundred miles apart. paige feels like her heart is being ripped out of her chest and it doesn’t matter that she had heard the warnings before, that long distance is hard and that its impossible to make it work when you’re young..she always figured they were the exception - Paige and Azzi- and their incredible love story. she can barely believe it, that they could make it work at sixteen, two naive girls who barely knew what love meant but wanted it enough to start their first ever relationship hundreds of miles apart, but failed so horrifically at twenty three.

it’s really bad honestly, an amalgamation of missed texts turning into missed facetimes and small arguments turning into big fights, until paige realises that azzi’s flown to dallas exactly three times since pre-season, and all three times, had ended in some kind of apology from either one of them. it comes to a standstill with azzi lingering on paige’s doorstep, carrying a bag of her own clothes she'd never even unpacked (despite her usually never bringing her own clothes when near paige’s wardrobe….paige thinks in hindsight that azzi bringing her own clothes was maybe a sign, azzi’s subconscious telling her that this time, she is done). there’s tears and yelling and it's almost unbelievable, because they never yell, at least never at each other. they hurl foreign grenades they don’t mean (at least, paige knows she doesn’t mean the awful things spewing from her mouth, but she can’t seem to stop it happening anyway) and it’s the bloodbath that never ends, going and going and going until finally, azzi’s slamming the door and storming out of paige’s shitty dallas apartment.

it feels final, the way it rattles and echoes, before the apartment is completely silent. azzi’s soft giggle, her feigned annoyance at paige’s antics, her uninhibited moans that once filled every inch of the space a ghost of the past. she’s gone and it’s over. they’ve had fights, of course. you can’t spend 8 years together and not have them. but every time, they’ve communicated, worked it out and come back stronger. looking back, paige knows that it wasn’t like this - those were the trial runs, and this is the real fucking deal.

paige just sort of collapses right there in her hallway, crumpling into a ball on the wooden floorboard as she cries and cries and cries, the tears streaming down her face echoing the relentless rain pouring outside. she thinks about speaking to God for solace, the way she always does, but she’s realises that she can’t. she realises that she’s angry at Him, so angry she can’t even feel Him. she looks for God, but the sky is empty. it almost breaks her. it sets her tears off all over again.

it’s embarrassing and pathetic and awful yet paige can’t find it in herself to care, not even when she hears the faint buzzing coming from her right pocket, her mum facetiming her. she’s unsure how much time has passed, seconds or minutes or hours or days, as she answers the call.

“paige, i’m just got a text from azzi asking me to tell you she’s at the airport, what’s going-” amy stops when she sees paige, tears streaming down her face that she can’t be bothered to wipe off. amy takes one look and blanches - she knows, of course she knowns. theres only one thing in the world it could be, one thing that could break paige so completely, and for not the first time she placates and placates and curses herself for being so far away from her daughter. her baby girl who looks as if in physical pain, wrapping her arms around herself as if trying to keep her heart inside her chest.

“paige? tell me whats wrong sweetie?” she sounds like she is trying to stay calm but her voice has a frantic edge to it and paige knows she must be in a state for her mum to sound like that.

“its…i… we-” and that’s all she can get out because how does she explain that she and azzi are over? the love of her life, her other half for the better part of a decade has left and isn’t coming back.

“okay, it’s okay sweetheart, we don’t have to talk about it, alright? let's get up and maybe go to bed, whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”

that just sets paige off all over again, making her cry harder, because it is categorically not okay, it will never be okay, and there is nothing she can do or anything her mum can say to make it okay. amy watches over a feeble iphone screen as her eldest daughter makes it to her bed, curling into the corner and pulling the blanket (that she had bought specifically for azzi’s visits, knowing the girl is immune to the texan heat) over herself. it makes it hurt more, to smell her on the fabric that they were wrapped up in together not even twenty four hours ago, watching love island and judging the terrible relationships and even more terrible breakups. she does it anyway.

tears are still running down paige’s cheeks but they’re silent now, the sobs ebbing into hiccups and she thinks she must have been crying in the hall for a long time because she’s exhausted all of a sudden.

“you’re okay sweetheart” her mum says, and paige hears her voice full of relief. she feels bad in some corner of her mind that isn’t filled with azzi, azzi, azzi, for scaring her.

paige gulps, knows she needs to rip the bandaid off, claw it off her skin, and it's with that that she clears her throat and then just spits the words out, fast and broken “me and azzi have split up.”

and there it is, the truth, out in the open. the thing paige swore would never happen, the thing she brushed off every time someone told her that teenage love doesn't last. it feels impossible, but it’s not and now her mum knows and she doesn’t even have an explanation to give her.

“paige… i can’t - are you sure?” amy asks, stunned, even though she knew, like it was the last thing she’d expected her to say.

“yes mum i’m pretty fucking sure” paige says, angry and hurt, furious with herself, with azzi, with god, with the whole fucking world.

“it’s just…you two always sort these things out…”

she knows her mum means well, that she loves azzi like she’s her own daughter, but hearing this isn’t helping, because she was there, and it was different this time. the words ‘if im such an inconvenience, maybe we should just fucking end things!’ still ringing in her ears, azzi’s voice loud and resentful and then paige had lost it, devastated and furious that the words had even come out of azzi’s mouth like they cost her nothing, and she had replied with ‘you know what, maybe we fucking should’ and that had been that, the words that cost her everything, the catalyst for them to shout every single hurt that has been building for months at each other.

“it’s over mum and i don’t want to talk about it okay. i just want to go to bed and be rested for practise” and cry some more without upsetting you is what she doesn’t say.

“okay okay, i’m sorry. try to get some rest okay? i'll call you tomorrow, maybe things will look better in the morning.”

after reassuming and re-reassuring her mum that she’ll be okay, she hangs up the phone. paige only takes a second to stare at the find my app, her eyes boring into azzi’s location at dallas airport as if she willing to reach her, send her a telepathic message that she loves her and that she's so sorry and fuck, what were they even fighting about. but she too far away, untouchable in the encasings built by resentments of months past, and paige can do nothing but turn her phone off, knowing that in a moment, her teammates would be blowing up her phone, having received a frantic message from her mum to check on her.

she’s not in the mood to see anyone, can barely fathom leaving this bed and this blanket and azzi’s smell. she looks around and my god she's fucking everywhere, a hoodie of hers she’s forgotten (well really it was paige’s, but after multiple back and forth they’d lost track of who it actually belonged to) strewed on her chair, her empty coffee mug on the bedside table, beside a vibrator paige had only bought a few days ago, anticipating azzi’s visit. it feels insane that they had sex today, that in less than twenty four hours their entire eight year relationship has imploded before her eyes. a third of her life just gone.

she quickly opens her bedside drawer and pushes the mug with half drunk contents, along with the unwashed vibrator into it. its disgusting but she simply cannot look or do anything else, thinks ‘i’ll deal with that tomorrow’, before she burrows herself further into the duvet, and starts to cry again. she’ll wake up tomorrow, and clean her room, and go to training, and pretend to care about her last regular game for the season but for right now, she drowns herself completely in the smell of azzi’s perfume and her own misery.

#paige bueckers #pazzi #azzi fudd #paige x azzi #uconn wbb #angst #fluff #heartache #i dont know how to tag #pazzi fic #pazzi fics

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ama3003 · 3 days ago

Text

A Pawn Once More (3)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: Again Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting and had to continue. Plus I love this story.

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: The final moments leading up the 75th Hunger Games.

Part 1: Here

Part 2: Here

I'm not going to lie, this was the most fun I had writing, and I'm lowkey very proud of this. Let me know if you wanna read her her being in the games.

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

***************

Your nerves hit like a wave the second you stepped into the waiting room.

The air was tense—heavy with the kind of silence that only comes when everyone is pretending not to be afraid. The tributes were scattered around the room, each lost in their own thoughts, their own strategies, their own quiet dread.

You felt your stomach twist.

Last time you were in this position, you scored a seven. Clean, precise knife throws. It wasn’t spectacular, but it got the job done—just enough to earn some sponsors without making you a threat. It kept you safe.

But this wasn’t like last time.

This time, you were older. Sharper. Tired in a way you didn’t know how to explain. And despite all of it, you had no idea what you were going to do in there. No plan, no performance. You hadn’t let yourself think too hard about it, because thinking meant caring—and caring meant fear. And you were so tired of being afraid.

The Capitol had already taken everything. Your home. Your peace. Your sense of self. And now they were back for what little was left.

Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on the District 12 pair, sitting quietly in the far corner. They weren’t speaking, just watching. Watching you. Their expressions were unreadable—somewhere between wary and curious. You offered them a small nod and the faintest smile. They didn’t return it, but they didn’t look away either. That felt like enough.

Then, you saw him—Mason, cutting through the room with that quiet steadiness he always carried.

He slid into the seat beside you without a word, his presence warm and familiar.

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice low. “You ready?”

You nodded automatically, but your fingers betrayed you—tapping anxiously on your leg, tense and restless. Mason noticed. He always noticed.

Without saying anything more, he reached over and placed his hand on top of yours. It was steady. Grounding. You immediately stilled.

“You’re going to be alright,” he said, soft but certain. “We both are.”

You looked at him—and just like that, something inside you loosened.

Those eyes. You remembered them. The same ones you met when you were sixteen, standing awkwardly at your Victor’s party, trying not to be seen. He hadn’t mentored your Games, but he found you anyway. Quiet, lost, and not ready for any of it. He’d seen you for what you were—another broken kid trying to survive something you weren’t built for.

He knew that look. He’d worn it once, too.

And from that night on, Mason became something steady in your life. Maybe even something safe. He couldn’t stop the Capitol from throwing you into another nightmare, but if you had to go back in, you were glad it was with him.

“It’s going to be fine,” you murmured, offering a small, tired smile. And for a moment, you let yourself believe it. Mason would follow you anywhere. You didn’t have to question it. His loyalty wasn’t loud or showy—it was just there. Unshakable.

“Y/N. Mason.”

You turned at the sound of your names and saw Cashmere and Gloss approaching, their movements smooth and practiced like they were walking a red carpet instead of waiting to face death again. Behind them, Enobaria and Brutus stood from their seats, joining the group.

Cashmere slipped her arm around your shoulders like it was second nature. “You ready to make some jaws drop?” she asked with that signature smirk. Confident. Stunning. But under it, you could see the flicker of something else. That same tension that lived in all of you now.

“Always,” you said, letting the corners of your mouth lift. “I think I’m just gonna wing it. Do whatever feels right.”

Cashmere raised an eyebrow. “That’s either brilliant or reckless.��

“Maybe both,” you replied.

“As long as you scare them a little, you’ll land at least a nine,” Enobaria said, cracking her knuckles and flashing her sharpened teeth. “I’m thinking of stabbing a dummy and barring my teeth at the Gamemakers.”

Brutus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and they’ll send you straight to the Capitol psych ward.”

Enobaria grinned wider. “Sounds like a vacation compared to what’s coming.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh before turning to the siblings.

“What about you two?”

Gloss shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. “Spear work. Something fast and clean—show them I haven’t slowed down. I’m not there to impress them. Just remind them what I can do.”

Cashmere spun a knife lazily between her fingers. “Knives, obviously. Hit the vitals, maybe throw in a flip or two if I feel like showing off. Nothing too wild—we’re aiming for tens, not twelves.”

She looked at Mason, nudging his leg with her foot. “What about you?”

Mason tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not much I can do solo. Might ask to use the moving targets—simulate a real fight. Or…” he glanced sideways at you, smiling faintly, “maybe someone here’s brave enough to volunteer.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Keep dreaming.”

But before anyone could say anything else, a sharp voice echoed through the room:

“District One, Gloss Tanner. Report for individual assessment.”

Silence fell instantly. All eyes shifted to Gloss.

He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders once, then turned to his sister. Cashmere reached out and touched his arm, her expression softening.

Gloss gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then he looked at the rest of you, smiled like it was nothing, and said, “See you on the other side.”

And then he was gone.

No hesitation. No second glance.

The moment lingered in the air. Thick. Heavy. Real.

Enobaria was the first to break the silence. “We’ll head back to our seats,” she said, giving each of you a quick hug like she didn’t want to think too hard about it. Brutus did the same—no words, just a quiet presence—and then they were gone.

“We should, too,” Mason murmured, giving Cashmere’s shoulder a squeeze.

You turned to her and wrapped your arms around her tightly.

“He’s going to do great,” you whispered. “And so will you. Okay?”

Cashmere gave you a watery smile, blinking fast. “Good luck, Y/N.”

“You too.”

She held you for a second longer, then let go and sat down, folding her hands in her lap, eyes fixed on the door Gloss had disappeared through.

Before heading back to your seat, you squat down in front of Finnick and Mags. Grinning, you greet them with a playful, “Hello, my fishies.”

Finnick rolls his eyes dramatically, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. Mags, ever the nurturing figure, pats you on the head as if you were a child, her touch gentle and warm.

“I swear, before I die, I’m going to need a new nickname,” Finnick jokes, sounding far more serious than he probably intends. “I can’t die with ‘Fishy’ on my tombstone.”

You nudge his knee playfully. “Oh, don’t worry, Finnick. I wouldn’t do that to you. But I would say, ‘Best Swimmer in the Mighty Seas,’” you add with a wink, your tone light.

Mags laughs softly, her eyes crinkling with kindness. You turn toward her. “Ready to blow them away with your rope-tying skills?” You can’t help but tease, excited for the elderly woman you admire so much.

Mags gives you a thumbs up, her smile all the answer you need. Then she points to Finnick, mimicking the movement of a trident with her hands.

“Oh, yes. Finnick and his big fork,” you tease, ruffling his hair affectionately. You and Finnick had always been close—almost like siblings, really. You won your Games right after him, and to say you leaned on each other would be an understatement. There was an unspoken understanding between you two, born from the shared experience of surviving this hell.

You hear Cashmere’s name being called, and as she rises, she shoots you a reassuring smile before heading toward the door.

Turning back to Finnick and Mags, you see the stress hanging heavy on their shoulders. Without thinking, you rise to your feet and give them both tight hugs. “It’s going to be fine,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “I’ve never seen anyone handle a trident as well as you, Finnick. And no one—no one—can tie a knot as tight as you, Mags.”

Both of them smile up at you, their faces softening. They know exactly what you’re doing—trying to ease their tension, give them a little comfort. That’s why they love having you around.

“I’ll catch up with you two after, okay?” You give them both a final squeeze. “Good luck out there.”

They nod, their smiles a little more relaxed now. You return to your seat next to Mason, feeling a brief moment of relief as you settle beside him.

“You’re being a great motivator. I’m feeling inspired,” Mason says with a half-smile, his tone teasing as he nudges you lightly.

You can’t help but scoff, shaking your head. “These are our friends. And we’re supposed to kill them like it’s nothing?” You laugh softly, but it’s a bitter sound.

Mason’s smirk fades, and he turns to face you more seriously. “We all know how this is going to play out,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a mix of resignation and practicality. “And we promised we weren’t going to take it to heart. Quick and painless, remember?”

You exhale slowly, your chest heavy. “Doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen. And let’s say… in the off chance that we both make it to the end. Then what?” You meet his gaze, both of you silently acknowledging the truth between you. Neither of you would be able to kill the other. Not after everything.

Mason’s eyes soften, but his voice is firm as he shakes his head. “That’s never going to happen. You know that,” he says, his tone heavy with certainty. “It’ll be someone else, or… it’ll be me.”

You can’t argue with that. It’s the cruel reality you’re both facing, one that feels too dark to even consider. You drop your head into your hands, the weight of it all pushing down on you.

Mason doesn’t have any comforting words—he knows they won’t help. He just reaches over, ruffling your hair lightly before pulling you into his side. His presence, solid and steady, is the only thing that’s keeping you from shattering in that moment.

You watch the District Three pair go, followed by Finnick, and then Mags. Each one of them stepping into their fate, and each one leaving a piece of their heart in the room.

Time passes slowly. Your own thoughts are heavy, weighed down by the same unspoken question everyone in this room is carrying.

And then, you hear it.

“District Five, Mason Cover. Report for individual assessment.”

Your body freezes. Your heart skips a beat.

Mason feels it, too. The weight of the arena, the uncertainty of what’s to come, the fear—it’s all there, hanging between you two.

“Darling, it’s going to be fine,” he whispers in your ear, his voice calm, steady. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, the warmth of his lips a small comfort in the sea of tension.

You try to return the reassurance, offering him a soft smile. “Good luck,” you murmur, even though you’re not sure if either of you believe it.

He meets your gaze, his smile small but sincere. “You too,” he says, his voice softer now. He ruffles your hair one more time before standing up. “See you on the other side.” His words are light, basically mimicking Gloss. But you still teared up.

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat as you watch him leave. He glances back once, offering you a final wave, and then he’s gone, heading toward the door with that same quiet confidence he always carries.

Now, the fear was real. The anxiety had a tight grip on you, and no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing, it was a struggle. Your chest felt heavy, each breath an effort.

You closed your eyes, trying to center yourself. Ten minutes. That’s all you had. Ten minutes to somehow find a way to push past the panic, to focus, to prepare yourself.

You were so far inside your head that you didn’t even notice someone sitting down next to you until you heard a soft voice.

“Are you ready for your assessment?”

You jumped, startled, and turned to see Peeta sitting where Mason had just been. He gave you a small, sheepish smile. “Stupid question, I know. I’m sure you’ve been asked by everyone else. Should’ve said something else.”

It wasn’t what you expected—Peeta of all people sitting next to you. You glanced over at Katniss. She was watching you closely from a distance, eyes trained on both you and Peeta, her protective instincts sharp.

You turned back to Peeta, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m ready enough to just get it over with,” you replied, your voice steady, but you could feel the tension coiled deep inside you. “Are you?”

He nodded, though his smile was a little strained. “Yeah, it’s kind of crazy, you know? I was doing this exact thing a year ago. Not much has changed.”

You shook your head slightly. “Everything’s changed, Peeta. You’re a Victor now. That means something.”

Peeta met your eyes, his gaze serious. “We both know I wasn’t supposed to be one.”

“I could say that about all of us,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “None of us were supposed to be Victors, but here we are. And it’s important, Peeta, that you start believing that. It’s the only way you’re going to make it out of the arena.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looking at you like he was weighing your words. Finally, he broke the silence, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. “Haymitch says we should team up. I know enough to sense how important you are to him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re trying to recruit me?” you asked, teasing but also a little touched by his honesty. You could tell he wasn’t exactly sure where this conversation was heading, but he was trying to find his footing.

He looked uncomfortable but pushed on, “I’m not saying we should be best friends or anything, but you’re important to Haymitch. I think you’re important to Katniss, too, even if she doesn’t show it.” His voice softened. “I’m just doing what I can. You know, trying to look out for her… and for us.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t think your fiancée would agree,” you said, your tone light, but there was an edge to it.

Peeta let out a small, dry chuckle. “And I don’t think your partner would be thrilled, either, but here we are.”

That made you smirk. He had a way with words, even when he was hesitant. “I’ve always been on your team, Peeta. I just need you to accept that you’re on mine, too.” Your voice was quieter now, more earnest. You met his gaze, not backing down. “I’m behind you a hundred percent. And I know Mason will be, too. But you have to trust us. Just like you want to protect Katniss, I do too. I’ll do whatever it takes to see her come out of this alive.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “If you don’t trust my words, trust Haymitch’s. I’m on your side.”

Before Peeta could respond, the loudspeaker crackled, cutting through the tension.

“District Five, Y/N L/N. Report for individual assessment.”

You tensed, your heart skipping a beat, but you tried to keep your breathing steady. This was it. You stood up slowly, then turned to Peeta. With a light touch, you patted his leg.

“I’ll see you later, Peeta. Good luck to you both,” you said, your voice more confident than you felt.

Peeta watched you as you turned to leave, his eyes following you until you reached the door.

Once you were out of sight, Peeta made his way back to Katniss, who was still watching him closely, waiting for him to speak. He sat down beside her, his expression thoughtful.

“I think we should team up with District Five,” he said, his voice low but sure.

Katniss looked at him, skepticism written across her face. “Are you sure about this?”

Peeta met her gaze, his eyes steady. “Trust me.”

After a long moment of silence, Katniss finally nodded, her resolve firming. “Okay,” she said quietly.

************

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection a ghost of someone you used to be. The makeup was heavy, transforming your features, and for a moment, you looked like you did nine years ago—before the Games, before all of this.

Tomorrow, you would be thrown back into the arena. Tomorrow, you’d have to fight your friends, leave your husband behind, and maybe die. And the weight of it made everything seem so much heavier.

You were scared during your first Games, but this fear—it was different. It was paralyzing. It settled deep in your chest, like something solid and cold, and you couldn’t breathe.

The sound of cheers rang out as Caesar Flickerman strutted onto the stage, his perfect, rehearsed smile beaming across the crowd. Your pulse quickened.

"There, absolutely perfection," your stylist said, patting her face to dry the tears you hadn't realized had begun to fall.

"Thank you," you whispered, blinking the haze from your eyes. You stepped onto the line between Mags and Mason, trying to steady your breath, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

"Breathe," Mason whispered, his voice low but steady. "You look beautiful."

A small, trembling smile pulled at your lips. "Thanks," you murmured, looking at Mags. "You look pretty," you added, hoping it would ease the tension in the air. Mags smiled, a soft, knowing look on her face. She pointed to your dress. "Thank you," you said. "It’s supposed to mimic my first Games."

You swallowed, looking around at the others, trying to block out the tightness in your chest. Nervous energy swirled around you. The others could feel it, too, but everyone was doing their best to keep it together.

You saw Gloss take his turn, then Cash, and then Brutus. One after another, they walked past you, their faces filled with the same mix of dread and determination.

"I can’t believe tomorrow is the day," Mason said, jumping up slightly, the nerves evident in his voice.

"You're telling me," Finnick said, giving a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’m about to perform my best acting yet—pretend I’m not already dead inside—and then I’m gonna die. Sounds like a real blast."

Mags shot him a disapproving look, but you could see the faintest hint of a smile tug at her lips.

"We just have to get through tonight. Tomorrow’s a whole other day," you said, trying to sound reassuring, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them. "We’ll figure it out then."

The others fell silent at your words, each one lost in their own thoughts, the realization of what was coming settling in.

Finnick went next, followed by Mags. Then Mason.

"Wish me luck," Mason said, winking at you before stepping onto the stage, the Capitol audience erupting in applause.

"Good luck," you said, smirking, watching him stride out with the swagger only Mason could pull off.

"It’s annoying how charming that guy is," you muttered, half to yourself.

Johanna let out a short, dry laugh. "Do you think, before I die, he’ll grant me a death-wish kiss?" she joked, her usual biting humor still intact.

You nudged her with a grin. "Hey, I think the probability of that is extremely high."

Mason’s interview went off without a hitch. He played the ‘I’m about to die, and I never loved anyone’ card, and the Capitol ate it up. The single women in the crowd swooned as he strutted off the stage, bowing to his fellow tributes.

"And now, for one of the Capitol’s favorite girls, let’s hear it for Y/N L/N!" The announcement was loud, and the crowd roared in excitement.

You took a deep breath, forcing a smile as you walked onto the stage, the eyes of Panem on you. You knew how to work a crowd, how to present yourself as the confident, charming Victor everyone adored. But tonight, it felt like more of a mask than ever before.

Caesar Flickerman’s smile was as dazzling as always, his voice smooth as silk. "Oh, my dear girl, how are you?" He leaned in for air kisses, his theatrics just a little too perfect.

"Well, I’ve had better days," you said, a soft smile curling at the corner of your lips.

"Today is so emotional and hard for all of us, isn’t it?" Caesar continued, his tone dripping with faux sympathy. "But you—good news for you—you scored an eleven! Absolutely amazing!"

"Thank you," you replied, trying to keep the flatness from your voice. "Since I’m probably going to die tomorrow, I wanted to go out with a bang, I guess."

You saw Caesar’s smile falter for a moment, unsure how to handle your bluntness. But he recovered quickly, ever the professional.

"Well, a bang you did," he said, voice still upbeat. "Now, my dear, we’ve heard so much about those waiting for you back at home. Who’s there for you? Anyone special?"

You forced your gaze to drift across the audience, your eyes scanning the sea of faces before finding the one that anchored you—Haymitch. His eyes were locked onto you, steady and unwavering, like a lifeline in the chaos.

"I have my parents back at home, taking care of my younger brother," you said, your voice a little softer now. "It was definitely a surprise when these Games were announced."

"I’m sure they’re watching you now and cheering for you back in District 5," Caesar smiled warmly, his eyes glistening with false compassion.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. "I doubt they will. They promised me they won’t watch. Who would want to see their child get slaughtered?" The words left your lips, cold and harsh, but they were the truth. The crowd grew silent, and Caesar struggled to regain his composure.

"Uh…" He coughed awkwardly, glancing toward the camera. "Well, that’s unfortunate, I’m sure they’ll be missing a good game. Is there anyone else waiting for you? Maybe a man? A little boy toy?"

You didn’t even need to think. The words felt right, even as they left your lips. Your fingers moved instinctively to the necklace around your neck, slipping it off with a deliberate motion, and you looked back at Haymitch. His eyes widened as your fingers found the ring you’d been wearing around your neck. The same one you’d both always kept secret.

"I do, actually," you whispered, barely above the noise of the crowd. A ripple of surprise ran through the room. "I have someone waiting for me."

You slowly slid the ring onto your finger, letting it shine under the Capitol lights. For a moment, the crowd was dead silent. The world seemed to hold its breath. And then, the cheers exploded.

You could see Haymitch in the crowd, his expression unreadable at first. But then, something in his eyes softened. He didn’t hide his emotions, even if you couldn’t hear his voice. It was in the way his hand shook as he reached for his flask, eyes never leaving you.

"You’re married?" Caesar’s voice was full of excitement now, a gleam in his eyes. "What a surprise! Tell us, who is this lucky man?"

You met his gaze again, locking your eyes with Haymitch's. "I’m afraid I’m keeping that information to myself," you replied, your voice calm but firm. "Just in case I die tomorrow, I want him to move on, to find happiness. Obviously, without all the cameras and media .That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him."

You glanced down at the ring, your fingers brushing over it gently as you spoke. "My death will not be the end of him. He will mourn, but he will live. Live for me. Live for us. Live for the world. My death won’t erase our love. Our love will live on. These Games may take everything from me, but our love? That’s something that will last forever." You blinked rapidly, tears beginning to blur your vision. "I’ve loved and been loved in these few years more than some do in a lifetime," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "I’m one of the lucky ones."

The audience was silent for a moment before an overwhelming wave of applause broke through the air. You could see the tears welling in Caesar's eyes, his voice shaking with emotion. "That… that was beautiful," he said, his tone sincere. "I’m sure he knows how deeply you love him. And he’s lucky to have someone like you."

"Thank you," you said softly, your heart pounding.

The audience cheered again, but you only had eyes for Haymitch now. You blew him a kiss, a simple gesture, but one that felt like it carried everything you couldn’t say aloud.

"That was amazing," Mason said, wrapping you in a tight hug the second you stepped off the stage.

You cried in his arms, the weight of everything threatening to swallow you whole. "It’s going to be okay, darling girl," Mason whispered, his voice warm and comforting. "He knows you love him, and you know he loves you."

Johanna was next to you, rubbing your back. "You really did a good job. I think all of Panem’s crying right now."

You stopped crying, and only the sound of the following interview filled the room until Johanna spoke again, her voice annoyed.

"Really? A wedding dress?" She raised an eyebrow at Katniss’s dress, which looked suspiciously like a wedding gown.

"Snow made me wear it," Katniss said, her tone flat, not caring much for Johanna, but glanced at you. Haymitch trusted you, and so did Peeta.

"Make him pay for it," Johanna smirked, causing Katniss to smile faintly.

"Come on, let’s get you cleaned up," Mason said, wrapping an arm around you, guiding you away. But then Katniss reached for your wrist, stopping you.

Mason tensed but you turned towards her.

"You did good," Katniss said quietly, nodding at your ring. "I know he appreciates it."

"Thank you," you smiled at her, though it was strained.

"Plus, I’m sure you made Peeta cry," Katniss added with a rare smile.

You laughed softly, your heart lighter despite everything. "Good luck," you said, offering her a smile before following Mason out.

"So, we’re really teaming up with District 12, huh?" Mason said, rolling his eyes.

You nudged him, a small smile playing at your lips. "Yup."

*********

You found yourself staring out the window of the living area in your suite, the stars twinkling distantly in the night sky. Mason was sitting across from you, nose buried in a book, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the vast darkness outside.

After the interviews, you all held hands, the gesture simple but filled with power, as if, for a brief moment, the Games could be stopped. But an hour ago, Abigail had come in and crushed that fragile hope, informing you that the Games would go on as planned.

You sighed, the weight of the news heavy in your chest.

"I know you're not reading," you said, breaking the silence as you turned to Mason. "You've been on the same page for the last six minutes. It usually takes you three."

He looked up at you, a sly smirk tugging at his lips before he closed the book, setting it down on the table with a soft thud. "True," he said, the humor gone from his eyes. "But it's hard to focus on anything when death is looming over us."

You didn’t respond. Instead, you stood and moved to the window, resting your hands on the cool glass. He followed you, his footsteps soft on the carpet.

"Did Cash seem fine when you told her we weren't joining the pack?" he asked, trying to shift the conversation.

Your shoulders tensed slightly, "She wasn’t happy, but she knew," You said with a nod. "They all knew we were going with District 12. Expected it, even." Then you turned to him, your heart pounding slightly. "Are you mad at me?"

Mason shook his head instantly, his expression softening. "No. Never." He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I just… I just hope we're not making a mistake. That’s all."

You hesitated, then spoke the words that had been in your head. "You could always go with the Careers, you know."

The words barely left your mouth when Mason shot you a glare, his eyes darkening. "Shut up," he said, his voice sharp but filled with the raw edge of care. "I've been saying the whole time—it's you and me, always. If you want to team up with the newbies, we do it. If you want to team up with the Careers, we do it. Hell, if you want us to be on our own, we’ll do that too. I’m with you, partner, okay? You can't get rid of me that easily." He paused, a small, teasing smile creeping onto his lips. "I’ve been taking care of your ass for almost a decade. I’m not about to stop now."

A lump formed in your throat at his words, and you smiled, fighting back the emotions. "You're my best friend," you whispered, and he chuckled.

"Don’t let Cash hear that or she’ll make it her mission to have my head tomorrow." His voice was light, but there was something deeply affectionate in it.

"I’m serious, Mase," you nudged him, a little more forceful now, your voice cracking. "You’re my best friend. And this… this fucking sucks."

Without another word, Mason wrapped his arms around you tightly, his grip firm and warm. "Darling," he murmured into your hair, "no matter what happens tomorrow, know that you're my best friend. You’ve always been. And, I can’t really be mad at you. They're an alright team. The girl is good with those damn arrows. Plus, we get Finnick and Beetee. It could be worse."

You stayed like that for a long while, holding onto each other, the silent comfort of a friendship that had weathered more storms than anyone should ever have to. Then you heard a soft cough from the doorway, and you reluctantly pulled away.

You turned to see Haymitch standing there, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mason rolled his eyes dramatically, his tone mockingly offended. "Dude," he said with a grin, "I just got told I’m her best friend, and you couldn’t wait five minutes to swoop in? That’s crazy."

Haymitch raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Ouch, I thought that was me." He turned to you with a feigned look of hurt on his face. "Sweetheart, you wound me."

You shot them both a tired, amused look. "Quiet, both of you." You turned to Mason, giving him a small, pleading glance. "Mase, can you leave us, please?"

He groaned, but there was affection in the sound. "Fiiiiiinnnneeeee." He dragged out the word in a mock pout, but then he wrapped his arms around you one more time, pulling you close. "I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I’ll find you." He kissed your forehead softly, the gesture comforting despite the weight of everything.

He pulled back, moving toward Haymitch. Before he left, Haymitch stopped and whispered, "Take care of her in there, and I’ll take care of you both out here."

Mason nodded, just slightly, so you wouldn’t notice, before giving Haymitch a firm hug. He stepped back, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he turned to leave. "Good luck, Mason," Haymitch said softly, patting his shoulder as he went.

Mason gave a small nod, trying to keep the tension from showing, and then he left the room.

The door closed behind him, and for a brief moment, the room was silent.

Haymitch walked toward you, his steps slower than usual, more weighted. You didn’t need him to say anything. You already knew.

This was goodbye.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against him. You buried your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of him—whiskey, pine, and something softer, something that always felt like home.

You wouldn’t see him tomorrow. As soon as you woke, the Peacekeepers would be there—no time for goodbyes, no time for holding each other like this. They��d tear you away from your bed, from this room, from him.

So this… this was it.

The two of you settled onto the couch in silence, your body curled into his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, and his arms wrapped around you like armor. His hand moved up and down your back in a slow rhythm, steady and calming, though his heart beat loud and uneven against your cheek.

You could die like this, you thought.

God, you wished you would die like this.

"You know what I was thinking?" you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Haymitch hummed in response, low and thoughtful, his fingers gently threading through your hair.

"I think we were meant to be with each other. In every universe. It's always you and I,” you breathed. “And I know... I know in another universe, we got to have a beautiful, long life together."

His lips twitched into a smile, pained but sincere. "You think so?"

"Oh, I know so," you said, the corner of your mouth lifting. “We have three kids. Two girls and one boy. They're perfect—just like we always dreamed. We live in this beautiful home with a white picket fence, big porch swing. You finally grow tomatoes that don’t taste like dirt. We grow old together. We see our kids have kids. We'd be cool grandparents."

"The best grandparents," he said quietly, still stroking your hair, his voice strained and cracked with longing. “Is it weird that I'm jealous of that us?”

"No... because so am I." You closed your eyes, the fantasy a cruel comfort. It felt so real. It should have been real.

Your voice broke as the grief crashed over you like a wave. “This isn’t fair.” The words came out as a sob, and you shoved your face deeper into his neck, clinging to him like he was the last safe thing in the world.

"I know, sweetheart. I know," he murmured, holding you tighter. His hand moved slowly over your back, as if he could rub the pain away, ease the break in your heart. "But I'm going to help you. You and Mase. It's going to be alright.”

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes, his own gaze sharp and urgent. “I just need you to stay with Katniss. No matter what—stay with her.”

You blinked, confused for a moment, but nodded. There was something in his tone, something just beneath the surface. You didn't know the full story, but you trusted him. You always had.

"I promise, Haymitch. I’ll try to protect them... for as long as I breathe."

He stilled. Completely.

His jaw clenched, and his grip on you tightened again.

He hadn’t meant for it to come across like that. God, no. He never wanted you to think you owed him that—your life for theirs. That wasn’t what this was.

"I just need you to breathe," he said, his voice rough and trembling. “That’s all I need, okay? Just breathe. Protect yourself. I’ll take care of the kids. I promise. But you—you look after you. No playing hero. No playing mama bear.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, your heart thudding. “You care for those kids, Haymitch Abernathy,” you said, voice firm. “I’m going to protect them as much as I can. Nothing’s happening to those kids if I’m there.”

He stared at you, the pain behind his eyes shining like glass ready to crack.

"And I care about you, Y/N Abernathy." His voice hitched. “So you're going to make sure you survive.”

Your bottom lip trembled. You looked at him—at the man you loved more than anything—and whispered, “Only one comes out alive, Mitch.”

Your voice cracked like a brittle bone.

“I’m not even in the top five of who should win.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, hot and burning, and his face crumpled just slightly as he pulled you back into him, his breath stuttering.

You could see it. The way he was unraveling. The storm brewing behind his eyes. He had been holding something in, and it was clawing its way out of him, ripping him apart from the inside.

You’d been accepting your fate quietly, trying not to make it harder for him. But he needed more from you now.

He needed you to fight.

He needed you to live.

He needed to say the thing that had been killing him since the moment he knew. There was this plan. A plan to get Katniss and all the other victors out of there. A plan that could save your life. And he wishes he could tell you scream it out.

But Plutarch didn’t want you to involved because of your close relationship with the careers. He said it could compromise the whole mission. But he needed to tell you. He needed to guarantee your safety. Plutarch be dammed. You’re his wife. You’re the only thing that matters.

"I—" he started, voice hoarse, his hands twitching at his sides. Just spit it out he thought to himself.

You turned to face him fully, one brow raised. He was spinning in his own mind, fighting every instinct. You could tell he wanted to say it, to scream it but there was something holding him back.

"There's thi—well, there's this... this plan... Plutarch—" Why couldn’t he just say it? His heart was screaming at him to spit it out.

You stepped in before he could finish, your heart stalling. You knew that look, the flickering indecision, the desperation caught behind his teeth.

"You're not supposed to tell me, right?" you asked gently, already knowing the answer.

He faltered, looking at you like you’d read the last page of a book he hadn’t finished. He wanted to tell you. So badly. And that’s what terrified you.

"There's this plan—"

"Stop." You raised your hand, voice quiet but firm. A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Don’t tell me."

He stared at you in disbelief, his brows furrowed like you’d just spoken in a language he didn’t understand. "What...?"

"There's a reason why you can’t tell me, right?"

He hesitated… and nodded.

"Then it’s probably a good reason.”

"It can save your life," he whispered, and that was when the first tear slipped from his eye. He was screaming at himself to tell you to save you. Why the hell isn’t he saying anything?

Your chest tightened, but you held your voice steady. "But it jeopardizes Katniss, doesn’t it?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was loud enough.

"Then don’t tell me."

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't tell me, Haymitch." You stepped closer, looking up at him with as much reassurance as you could muster. "I’m telling you not to tell me. You were going to—and now I’m saying no. So if anything happens, it’s on me. Not you. Never you."

You could already see it in his eyes—the guilt building like floodwater behind a dam. You couldn’t let it break him.

"You need to protect Katniss," you said softly.

His expression cracked as tears finally spilled freely, his voice breaking under the weight of his helplessness. "I need to protect you."

And that nearly broke you.

You had to look away, just for a second. "You’re putting her first," you said, your voice catching. "And that’s okay. You need to put her first. Always. You and I both know that. It’s for the greater cause—something bigger than just you and me."

He clenched his jaw. You both knew it was true. If the rebellion was going to work, it had to be Katniss. It had to be the Mockingjay.

"I need you safe," he said again, like if he repeated it enough, the universe would listen.

"And we need her alive." You were already shifting, already planning. Your voice quickened, desperate to be useful, to give him something to hold on to. "Both of them. Without Peeta, Katniss won’t want to do anything for the rebellion. Okay, I’ll look after Katniss and Mase can look after Peeta. Well of course I’ll also look after Peeta, but—"

You rambled, words spilling from you as your mind raced, building walls to keep the fear from crashing in. And he just looked at you.

God, he looked at you—like you were made of light and heartbreak and everything he could never deserve.

Then suddenly his hands were on your face, steadying you, grounding you. He needed to tell you. It was eating him alive.

You froze under his touch, your voice softening to a murmur. "Don’t tell me, Haymitch. I’m not mad. I won’t be mad. I’ll never make you choose between them or me. I care about them too."

He pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours, his breath trembling.

"It’s always been you," he choked, tears falling freely now. "It’s always going to be you."

You closed your eyes. If you could bottle this moment—this closeness, this certainty—you would have. You’d carry it into the arena like armor.

"This is more than just us, Mitch," you whispered. "If she survives… the districts' hope still lives."

He let out a bitter, shaking breath. "Damn it, woman, I want to tell you. I need to tell you."

You touched his cheek gently, tears stinging your eyes. "But you're holding back for her. And I'm telling you it’s okay."

You swallowed the lump in your throat and straightened your shoulders. "I told you since the beginning—I’m getting her out of that arena. Now you need to promise me you will too. Over Mags. Over Beetee. Over me."

Your voice didn’t shake this time. Not when it mattered most.

You looked into his eyes and saw the war in them—saw him silently screaming I can’t lose you.

But he knew you were right.

"I promise," he whispered, barely getting it out.

"It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears as you pulled back, giving him a smile that trembled with hope and heartbreak. "And then one morning, you’ll wake up back in District 12… and you’re going to look out at the sky and feel it. Feel the peace. The Games will be gone. The children will be able to be children again. It’s what we’ve always wanted."

You smiled as you spoke, but he could see it—you weren’t just comforting him.

You were saying goodbye.

And Haymitch felt it. In the hollowness in his chest. In the way your voice cracked just slightly when you talked about a future you didn’t believe you’d see. You were accepting your death. Quietly. Gracefully. Willingly.

Even when the cause didn’t trust you enough to let you in.

And yet, here you were, dreaming about a life beyond the war—knowing you wouldn’t be part of it.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I feel like I’m making a mistake,” he said, voice raw, like it scraped his throat on the way out. Damn the cause. Damn Plutarch. Damn those District 12 kids. Damn this plan.

“You’re not,” you said gently. “You’re a mentor. We give our lives for those children. If I could’ve saved my tributes, I would’ve.”

You smiled through your tears, and it wrecked him.

“You’re the best mentor known to man. And an even better husband.”

That was the final blow.

“I love you,” he whispered like a confession, like a prayer. “So, so much. More than the moon loves the stars. More than the sun loves the ocean. I love you, Y/N.”

You cupped his face like he was fragile, precious. Like he wasn’t the broken man the world always thought him to be.

“And I love you, Haymitch,” you murmured. You nestled yourself back into his chest, fitting there like you were made for him. And maybe you were.

You both stared out the window as silence wrapped around you. Not a single word for an hour—just hearts beating in sync, like this moment could stretch forever.

But it couldn’t.

Eventually, you sat up slowly, blinking back the heaviness in your eyes. “You have to go check on the kids. The elevator locks soon… and I doubt you want to walk up seven flights of stairs.”

He clung to you a little tighter. “I’ll be fine. Come back here.”

You gave him that look. The one that always shut down every argument. Soft, patient, immovable.

He sighed. He knew. You were doing it for the kids. For him. If the Peacekeepers found you both here, alone, asleep—it would be over for him. You’d never let that happen.

“Fine. Fine.”

You walked him toward the elevator slowly, each step a thousand pounds heavier than the last.

Then you paused.

“Tell Effie I say that I love her… and that she needs to take care of you. No more than three whiskey bottles a week.”

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

He just pulled you into his arms like he was afraid you’d disappear the second he let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he meant it for everything—for the plan, for the Capitol, for the years wasted, for the future he couldn’t give you.

“I’m not,” you said softly, holding his face like a lifeline. “I lived a beautiful life… with amazing friends and a perfect husband. I meant what I said. I felt more love in the years with you than most people ever feel in a lifetime. You made me happy. You make me proud. After everything you’ve been through, we’re finally going to be at peace.”

He was breaking. He didn’t care how pathetic it looked.

“I need you,” he choked, like the words themselves were ripping something loose in his chest.

“And you have me,” you whispered, “forever.”

You kissed his cheek, pulled him close again, memorized the shape of his body, the weight of him in your arms.

“I’ll be fine,” you lied. “Remember your promise.”

You stepped back, slowly pushing him toward the elevator. Your hands were shaking, but your face was steady. Because if you faltered—if you gave in—he would stay. And that was too dangerous.

The doors slid open.

And he didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

But you gave him a little push.

Because you had to.

He stepped inside. And as the doors started to close, you saw the panic take over his features.

"I love you," he said, the words tearing from his chest like a final breath. His heart physically ached. Like it was collapsing in on itself. Like maybe, just maybe, a person could die from a broken heart.

"And I love you too," you replied, the softest smile breaking through your tears. How could you smile when you were walking into your death?

Haymitch didn’t know.

But you always found light, even at the end of the world.

“I’ll see you in the next lifetime,” you said, and your voice cracked on the final word.

The doors slid shut.

And as the elevator descended, the last thing he heard was the sound of you sobbing.

And that was it.

That was the sound that shattered him.

This felt extremely long lol anyways thank y'all for reading! I also live for your comments they actually make my day.

Let me know what you want to see!!!!

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