#for those unaware or who have forgotten

[mey-rin-is-fabulous]

That's nice Yuki and Raita get to perform together in a Toumyu.

[miharuki]

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖃 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 (𝕱𝖊𝖒)

You were inside an otome game, an old classic that you found while searching for games of the same genre.

Imagine your surprise when you realized you were inside the otome game "My Pure Elegant Love," a medieval-style otome game with nobles, kings, and knights. You had just woken up, finding yourself as the daughter of a duke, any duke. Perhaps for a brief moment, you thought you could have reincarnated as Amelie, the protagonist of this game, but you were far from it.

You quickly befriended Amélie; her sweetness and gentleness were at least forced, but you knew that was the vibe of the game. Perhaps being the daughter of a duke, you could meet other characters, like Claude, the noble and best friend of Amélie in the plot and one of the favorite characters of the small group that played this forgotten game, damn it.

There was also Nathan, one of the strongest and most talented knights in the plot. We can't forget about Kalisto, the protagonist's younger brother who had a crush on her, Luka, one of the princes and also a romantic partner in the plot, as well as the wizard Azrael, and the first Duke Eros, all romantic interests of the protagonist.

Being the daughter of a simple duke, you knew you wouldn't have a chance with those of high status like Luka, the first prince. You weren't the protagonist, but you couldn't help but envy her. Perhaps because she was receiving love from handsome boys? Or perhaps because even in this life, in this game, you weren't loved by your family. You thought that being the daughter of a duke would give you some privileges, but oh, how wrong you were. Neglected by your parents, hated by the romantic interests of the protagonist, and simply having a bad reputation.

You thought you were becoming friends with Claude and that you might even win his love, but that was thrown out the window when they all decided to embarrass you at the prince's luxurious party. You didn't know that wearing a dress that Luka himself gave you would make you the target of everyone's ridicule.

"How could you do this, [name]?" How could you? You didn't do anything wrong! There, in front of the stairs with the prince behind her, was the protagonist, wearing the same dress as yours, but prettier. Perhaps because her perfect protagonist's body and beauty were helping her.

All the protagonist's romantic interests, including the ones you liked on the other side of the screen, were looking at you with anger, perhaps even smiling as if it were planned by them, by all of them, including his highness, who at first seemed not to like you, treating you even like a servant. You envy how they were all around that bitch, comforting her, as if you were the villain, which you never were.

Everyone talked, laughed, and even mocked. "I can't believe Miss Amélie has a friend like that!" You heard a lady saying, looking down. Not even your parents cared about you, at this point, you're probably being disowned by the family.

With tears on your face, after trying to explain the misunderstanding to everyone, after being slapped by his highness and the protagonist, you felt like crap. Pulling on the dress, you turned and ran out of the hall, opening the doors brutally. You couldn't stay in that room anymore, not when everyone was now looking at you with hatred.

Unaware, you came across a balcony, hearing footsteps coming. You were scared; the prince might have sent guards after you after you "lied" to everyone while explaining.

With all your strength, you push through the balcony fence, and as you're about to jump, someone forcefully opens the doors, startling you and causing you to slip, now falling to the ground. Your tears are now stronger, groaning in pain as you try to get up.

It was with pain, dirt, and tears that you ended up behind a bush. You couldn't take it anymore; you were shaking from the cold, crying, your makeup smudged, your hair dirty and messy, your "copied" dress dirty and torn. You've never felt so worthless before.

You cried as if you were carrying all the burdens, thinking about how the romantic pairs and the protagonist were not the best; in fact, they were the worst.

Feeling a headache, you sit down, trying to breathe well and calm down as you think, "And now?"

"What's a maiden doing crying in the middle of the woods?" Looking back, you noticed someone coming, a boy. Turning your head forward, you try to wipe away the tears. You don't like anyone seeing you cry; crying is for weak people.

Then you felt something being thrown over you, a thick, large coat. Lifting your head, you now look at the boy in front of you. His melodic and calm voice speaks as he gently crouches in front of you.

"Can you tell me, fair lady?"

You sobbed, trying not to cry, mocking the nickname the boy gave you.

"Fair lady? The way I am right now, I'm barely even a girl, let alone fair or a lady," you say as you use your own dress to clean up the mess of makeup and tears.

"I don't think that," the boy continues to clean as he speaks. "To be honest, I think you're even more beautiful. You just can't see it."

The boy's hands lift your stained and dirty face. You look and notice the looks he's giving, but they're not directed at the protagonist like everyone else's; they're for you.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" His calm and concerned eyes are looking at you, waiting for your response.

You just look aside before sighing. It's better than nothing.

"His Highness, the prince, had given me a dress as a gift... to wear at the ball today, but my friend - no, Miss Amélie was wearing the same one. Some of her friends started mocking me for trying to 'copy' the girl, but when I tried to explain, His Highness said he would never give me a gift in his life, especially knowing that his 'friend' Amélie would be wearing it today," you almost can't finish without starting to cry again, sobbing as you try to explain.

"They all planned to humiliate me in front of everyone, and His Highness still insists that I'm lying!" You say, already crying again, not noticing the arms going around you. You only notice when you feel being embraced by the boy as you cling to him, crying and sobbing.

"My dear, they don't deserve your kindness or your presence. What they did was extremely awful to a lady like you," the boy says as he strokes your hair and back, comforting you, as you've always wished to be.

You were clinging to the boy, feeling betrayed, feeling used. You didn't even notice the boy raising his hand to someone behind you, to someone dressed in black, a gentleman, but not the prince's gentleman, oh no, not that traitor.

You didn't even realize how the castle was beginning to stir.

"Let's go, I'll take you somewhere else. You might end up getting sick staying here," he says as he watches you cling to him. He could feel your warmth, you were starting to get sick from crying so much. Nomura's heart was breaking at the thought of you falling ill.

"Are you okay with this, miss?" The boy asks before you nod in agreement. Nomura gets ready and picks you up bridal-style, using his own coat that was on top of you as a blanket to protect you as he carried you to his own carriage.

Watching as you had already fainted from crying, he held you gently as the carriage headed towards his castle, leaving behind an important part of the game that was happening, unaware that the game's villain was now holding you firmly.

Do I do a part 2?

[bnyf]

baby you're my bunny ♡

╭﹕୨୧﹒ bunny boy x female reader

┊ warnings : yandere content and themes, unhealthy behaviors, relationship and relationship dynamic, slight body horror me thinks? slight horror, perverted yandere, non consensual touching, suggestive, uhhh that's it me thinks :3

╰﹕୨୧﹒ authoress note : so sorry if it's badly written also sorry if it ends weird :/

no survival instinct what's-so-ever. like... none.

but he was not complaining! it was just a mere observation. perhaps you were unaware of your allure, maybe you were not exposed to the cruel world yet, didn't know how sick people and creatures can be.

well for one... your little secret admirer was not one of those adorable bunnies you'd fawn over, nothing even close really. and no, he's not some cute boy with a bunny tail and some bunny ears. he's far from cute, a little scary actually.

humanoid? sure! typical bunny boy hybrid, uhhhh not really lol! he's mixed with human genetics but he's not quit. and for a bunny hybrid, he sure had a lot of predator instincts.

to put simply, he was an abnormality of mother nature. his lower half resembled a bunny whilst his torso and up is that of a man. his claws on his feet or paws or whatever are dangerously long, digging into the dirt whenever he walks, leaving behind a "too small to notice unless your looking for it" trail.

a muscular, lean build, biceps so perfect and manly hands to hold you down if you even ever think of escaping, awe how sweet of him <3

completely pale skin with small patches of equally pale fur in various spots, completely crimson, blood shot eyes and a pair of floppy bunny ears where any normal human's ears would be.

how did he even came to be? you may ask. well he was a normal boy, once upon a time. but one day, he'd gotten into a serious accident, a near death life experience. that day he could've hear the bells of heaven ringing in his ears but he wasn't ready to die, not like this... in his head he begged for more time, asking whatever god above to answer his prayers.

and yeah! his prayers where answered but, as they say, be careful what you wish for...

the moon goddess answered his prayers, but she also cursed him for it is the price he must pay to live longer.

"i grant you more time, as much time as you may need, but for as long as you roam his earth, your soul belongs to me and your purpose, is to server me," her voice rang in his ears like a bittersweet melody before he'd lose consciousness.

when he awake, he found himself in the mountains, he was a monstrosity of a man and dared not step a foot into society. he's to bare this curse and blessing till death.

he became easily bored and clueless as to what to do next, his every day life felt null and everything felt too much to bare. his eternity just began yet he dreads his mistake with every passing day.

"maybe, i should of just accepted my faith and die that day..."

with nothing and no one, he was left to wonder the mountain and serve the goddess by praying to her and tending to her shrine everyday, he's trapped to keep her energy going so she won't become a forgotten god.

(guys i made the lore up on a whim so bare with me even i'm confused right now :0)

anyways! everything drastically changed for our boy here when you and your family decided to move to the village nearby in the rural area, and live a peaceful life and just run a nice little farm hooray! hopefully, you don't get stalked and preyed on by a lonely scarily tall bunny male hybrid who looks like a utterly angelic, celestial eldritch horror, right?

all he could think about was a pretty girl had moved in next door and he just had to watch her from afar. most the villagers were very welcoming of you and your family, it was big talk because such a pretty girl had just moved in the small village and all the villagers wanted their sons or grandsons to get married.

it doesn't have much young people, mostly elders and young children and even less marriageable women. which is why you easily became popular, with everyone always gifting you things, begging you to marry into their family. they even had a town welcome celebration for you and your family!

he watched everything from afar. feeling a slight sting in his chest. jealous? already? of course he is, he wanted you all for himself. for countless nights, he just couldn't sleep at all.

he spent all his time admiring you from afar. the way he'd blush, his heart beat fastening, the gears in his head would just slow down a bit. gosh, he actually felt his heart warm so much it'd burn in his chest.

he wanted you badly.

you were his new source of entertainment, motivation and inspiration all in one and his mind was melting with how needy he started becoming.

"what the f- she's so kind and pretty..."

"i wanna hug her, wanna kiss her, feel her skin on mine, love her, fuck her."

"she can be my little bunny princess~"

"wonder what our babies would look like? i'm getting heated just thinking about it"

it didn't help much when he found out you adored bunnies and would play with them near the spring. fawning over the little fluffy creatures, hugging them and petting them. and when you held them in your arms and give smooches while rubbing your face on their fluffy fur?!?!?

that's where his obsession becomes almost to much to bare, his entire chest area felt so warm watching you treat those bunnies with so much love.

"everything about her is so perfect, i'm starting to crave her like crazy right now."

"wanna whisk her away, take her, lock her up and keep her all to myself."

his mind starts getting clouding with so many dark thoughts of you.

and so, he start pushing boundaries and going outside his comfort zone to appease his little appetite that consist of you. at night, he sneaks in to steal a closer glance at you and probably a few things so he can remember your scent properly.

the whole house was dark, the whole village asleep by the time it was midnight hour. he'd manage to get in somehow somewhere but when he did, he immediately went to your room.

finally. he could smell and touch you as much as he wanted, his mind was actually in ecstasy when he entered your room, your scent gracing his nostrils as soon as he did, and the poor touch starved male couldn't hold back on touching you various parts of your skin.

"how delightful, her skin is so smooth and her hair feels so good, she smells like flowers all over gosh so fucking perfect, i wanna devour her, drink her up, chew her, spit her out and do it all over again" with every slight movement you make and whimper scaping your soft lips, he can't help but hold back his own voice, he wanted to moan just by being around you, it felt so good.

after so long, why wouldn't it feel great?

to be around around someone for once, to feel the heat of another person's body, the sweet scent of someone else other than himself. he'd lay in bed with you, his larger self cuddling your smaller form as smells your hair, trailing his hands all over you.

he was getting ahead of himself.

it takes everything within him to not proceed and do something to you while in your sleep. his morals along with his sanity were drifting away more and more.

time flies by when you're enjoying yourself, before he knew it he had to leave before the sun raises. forcing himself he does but he also takes like 5 things from you.

"promise i'll return your belongings my love, i just need a little souvenir to help myself with."

the poor thing gets sent into an early heat after that little interaction. he's embarrassed a little but he really needs you, like he really does. and he thinks of ways of introducing himself but... he's a monster, you would run from him and be scared. and when that thought comes to mind it makes him... sad.

"if i'd die that day, i'd never meet her, never be able to see her, but now that i'm alive with the help of the moon goddess, i can't even act normal about her. it's like i'm truly doomed."

this realization was tough. it made him sick to think about. and for a while, he was just okay with sneaking in to see you, and holding your unconscious body but he wanted a lot more, and he wanted your acceptance and love. he wanted you to want him the way he wants you.

it hurt even more when he mistakenly glanced in the mirror only to see a 6 feet tall, half human half hybrid bunny with a deadly eerie looking bloody stare, stare right back at him.

the pale moonlight leaking on him, hitting his skin almost making it look silver.

"she'd surely fear me, she'd run."

he's such a beautiful tragedy. would you be able to appreciate that?

[controld3vil]

the one

pairing: aegon ii targaryen x targ!reader

synopsis: thrown into madness, not one person can comfort the king of his thoughts. his sister wife left to deal with her grief. his mother for chooses not to heed his needs. his brother, gone in silver of the night. yet you, left forgotten stand in front of him, teary eyed.

notes: i gasped loud this episode!!

content warning: spoilers obvi for s2ep2, themes of grief and inferiority, targcest; if you are uncomfortable, please do not interact.

The death of Jaehearys exhausted you.

Nothing prepared you for the shock and emotional consequences. It felt as though a giant sea storm had swept away your emotions and feelings of sense. Because in a way, you felt numb and unable to comprehend what you were feeling. It was either too strong or your denial in it that made you feel out of it. In the confidence of your home, the grand kingdom of your father and his grandsire before, suddenly you feel apprehensive about where you resided and the castle itself. Who to trust and not as a moment noticed in your head as your mind spirals down a rabbit hole. 

Your nephew, a kin of your own, was dead. 

He was murdered in cold blood. In the sanctum of your home, in the privacy of the royal rooms. It was your fault you were not by Helaena’s side. Oh, your poor sister, the turmoil she must’ve endured in the small moments last with her son. A small piece of purity and semblance he brought into your little life and a beacon of what you strived for every day. Yet now, it has all turned to blood and dust. Used and tossed away like the sacs of bodies they would throw off dead soldiers in the aftermath of a tiring battle. 

There you sat with a half cup of wine, undrank. You dared not step out of the chambers of your comfort. Not for long, your presence would be reminded of the council. You insist on every meeting that your presence would bestow better acquisition. In most eyes, the men divert their gaze from you.

In contrast, your wretched mother opens her mouth agape with hardly any words being supported. Your grandsire contrasts, always with an excuse that you should be needed elsewhere other than the higher discussion. How benign of you, dear granddaughter. But you are unfit for a position at court.

Otto Hightower would never speak those words directly. But you know in your heart and his intuition, the words are nearly there. You don’t need an interpreter to translate what is said by the councilmen. Even if they are unaware, you understand all that is said. A tragic incident, Your Grace. The Kingsguard are doing their best to inspect all the members in the castle as we speak.

“I will have it! They will pay for this!”

The dried tears that swept down your cheeks felt sticky and annoyingly guilt-ridden of the events that had happened. You would not allow them to witness them. They were not worthy of your sadness. In grace, you hiked your dress over your feet to climb up to the doors. From where you were, you could discern the murmurs of Aegon and his hysterical yelling, absolutely mad with anger and rage. Respectfully so, the loss of his child was an unexpected and stressful one. 

When the chambers open, the rest of the councilmen stop for a moment. Before you begrudgingly make your way to the center. “Gentlemen,” You are at fault in giving away your tearful expression, the candlelight's of the chandeliers do your angelic features justice. And no noble would dare to speak upon its beauty and sorrow. All while, your lady in waiting, trails timidly behind you, head pointed down in respect. “Your Grace,” You address, and finally for a blind second, a glint of relief flashes on Aegon’s face. Finally, he must think, someone he trusts abides in the room.

“Princess,” The Hand levels his chin, leaving a steady foot of your unforeseen appearance. Beside him, your mother lays agape in both deary and fortification. 

The Queen stumbles on the syllables of your name, quietly. As if she was citing a wrongful plea of desperation. “Is- Is Helaena?” Of course, the last she saw you was in her bed chambers, coming in to console your sweet sister and her child. Alicent was running amuck, pulling on the fabric of her dress to prevent you from witnessing her privacies before. Luckily you didn't have to witness that. 

“She is with Ser Arryk and Jaeheara.” You breathed out, soft and mellow. You can tell by the exhale of your mother and grandsire's shoulders that deflating meant that their worries were at least accomplished. And a slight corner of your eye, your brother too relaxes in caution, aware of his wife and daughter’s whereabouts. 

“Good good,” Alicent frantically nods as if trying to reassure herself that her child and granddaughter were safe. Ser Arryk was a noble knight, one who betrayed his twin to stay beside the king’s side. That alone was enough to prove his loyalty and servitude. “Thank you, my daughter.” You swallow with a gaping hole in your throat. The whole room felt the compacting of the many eyes directed at you and the Queen Mother. 

“And what might be the reason for your intrusion on this council meeting, princess?” Otto’s voice somewhat triggers a fight or flight response in you. You’ve dealt with similar situations before, wanting to be included in the war business. However this was different, the council was discussing matters of potential betrayal and the killing of your kin. You suddenly felt targeted for the offense of interrupting something crucial and overriding. 

However, you know you should have a say in this matter. “Shouldn’t I be present when the death of my nephew has been informed to me merely hours ago?” There was a snap in your voice that many of them knew. Though some such as your mother and brother were accustomed to that sound more often. 

“Perhaps it is best if the princess were with the Queen to rest away comfort and grief,” Maester Orwyle suggests only to infuse your temper. 

In a quick turn, your lilac orbs strike an alarming resemblance to vexation and hostility. “Why?” Your tone was sharp and accusing just as it was. The Queen Regent could only watch and stare mutely at your grueling pettiness. Lord Tyland and Ser Criston Cole dare not to look at you but at the maester. While Aegon, all the more slightly frustrated at Maester Orwyle’s comments, stops and waits for your dreadful retaliation like a venomous viper. Otto couldn’t look more disappointed in you. 

“The death of your nephew is a tearful one, princess. And maybe you should stay within the quarters with the Queen for safety.” The maester does not falter in his reasoning, knowing how quick and ill-tempered you are similar to your brother was to retaliation. But his expression flickers in doubt shortly after you are seen to lay your palms on the edge of the end of the table. It’s hard wooden material, clenched tightly around your hands as you glance up at the councilman with fury in your eyes. 

“I am more capable than you think of me, Maester Orwyle. And I would be damned to sit in silence and pity for this horrendous murder!” You snarl, a frown forming at the edges of your lips. You were livid beyond this. Only when you want to be present in the decisions regarding your kin, did the council decline your way. It’s insulting. “My nephew should be avenged! To whoever ordered the murder!” 

“I wholeheartedly agree,” The Hand’s inclusion is an attempt to bring a truce between the others who felt your presence as much of a disturbance. “But we should not be hasty and leave every opportunity out in the open.” 

“This is my son we are talking about,” Aegon’s hand came down with a thump on the table. He’s since calmed down but you know there is still rage in his heart. The fuel of it burning and churning for the desire to find and kill whoever brought out the murder. “We must search the grounds for traitors, find anyone who leaves the Red Keep, and capture them immediately!”

“Of course, Your Grace but we should consider what this would be for Rhaenyra,” Alicent reminds the room when she scans everyone’s thoughts and faces. On the other hand, you stand uncomfortably, with the sense of your legs growing numb. 

“That bitch queen of bastards will pay!” The King screams, pointing with an accusative finger. “She is on her throne, laughing at me for this! For the death of my son, I want her dead!” It’s like a fire has been lit in your brother’s mind. It flashes and flickers rapidly as he manages to strike and spit out outrage of his growing vengeance on the Black Queen. However quick his temper simmers and rises.

The coming morning of Jaehaerys funeral drags his body to the Sept to be burnt in Targaryen tradition. More importantly, it is to sway the people’s opinion of Aegon’s claim and blame Rhaenyra for the tragic death. Spurs of propaganda flourish in the crowds as the chariot drags the casket of the fresh body, followed by the Queen and her Regent. What felt like discomfort and suffocation for Helaena only her no semblance through the entire morning. She is grieving and mourning in her own way. No one can understand the loss of a mother of her children. It is the tragedy she has felt for the first time and it stings her to her stomach. For most of the ride, Helaena could not breathe or look at the folk people, afraid of what they might do. She’d never left the Keep like this before, presented all fragile and glorious as the new Queen officially. 

Even so, she knows you are more suited for the role. Helaena has thought of it many times where you should’ve been wife to Aegon instead of her. She knows why her mother and grandsire chose her. It was because she was compliant and willing to do her duty as a lady wife. While you had no sense of duty. More or less, so did Aegon but at least she would elevate his image as King with her kind personality. 

“Helaena,” You spoke, interrupting her thoughts amid her sewing. Your sister pauses and then looks at the piece she has been working on. It was a picture of purple lily flowers, something you had mentioned wanting to see from the grounds of the Highgarden. She thinks of you and subconsciously starts to sew a new patch of thread. She’s sweet to you like that, and you forever cherished that side of her. And it's a shame her softened voice always now came with a stutter and droop of a sob. 

Helaena wakes up from her daze and greets you with a warm yet sombreros smile. “You are well?” The question itself leaves bitterness off of your tongue because you should be asking her that. You know Helaena isn’t one to openly express her emotions and thoughts proudly. As her sister, you honor that but also can become the maternal figure she needs within seconds. 

“I should be asking you the same,” You smile, looking smug and all. And your sister’s droopy eyes slowly lighten with glee. Her small frown turns upside down and suddenly you feel your heart fill with warmth and joy. “What has the Queen been sewing all this time?” 

“Purple lilies,” She gently shows you her work and focuses on your excitement. What she appreciates is your fascination with her skill with a thread and needle. You had no talent in it, much to your mother’s display. But you would gladly watch your sister sew for hours for the fun of it. “I remember you mentioning them a while ago. And I thought it would be pretty to make for you,” 

“How thoughtful of you,” You plead with your gentle eyes, resting a hand on her thigh. You looked like you were going to burst into tears out of happiness for her nonsensical act. You act differently around her and the children, sometimes Helaena thinks you have two personalities. One with her family minus Aegon and another with everyone else. You were mushy and caring, nothing like yourself hours earlier in the morrow in the councilroom. She had heard you burst into a meeting, enraged by them claiming you as a disturbance to their discussion. Like the stubborn person you were, she knew you would rather stay and argue with them for hours. And that you, for her boy. 

The Queen hums, delighted by your soothing presence in her slightly dimmed room. The room had been cleared of children's beds and toys. Now it lies barren with little to no furniture. The curtains did not change, they were arranged simply to allow some light into the chambers to let the children wake. But now, there would be none and it is left abandoned. 

“How is Jaeheara?” The whisper of your voice is the only thing she’s heard after minutes of silence. Helaena does not reply immediately, knowing her thoughts are too invasive and terrifying to think about. The black gown she still has on feels tight and makes her uncomfortable. She doesn't want to remember the funeral. It was too much for her to reminisce about despite being hours earlier. 

She makes another loop with bright purple stringing onto her needle. “She is well and is accompanied by a Kingsguard during her lessons,” She makes sure to include the Kingsguard, knowing you have been adamant about the protection and security around King’s Landing. As of late, it felt as though the castle did not feel like home anymore. It became somewhat of a hollow skeleton of a dungeon. With many escape routes and corridors, people would walk in and out without notice. It terrifies her and knowing you, you would rather be killed than have another child murdered. 

Her response pleases you however Helaena is aware of something else on your mind. She can feel it without looking at your face to know. It’s your inseparable bond as a sister that you sometimes were astounded by. Helaena calls it a bond and maybe she is right. Your eyes are focussed on somewhere else and it gives her a moment to look at you. Your brows furrowed with a subtle curve of a scowl makes her believe you were having negative thoughts. Were you feeling guilty about Jaehearys death?

“What’s wrong sister?” Despite her knowing the reason, Helaena wants you to admit your remorseful thoughts. The veil that covered her face was no longer present and she could face you without barriers. Her lilac eyes look at you, softening at you. 

“I can’t help but think I am guilty of Jaehearys death,” You sound vulnerable, no other person would witness this side of you. Because you shielded this side of you. Your display of weakness was only meant for people like Helaena, close to you, unjudging and caring in your coping. Yet sometimes you think of your sinful thoughts of guilt to be an act of punishment. You sometimes felt you were meant to feel this way for not being present with the Queen and her children when it happened. Why couldn’t you be a good sister and protect the ones you loved?

“You should not be,” Her small palm cradles the side of your jaw, making your stare connect with her. Helaena is quiet and gentle in her expression of words. What she says always has an impact. She is a woman of few words and it makes her speech inspirational. “I- For anything, it was my part as a mother, for letting my child be murdered in cold blood-”

“No of course not!” You were quick to retaliate to her pleas. She could not be responsible for such a horrific act taken against the crown. “Helaena, you did your best to protect your children.”

“Yet I was asked to choose,” The bottom of her lips quivered, and eventually hot tears filled her waterline. “And I had no other choice!”

“You were held at knifepoint,” You grasped the hand that held your jaw. Gently and slowly to make sure and emphasize her attention to you. “I would’ve bursted into the room and offered myself if I could’ve. But you did the best you did as a mother to protect your children.” You gave her another tight squeeze. 

“I had no other choice,” Her sobs slowly brewing. And the tears flowed and there was nothing you wanted to do other than comfort your dear sister. She was grieving like any mother. You would be present for her and give Helaena all of the world, to give away her sorrow. However, it is inevitable and you best offer her your condolences and feelings of heartbreak. Because you did love her children, Jaehearys and Jaeheara. The light and beacon of Helaena and Aegon's marriage. 

Helaena’s figure dwindled as she scrunched herself forward into a curling ball. The weight of her thoughts was too much. As a parent, she believed she failed the role she was meant to play. Her cries did not stop or steady in a rapid heartbeat. Any further, Helaena believes she would’ve acted impulsively if not for you, holding onto her shoulders. You were gentle against her tragic and frail body when you allowed her head and shoulders to rest against your chest. You’re silent in the comfort you gave. Because no words could pursue more than your actions. Being the more responsible and maternal figure, you became a weeping shoulder for Helaena to spout the rest of her worries and anguish. 

You wonder what Aegon and his sorrows are. 

Criston Cole was in a predicament. He failed as a Kingsguard to protect the royal family. And because of his absence, a dead prince was left at the doorstep of the king. He’s ashamed in silence because he could not make any reason for where he was during the intrusion of the castle. His affair with Alicent was more than a passionate one. It consoled him and eased for the upcoming days of Aegon’s coronation and Rhaenyra’s horrific deeds. The knight was stuck in a situation he wished would not bring to the public eye. No one can know of his relations with the Queen Regent. Not when times were suspenseful and dire as to who to trust in the castle. 

And so, after he challenges Ser Arryk to do the impossible and slay the Black Queen within her quarters of Dragonstone, he desires to focus on his plans with the king. The afternoon following the prince’s funeral, Ser Criston smoothes out the ends of his locks, recomposing his hysterical manner against the twin knight. Of, the accusations of treason against the king and the knight’s code. He should be honoring the Kingsguard words at the back of his sleeves by now. For all that has occurred to him, Criston wants to prove to the king he is capable of being essential. 

The summer breeze is faint and noticeable to those in the Red Keep. It’s open corridors and windows, it is the perfect spot for sunlight. The Kingsguard makes his way to Aegon’s chambers, where he plans to inform his schemes of sending Ser Arryk away to Dragonstone. In hopes, it would please His Majesty of the constant restless nights he has experienced. 

But he nearly misses you. It takes a second for Ser Criston to take a step back and look back at what you have been doing. You, the princess, looking out of place in the training area of the stables. Where knights and stable boys fight and practice their combat. It was a place you’re likely forbidden to be, however, it has never stopped you. The knight knows of your ambitions to fight like your brothers. You’re eager, more confident than your siblings to practice. He had suggested once to the Queen that she should allow you use of the sword. For self-defense and hobbies. 

You practically begged Alicent to hold a sword in your hands. Your cute chubby cheeks as a small child were something he remembered sometimes. You were so eager then. He could still see it occasionally when you ventured to the training area, staring at the knights practicing their moves and defenses. 

“Are you alright, princess?” Ser Criston appears behind you and you’re suddenly aware he must’ve been standing behind you for some time. He knows you come here to think and be reminded of the past. “The morrow has been rather bleak has it not?”

“Rather too bleak,” You groan, crossing your arms and rubbing your forehead in weariness. You’re aware the Kingsguard is not allowed to probe your troubles further but you rather indulge. “The day grows weary for the wavering support of the other Houses.” A quiet nod of endearment is seen from the knight as he reminisces about why they had exhibited the funeral exactly. To spread rumors and weaken the queen bastards' claim.

“It will help us in the long run, princess,” He steps forward as you turn to stare at his gentle Dornish features. Maybe in another lifetime, you would’ve fallen for him if he wasn’t a knight.

“Is that what the Queen Regent said?” A switch and it was like your tone turned to bitterness the moment you mentioned your mother. Ser Criston feels his heartache at your sentiments to the Queen. She was your mother and loved you very much. Something you can’t seem to appreciate whenever you open your mouth in front of the council. While she has complained and spouted worries of your deterring interactions, you’ve taken glory in the distance between you and your mother. Ser Criston hopes one day you will reprimand that relationship. 

“No,” 

“Tell me, why do you value her opinion so much?” He eyes at you shaking your head with a heavy scowl of disgust. Your hatred towards your mother ran cold and poisonous, under the depths of your hard-spoken shell of a heart. Maybe some part of you did care about the Queen. If there was, Criston had never been able to witness it, you’re too stubborn. And you know Alicent cherishes him deeply. 

“She has a kind heart,” The Dornish man cannot more than understand why you probe his opinion of your mother. Were you suspicious? He’s served your mother for nearly a decade and gained her trust as her right-hand protector. Yet where was he when an intruder entered the castle grounds and left Helaena traumatized and crying? 

You snarl a mocking laugh, “A kind heart?” You’re staring at the Queen’s protector with discontent and failure. “She plots and schemes to gain the people's trust over my brother’s claim. What more is she than the Hand’s right-hand puppet.” This is an alarming accusation because Ser Criston knows Alicent does not trust her father with her boys and daughters. You were an example of that. Whoever she plots with, he knows she takes into consideration who is affected the most. She was the Queen of course. Dainty and considerate of her subjects. 

“Another advantage we have over Rhaenyra, princess,” He reminds you of the whole reason why the council decided such a thing. It’s grueling yet would sway the people in their favor towards the crown than that false liar of a ruler across the land. “Understand that everything she and the council decide is to gain more allies,” 

“By simply lying to the public and creating more web of lies for us to be stuck in,” You probe and your lilac orbs glow in a dark tone. You could not stand the ploy they had used for Jaehaerys funeral. You think it was anything but honorable, to use your nephew as a cause and leeway to denounce your half-sister. Ser Criston gives you a look, only a parent would hold when their child does something to disappoint them. And even though he was not your father, he still felt utterly responsible and devoted to you as one. He has seen you grow from a child to a woman. He’s aware of your struggle in your place at court. He was there when you desperately wanted to hold a bow and arrow, practically crying to your mother on your knees. He was also there to comfort you when you accidentally drove your dragon into a terrible accident. Criston Cole felt some kind of platonic love over you, despite you never feeling the same way. ‘

Yet he couldn’t help but agree with you. “You’re right, princess. But it is the only way to convince the townsfolk of our cause. We need their support to win this coming war.” He sees your shoulders slumped, most likely growing tired of talking back and forth of their intention to false news. You hated how everyone agreed to it wholeheartedly. 

“We need more than the support of the townsfolk to win a war,” Your lips turn to a thin line, contemplating all the reasons why you had to be on the wrong side of justice. “We have dragons, that is how we win a war.” 

Nightfall was as unanticipated as it was wanted. The funeral and rumors from the council made it unbearable to walk past servants and nobles without being reminded of it. There were many times you wished to stop in front of the people and shout in their faces. There would be no denying it all. However, you were done with it. You were tired of receiving the same piece of news and rumors. It made you hereditarily furious and petty like a child. But no violence has been spilled. Instead, you could only clench your palms, aggressively and move on with a faint scowl. A puff or two would break your cover. 

Moreover, the servant girls and maids knew what made you tick. The type of gossip you hate to talk and listen about. Since you’ve lived in the castle for the entirety of your life span. So regardless of whether they spoke of today’s events or not, people knew you were not in a great mood. More or less you were agitated, imitating, and not to be consoled.

You made it your routine to visit Helaena before going to bed. When you were younger, you and your sister often paid visits to your mother and sometimes your father if present. Queen Alicent would soothe your worries and nightmares while Viserys sat in silence, unable to speak due to the pain. Yet now, that was before you and Helaena slept in the same room. She was Queen now and had a separate room with her children. It was you who made it customary to ease her worries at night and say goodnight to her children. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, her beautiful children. Even now, after everything had happened, you wanted to honor your promise to visit the new Queen. 

The granite tiles were cold. You could feel it despite wearing soft padded shoes. Your garments were loose and free from the restraints and pains you’d worn for the day. But somehow it made you feel anxious and oddly vulnerable out in the open. Of course, it was natural to feel this way after what happened. But everything, even the times you felt the most safe was now invaded by thoughts of fear and concern. You swallowed whatever security you had and moved along the balcony inside King’s Landing. The royal rooms were all the same, but you knew which belonged to whose. You knew which rooms were your mother’s, your sister’s, which had the best hiding spots, and which had the quickest way out of the city. 

Although whose room brought you the most curiosity was the one in front of you. In the distance, where you stood, a figure of green exits out of the room and disappears into the darkness. Your mother. Alicent did not seem to be in a rush to have exited Aegon’s chambers nor did she look content coming out of it. It looked as though she had mistaken his room for another. 

Hastily your paused movements began to quicken. As you tip-toed towards the doors of your king, you twist the knob and a soft creak makes you curse out of anonymity. The bed chamber was dimly lit and the fireplace illuminated a gorgeous orange dew that covered half the room in warmth. The drapes of the windows were slightly closed, making the silhouette of Aegon, hunched over more evident. He leans in a cushioned chair by the fire and you can see his unsecured locks, shape the sides of his face. 

You quickly realize your brother’s sobbing, saddening and heartbreaking. For all the things he was, Aegon did not deserve to lose a child. You understood very much as him that Alicent had planned his coronation for a long time. Yet now that it has happened, tragedies come down like dominoes in a panic. Lucerys has died on dragonback. And now Jaehearys was murdered in cold blood. Both are innocents from the result of this pretentious battle for power between Rhaenyra. It is when you shut the door behind you with a faint click, you make yourself known to the king. 

“Aegon,” It’s a whisper with no silence. Covering his face to shield his tears, Aegon does not dare to look at you. He looks ashamed and can only stare down, lost and in failure.  You understand his dismissal of your presence. No one should see their king as weak like this. Not even his closest kin and mother. Only that his mother has witnessed this scene a multitude of times over the years of watching over her son. Still, you were not the type to witness Aegon at such a low point like this. 

Nothing. You wanted nothing from him, seconds ago only curious about his profound discussion with your mother, who did not seem to speak to him at all. Something about that makes your heart churn at the Queen Regent. You walk slowly and only when you finally face him, his gaze is still on the floor, unable to lift his head to say anything. Go away! You’re making a fool out of yourself. 

Instead, you closed the gap that separated the two of you. You clasped his neck and held it firmly in a consoling manner. His weeping only grew louder the moment he felt your touch, so comforting and soft. His hands eventually wrap themselves around your waist and he rests the side of his head against your stomach.

Only you can soothe him like this. It’s discovered to be the most effective way for Aegon to calm down, your touch perhaps was the solution to it. It was never touched upon, this consolation you had with him, there were rare occasions when the prince had become too drunk to return to his quarters to have gone to yours instead. There were times when your brother wanted to hide and be away from your conniving mother and her insults. Sometimes he’d cry, drink, or rant about her inconsolable expectations of him. Because truly you are the closest to understanding that feeling. The feeling of being unwanted and as though you were not doing enough of your duty to care. Of course, you cared, you did everything for your family. Still, it could never be enough to put a smile on your mother’s face. And more evidently that of your grandsire. 

“I’m sorry,” You let out a dreary breath, rubbing Aegon’s hair. He sniffles, allowing his forehead against your stomach. He closes his eyes and lets out a sad laugh that turns into a cry. He’s lost so much in a matter of days. No one to comfort him, and his wife silently grieving in her own time. His mother forever abandoned her efforts. And his brother disappears with no explanation. Now here you were, the one he found relying on.

“I tried so hard,” He cries out, snot and tears making his speech muffled and disproportionate. “Yet everything has backhanded and slapped me in my face!” You feel a quiver on your lips when he speaks those words. Your heart burns and aches and maybe finally, you can put away your pride and be gentle. You reach behind where his hands are secured by your waist. Sliding them down to allow you to kneel to his level. With his red-shot eyes and puffy cheeks, Aegon looks like he wants to give up everything now and then. He’s never looked so weak and tiresome. 

“I know,” You shaped his face with your palms, sliding your thumbs over his cheeks. They are dried of momentary tears when he looks so desperate to cling onto anything to save him. “And as king, it is a heavy toll. Jaehearys will know you did everything you could to avenge his death.”

“It has gone to madness,” His lilac orbs staring at you with such intensity and possibly love. Torn and twisted, you know this is a wife’s duty to be her husband. Though under Helaena and Aegon’s relationship, they have never loved each other. They were husband and wife, yes but only under law. Helaena held no love but did genuinely care for his well-being. And you had shown more devotion towards his feelings than anyone had done within days. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You can start by figuring who and who not to trust at court,” You exhale, heart beating like a bass drum when you feel his hands circle yours. “Know who your trusted allies are and destroy Rhaenyra’s support.” 

“Then I need you,” He leans forward, his silver locks tangled in between yours. His gaze was wild and desperate for any kind of refusal you might have. “I need you at court. By my side, you are as essential as any of us there.” It felt as though nothing in the world mattered next only the two of you at this moment. At this important moment, you felt a surge of adrenaline and an urge to comply with his heeds. Your eyes momentarily trail to his lips before discerning back to his eyes. 

“Because I have a dragon,”

“Because you are my blood, you are a strategist and the smartest woman I know in the Seven Kingdoms,” His dried tears make him even more angelic. Perhaps in another lifetime, you two would’ve married instead and dealt with it more easily. Your mother knew it. Your gransdire did too. Despite it all, they all disapproved of you for your lack of devotion to duty. What more can you offer than your service directly to the crown? To the council? It makes you grin in pride for his acknowledgment of you. 

“Of course, my king,” And with those words, he closes the gap between your lips. Sorrowful no way but profound in a new kind of serge to overcome the tragic delay. You were right in front of his eyes all along. You, the second-born princess of Alicent and Viserys' marriage. Quip with a sharp tongue and tactics for how long you’ve studied the art of it. You were no ordinary princess. You were a fighter, a warrior who well enough wanted bloodshed as much as him.

[pomegranatelifethis]

The Princess Forgotten in the Dark

As time went on, a change began to take place within Bruce Wayne. While he was managing the kingdom, taking care of his sons and fighting enemies, he did not notice the emptiness within himself. But one day, a moment came when everything lost its meaning.

Bruce finally realized a fact that he had ignored and tried to forget for years: his daughter. The princess's name had not been mentioned by anyone in the palace for years. But one morning, during one of his sleepless nights, something seemed to wake him up. A momentary inner restlessness, a momentary sound woke him up. He took action to search for his daughter.

For the first time in years, all the guards, advisors and servants in the palace noticed that Bruce was looking for his daughter. At that moment, there was regret in his eyes that he had accumulated over the years. While he was taking care of his sons, he left his daughter alone day by day and allowed her to live like a ghost. With every step Bruce took, there were the pains of the past, the fragments of a lost time. It was too late now, but there was still hope. Maybe it could still be saved.

Bruce went deeper into the palace. He headed towards that dark tower where the princess had been kept out of sight for years, a place no one dared to go. He knew this tower as one of the worst places in the palace. But that day, he didn't even think he would have to go all the way there.

When he arrived at the tower, nothing was ready when he entered. There was only darkness and dead silence there… And then, Bruce noticed that bed in the corner, abandoned for many years.

There was something on that bed that appeared after years. But Bruce tried to understand this reality with a frozen fear in his eyes. How long had it been? At that moment, he encountered the princess's body. His eyes were closed. His lifeless body was so thin that you could almost count his bones. There was a cover as light as feathers on him, but that cover was also insufficient.

Bruce knelt down and tried to lift the princess's lifeless body with his hands. There was deep sadness, regret and a lifetime of guilt in his eyes. The girl who left him, ignored him for years, and whom he thought he didn't love, was now growing cold.

"I couldn't do anything for you…" he said, his voice shaking. "Will you be able to forgive me?"

But the princess said nothing. After all, he was no longer alive. Bruce's daughter was dead after years of neglect and pain. No one remembered that she was once the princess of the Kingdom of Gotham. No one had even remembered his existence for a moment. The tears falling from Bruce's eyes bore the traces of an irreversible loss.

Seven months ago, no one noticed. No one noticed that the princess was fading, no one understood the terrible conditions she was in. Now, Bruce saw everything, but it was too late.

While Bruce was hugging his daughter's cold body with his hands, the four walls of the palace surrounded him like nothing. During the years he lived in this palace, he forgot the princess with every step. But at that moment, the weight of everything seemed to intoxicate him. At the end of everything, there was not a single drop of hope left in his eyes. When he embraced his daughter's dead body, his eyes, full of deep regret, began to grasp every aspect of the damage he had caused her and the truth he had ignored for years. However, the guilt within him prevented him from understanding another truth. Her daughter had not only been neglected; He was systematically ignored.

In those terrible minutes he spent in the room where his daughter was, the silence echoing on the walls of the palace told him of a betrayal that had lasted for years. Although the servants were obliged to take care of him, they ignored him, did not give him the necessary education, and instead threw him aside. But worse still, a large part of the palace budget was stolen by these servants. King Bruce was unaware of any of this.

Bruce had spent years dealing only with outside enemies, rival kingdoms, before learning of the mismanagement of much of the palace economy. The betrayal inside went unnoticed. The princess's income was usurped by high-ranking servants, and everything necessary for her to survive—food, education, care—was systematically restricted. He should have been the most valuable asset in the palace, but he was so abandoned that no one even mentioned his existence.

While Bruce accepted seeing his daughter like a ghost for years, he was able to better understand the extent of everything when he learned that the servants were living their lives with the money they stole. While the princess lived in the depths of the palace, without food or education, the servants became rich and used the palace's budget for their own benefit.

Bruce, with tears in his eyes, knelt next to the princess's dead body and said: "I couldn't do anything for you... But I should have given you the best of everything."

But the pain the princess experienced was not just neglect, but a complete exploitation. As Bruce's eyes saw the weakness in his daughter's body and her hunger-cracked skin, the anger inside him grew like a mountain. This anger wasn't just towards himself. He saw his servants, those who managed the palace economy, all those people who stole from him everything that was his daughter's right. Years of indifference had not only led to his death, but also made him part of a system no one cared about.

The loss of the princess showed Bruce not only the pain of losing his daughter, but also the corruption within his own kingdom. In his palace, a princess, the most valuable asset, was considered worthless for years and was left to die as servants ignored her for their own benefit.

As if he wasn't the one who caused this

Years Ago…

The sun was setting as two children sat by the river.

The little girl had dipped her feet into the water, silent as if the world did not belong to her. The boy beside her watched her intently. He knew who she was. But she did not know who he was.

The princess of Gotham Kingdom. The daughter of his father's greatest enemy.

But not everything was black and white. Because when he was with her, he forgot about wars, thrones, and titles. There was only her.

One day, the little girl turned to him and asked:

"Do you think people can truly be happy?"

The crown prince hesitated. His father had taught him that happiness did not exist—only power did. But when he looked at this girl, something inside him felt different.

"If you are happy, then I am too," he said with a smile.

Years passed. Every forbidden meeting, every whispered conversation, every shared secret changed something within him. He wanted to protect her. To love her and protect her.

But he could not escape reality. He knew who she was. And he knew that one day, this truth would tear them apart.

But he never thought it would be death that did it.

---

Years Later – On the Battlefield

He was in the middle of war. The clash of swords, the screams, the stench of blood… But the crown prince’s mind was elsewhere.

It had been so long since he had seen her. He remembered her face, heard her voice, even felt her whispers in his dreams.

Was she safe?

He would go to her. Once the battle was over, he would tell her everything—who he truly was, why he had stayed by her side, why he had lived with this secret for so long.

But then, a soldier rushed toward him, breathless. "Your Majesty… News from Gotham Kingdom."

The prince frowned. "What news?"

The soldier swallowed hard and lowered his head. "The princess… Gotham’s princess… is dead."

Time stopped.

What?

The prince barely felt the distance between him and the soldier. He waited for him to speak again. He must have heard wrong.

But the soldier continued. "Seven months ago… She was neglected in her palace. Her servants left her to starve. She fell ill… and no one noticed. Her body was only just discovered."

The sword in the prince’s hand fell to the ground.

No.

No, no, no.

This had to be a mistake.

How had he not known? How had he not realized? He had loved her for years. He had always believed he would return to her.

But now, there was no place to return to.

His legs trembled. A crushing weight settled in his chest. He had imagined the day he would find her again, the day he would finally tell her everything. But now? Now, there was nothing left to say.

The wind howled.

The battle raged on—the clash of steel, the cries of the fallen—but for the crown prince, the war had lost its meaning. Because he had already lost everything.

And without even knowing it, he had let her go.

---

The Prince’s Revenge

The battlefield was drenched in blood. The air smelled of iron and death. Shadows loomed over the fallen.

But for the crown prince, none of it mattered anymore.

The first thing he had felt when he learned of her death was loss. But now? Now, it was pure, consuming rage.

Gotham Kingdom.

Her father, who had failed to protect her. The servants, who had neglected her. The palace, which had let her wither away, forgotten and alone.

They would all die.

Slowly, the prince rose to his feet. His sword lay on the ground, but he no longer felt its weight. His eyes burned with fire.

The commander beside him looked at him warily. "Your Majesty? What are your orders?"

The prince’s gaze locked onto Gotham’s distant castle.

"Stop the battle," he said, his voice low and deadly.

The commander blinked in confusion. "But, sire, victory is within our grasp! If we strike now—"

The prince lifted his head. His eyes were ice-cold.

"No."

"This is no longer just a war. This is vengeance."

"We will burn Gotham."

"I will kill everyone who allowed her to be forgotten."

"Her father, her servants, every soul in that palace who let her starve—every last one of them will die."

"They cannot bring her back to me… but they will suffer."

The prince clenched his armor. Rage coursed through his veins. He was no longer a prince. No longer a man.

He was vengeance itself.

"Gotham took you from me… I will never forgive this. Those who turned their backs on you, who forgot you, who left you to die… They will all pay the price. Those who once knew me will think I fight for a throne. But they are wrong. This is no longer a war for a kingdom. This is no longer just a cause. This is my revenge."

@stove-top96 @sh4rk-k1d @jscrawls @enchantingarcadecreation @welpthisisboring @lilyalone @itsberrydreemurstuff

[rex-rambles]

➤ i've been loving him to pass the time | lando norris

pairing: lando norris x fwb!reader

summary: you've been loving lando to pass the time, but is that really all it is? (inspired by 'oh my' by alessi rose)

wc: 4.6k

warnings: angst with a happy ending! not great relationship skills and allusions of smut

➤ MASTERLIST

It was nothing special. What you and Lando had was, really, nothing special.

Or, perhaps you should say what you have is nothing special. It hadn't died yet, even if it seemed like it had a hundred times over. You were still here, standing in his kitchen, unloading his dishwasher, while a hoodie of his and some random dress shoes were still tossed about your living room. 

But it was nothing special. You were just strangers who sought comfort in each other from across the hall, because the longer you think about it, you never were friends.

You're not sure who had set that hard boundary, but it was evident, because days like this remind you that you're not central in each other's lives, don't matter outside of your homes and bedrooms, don't exist to anyone else. You'd woken up alone in his bed like you always do with a sticky note stuck to his pillow that he was having people over later, so you should head out before four. It was normal enough, though it once wasn't - where before you used to rush to leave, you now spend your morning, eating and tidying up after yourself to leave no trace behind, like you didn't live just down the hall.

If people looked, really, they'd see it, but you'd both gotten so good at pretending that it was convincing enough even you couldn't decipher if it was all real. There was a time when you thought about defining what you were, making things more obvious, but that had been a year ago, and all your secrets were still tucked away in the back of each other's bathrooms, hidden toothbrushes and hygiene products just in case. If people looked, really, they'd see it, but there's no one to ever connect the dots besides you and him.

You had his favourite chocolate hidden at the top of your cupboard for late-night meetings, or just needing a reminder of him. He had your spare key in some junk drawer, attached with some gaudy tourist keychain he had tried to pawn off to you for your birthday, only for it to end up back at his. 

But it was nothing special. 

You were always last, because this was nothing special. He was rarely home to begin with, but he wasn't solely to blame. He knew you'd wait for him, something soft and unspoken between you where he'd find solace on your couch or you in his arms and within a few hours, no evidence of what happened would remain. 

4: 

you didn't have to clean

Not existing was a strangely easy task, names ignored in contact lists, paparazzi unaware, even when his fame picked up, and he had to admit to you who he was. Your total absence from his life doesn't take away from the fact that you were there, helping him practice for interviews, compiling your own secret list of stories he'd only ever told you, getting to ask personal questions without crossing your lines. You had never been to a single race, but that didn't stop you from watching every one, listening to him excel in the spotlight for hours on end as you sat in the dark of his apartment. 

5: 

you're welcome

You were better than him, he'd told you one of those long nights spent under his sheets, but only by a little bit. So you would be 5, when he was 4. It was a one-off joke, but his words had taken up more of your time than you're willing to admit. He could do that, turn seconds to hours and days to nothing. You could spend all the time in the world and it wouldn't matter, or you could exchange a glance in a hallway and have it feel like an eternity. 

But it was nothing special. You're not sure what you'd do at this rate, to be honest, if he tried to change that. You were so used to revolving around Lando's schedule you'd forgotten that you could exist with him beyond being a satellite. If he asked to be something official, you think you'd say yes, but that wasn't a dream or a fantasy, just simple delusion.

If anyone else asked what you were, you'd say neighbours. It didn't matter the routines you fell into, the bonds you shared, the yearning, the distance, the silence. What you and Lando have is, was, nothing special. 

Didn't matter how you felt about it. What you have is nothing special. 

"I feel bad." He appears at the door at some ungodly hour, curls ruined with sweat that makes his t-shirt cling to him. Outstretched is a singular cupcake with a few random letters on it, taken obviously from some birthday celebration. "You're not my maid." 

"If you want to feel better," You say as you accept the cupcake, "Then don't leave everything a mess. I'm trying to help you maintain those F1 delusions of grandeur." 

"You shouldn't." He responds, letting himself into your apartment and closing the door behind him. You take a bite from the cupcake, savouring the chocolate for a moment as he stares you down. "It'll inflate my ego. I'm trying to stay humble." 

"Tell that to the cars in the garage downstairs." His lips are on yours, cupcake abandoned on the kitchen counter beside you, knocked over and icing smeared across the marble. 

You don't know why you let him do this. Maybe it's the way he makes you feel, desperate to hold you like you're something he could actually lose, even when he could have anyone else. Maybe it's the gifts, maybe it's the humour, that stupid smile, but for the past year, you've let him rule your romantic life, kept single for the moments he'd decide to pay some attention to you, and you dumbly realize, hands woven through his hair as he lowers you onto your bed, that it's become your favourite passtime. 

With all the hours spent, you've been loving him to pass the time, because what else do you do? Move on to a worse smile and someone who doesn't understand you or your body the way he does? 

Someone else would be seen with you, your brain reminds you as his lips find your neck. Someone else would give you a title, take you out, show you off. Your entire life keeps moving forward around you, new jobs, new friends, new adventures, and then you return to him like you hadn't grown at all, and you let yourself spiral as he does what he does best, taking control, giving you just enough pleasure to stay. Making you feel like the centre of all his worship for the night, so that when he collapses beside you, it feels like he'll stay. He'll wrap an arm around you and press himself to your side, to your back, whatever way he likes, and you ask stupid questions back and forth about things like how your day went and the cute dogs you've seen in the building before dozing off, and expecting him to stay. 

He never does.  

"Isn't that a bit big on you?" Your friend pulls up the hood to your hoodie, laughing as it swamps your face, and you reach up to toss it back. 

"It's-" Lando's. He'd abandoned enough sweaters in your place to last you a lifetime, and to keep from mixing worlds, you return them to him diligently. This one must have slipped through the cracks, even as you savoured the smell of him all day. "It's supposed to be a boxier fit." 

He won't be back for two or three odd weeks, having managed to text this morning that he was off racing somewhere and had to wake early for his flight. It's almost honourable, you think, the way he tries to excuse his behaviour as if he hadn't disappeared every morning. As if he didn't just seek you out when he wanted. 

Then, like clockwork, like he can't even let himself go the 24 hours without finding you at night, he calls at 12:26, which is apparently 2 AM his time. He could have anyone else, you like to fantasize as you listen to him drunkenly drawl about a DJ. He could be with any other girl, but he's on the phone to you, like he's loyal, like this whole thing is something he could be loyal about, but it's nothing special. He just happens to call when he's drunk, because he can trust himself to say stupid shit to you and no one find out about it. 

That's how it all started, anyway. You heard someone knock at your door and then a loud, heavy fall outside at around midnight, and discovered a drunken Lando on the floor, the newest resident to the apartment building. He said something about needing help getting to his place, and you'd dragged him to his door, helped him with his keys, got him to bed. 

He'd returned the next night with cookies as an apology, and it felt like he never left after that. You were the one part of his life, he liked to say, that had nothing to do with fame or family or pressures. You would argue you weren't really part of his life, but it wasn't an argument you wanted to have. 

Not when, on the rare nights when he felt romantic, he'd get some fancy food delivered and order some nice wine and once, at the beginning of all this hell, he'd held your hand under the table like you could've been anything more than strangers in the night. The last truly romantic gesture was weeks ago, but you weren't counting. 

You never really counted on him to do much besides show up at your door, after another failed race that you claimed you didn't watch, because you didn't watch racing, because this was nothing special, even if you found yourself glued to your TV no matter the hour. He lets his aggression out in the healthiest way he can, letting you sit in his lap on his couch and venting about all the problems with his car in between breathless kisses, clothes abandoned at some point and dignity at another. 

He'd say things in the heat of the moment that he'd never mean, about how he wanted you, only you, wanted you to stay. You'd give in to every word, even if you weren't under him, because it's all you ever wanted. You wanted him, wanted it all, wanted more than you could ever reasonably ask and more than he could ever give you. 

And there, curled up for the hundredth time, you feel the world finally shift.

Time, once dictated by his arrival or departure, pushes forward without him as he turns to look at you in the dim moonlight. He's leaving, you realize, even if you knew it was happening. The whole reason he was here was the in-between until he was able to move to wherever he needed to go, and he'd told you back in those first, fateful days, it would be a couple months at most. You suppose those many, many months have finally caught up with you.

"Monaco, huh?" You breath out, and Lando buries his face into your neck, unable to say the words himself.

You were just loving him to pass the time, you remind yourself. It was nothing special, though it's impossible to act like this wasn't consuming both of you alive, only for him to extinguish himself. Maybe it was mercy, leaving you here to burn alone.

You gather your things that morning as you leave, ultimately needing a box to put everything in. You would make a joke about how much he'd kept over time, but he's not there, like every morning, like nothing could ever change, time pushing you forward, as if to tell you to move on. It's your tupperware, socks, a camera with your name on it, but with all his photos, a year summed up in a handful of random items. 

You do the same to yours, returning the sweaters, the shoes, the watch you've been holding hostage since he left. His oversized sweater remains in your drawer, your last souvenir of him, and unbeknownst to you, the random friendship bracelets you left behind one drunken summer night remain in his bag. 

If you cry over him for the first time that night, it's no one's business but your own. And if time slows to let you process it, no on else notices. 

What Lando and you had was nothing special.

It wasn't romantic, despite the flowers Lando knew were your favourite, it wasn't committed, despite the fact he hadn't sought out other women, considering you were right there, and just right. You never gave each other enough time for it to be anything special, though more and more often, it was Lando leaving you alone, in his bed, when he went to work out, when he ran to do his meetings. You didn't mind, Lando was almost entirely sure, because it was nothing special. It had ended as peacefully as it had begun, and Lando hadn't thought much of it until he found himself lonely in a life he had thought he was fulfilled in.

He saw the same people, tried making new friends, did the exact same routine, but he found himself stuck on the edge of something invisible, something he couldn't understand. 

He couldn't understand how his socks piled up so easily, or how long it took to put away all the dishes, like he hadn't already done them a million times before. He couldn't understand why his bed felt so cold in such a warm place like Monaco, why people kept asking him if he was alright when he'd never been better. 

What you and Lando had was nothing special. He was just indulging in the rare chance of normal, loving you to pass the time while he had it, because everything was such a rush around him. He couldn't understand how everything moved so fast, how nights moved so fast, when they used to stretch out so long for him. 

He couldn't understand why other dates weren't the same. Why they didn't understand what he'd want, predict his next moves, give him that extra space on the other side of the bed because he likes to splay about. He couldn't understand why even his groceries were different, because sure, he's in a new country, with new stores, but it was still the same chocolate, even if it wasn't stolen from ridiculously tall cupboards. He finds your favourite fruit in his basket before he questions it, something he always picked up for mornings he never witnessed, mornings that were not special, where he'd eat the leftovers, even if he didn't like them. 

He thinks of texting, but then again, you didn't text first. You didn't text often, actually. He only called when he was drunk, and despite his few escapades out at night, there were no new secrets he needed to share, because they didn't really matter anymore. It was nothing special, anymore. 

He finds himself scrolling through his phone at random hours of the night when time seems to refuse to slow down for him, and it was nothing special, so when he finds the only photo of you on his phone from some night where you both got tipsy and tried to play a minigolf course set up in his living room, he couldn't understand why he had to stare at it to fall asleep, over and over, your smile as you laid on his couch, hands clutched to your stomach in laughter, half of the course knocked over in his footsteps. 

After another race he loses, he realizes he doesn't have your social media. It doesn't matter, really, considering you didn't know anything about racing, as much as you played along that you did. He thinks he might find you among his followers, but you'd never cared for his fame. He finds your account anyway, private, and it makes sense. You always were private with your life, with what you did outside of the hours spent with him. He's not sure if he knows your job, even if he knows how much you hate his choice in soap, he's not sure he knows the names of any of your friends, even if he knows your aspirations, your dream pets, your first and second favourite colours. He tries to ask other people the same questions, but their answers don't sound the same, answered for the sake of answering, not for the sake of sharing. 

He goes home, and tries to ignore the draw of going back to his old building, to that door, but he's a man who acts on impulse, unable to keep himself from driving down your street, his street, thinking about what you'd be doing at this hour, and he doesn't understand it. You were just strangers in the night, really, people who found comfort in each other, so why was he so stuck on the thought of you? 

What you had didn't exist outside of apartments and memories, so how could it occupy every area of his life? The concert he's back home for is a band that he introduced you to, every song tied to some stupid moment nestled together, and as some romantic ballad starts up, he spots you in the crowd, the first time he's seen you outside his and your walls, the first time he'd seen you properly dressed up and not getting undressed. You're all but screaming along to the song, knowing the lyrics like knowing him, and you turn to beam at some friend beside you, and it wasn't anything special, but Lando was jealous of it. 

You used to smile at him like that, even when he never went out, even when he tried to keep things with you as secret and normal as possible, hidden away from anything that might ruin it, including himself. It was the most selfish, dickish thing he ever did, and you never mentioned it, never brought up your thoughts on it. Lando thought it was mercy, letting him have some normalcy with you. Now, he realizes, it was because he never gave you the space to say something, never gave you the time or the possibility to turn what you'd created into something more.

Now, he realizes, he wants you to look up from your seat and see him staring from the VIP section, and smile at him, and choose him again, because he realizes that's what he's been missing this whole time. He wants you to sing along to a cheesy love song, not because he taught it to you over a drunken night of karaoke, but because you want to say those words to him.

You were always there. He never had to make a choice, only had to show up at your door, but now? It wasn't his choice anymore. He didn't deserve one, anyway. You deserve to choose him, should you want, and god, the thought makes Lando realize how much he wants it. He wants you to choose him because you can, because he mattered to you outside of all the shit he put you through, he wants you to want him outside of the hours of night, because standing here, longing for something he didn't realize he wanted in the first place, maybe it was special. 

Maybe you made it special.

He buys the last two VIP tickets and gets some security guard to bring you up as he disappears out the back door, leaving behind the music he had once been so excited to hear, now reduced to background noise. His feet take him to your building, time sped up to get him there in what feels like minutes flat. He knows your code to punch into the building, has your spare key in his back pocket just in case, though he could never bring himself to use it. He used to let himself into your apartment like it was his own home, but now, he's forfeited that right. So he sits on the floor next to your door, head rested back against the wall, and wills the hours to speed up to bring you home to him. 

You get home with more questions than answers, but it doesn't matter. Why you were chosen out of a sea of fans for some random band your friend pulled you along to, with lyrics that haunted you more than you could ever explain, to go to the VIP section, you have no idea. Time had sped up, rushing you through the night faster than you've ever felt, over in just a second for the walk down your hallway to be the longest you've ever experienced, because Lando was at the end of it. 

Even if it wasn't anything special, you could always sense Lando from a mile away, knew he was here the moment you set foot in your building, having pulled strings and made your night better when he used to never see you out. You could sense him when you went on more dates, when life kept going, when nothing matched. You found yourself longing for things to do, seeking out friends when the silence was too obvious, longing for someone to ask you a question because they wanted to know everything about you, and not to just pass the time. 

But it was nothing special. What you and Lando had before and after he left didn't matter, even if you wanted it to. And even as you approach him, his eyes closed but not quite at peace, you try to convince yourself it doesn't matter. That he's just back in town for the night and wanted a place to crash, that he wanted one more night, but you were always more than that, even if it wasn't anything special. He always somehow chose you, even when it seemed like he couldn't care less about you. You were always better than him, always something he came back to, even hesitant, like he was afraid you wouldn't be there. 

But he knew, and you knew. You'd always be there, even if he wasn't. You'd always wait, even if you shouldn't. His eyes crack open to stare up at you, that ridiculous, soft smile instantly plastered over his face. 

"You're getting glitter on the carpet." He voices quietly, hand reaching out to undo your heel nearest to him, the smallest smattering of glitter falling from your dress to create a halo around you. It suited you, Lando would say if he could stomach it. He finishes one shoe before moving to the next, and you slip out of them easily, despite the fact you're now standing in your stockings in your apartment hallway. 

Then, you realize, he hadn't kissed you. For once, he doesn't surge up to bring you inside, to get your dress off, you don't plant yourself in his lap, you just stare, time stopped between the two of you. Nothing could move the silence between you, not now, likely not ever. What happened tonight was supposed to happen, whether either of you realized it or not. 

He wears a VIP bracelet around his wrist, the same as you. He'd given up the concert of some band he loved for you, and you, for once, let yourself read into it. You had been making love with him to pass the time, but by now, it was more than that. You weren't loving him to pass the time, to keep up with what you'd started, because it wasn't just a pastime, wasn't just a hobby. It wasn't just seeking pleasure, even if at times it was. It wasn't just something normal for him, even if at times it was. You were loving him because it had become second nature, outside of everything you did. It was the default, what you reverted back to, as if you had loved each other for years, and not just moments. 

You loved Lando, and there was nothing special about the thought.

He grabs your shoes as he rises, and you let him into your apartment. He fits like the last piece missing, an absence you'd tried to ignore. He tosses his own shoes off, landing where his dress shoes always used to be, and he drops your heels unceremoniously next to them by the door, cluttered like they were always meant to be side by side. His outstretched arm finds your waist, hesitant, and you don't blame him. Your usual territory was demanding touches, heavy and all-consuming. Coming home to each other like it was a normal night, like you were something domestic, wasn't exactly ever on the table, even if you had done his laundry a hundred times, even if he used to help with your groceries, even if you had kissed and embraced enough times to know exactly what the other person needed. 

Leaving space for each other was customary, but filling real spaces in each other's lives was not.

"Did you miss me?" His words are low, not quite ego-driven, even if you know he'd use them against you later.

"Of course." Your hand finds his curls, gently sorting through them, those two words the most open you'd been about how you feel about him. You don't ask the same, partially because you don't want to ruin the moment, partially because you already know the answer. He came back to you, but it was still the same, old patterns. It was the middle of the night, and he was looking at you like he could devour you whole, and you'd let him. 

"Can I kiss you?" He hadn't asked before. He didn't need to, considering the flurry of emotions, the desperation for each other, the limited time you were allotted. 

The words being spoken aloud stop time in its tracks completely, and you gently place a hand on his chest to feel his heart pounding, an anxiety you'd never experienced from him before. He wanted to kiss you, and he wanted to ask, and you let him. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, but rather than pushing you back against the door, of it being hot and heavy, it's nothing special. It's a soft, quick kiss, like coming home after a long day at work, a tender thing that never had to be spoken. It's normal, like you've always wanted it to be. 

There's still that old connection there, from the way his hands tighten on your hips, but he pulls away before he allows himself to indulge for reasons you're both not privy to and yet well aware of. It wasn't that absence had made you fonder of him, or he of you, but it had made you realize that your nights spent together weren't just passing the time, weren't just midnight affairs. Something had broken between you when he left, maybe long before that, and for the first time, you think you might survive the repairs.

"Do you want to stay the night?" You ask, another first, because you never had to ask before. He just did. The path to your bedroom is well worn, but this time, the flurry of clothes was not for each other, but rather to slip into pyjamas. Him tossing you onto the bed was not to get to you there faster, but rather to hear that laugh bubble out of you, wrapped in an old t-shirt he's pretty sure he gave to you. 

It's the fact that he collapses into the divet he'd created in his side of your bed, unchanged, unoccupied since he left, and you mould around him like you always knew how to, and nothing else happens, because tonight is nothing special. What you and Lando have is nothing special, nothing like the poems about star-crossed lovers, or some front-page headlines. It's just you and him in the bed you made. 

When your alarm goes off in the morning, he's still there, face hidden in your neck as he snores softly. 

It's the first time you'd ever heard the sound. 

a/n: i know its not my typical style but i am going through a situationship of my own that is driving me crazy, so i needed to let that energy out somewhere - enjoy?

[eremikayearner]

prettiest smile ‹𝟹 itoshi rin

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in which, you finally experience his smile and his laughter for the first time.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ when you had first befriended rin all those months ago, you honestly hadn’t expected your friendship to flourish like this.

rin was quiet, snappy, and quite frankly, tended to be very rude. but for some reason, that never shook you off of him. why? he couldn’t fathom a reason. not even you could come up with a reason. just that you liked his mystery, his company, his presence, all of it.

maybe you liked it too much.

under the spring sunlight, you and rin walked back to your home as you yapped away. another thing you liked about rin was that he was a good listener. you could talk about any of your interests and he would be there beside you, nodding along, occasionally asking questions — and the best part? he remembered. he remembered things even you had forgotten.

“i don’t understand why he doesn’t just confess already.” you huffed, complaining about the male lead in your romance novel. “he has to understand he’s an attractive guy. i don’t think any girl would reject him!”

rin looked at you curiously. “what do you mean?”

“i mean that everybody likes pretty boys. even if they’re the worst person on the planet. rin, come on, back me up here. you can testify!”

“i still don’t understand.” rin replied.

you rolled your eyes. was he being serious? absolutely no way. “girls confess to you all the time.”

he looked at you completely cluelessly.

then it hit you.

oh my god.

rin was genuinely clueless.

he was utterly unaware of his own beauty.

how? he was one of your closest friends now, and one of the first things you had noticed about him was that he was rather beautiful. pretty teal eyes fringed by long dark lashes, a face sculpted by angels, dark hair that fell over his face perfectly, and come on. he was an athlete. anybody with eyes could see the carefully built muscle against the fabric of his clothes. rin was a pretty boy. it was no secret.

however, it seemed that everybody knew the secret but him.

he tilted his head just slightly to the side, sunlight streaming through the trees and pronouncing the deep green undertones of his hair. “so?”

you stopped walking, completely the dumbfounded. then the words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them. “you’re pretty.”

oh, now you’ve done it. who the hell calls their male friends pretty?

rin raised an eyebrow. “i’m pretty?”

“no!” you exclaimed, your heart racing in your chest as he looked down at you, and oh god — you were blushing. then his eyes widened in surprise at your quick reaction, your heart beating so fast it could have collapsed inside your chest. “i mean i’m not saying you’re not, ‘cause you are. pretty, i mean. but i’m just saying-”

your rambling was definitely making this worse. you looked down at the ground, your cheeks flushing pink and your blood racing through your veins. then you heard something soft. the smallest sound.

laughter.

you raised your eyes to find his face, and your breath catches. he laughed louder, and your heart fluttered in your chest as you watched him with wide eyes. you didn’t think he could get prettier.

but here he was. the soft golden sunlight hitting his face and illuminating every breathtaking feature. his smile could have stopped wars, his laughter could have been mistaken for an angel’s. you had never seen him look prettier. it was almost too much for your poor heart to handle. he was smiling — laughing because of you.

you felt light. too light. as you watched him, lips parted in awe, you felt your heart fall. falling endlessly, effortlessly, as you looked at rin.

he giggled, and your stomach flipped, his smile radiant as he looked down at you. “so you think i’m pretty?”

you couldn’t even speak. you just nodded.

he laughed again, nodding to himself. “good. i think you’re pretty too.”

you might faint.

rin’s laughter was pure as his hands went to your face as you mumbled about feeling lightheaded ; his proximity, touch and laughter worsening it. rin could only giggle as he teasingly asked you if you were okay, delighted by your shy and soft responses.

oh, you’re so screwed. you’ve definitely fallen for itoshi rin.

[fyuyushia]

"Thought we had the time, had our lives, now you'll never get older, older. Didn't say goodbye, now I'm frozen in time, getting colder, colder." — You said you'd grow old with me

Sung Jinwoo with 'the one that got away' trope. Him with a first love—you—who he lost all too early.

He's rereading his letter, again and again, checking for any grammar mistakes. This letter had to be perfect, after all, this would be the very letter that would reveal the depths of his feelings for you. More than a friend and more than a comrade. To him, you were his first love, his first realization, his very first crush. After much checking and nitpicking, he smiles when he finally approves of the letter and prepares to send it to you.

Only to receive a bone chilling phone call.

Your parents tell him of what happened to you, of how life had bereft you of your right to make memories. How the cruel mistress stripped you of your soul and dragged it down to the underworld, never to experience the warmth once more, never to hear, feel, and see through your own body.

He's devastated as he takes in your loss, cold denial hitting him first. There's no way, right? You aren't dead—you can't be dead. You still have so many goals you haven't achieved yet—he still hasn't told you "I love you" yet. But even when he spent countless nights denying the bitter truth, nothing changes the tragedy that happened(you).

He's left standing in front of your grave a few months after. His disbelief had caused him to not show up at your funeral, unable to still grasp the fact that you died, that you of all people died. The sun shone brightly that day, mocking the solemn demeanor he wore as he stared at the name etched on the stone.

Jinwoo thinks life is unfair. They've already taken too much. His mother, his father, and now you? How much more will the gods take? How much more will they amuse at the sight of him suffering? This was just too unfair.

When Jinwoo gets given a second chance—a final one at that, he uses the cup of reincarnation one more time. Grasping the chance for a picture perfect world where no one had gone through the horrors of this life, his mind conjures up a blurry image of your face.

Had he forgotten? No, how could he? Your image was etched on his eyelids, tattooed on his mind never to be forgotten. Even if he's moved on—thinks he's moved on with the help of Hae-in—your image was a view he vowed to never forget.

Time rewinds, and no one remembers the history that played out in the future. Living on everyday, complaining about this boring peace, everyone continued on with the motions of life. There were those who were blessed with a second chance at life, there were those who lived, unaware of their demise that came due to the gates that appeared once upon a time.

You were no exception.

Standing in front of him, your painfully bright smile blinds his eyes.

Ah, his lips curl into a smile. He relishes your presence, overjoyed to see you once more. You call his name, and his leg trembles. How odd, he could stand fearless in the face of powerful figures, but he goes down on his knees so easily in the face of you.

How truly odd.

He clings onto you, unable to think of anything but the fact that you're here. You're here standing in front of him, well and alive. You're here, still with him, not yet marred by the monstrosities of that life.

Covering you in his embrace, tears cascade down his cheeks. He murmurs your name, allowing the syllables to roll off his tongue like a mantra. For years, he's longed for you, ached to hear your voice call for him one last time. Now that he has it in his grasp, he can't help but let his emotions run and do the thinking for him.

He squeezes you, burying his face on the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent he so missed.

"Jinwoo?"

"You're here." He whispers. "You're here..."

[loverangels]

webbed in desire

pairings: tasm!peter x fem!reader

synopsis: Peter really likes your Spiderman pajama pants

warnings: kinda suggestive

Peter Parker swung into your apartment window mid-sentence, mask pulled halfway up his face as he rambled about patrol. “And, seriously, who even owns a unicycle anymore? Like, that’s gotta be—”

He stopped abruptly, mid-step, when his eyes landed on you.

You were sitting at your vanity, totally unaware of the effect you were having on him. Your head was tilted slightly as you concentrated on whatever you were holding—maybe a bottle of lotion, maybe a tube of lip balm, he couldn’t even tell because his attention had zeroed in on something else entirely.

It was the pants.

The red and blue Spider-Man pajama pants that hung low on your hips, decorated with tiny web patterns and logos. His logo. Paired with your black tank top, the whole look made him forget how to breathe for a second.

“Are you—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, his mask now forgotten in his hand. “Are those... Spider-Man pajamas?”

You glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror. The corner of your mouth quirked into a grin, like you’d been waiting for him to notice. “Uh-huh,” you said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Cute, right?”

Peter blinked, still standing near the window like his feet had been glued to the floor. “Cute?” He let out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “No, no. You don’t get to call that cute. That’s—damn, baby. That’s a problem.”

Turning in your chair, you swiveled to face him, laughing softly at the look on his face. “Oh! I almost forgot to show you the full effect.”

You stood up, giving a playful little spin that made the fabric swish around your legs. When you stopped, your hands went to your hips, and you grinned at him like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Peter groaned, running his hand through his hair as he finally pushed away from the window and crossed the room in three long strides. His hands found your waist as he pulled you against him, his thumbs brushing along the waistband of the pants.

“I can’t even be mad about this,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You look so good with me all over you. Pun very much intended.”

Your grin turned mischievous as you leaned closer, your breath warm against his skin. “Well, I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve got on underneath.”

Peter blinked, his grip on your waist tightening slightly as his brain tried to catch up. “Underneath?”

With a sly smile, you stepped back just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of the pants, pulling them down just enough to reveal a peek of red and blue. The Spider-Man bra and panties were unmistakable—the webbed details, the tiny logos, the way they hugged your skin perfectly.

Peter stared, his mouth falling open slightly as his eyes darted between your face and the glimpse of fabric. For a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t even speak, his brain short-circuiting entirely.

“Oh no,” you teased, crossing your arms and tilting your head. “Did I break Spider-Man?”

He let out a breathless laugh, his hands running through his hair as he closed the space between you again. “You’re insane,” he muttered, his hands sliding back to your waist as he leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours. “And I am obsessed with you.”

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐎𝐑 .

# with trafalgar law.

your captain was nothing if not thorough — and as talented doctor, he offered quite a luscious method to help with your cramps.

⎰ & KINKTOBER. smut (mdni!). period sex. bloodplay. fingering (reader!receiving). blood!tasting (menstrual blood, yes). afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2.3k.

trafalgar law was a doctor — sadistic, yes; self-taught, of course; but one regardless. his mind was attuned to his crew’s health properties, from allergies, to those who had a lower immunity system; from the divergent blood types to medical-related phobias. bepo hated oral medicine with overly sweet tastes; jean bart, although sizable, could not stand needles. and you had a set of quite awful cramps, enough to leave you bedridden until the week’s ending. it was, without an ounce of doubt, your most prominent issue — the one who bought him the greater worry. it left him wary enough then, yet said coddling had a gradual increase once he engaged in a relationship with you.

law had the interval of your period scheduled; committed to memory. pain medicines were reserved with the purpose of aiding you; thermal bags were both heated and freezed beforehand. he researched herbs with soothing properties and went as far — a proof of his love, he would add — as inquiring the straw-hats’ cook on teas that could, somehow, offer some respite. law had tried on a dozen sets of solutions, which one to no avail, for your ache lingered regardless of the chosen method. it left him with an ever-present bitter taste at the tip of his tongue, as the man was unused to said hopelessness, all but forced to sit back and witness your pain without a decent manner with which to soothe it.

you were not present for breakfast that morning, whereas bepo had a sheet with your shifts and duties, dividing them with shachi. for your pain was too sharp, you were granted a week-worth of rest, unallowed to lift a weight heavier than a plume. ikkaku had then entered the shared kitchen, holding an emptied cup — whose previous contents he presumed to be water — and discarding a plastic, pill bottle of a potent medicine he had prepared, a week prior. ikkaku informed him that you were resting — a bit nauseous, as expected, yet nothing quite worrisome — and though the woman had not read underneath the lines of what you stated, law understood it well enough. you were discarding his lingering aid, willing to withstand the cramps without him, for law grew twice as frustrated every month, and you had noted.

he left the kitchen right thereafter, his mood souring. it was ridiculous; unfathomable. law was a doctor — a surgeon — who had healed life-threatening diseases and wounds, yet failed to soothe the merest cramps; to offer comfort to the one he loved the most. he clicked his tongue, rummaging through the books in his office, convinced that he was but missing something, prideful enough to refuse the perspective of succumbing to a thing such as morphine.

nerves. brain chemicals. it should not have taken him that long to figure that out, but it did — and he was fuming. orgasms increased the blood flow; released endorphins; decreased the levels of cortisol. how could have he forgotten that? law clicked his tongue regardless, filled with clear annoyance at himself as he strived for your shared bedroom with ikkaku, delighted, at last, at the fact neither of you would be bothered, for the crew, too, was well-aware of the intensity of your pain.

he knocked — once, twice. not an answer was received, yet law entered regardless, eyes getting used to the overall darkness of the room, granting him the sight of your figure underneath the bed sheets. he approached you, placing a hand on your forehead; relieved to know you were far from feverish. your knees were pressed to your chest, and he could see slight eye-bags, pointing to a clear lack of sleep due to the pain. you were dozing off, unaware of your surroundings, set for a nap. he felt a pang of guilt as his arms removed you from your solace, holding you bridal-style, the activation of his powers leading you both to his own bedroom.

“law?” you inquired, nuzzling closer, a bit confused at the sudden shift. your voice was rough — pained —, and he caught himself filled with the urge to protect you, yet again.

“did i wake you?” he murmured, landing you on the mattress with certain tenderness.

“no,” you lied, ever more comfortable at the press of the sheets under your sore body.

law hummed, not believing a thing, yet not willing to pester you either. instead, he placed a set of pillows under your hips, caressing your cheek with calculated gentleness.

“i figured something that might help,” law whispered, allowing his hand to travel down your neck.

“i took some pills a while ago,” you meekly pointed out, sighing in relief as his fingers brushed against your collarbone. “and that infusion you made me drink tasted like shit. no offense.”

“none taken,” he reassured, licking his lips as his eyes swallowed the sight of you. “it’s a more pleasant one, if you’re willing.”

you stared at him through a half-opened eye, intrigued despite the context. you wore a thin, silken nightgown, the straps slipping past your shoulders, not much left for the imagination. it gave him a glimpse of your curves; your breasts; the underline of your underwear. law spared a mere glance at his sheets, deciding the incessant brushing of the blood stains right thereafter would be far worth it, so long as he could claim you. his hand hovered over your covered intimacy, applying a natural pressure, however neither forceful nor demanding.

“if you’re willing”, law repeated, and you licked your lips, wincing ever-so-slightly at a sudden, sharp pang. he could see the mental effort required for the production of words, soothing your unspoken worries with a caress of his thumb. law was a doctor; blood did not phase him, rather brought forward certain excitement. he all but wished for you to understand that. “i’m willing.”

“are you sure?” you croaked out, pain so sharp you could barely keep your eyes open.

“let me take care of you,” he pleaded, with half the mind to be ashamed of the desperation in his own tone.

you offered him a curt nod of agreement; limp frame conceding to his guiding touch. law raised the nightgown past your arms, throwing it somewhere in the room. with his knees sunk on the mattress, frame towering over your laid one, he began removing your underwear, shuddering with anticipation at the sight of blood staining your pad. he hummed, regretting the eagerness that led to a lack of proper preparation, for he had neither towels nor medical gloves to contain the flow of your period. yet, his mind could not help but point out a singular thought — did he care enough about the mess to be bothered, when you were in such dire need for relief? indeed, he didn’t.

with particular attention, he discarded the underwear and panties on the ground, allowing your hips to be supported by the pillows, without a single preoccupation regarding the possible blood stains. instead, lithe fingers trailed down towards your intimacy, a pair traveling through your folds; testing the waters. law leaned forward in order to have a proper glimpse of your expressions, yet failing not to have his eyes wander to your hardening nipples. he hummed, index meeting your clit as he drew circular, slow movements on it.

the texture of menstrual blood did not seem so far off that of your pre-cum. perhaps thicker, a bit warmer, with the biggest divergence being the color; nothing else. as a digit busied itself with your swollen bud, law teased your entrance with his pinky, grunting as a clot of blood brushed against the touch.

“talk to me, baby,” he rasped out, eyes tethered to your face as his thumb increased the pace of its ministrations on your clit.

you breathed out meekly, fingers gripping the sheets, nose scrunched as you grew accustomed to the stimulation. the blood made the sliding of his thumb faster; erratic. the lascivious sound of your aroused cunt filling the room. law felt his mouth grow dry at the sight, diving into one of your breasts, swirling, warm tongue on the hardened nipple being the solution he found in order not to lap at your blood instead. your back arched, a drawn-out mewl escaping past your opened lips as he ceased the teasing of your clit, wrist angled in a way that had his index and middle finger sliding inside your entrance with extreme ease.

“faster,” you pleaded, a bit of strength returning to your voice.

law thrusted his fingers, knuckle deep, attempting to reach the deepest inches of your walls. the natural shade of his skin returned mingled with red, the tattooed E and A but a mere memory of black underneath the crimson curtain. it was stickier than the river-stream texture of one’s blood, a stubborn line connecting the middle of his fingers, breaking apart only when they were shoved inside yet again, scissoring your walls with regained fervor. he spared a glance towards your growing blissful expression, grunting at the flutter of ideas that wrapped themselves around his mind, failing to ignore the possibilities as his own blood flushed to his hardening cock.

it smeared the fabric of the pillowcase and trailed down his palm, and law spared a brief ounce of attention to the other, neglected breast, using his free fingers to pinch at your nipple before his lips detached themselves from your chest with a single ‘pop’. he adored your tits — really, could not phantom a week without his mouth sucking bruises on it — but on that particular moment, law wanted to observe the in-and-out of his fingers inside your cunt, to commit the blood-coated digits to memory. the tip of his index abused your g-spot and he all but licked his lips, starved for a taste.

your moans were but an angel’s choir, and law had to fight the urge to let a pathetic whimper of his own escape past his lips, for he was, at last, helping you; being the one to demolish the source of your pain. yet, despite his own previous delay, he could not help but to be a little egotistical, lust clouding his scarce selflessness.

“is it better?” he questioned, and you nodded meekly, eyes dazed; pupils blown.

“y-yes,” you stuttered. “don’t stop, please.”

and though his legs began to ache and his cock ached amidst the coffins of his underwear and jeans, law increased the tempo of his thrusts, adding a third finger at the assurance that your walls were parted enough. you bit the back of your hand, swiftly muffling a shout. law groaned, using the thumb of his other hand to draw circles on your clit, marveling at the speed with which blood invaded the inside of his nail; smeared the poor digit.

“i’m close, baby,” you warned, without a need per say, for he noted the approach of your orgasm through the manner with which you clenched around him; impossibly tighter.

“let go for me,” he encouraged, retreating his fingers to the point of his nails before thrusting them yet again, knuckles bloodied; palm sticky.

your entire figure trembled, legs desperate; back jumping from the mattress. his glance was enraptured by the sight of your cum, white mingled with red, an ever-crescent battle whose stage was the pillow underneath, growing wet and dark at the onslaught of your essences. law removed his fingers, raising them to the light, obsessed with the strings intertwined around them; the state of his nails; the memories of parted clots staining the digits. he was but hypnotized, ignoring the confused calling of his name, the ever-so-grateful words you poured into his ears. instead, law began to drag his bloodied fingers on the flesh of your bare stomach, pupils blown with lust as the shade of you, too, grew smeared.

law wiped his fingers clean, and was swift to insert two of them inside your sensitive entrance. your body the canvas, whereas your cunt was the pallet, sheltering the red dye that would grant him the creation of a masterpiece — one he strived to ruin, for law was far from an accomplished, patient painter. he continued with the drag of his fingers on your flesh, from your ribs to your hip-bones; from your breasts to the spot under your navel. at every brief thrust of his fingers, teasing of your folds, you sucked in a harsh breath, your entire body reacting to the somewhat overstimulation.

when law could not hold himself back any longer — the famished beast gnawing underneath his ribcage — he dived in, tongue wiping the mess he had made. law left long stripes of saliva in its wake at every lick, his mouth sucking newer bruises on certain inches of flesh. the taste was not as metallic as he had expected, not as strong, either. it had a lingering bit of salt amidst the iron, for it was mingled with your cum, and both made for a thicker, stretchier combination on his tongue, an unique texture he had never tasted before. law spared particular attention to your breasts, hungrily lapping at it; collecting every last drop of lingering blood.

he distracted you from the fact that his pants and underwear had slid off from their previous position; that his leaking cock had slapped his stomach before he guided the tip to your abused entrance. when law pushed an inch inside, your eyes widened, hands wrapping around his neck out of instinct.

“can i?” he inquired, pressing his palms against the mattress, one at each side of your head.

“yes,” you breathed out. “please, baby.”

law was careful, a languid shove of his hips stretching your walls until he bottomed out, grunting with his eyes closed. he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, breathing into your mouth as he began to move — thrusts with a wild tempo, the incessant chase for his own orgasm. a crown of blood wrapped itself around his tip, his entire girth a shade of bright red; pale pink. law hid his face in the crook of your neck, moaning as your hands slipped under this shirt, nails dragging on the bare skin of his back.

he brushed against your g-spot; thrusted himself deep enough to challenge your cervix. you moaned, pain long-forgotten as his tip all but drooled inside your walls, spreading them open without an ounce of mercy. law’s knees buckled; you began to squeeze his girth as though a ruthless, famished beast, so tight he would not be able to slide as freely, was it not for the present blood.

“cum for me again,” law encouraged, meeting your glance, his voice raw and desperate. “let me—ngh—take your pain, baby. c’mon.”

you whimpered, a broken, mute moan preceding the second tide of your orgasm after a particular harsh set of his thrusts. your expression, contorted in pleasure, had him removing his cock swiftly, pumping it twice before shooting his load on your stomach, mouth agape at the blood that surrounded his shaft; stained his palm. law struggled to collect his breath, shifting in order to sit on the mattress and offer his knees a well-deserved rest, one of his hands meeting your own as he intertwined your fingers together.

after prolonged, tired minutes spent in comfort within the walls of a bedroom that reeked of sex, sweat and blood, your voice echoed.

“i liked this method,” you whispered, and he angled his head to get a glimpse of your face.

“yeah, me too.”

— 🐈‍⬛ : damn this writer’s block got hands!!!! jokes aside, i love freaky law!!!! send more freaky law requests i’m going to get thru this writer’s block 👏 by writing more 👏.

[allpiesforourown]

Sweet idea for the Harem Member Shen Yuan (with the potential for jealous LBH)

What if when omega's went into heat, they don't necessarily need an alpha to have sex with them to get them through it. Omega's who aren't married will usually cuddle in their nests with those they trust, usually other omega's. At the palace, Luo Binghe can't be with all the omega's during their heats and there are those like Shen Yuan who have all but been discarded or Luo Binghe has forgotten them. I know you mentioned the concubines having some assist them through this possibly but I doubt Luo Binghe would let anyone touch what belonged to him in that way.

Now imagine Shen Yuan noticing this problem and, having come from a household where he used to cuddling with his family members during his own heats, helps take care of his fellow omega's needs (not sexually). He learns what their favorite food to eat during this time is, provides them with tea and a warmed cloth bag of rice to help sooth their cramps, figures out what nesting material they prefer, and helps slip them scented items from family members. His fellow omega's are of course wary but warm up to him once he also helps out with seeing their family members and handling the the problems in their towns. At some point, some trust him enough to enter their nest where he just helps braid their hair, cuddles with them and reads them some of their favorite novels. It leads some them to view him as family and Shen Yuan's robes or sheets will sometimes vanish only to end up in another omega's nest. Of course some use the excuse that their child finds his scent soothing so that's why they have it but Shen Yuan is just happy to help.

So naturally some of them start to return the favor when Shen Yuan's heat hits. They quickly discover that while Shen Yuan is great at taking care of others he is terrible at taking care of himself and will push through the pain. The man will stay up well into the night, burning up with heat just to try and solve the problems he's been presented. They've got it narrowed to a science where they have a whole routine to get Shen Yuan into his nest to rest for his heat and rotate who helps take care of them (they are not above using their children because they realize how quickly Shen Yuan caves to their children's sweet requests to cuddle while in he's in heat.)

Now imagine Luo Binghe, who is unaware any of this has been happening for months, has grown to tolerate Shen Yuan but still isn't sure if he's attracted to him. He runs into Shen Yuan one day clearly in the early stages of heat, looking exhausted and thinks "ahh he must be trying to seduce me." But before he can reject this offer, one of his wives runs up to Shen Yuan and thrusts a child in his arms.

Child: Yuan Gege, Fei Fei wants cuddles!

Wife #474: Forgive me my lord, this humble one will assist Shen Yuan back to his room. (Turns to Shen Yuan) How many times have we told you to take it easy! You can worry about the grain problem later. Let's get you back to your nest now. We've already prepared your favorite blankets and Níng Xīn found a novel by that author you like.

Shen Yuan just nods distractedly as he scents the child in his arms, inner omega purring at the fact they are caring for one of their pack members.

Luo Binghe is going to have a hard time courting Shen Yuan, especially he thinks he can just share a heat with him.

This is so cute omg 😭❤️ shen yuan dealing with baby fever by cuddling a bunch of binghes kids.... ahhhhh

Personally if it was me I'd wear a comically long trench coat and shen yuan would think I'm three kids pretending to be an adult and let me into his room and then I'd go aha I actually am an adult! And kiss him so much

[joaeriz]

In This Quiet Kind of Love

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd Word Count: ~1.4k Genre: Fluff / Domestic / Established Relationship Summary: Paige and Azzi spend a quiet night in their shared apartment—post-practice aches, late-night pancakes, soft confessions, and the kind of love that doesn't need to shout. Warnings: None, just pure sapphic softness ✨

Author’s Note: i have so many feelings about soft, domestic paige x azzi… the kind of love that feels like a warm hoodie and pancakes at midnight 🥺 this is for anyone who loves slow dancing in the kitchen, whispered i love yous, and the quiet comfort of knowing you're with your person. also this is my first time writing a non x reader so let me know if you like it and if i should do more or never write one again....

It was one of those late autumn evenings where the chill in the air made the blankets on the couch feel like a luxury. The kind of night where practice lingered in your bones and the soreness somehow made the softness of home even more sacred. Inside the small off-campus apartment, the buzz of fluorescent gym lights had been replaced with the gentle golden glow of fairy lights strung haphazardly across the living room wall.

Paige was sprawled out on the couch, legs tangled in a fleece throw blanket, an ice pack strapped to her left knee. Her hair was still damp from the shower, curling a little at the ends. The TV was on, muted, something from the Food Network playing reruns in the background. Her eyes weren’t really on it, though.

She was watching Azzi instead.

Azzi stood barefoot in the kitchen, oversized UConn hoodie hanging off one shoulder, leggings hugging her in that way Paige always appreciated. Her curls were pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was humming—something soft, something familiar—while stirring a mug of tea, completely unaware of the way Paige’s gaze was soaking her in like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at.

“Come here,” Paige called gently, voice rough from hours of yelling on the court.

Azzi turned, brow raised. “Tea’s not done yet.”

“I’m not asking for the tea.”

Azzi’s smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She padded over without hesitation, mug forgotten for the moment. She curled up next to Paige, careful of her knee, tucking herself under the blanket like she’d done it a thousand times—because she had.

“Hi,” she whispered, nose brushing against Paige’s cheek.

Paige turned her head and kissed her—just a brush, soft and slow. “Hey.”

Azzi leaned her head on Paige’s shoulder, and for a moment, there was just the sound of their breathing, synced in that unconscious, intimate way people do when they’re completely in tune.

“How’s the knee?” Azzi murmured.

“Annoying,” Paige said. “It’s nothing bad, just sore. Coach is letting me go light tomorrow.”

Azzi nodded. She was quiet for a beat before threading their fingers together beneath the blanket. “I hate when you hurt.”

Paige smiled at the honesty. “I hate when you run into screens.”

“I don’t run into them, I fight through them.”

“Sure, babe. Face-first.”

Azzi laughed softly, bumping Paige’s shoulder. “You love it.”

“I love you,” Paige corrected, tilting her head to look at her. “That part is non-negotiable.”

Azzi’s eyes flickered, always a little caught off guard when Paige said it so plainly, like it wasn’t the most massive truth in the world. But it was. And it settled into her chest with a warm kind of weight.

“I love you too,” Azzi whispered, and then kissed her, a little longer this time.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that tried to prove something. It was the kind that knew. Slow and steady, familiar and still brand-new in some ways. Paige’s hand came up to rest on Azzi’s cheek, thumb brushing along her jaw as they melted into each other like time had paused just for them.

When they pulled apart, Paige whispered, “You taste like honey.”

“Tea,” Azzi smiled, eyes soft. “You distracted me before I finished making it.”

“Finish it now,” Paige said. “I like watching you.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, grinning, but stood anyway and padded back to the kitchen. Paige’s gaze followed her like it was pulled by gravity.

Fifteen minutes later, they were curled up again—Paige’s head resting in Azzi’s lap, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on her girlfriend’s knee while Azzi sipped from her mug and read something on her iPad.

“Do you ever think about what comes next?” Paige asked suddenly, voice barely more than a murmur.

Azzi glanced down. “Next like... after college?”

“Yeah.” Paige kept tracing little figure eights, her thumb now sliding along Azzi’s shin. “Like… we’ll go pro, hopefully. You’ll get drafted. I’ll play wherever my knee holds up. But… what about us?”

Azzi blinked, setting her mug down. “Paige…”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Paige said quickly, sitting up slightly. “I just mean—I think about it. About what it looks like. Not just ball. Us. Do we get a place together? Do we stay long distance if we get drafted to different cities? Do you get sick of me leaving cereal bowls in the sink and my socks in the couch cushions?”

Azzi was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled, slow and certain.

“I think we figure it out.”

Paige’s eyes softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Azzi said, brushing her fingers along Paige’s jaw. “I think I’d follow you anywhere. Not because I have to. Because I want to.”

Paige closed her eyes for a moment, taking that in.

“You’re gonna be a first-round pick,” Paige murmured. “You know that, right? You deserve everything. Big market, big contract. Starting five. Your name in lights.”

Azzi tilted her head. “And you think I’d be happy with all that if you weren’t in the picture?”

Paige blinked.

“I don’t need lights, Paige,” Azzi said softly. “I just need you. If we’re in the same city, that’s amazing. If we’re not, we’ll call, we’ll fly, we’ll make it work. But you don’t need to worry about me getting sick of you. I’m in this. All the way.”

Paige’s heart felt like it was doing something dramatic in her chest—flipping or swelling or maybe both.

She leaned forward, kissed Azzi again. This time with a little more weight behind it. A promise in the press of lips.

“I want to wake up next to you every day,” Paige said when they broke apart. “I want to cook you breakfast and argue over what movie to watch and do your laundry because you hate folding it.”

Azzi laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “God, I love you.”

Paige wrapped her arms around her and pulled her into her chest. They stayed like that for a long while—holding each other in the quiet, the only sounds the distant hum of the fridge and the muffled TV in the background.

Eventually, Azzi mumbled against Paige’s shirt, “Wanna make pancakes?”

“It’s midnight.”

Azzi leaned back with a smirk. “And I thought you were the bad influence.”

The kitchen smelled like butter and chocolate chips by the time they were halfway through making the second batch. Azzi stood at the stove, flipping with precise wrist movements. Paige danced around behind her to a song playing from her phone speaker, out of beat and ridiculous on purpose.

“You’re such a dork,” Azzi said, trying not to smile.

Paige twirled dramatically and kissed her cheek. “But I’m your dork.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You love it.”

Azzi couldn’t deny it. She was pretty sure she’d never loved anything more.

Later, after the dishes were (mostly) cleaned and their plates were licked clean, they curled back up in bed. Paige lay on her back, one arm under Azzi’s head, the other resting over her waist. Azzi had her face pressed to Paige’s shoulder, her hand resting just over Paige’s heart.

The room was quiet again. Their kind of quiet.

“Hey,” Paige whispered.

“Hmm?”

“You’re my favorite part of every day.”

Azzi looked up, sleepy and soft. “Same.”

“Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Wherever we end up… let’s keep doing this. Talking. Pancakes at midnight. Saying ‘I love you’ like it’s the first time and the hundredth.”

Azzi kissed her collarbone, then her neck, then her jaw.

“Promise.”

And that was enough.

Because some love stories didn’t need a big ending—they just needed quiet nights, shared blankets, sleepy kisses, and the absolute certainty that no matter what came next, they’d face it together.

[imaginarytree]

back on my emo bbg headcanons because my fics are straight up cheeks

anyhow

Flame Reaver!Phainon who's been deprieved of contact and comfort for so long he's forgotten how it felt

Flame Reaver!Phainon who had used Oronyx's blessing in the first cycle to freeze the memories of you so he would never forget a single thing about you

Flame Reaver!Phainon who often found himself daydreaming when he had nothing to do

Flame Reaver!Phainon who subconciously leaves flowers and gifts in front of the house of the "current you" out of habit but never once regretted it because it brings out the smile he had never stopped adoring to your face

Flame Reaver!Phainon who protects you and gets rid of the enemies swiftly and silently even when you're unaware of his presence

Flame Reaver!Phainon who is still a romantic at heart even if he numbed it to continue his mission and ensures you are safe and happy when he disguises himself as the Chrysos Heir!Phainon

Flame Reaver!Phainon who scoffs when his "other self" chooses the duty over you again and takes it upon himself to get you into a nice date to make you happy

Flame Reaver!Phainon who is somehow clingier than Chrysos Heir!Phainon and is glued to you everywhere you go because he needs to stay by your side to feel at peace

Flame Reaver!Phainon who prefers hugging you from behind and lay his head on your shoulder as he watches you fullfill your daily duties

Flame Reaver!Phainon who even when he's disguised intimidates anyone who doesn't have any good intentions with you but will look like a wet cat when you look at him

Flame Reaver!Phainon who kisses with devotion like you are the air he breathes and like a butterfly in the harsh winds

His kisses are soft serene and fragile but leave you light headed

Flame Reaver!Phainon who will cover you if you wear clothes that show too much in public because that view is for his eyes only

Flame Reaver!Phainon who comes at your house in the dead of night after he got rid of the enemies and lays his head on your lap as you soothe him with your touch and hum a song to help him relax

Flame Reaver!Phainon who's body is more toned than Chrysos Heir!Phainon because of the countless battles he's fought and won and who's countless scars are proof of those victories he's archieved in his long life

Flame Reaver!Phainon who despite everything shivers when you let your fingers trail through them with gentleness and praise him for being so brave and strong willed

Flame Reaver!Phainon my love😭💕

[theonottsbxtch]

FOGGY MEMORIES | MV1

an: this is slightly based off of a request but not at all at the same time, i had this idea come to me in a dream and had to write it as soon as possible. this one is dedicated to 🐴non x

wc: 6.0k

THE CITY HUMMED WITH QUIET MENACE, a sprawling jungle of glass and steel that never truly slept. High above the streets, the skyline was shrouded in a dense layer of mist, the lights of distant towers bleeding through like smudged paint on a dark canvas. Somewhere below, the world carried on, unaware of the silent war that played out in the shadows—where men like Max Verstappen existed, moving unseen, ghosts in the system.

Max had been doing this for as long as he could remember. Recruited young, trained to be invisible, his life had been stripped of anything that didn’t serve the mission. Emotion dulled, past erased—he had been remade into something precise, something lethal. He didn’t question it. There was no point.

Tonight was no different. His orders had been clear: infiltrate, extract, disappear. A routine operation for someone like him. The target was a classified data vault hidden beneath the bones of an abandoned government facility—forgotten by the world but not by those who understood its value. Whatever was locked inside was important enough for the agency to send him, which meant there was no room for error.

The corridors were silent, bathed in the cold glow of emergency lights. He moved without a sound, a shadow slipping past security feeds and motion sensors with practised ease. The hard drive was exactly where it was supposed to be, tucked behind layers of encryption and reinforced steel. He bypassed the safeguards in seconds, fingers flying over the terminal, but just as the transfer neared completion, the air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

He wasn’t alone.

A flicker in his peripheral vision—then movement. Fast.

Max barely twisted in time to avoid the strike aimed at his throat, instinct carrying him backwards as a blade skimmed past his skin. No hesitation, no wasted effort. He countered immediately, using the momentum to lash out, but she was already gone, slipping back into the dim light like smoke.

His eyes locked onto her, scanning, assessing. She was good. Too good. Every movement precise, every attack calculated. Not just an operative—an equal.

They clashed again, the fight a brutal dance of skill and intent. Strikes deflected, counters met with counters. For every step he gained, she matched him effortlessly, as if she knew exactly how he moved, how he thought.

And then, as their blades met in a deadlock, a flicker of something else. Not recognition—something deeper, buried beneath years of erased memories.

A flash.

Fifteen years old, standing in the rain, bruised and bleeding but not broken. A voice—her voice—sharp with defiance. Again.

It vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only the pounding of his pulse and the fire in her eyes.

Who was she?

She twisted free, launching into another attack, and Max forced himself to focus. Questions could wait. First, he had to survive.

The fight pressed on, a deadly rhythm of movement and steel. Each strike was met with precision, each dodge answered with equal force. It had been a long time since Max had faced someone who could keep up with him—longer still since he had felt something close to uncertainty in a fight. But there was no denying it. She knew him. Knew the way he moved, the way he anticipated attacks before they landed.

And worse—he knew her too.

Not in a way that made sense. Not in a way that should have been possible.

She feinted left before twisting low, her boot catching his knee hard enough to unbalance him. He barely managed to absorb the impact, rolling back to create distance. He expected her to press forward, to take advantage of the opening, but instead, she hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Her breathing was steady, her stance unwavering, but in her eyes—something flickered. A question.

Max clenched his jaw. He couldn't afford hesitation, couldn't afford doubt. Whoever she was, whatever this was, it didn’t change the mission. He forced himself to move, closing the distance between them with speed, but as he reached for his knife, another flash tore through him—

Fifteen again. A training room lit with harsh white fluorescents. The air thick with the scent of sweat and blood. His body ached, muscles trembling from exhaustion, but he refused to stop. She stood opposite him, just as battered, just as relentless. Her voice, breathless but sharp—

"You’re getting slow, Max."

The memory splintered as she moved, striking at him with that same speed, that same precision. He barely countered in time.

His pulse thundered. He had no past, that’s what he’d been told. Whatever he was remembering right now, he wasn’t supposed to remember.

And yet…

A part of him did.

She drove him back, seizing control of the fight, her attacks coming faster now, sharper—more desperate. As if she, too, was fighting something beyond just the mission.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. The abandoned facility, the stolen data, the reason they were even here in the first place—it all faded into insignificance. There was only her. The way she moved. The way something deep within his bones screamed that this wasn’t the first time they had fought like this.

Then, just as suddenly, the silence shattered.

A distant alarm.

Reinforcements.

Max swore under his breath. This had already gone too far.

Their gazes locked, breath ragged, neither willing to lower their guard. But the moment was broken.

Whoever she was, whatever this was—they were out of time.

The distant alarm pulsed through the facility, a stark reminder that they weren’t alone. The fight should have ended then and there—one of them should have taken the opportunity to finish it. But neither of them moved.

Max’s grip tightened around his knife, but his instincts screamed at him to do something else entirely. Run. Stay. Demand answers. The confusion was a dangerous distraction, one he had never allowed himself before.

She was still watching him, breathing hard, eyes flicking towards the corridor where the reinforcements would be coming from. Her hesitation was telling.

She wasn’t here for them.

Whoever she was—whatever her mission—she was working alone.

The second stretched between them, thick with something unspoken, before she made her choice.

She turned and ran.

Max almost let her go. Almost.

But something inside him wouldn’t allow it.

Without thinking, he took off after her.

She was fast, her movements fluid, as if she already knew the building’s layout. He followed instinctively, boots silent against the steel grates as they weaved through the abandoned corridors. The flashing red lights cast long shadows, flickering over rusted walls and forgotten machinery.

She took a sharp turn, disappearing into a stairwell. Max followed without hesitation, vaulting over the railing to cut her off at the landing below. She barely managed to stop in time, skidding to a halt before twisting into a defensive stance.

For the first time, she spoke.

"Still reckless."

The words sent an almost physical shock through him. Not because of what she’d said—but because of how she’d said it. Not mocking. Not surprised. Just… knowing.

Max didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

His chest was heaving, his mind torn between the mission and the undeniable truth that was forcing its way through the cracks in his erased past.

Then, another flash—

Younger. A different place. Late night, stolen moments between brutal training sessions. A whispered conversation in the dark. She’s beside him, pressing an ice pack to his ribs, smirking slightly as he winces.

"Still reckless," she murmurs, and there’s something almost fond in her voice.

It hit him like a bullet. The memory wasn’t vague or blurred—it was real.

Which meant she was real.

His hesitation was all she needed. With a sharp movement, she threw something—small, metallic—towards the ground between them. A split second later, smoke erupted, thick and blinding.

Max lunged forward, but by the time he broke through the haze, she was gone.

Vanished into the labyrinth of the facility.

The alarm was still blaring. He could hear the distant shouts of guards closing in, but his mind was elsewhere, stuck in the past he wasn’t supposed to have.

Who the hell was she?

And why had they made him forget?

The mission was slipping away.

Max knew it—could feel it unraveling the second he made his choice. The data didn’t matter anymore. The agency’s orders, the years of conditioning that had drilled obedience into his bones—none of it mattered. Not when the memories were clawing their way back to the surface, memories that weren’t supposed to exist.

She wasn’t supposed to exist.

But she did. And he needed to find her.

The alarm pulsed overhead, the facility coming alive with movement as guards swept through the corridors. Max melted into the shadows, instincts taking over, but his mind was elsewhere—tracing the route she had taken, searching for an exit she might have used.

He replayed every detail of their fight, every step of her retreat. She had moved with certainty, like she knew exactly where she was going. That meant she had planned this.

Which meant she had a way out.

Max exhaled sharply and turned away from the terminal. The stolen data was still mid-transfer, the mission still technically salvageable—but that wasn’t why he was here anymore. He left it behind without hesitation, slipping into the stairwell she had disappeared through moments before.

His body moved on instinct, muscle memory leading him through the facility as if chasing something deeper than just a target.

Fifteen again. Late-night training. They were always the last two left standing, bruised and aching but refusing to fall. A voice in the dark, hers—

"They’ll break us apart one day."

He hadn’t believed her.

Max’s jaw clenched. They had broken them apart. Wiped them clean. Turned them into strangers.

But not completely.

Some part of him still remembered. And if that part existed in him, then it existed in her too.

He reached the lower levels of the building, moving faster now. The reinforcements were closing in above—he could hear the distant echo of boots, orders shouted over comms. He had minutes at best.

The facility was a relic of a forgotten past, its lower levels half-abandoned, corridors thick with dust and disuse. It was the perfect place to disappear.

And that’s exactly what she had done.

Max slowed, scanning the space, eyes catching the faintest disturbance in the dust—a trail. Not clumsy, not obvious, but enough. She wanted to vanish, but she was still human. Still breathing, still moving, still—

There.

A side door, slightly ajar. The faintest shift in the air, the ghost of movement beyond.

Max didn’t hesitate.

He pushed through, slipping into the dimly lit corridor beyond, senses sharp. The space was narrow, lined with rusted pipes, the distant hum of an old ventilation system vibrating through the walls. She had taken this route for a reason.

An exit.

He moved quickly but carefully, resisting the urge to break into a sprint. She knew he was coming—she had to. But she hadn’t tried to stop him.

Why?

The corridor opened up into a loading bay, long abandoned, the night air cutting sharp through a broken shutter. Outside, the city sprawled in the distance, a blur of lights against the dark.

She was there.

Standing just beyond the exit, half-turned, as if debating whether to disappear for good.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

"You left the mission," she said, voice unreadable.

Max exhaled slowly. "So did you."

Something flickered in her eyes. Something almost like recognition. Like a truth neither of them could quite grasp.

He took a step forward.

And this time—she didn’t run.

Max barely had time to react. One second, they were standing there, locked in some unspoken standoff—the next, she moved. Fast. Too fast.

He didn’t even see the knife until it was pressed against his throat.

The cold bite of steel sent a sharp pulse through him, but he didn’t flinch. His hands remained at his sides, body taut, ready—but he didn’t strike. Not yet.

She was close now. Close enough that he could see the steady rise and fall of her chest, the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice low.

Her grip on the knife didn’t waver.

"They’ll kill you if I answer that question."

The words shouldn’t have sent a chill through him, but they did. Not because of what she said—but because of how she said it. A warning, not a threat. A truth she didn’t want to speak aloud.

He held her gaze. "Then why not kill me yourself?"

Her jaw tensed. "If I wanted you dead, you would be."

Something about the certainty in her voice sent his pulse spiking.

"Then tell me," he pressed. "Tell me why I remember you."

She exhaled sharply, her expression flickering—just for a second. As if she wanted to. As if she was weighing whether or not to break whatever rules had been drilled into her as deeply as his own.

Then, finally—

"Ask Christian where he picked you up from."

Max’s breath stilled.

The name hit him harder than it should have.

Christian. His handler. The man who had trained him, who had shaped him into what he was today. The one person in his life who had ever been constant.

There was nothing before him. No memories, no past. Christian had found him, recruited him, trained him—

Hadn’t he?

The question lodged itself deep, twisting into something sharp and unfamiliar.

He shook his head. "Christian raised me."

She pressed the knife just a little harder against his skin—not enough to cut, just enough to make sure he felt it.

"No, he didn’t."

Max’s throat went dry.

The certainty in her voice, the way she didn’t even hesitate—it felt like a noose tightening around something inside him.

The life he’d known had always been clear, precise, unshakable. He had been taken in as a boy, trained to be a ghost, stripped of anything that might make him hesitate. No attachments. No past.

No questions.

But now—

Now he wasn’t so sure.

She must have seen the doubt flicker in his eyes because something in her stance shifted. Not in triumph. Not in relief. Something closer to regret.

The knife at his throat lowered slightly, just enough to press against his chest instead. Light. Just a touch. A reminder.

"Whatever you do," she said softly, "don’t let them make you forget again."

The words hit him like a gunshot.

And then—she was gone.

A single blink, a breath too slow, and she vanished into the shadows like she had never been there at all.

Max stood frozen, the city wind cutting sharp against his skin.

His hands curled into fists.

Because for the first time in his life, he had a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

The flight back was silent.

Max sat motionless in the jet’s dim cabin, hands clasped loosely, gaze fixed on nothing. The city lights faded beneath him, swallowed by the vast dark as they ascended. The hum of the engines filled the space, steady and constant—something to focus on. Something to drown out the chaos in his head.

Christian would be waiting for him.

He had no mission report to give. No extracted data, no explanations that would make sense. It was the first mission he had ever failed.

And the worst part was—he hadn’t even tried to succeed.

The memory of her voice lingered, curling around the edges of his mind like smoke. The way she moved, the way she spoke—like she knew him. Like she had always known him.

Like he should have known her.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words dug deep. No matter how much he tried to push them away, they wouldn’t leave him.

The base was cold when he arrived, the same clinical sterility as always, but tonight, it felt different. Or maybe he was different.

Christian was waiting for him, as expected. He stood with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable, but Max knew him well enough to recognise the subtle tension in his shoulders. Disappointment.

Christian let the silence stretch for a moment before he finally spoke.

"You’ve never failed a mission before."

Max kept his expression blank. "There were complications."

"Complications." Christian’s tone was flat, like he was waiting for something more.

Max exhaled, keeping his body relaxed, forcing himself into the role he had played for years. "Security was heavier than expected. Extraction was compromised. I made the call to retreat before it escalated."

A lie. A clean, believable lie.

Christian studied him carefully.

Then, with quiet finality—

"That’s not the whole truth."

Something in Max’s gut twisted. Christian knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not her, but enough to know that Max was keeping something from him.

He needed to tread carefully. He needed to play this right.

So why the hell did he open his mouth and say—

"Where did you pick me up from?"

The words had barely left him before the shift in the air was immediate.

Christian’s entire body went still.

A long, heavy silence.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"You’re remembering."

Max’s stomach turned.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t disbelief. It was a confirmation.

Christian knew.

And before Max could even react, before he could think of a way to fix this, to backtrack, to—

The door behind him slid open.

Boots. Movement. Too many of them.

His instincts flared, but before he could reach for a weapon, hands were on him. A hard grip on his arms, forcing them behind his back. He tensed, about to fight, but then he saw it—

The mask.

The metal apparatus in their hands, wires trailing, the gleam of something sharp and invasive.

Max’s breath locked in his throat.

No.

Not this.

Not again.

He never knew what it did. 

All he knew was that it hurt.

His pulse pounded, his body coiled to resist, but Christian only took a step back, running a hand down his face.

"Fuck. How is this happening already?"

The hands on Max tightened. He thrashed against them, instincts screaming to fight, to run, but it was already too late. The mask was forced over his face, the sharp scent of chemicals hitting him fast.

His vision swayed. The edges of the room blurred.

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

Her voice, clear as a bullet to the skull.

Max fought. He fought, but the world was slipping, pulling him under.

And then—

Darkness.

The world came back in pieces.

A dull ache throbbed behind Max’s eyes, a deep, lingering weight pressing against his skull. His body felt heavy, sluggish, like he was surfacing from somewhere too deep, somewhere he wasn’t supposed to have been.

He was lying on something cold. A cot. The metallic scent of the base’s medical wing filled his lungs, sterile and artificial. The hum of overhead lights buzzed faintly in the background, a rhythmic, familiar noise that should have grounded him.

But something was off.

His thoughts were slow, thick, like they were moving through treacle.

And then—

"You're awake."

Christian’s voice.

Max blinked against the brightness, his vision sharpening as he turned his head. Christian stood a few feet away, arms crossed, studying him with the careful scrutiny of someone searching for cracks in a foundation.

Max forced himself upright. The movement sent a sharp wave of nausea through him, but he ignored it.

"What happened?" His own voice felt distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Christian exhaled through his nose, something unreadable flickering across his expression. "You wiped out during the mission. Comms went dark. We had to extract you."

Wiped out? That wasn’t—

No, that couldn’t be right.

The mission. He’d gone in alone. Infiltrated the facility. He was about to extract the data, and then—

His head pulsed, a sharp spike of pain cutting through his thoughts.

Christian watched him carefully. "What do you remember?"

Max frowned, trying to push past the fog. "The facility. I got inside. Security was heavier than expected, but I navigated it. I reached the terminal, started the extraction—"

A flicker of something.

A shadow of movement. The ghost of a fight, a blade catching the dim light—

No.

That wasn’t right.

The mission had gone wrong. That was all.

He forced the thought aside. "There was an alarm. I had to abandon the extraction. That’s when things got messy. I must have taken a hit on the way out."

Christian nodded slowly, as if weighing his words. "You don’t remember anyone else being there?"

The question was casual. Too casual.

Max’s muscles tensed instinctively. "No."

Christian tilted his head slightly. "No other operatives? No one who might have compromised the mission?"

Max shook his head. "I was alone."

The lie slipped out effortlessly. He didn’t know why he was lying, not fully—but something in his gut told him it was necessary.

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—

"You don’t remember anything else?"

There was something about the way he said it. The way his tone shifted, like he was looking for something specific.

Max opened his mouth to deny it again—

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The thought cut through his mind like a blade.

His breath stalled.

Something about those words felt wrong. Or rather—too sharp. Too defined. Like they weren’t supposed to be there at all.

The chemicals had done their job. He knew they had. He felt the emptiness, the hollowed-out space in his head where things had been scrubbed clean.

But that one thought remained.

And he had no idea why.

Christian was still watching him, patient, expectant.

Max forced his expression blank. "No. I don’t remember anything else."

A beat.

Then Christian nodded, like that was the answer he had been waiting for.

"Get some rest," he said, stepping back towards the door. "We’ll debrief properly in the morning."

Max only nodded.

He waited until Christian was gone, until the door clicked shut behind him.

Then, slowly, he exhaled.

His hands curled into fists against the sheets.

Because something wasn’t right.

And this time, no matter what they did to him—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

Max sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His head still ached—a deep, lingering throb at the base of his skull—but he ignored it. He was too focused on the weight pressing against his chest.

The wrongness of it all.

They had wiped him. They must have. He could feel the gaps, the hazy edges where memories had been scraped clean. It wasn’t the first time.

But this time, something had slipped through.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words sat heavy in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He didn’t know where they came from. Didn’t know why they felt important. But they did.

And that meant something had gone wrong.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, methodically. Focus. He needed to be careful. Christian was already suspicious—his questions hadn’t been casual. He had been testing him.

And Max had barely passed.

He glanced towards the door. Locked, as expected. There would be a guard outside. There always was after the machine, at least for the first few hours. Just in case.

They were watching him.

Which meant he needed to act like nothing was wrong.

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His body felt steady now, movements fluid despite the dull weight in his skull. He crossed the small room, pressing his fingertips against the cool metal wall, grounding himself in something tangible.

His reflection stared back at him from the glass panel by the door. He looked the same as always—sharp, composed, unreadable.

But he didn’t feel the same.

He reached up, pressing his palm against his chest, against the spot where—

A flicker. A whisper of sensation, something just out of reach—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

His breath caught.

Her voice.

It was there. Faint, distant, but real.

And suddenly, he knew.

The wipe hadn’t worked properly. Not completely.

Something had stayed behind.

And if something had stayed behind, then so had she.

Max clenched his jaw.

They thought they had erased her. Thought they had wiped him clean, reset him like they always did.

But this time, something was different.

And for the first time in his life—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

The next week was hell.

Max barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt like he was missing something, like the answers were just out of reach, slipping through his fingers the moment he got too close.

He spent hours running through the details in his head, over and over, searching for cracks. But there was nothing tangible—just fragments. A voice that didn’t belong. A question he shouldn’t have asked. The phantom feeling of a knife pressing lightly against his chest.

Every time he thought he was getting somewhere, it was like slamming into an invisible wall.

The chemicals had done their job too well.

He found himself pacing his room at night, replaying Christian’s words, analysing every interaction, searching for a thread to pull.

But he couldn’t.

There was nothing there.

And that was the most maddening part.

By the fourth day, he was barely holding it together.

He was losing his edge. He could feel it. His reaction time was slower, his focus splintered. During training exercises, he caught himself hesitating, second-guessing movements that should have been instinctual.

It wasn’t just affecting him mentally. It was affecting his performance.

And that was dangerous.

By the fifth day, he started telling himself he was going insane.

That was the only logical explanation, wasn’t it?

They had wiped him. That was routine. He had failed a mission—Christian had told him what had happened. There was no reason to question it.

The words in his head, the voice, the flashes of something more—

They weren’t real. They couldn’t be real.

His own mind was turning against him. That was all. He just needed to let it go.

But he couldn’t.

Because somewhere, deep down, he knew that wasn’t true.

And the not-knowing was driving him to the edge.

On the seventh day, Christian came to him with a new mission.

Max barely had time to gather himself before he was summoned to the briefing room. The moment he walked in, he felt Christian’s gaze settle on him, sharp and assessing, like he was looking for something.

Max straightened his posture, schooling his features into something neutral. He had to keep it together.

Christian held out a thin file. "You’re being deployed again."

Max took it, flipping it open. The details were standard—location, objective, extraction plan. Another infiltration job. Another ghost mission.

But Christian wasn’t watching the file.

He was watching him.

"You look like shit, Max," he said bluntly.

Max barely blinked. "Didn’t realise I was being assessed on aesthetics."

Christian didn’t smile. "You haven’t been sleeping properly."

It wasn’t a question.

Max shut the file, keeping his expression unreadable. "I’m fine."

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—"Good. Because this time, there’s no margin for error."

Something about the way he said it sent a sharp pulse through Max’s gut.

Because Christian wasn’t just talking about the mission.

He was testing him. Again.

And Max had no idea if he was still passing.

The mission was straightforward. Infiltration. Retrieval. Extraction.

No complications. No surprises.

At least, that’s what the file said.

Max knew better.

Christian had given him a comms unit this time, something he never did unless he expected to monitor performance directly. Which meant this wasn’t just about completing the objective—it was about proving himself.

Proving he wasn’t slipping.

Proving he was still the same agent he had always been.

Proving he wasn’t remembering.

He locked in. Forced his mind to focus. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

The drop site was an abandoned industrial complex on the outskirts of Prague. The air was thick with the scent of rust and rain-soaked concrete, the sound of distant traffic humming just beyond the perimeter.

Max moved quickly, slipping through the darkness like a shadow. The plan was clean—get inside, access the target’s server, extract the encrypted data, and leave before anyone knew he was there.

But Christian’s presence in his ear made everything feel off.

"Comms check." Christian’s voice crackled through the line.

"Copy," Max muttered under his breath.

"You’re on a tight window. No distractions."

The words were casual. But the way he said them wasn’t.

Max ignored it. Pushed forward.

The building was hollowed out, skeletal remains of an old factory now repurposed for something far less industrial. Surveillance equipment was minimal—whoever was running this operation relied on secrecy rather than security.

It made things easier.

Within minutes, Max had reached the target room. A small, nondescript office, a single desk, and a humming server in the corner.

He set up quickly, connecting the extraction device to the system, watching the data begin to transfer.

"ETA?" Christian asked.

"Two minutes."

"Good. Keep it clean."

Max clenched his jaw. The way Christian was talking—it wasn’t just mission oversight. It was scrutiny. He wasn’t just expecting success. He was waiting for a mistake.

Max exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the task. He just had to get through this.

He watched the transfer bar crawl forward, the soft whir of the machine filling the silence.

Almost there.

And then—

A noise.

A shift in the air, subtle but wrong.

Max didn’t hesitate. He cut the extraction, ripped out the device, and had his gun raised in the same breath—

But the doorway was empty.

Nothing. No movement.

Still, his pulse had spiked.

Something was there.

He could feel it.

"Max?" Christian’s voice came through the comms.

Max didn’t lower his weapon. "I heard something."

A pause. Then, calmly—"You’re alone."

It was meant to reassure him.

It didn’t.

Max swallowed down the unease, forcing himself to move. He secured the drive, checked the hall, and started his exit.

He needed to get out.

But as he moved through the corridors, every shadow felt heavier. Every noise felt sharper.

Like he wasn’t alone at all.

And then—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

The voice wasn’t in his comms.

It was in his head.

Max stumbled. Just for a second.

But it was enough.

"Max?" Christian again. Sharper this time.

Max gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing steady. "I’m fine."

A lie.

Because he wasn’t fine.

Something was wrong.

And this time, he wasn’t sure he could ignore it.

Max barely had time to react.

A presence—too close, too quiet—moved behind him, and before he could turn, the cold press of a blade kissed his throat.

He went rigid.

Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to twist out of the hold, to strike first and ask questions later. But something stopped him.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Faint, distant, buried beneath the layers of conditioning. But it was there.

A whisper of something lost.

He opened his mouth—

A hand slid over it, silencing him.

"Shh."

The voice was barely above a breath, warm against his ear.

And familiar.

His pulse hammered against his ribs.

She moved swiftly, with precision—reaching up to his ear, plucking the comm unit free before he could stop her.

A second later, she dropped it to the ground and brought her boot down hard.

The crack of crushed tech echoed through the empty hallway.

Static burst in his ear—then silence.

Christian was gone.

Max inhaled slowly, carefully. "If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me who you are first."

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped around him, lowering the knife as she did. Her grip was light, controlled, like she knew he was dangerous but wasn’t afraid.

He finally got a proper look at her.

Dark clothing, tactical gear—she was built for this world, just like he was. Her face was unreadable, save for her eyes.

They were sharp, calculating. But not unfamiliar.

Max clenched his jaw.

She knew him.

She turned her gaze towards the drive in his hand, then back to him. "Do you have what you need?"

His fingers curled around it instinctively. "Why do you care?"

She exhaled, a quiet huff of something—annoyance, amusement, he couldn’t tell. Then, without a word, she reached past him, grabbed the device, plugged it in and began tapping a few keys on the terminal he’d left behind.

The screen flickered.

His extraction continued.

She was helping him.

Every muscle in his body stayed taut, waiting for the catch. "Why are you doing this?"

Silence.

The transfer completed. She pulled the drive free and pressed it into his palm.

He didn’t take his eyes off her. "Who are you?"

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then—

Softly, carefully—

"You already know."

Unlike last time, she didn’t leave.

Instead, she pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket, a rough tear from something larger. She grabbed a pen from the desk, quick and efficient, and scribbled something down.

Then, without hesitation, she stepped closer.

Too close.

Max didn’t move, but he felt his muscles lock, felt the brush of her knuckles as she slipped the folded paper between the straps of his tactical vest, tucking it neatly against his chest.

A calculated move.

Deliberate.

His pulse spiked—just for a second, just enough that he hated himself for it.

She held his gaze, unreadable. "Meet me here. Seventeen hundred. I’ll give you the answers you want."

Max’s throat felt dry. He glanced down at the paper, at the faint scratch of ink just visible through the fold. An address.

He exhaled sharply. "I can’t leave my base."

She tilted her head slightly, as if considering him. "If you’re motivated enough—if you want the answers—you can."

Simple. Direct.

And infuriatingly confident.

Max clenched his jaw. He should shove the paper back at her. Should call her bluff, demand an explanation now. But his fingers twitched instead, the whisper of her touch still there, phantom-like, against his chest.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough to unsettle him.

By the time he forced himself to look up again, she was already turning away.

He should stop her. He should do something.

But for some reason, he didn’t.

He just stood there, the weight of the paper burning against his skin.

By the time Max stepped out of the building, she was gone.

No trace. No sound. Just the faint echo of her voice still lingering in his head.

His fingers twitched against his vest where the paper sat, warm from his body heat, feeling heavier than it should. He resisted the urge to pull it out and look. Not here. Not yet.

Instead, he locked in, moved. The extraction point was half a mile north, and he didn’t have time to dwell. The moment he was in the open, he moved fast, slipping through the industrial skeleton of the compound, mindlessly following the path drilled into him.

And yet—

The address. The time. The way she had stood so close, the way she had known him.

It was all he could think about.

The jet was already waiting when he arrived. He barely had time to board before Christian turned from where he stood by the cockpit, eyes sharp, scanning him like a threat assessment.

Max pulled off his gloves, keeping his movements smooth, measured. Controlled.

Christian frowned. "What happened to your comms?"

Max didn’t blink. "Glitch. Cut out before extraction. Didn’t have time to fix it."

Christian studied him for a beat too long, but then—exhale. A slow nod. "Tech will look at it."

It worked.

Christian believed him.

Max sank into his seat, forcing his body to relax, listening to the hum of the jet as it powered up. The mission was over.

But his mind wasn’t anywhere near it.

He should be thinking about the debrief, about the logistics of his return, about the inevitable post-mission assessments.

Instead, all he could think about was her.

And the paper in his vest.

And the fact that in less than twenty-four hours, he was going to have to do something he had never done before.

Find a way out.

PART TWO...

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[minbells]

Megumi who doesn’t think there’s anything more breathtaking than the sight of you in this very moment. And yet, there’s nothing too extravagant nor inappropriately enticing about what you’re doing. You’re just, there. And that’s enough for his heart to start racing.

"Can’t sleep?" he attempts a greeting, and you turn your head towards him, surprised to see him up and on the same rooftop as you in the late hours of the night. You have a book on your lap and your fluffy blanket is loose around your shoulders. As he gets closer he can spot goosebumps on your skin. You sleepily smile up at him, your legs dangling on the side of the rooftop and he almost wants to scold you from sitting too close to the edge. Instead his heart just melts because you look absolutely adorable and he wants to kiss you.

"Yeah, it’s just harder to fall asleep some nights," you hum, and you catch an understanding nod from him as he settles next to you. You stay silent for a little bit, book forgotten, and you both stare at the leaves rustling with the wind, appreciating how quiet and secluded Jujutsu Tech is, especially at night. The moon peaks through heavy clouds and your features are enhanced by the gentle glow — Megumi has to slightly shake his head to suppress the lovesick smile that threatens to appear on his lips. Lord, why does he only lose his cool around you?

"We should do something tomorrow," you suddenly blurt out after a long yawn, and it immediately triggers a blush on his cheeks. "You know, we never really hang out just the two of us."

"We’re hanging out right now," he responds before he could stop himself, and you smile sheepishly, turning towards him in an attempt to catch the look on his face. Dread is what you see, because why the hell did he say that? He almost wants to slap himself for his smart ass comment, but you just smile gently at him and all thoughts leave his head at the sight.

"I know, but I mean we should do something when we’re less sleep deprived and stores are actually open. We could go that arcade Yuuji always talks about, win tons of plushies and get into a food coma," your eyes sparkle slightly at the idea — you are so cute — but then you seem to come to your senses. "I mean, we could also do something more, uh, mature I guess, like taking a walk or something, I don’t know… do your demon dogs like to be walked?," you ramble and he finds it so endearing he almost doesn’t realize that you just asked him out.

Wait, did you just asked him out? And then he blurts it out; "Are you asking me out?," and part of him wants to jump off that roof because why is he so awkward about those things meanwhile you’re an absolute angel. There’s a few seconds of silent where your eyes just widen at him and you pull the blanket closer to your body, feeling slightly smaller under the pressure of his question.

"I- I mean," you trail off, avoiding his intense stare at all cost and finding a sudden interest in picking at the dirt under your nails. But then you remember that it’s Megumi, one of the most practical and calculated guy you know, always so unbothered — unless it comes to you, although you’re unaware of the effect you have on him — and you have a feeling that if you’re not completely clear about what you want he’s probably never going to do anything about it.

And so you find enough confidence in yourself to say what you really want to say. "Yes, I’m asking you out. On a date."

Again, the silence is heavy. You wonder if you came on too strong, if you’ve misread the connection that you’ve always felt with him. This wasn’t your first late night talk, and usually you would always train together. You were always close, and you definitely thought that there was something more that the two of you could share together. Meanwhile, he wonders if you’re joking, or maybe you’re sleepwalking and that’s why you ended up on the roof telling him things he would only dream about.

"You don’t have to, you know…" you try not to sound too disappointed.

"I would love to," he responds immediately, almost eagerly, and he scrambles for anything more coherent to say, but your whole face just lights up and you smile so bright at him that all his worries and awkwardness just melts away at the sight of your happiness. Your smile is exactly what he needed to boost his confidence.

"I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven after training, at your dorm," he says right before he loses his cool demeanour again, not realizing that his cheeks are pink and the tip of his ears red, heart pounding and hands suddenly sweaty — yeah he’s definitely not unbothered by you.

You happily lean in and kiss his cheek, only adding to the fire that’s already raging in his soul. "I can’t wait! What should I wear? I’ll ask Nobara… see you tomorrow, Megumi," you stand and leave, almost with a skip in your step, and he’s dumbfounded, completely lost in the moment, staring ahead with nothing but the sound of your lovely voice echoing in his head, saying his first name for the first time.

He’s left smiling so bright his cheeks hurt.

[vampiremerlot]

˚₊‧꒰ა WHAT'S THE POINT IN BEING EVERYBODY'S GIRL? — finnick odair

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you may belong to the capitol, but finnick makes it clear your hearts will always belong to each other.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationships, referenced prostitution, typical capitol behavior, references to drug/alcohol use, self-esteem issues, finnick comforting reader, district 2!reader, reader won 68th hunger games — 3.5k words

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this is part of a little series of one-shots that are all connected, feel free to check out the masterlist below!

𝐍𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 .˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊

You ran your hands over the front of your dress, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles. It was the latest Capitol fashion — a silky material, so soft that it was hard to tell where the dress stopped and your skin began. The textures were almost identical, as if you were wearing nothing at all. Something that was appealing only to the Capitolites, but was a trend that would remain odd and repulsive to those born in the Districts, even if they were able to afford it.

The dress was a beautiful color, a deep wine red, teetering on the edge of purple. A popular color in the Capitol, this year. Which was, of course, why it had been gifted to you. 

Now that you were of an acceptable age to be seen with older patrons, ones near their retirement age and able to flaunt their money on a pretty, young woman, they were more and more eager to show you off.

Some patrons — that sounded better than clients, to you — didn’t even really care about the sex. They just wanted a shiny new toy, one they could dress up like a doll and tell all their wealthy, socialite friends about. You were a decoration, there to smile at jokes that weren’t funny, giggle at flirtatious remarks that were more than disgusting. 

When a question was asked to you, it was passed through you, spoken at you, nothing more than a courtesy, before they rushed on to talk about themselves again. Capitol socialites wanted to feel polite, like they really had given you an opportunity to speak — you just hadn’t taken it.

Sometimes, that was true. Most of the time, you said a few words, and the minute you took a breath, their voices were already louder, bolder, and much more confident.

Capitols fawned over their friends who got you on their arm. It was always how lucky you are! not many win over the Capitol’s party girl! 

As if you would have ever spent a night in their bed, had your name not been at the top of President Snow’s watchlist. As if your smile didn’t have a dollar sign attached to it, because you knew the Peacekeepers would execute your loved ones if you put one toe out of line.

You wished you were as carefree as the Capitol made you out to be — the ditzy, whimsical party girl, always with a drink in her hand and a playful comment on her tongue. It had been easy to fall into that role. Let your sorrows drown in drugs and liquor.

But your tolerance for alcohol had grown, and you stayed away from Capitol drugs as often as you could. You’d forgotten your evenings one too many times, ended up in a stranger’s bed, completely unaware how you’d gotten there. Never knowing if the evening had been consensual or not. 

You used to think, maybe it would be better, not to know. But the illusion of choice was still better than no choice at all. 

The wine-colored dress hung tightly to your curves, fitting like a glove. Every inch of it kissed your skin softly. The sensuality of it, leaving little to the imagination, lit you up like a sign, making you hard to miss. 

You may have been a Career, a favorite victor of the Capitol’s, but your face still held some of the plainness that came with living in the Districts. It was something you had always believed would make them like you less, appall them, in a way. But to the heathens in the Capitol, it made you seem exotic. They dressed up in their clothes, let you wear their makeup, change your appearance, even though they all knew you’d never quite fit in. 

There was an exhaustion on your face that hadn’t gone away, not since you’d won The Hunger Games six years ago. It had been a disadvantage, at first. Just another excuse for them to use you, to sell you off at eighteen. The  trauma and stress had worn on you, and in the Capitol, aging was a sin. They’d taken one look at you, and it hadn’t mattered that you were still practically a child — your body was already becoming worn and old. 

At twenty-three, you were still young and beautiful, but you would never have the uncanny look of the Capitol citizens, the synthetic and perfect features that others, at your age, already had.

It was a secret blessing. There was something natural in you still — you’d never been poked and prodded at, never searched for a quick remedy to appear ten years younger.

Maybe, that way, they’d tire of you faster. After all, you were nothing more than a woman. 

Sighing, you turned away from your reflection, sick of trying to come up with ways to make the Capitol stop desiring you. If you hadn’t been so worried about your family, scared President Snow would retaliate, you would’ve slashed a knife across your face years ago. 

Somehow, they’d find a way to surgically fix that, too. 

Only age could save you now, though you didn’t want to wish away the years, to wake up and find that half your life had gone by, and you weren’t happy at all. Even if that seemed like the only option.

“You’re so beautiful.” 

The voice came from behind you, and though you’d been deep in your thoughts, you quickly shuttered them away, peering over your shoulder at the figure sprawled across your bed.

Despite yourself and your deep-rooted revulsion, you grew warm, smiling at the compliment. All your life, you’d longed to be beautiful, to be wanted. Yet, when you’d grown up, your body shaping into curves that filled someone else’s fantasies, you’d realized that beauty was just another lie the Capitol had fed you, all these years. 

Your appearance meant little, when you’d seen the worst life had to offer.

Revulsion, both at yourself and the Capitol, still lingered, but the smooth, silky tone of Finnick Odair had always been able to ward off the nightmares. You turned, your smile crooked as you crossed your arms. 

“I know,” you said, waving a hand playfully, hoping you looked half as confident as Finnick did. He’d always been able to exude charisma, whereas you felt you were walking stiffly through the world, wearing stolen make-up, with skin that didn’t belong on your bones. “I felt you staring.” 

Finnick had his legs out behind him, cheek resting on his forearm. Those beautiful, sea-green eyes pinned on the objects of his affection, a small grin creeping on his cheeks. 

“I’m just appreciating the view, honey.” He propped his chin up on his palm, eyes raking over you with an even more pronounced delight.

Sometimes, you weren’t sure if you deserved the reverence that Finnick gave you, how his eyes lingered on you everywhere you went, like you were the only person in the world. He made you feel as if you’d hung the moon, though you were certain that if someone had, you would’ve been the last person able to achieve such a feat.

For a moment, you basked in the honey-colored affection that oozed off of him, cloaking you in something warm and silky. It was nice, to be wrapped up in his love, but it never lasted – reality found a way to ruin the soft, stolen moments you shared.

You sighed, deflating as you remembered that this was not a dress for you at all, but rather for the man that had bought it for you. He had made you promise you’d wear it this evening, if only so he could slip it off of you later, watch as the tight material clung to your skin.

“Well, then, I certainly don’t mind,” you said, answering Finnick’s previous statement, but your tone fell flat. Your smile had grown small, the delight already dimming from your eyes. You’d wanted to make something of his comment, tease him a little, before spinning back into his arms. But the moment was shattered as you looked down, shoulders slumped, the picture of your Capitol persona diminished. 

How nice it would be, to let him lull you into a false security. 

“I just wish it was for you instead.” 

You hadn’t meant to let that slip, for him to hear it at all, but the words rang true, regardless. Finnick preferred you in shades of blue – not the purple and gold tones that those in your District so often wore. The wine color wouldn’t have been something he’d chosen, the texture of the material too strange, the shape too revealing, in a way he would’ve known you hated.

Suddenly, your reflection, despite what Finnick said, was no longer beautiful, no longer seductive. She was an ugly, tarnished creature, ripped apart by the Capitol and sewn back together by the grace of Finnick’s forgiveness. 

You turned away from the mirror, disgusted. 

Finnick, sensing the change, shifted to a seated position, before he stood, with a grim expression. Still, he said nothing, knowing how much you hated his pity—how much he hated your own. You were two sides of the same coin, you and him. Finnick may have been adored by the Capitol, but they spared him the publicity, didn’t force him to be seen with his patrons so often. 

He was still welcomed at home with open arms. You, on the other hand, were disliked by most everyone back in District Two. 

“It doesn’t matter what you wear. You’ll always look beautiful to me,” Finnick said, coming up behind you, his voice quieter,  footsteps softer. His fingers were hesitant, starting at your wrist, before he crept his hands  around your torso, hugging you from behind. “I’ve always thought you were the prettiest girl in the world.” 

That, at least, made the smile resurface on your lips, as you leaned into him, resting your back against his chest. “That’s high praise,” you said, tilting your head, “coming from you.” 

You looked back at him through the mirror, avoiding your own reflection. 

Finnick had always been a charmer, but he’d grown even more handsome as he’d gotten older. You could hardly remember a time when there had been a little less meat on his bones, his cheeks a little fuller, frame a little shorter. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d been a boy, but it sure felt like it. 

He rolled his eyes, kissing your temple as a breathy laugh escaped your chest. As he moved closer, his arms grew tighter around your middle, the warmth of his body engulfing you.

Finnick was the only protective shield you had against the sick, rotting world — the only person who would really understand you.

“Is it?” Finnick said playfully, swaying, only slightly, as he held you. “Because I’m not sure what they see in me.”

No matter how light Finnick had been trying to keep his tone, the anguish seeped through, turning his bright, yellow words a shade of navy. When you met his eyes in the mirror, he didn’t seem completely there. 

His mind had wandered elsewhere. Perhaps back home, to the sea – to a place where you couldn’t be with him. Not unless you subjected nearly two dozen children to slaughter, and a tribute from your own District won. Only then, would you be able to reunite with your lover in District Four.

You supposed that made you lucky – District Two had a better chance of winning than anyone. Sometimes, you brought a child home, and there was hope again. Even if you knew you weren’t really saving them; you were subjecting them to a lifetime of torture. 

That thought alone twisted the short interlude of humor into something grim. Joking seemed harder, now that a frown had started to form on your face.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? They don’t see you,” you said. “They don’t know anything about you at all.”

Whatever softness had flowered between you quickly turned hard as you remembered why it was that you were all dressed up. You pushed out of his arms, turning away from him. It would only be a few hours before someone else’s hands were all over you, inside of you. Finnick’s cleansing touch did little to wash away the grime from all the people that paid for you, past and future.

His eyebrows pinched, but he gave you space, let you take a few, circling steps around the room. Although, as always, you came back to him. If Finnick was the sun, you were the moon, slightly shadowed by his warmth and overwhelming presence, but still hauntingly beautiful in your own way.

“It’s the Capitol. I don’t expect them to care about me,” he replied, shrugging. “Besides, I was only kidding, sweetheart. The less they know the better.” 

You knew that, of course you knew that, but you’d also always known that Finnick was much better at putting on the act than you were. He could charm the pants off anyone. You held your own, but you’d always had slip-ups, ones that Finnick never had. 

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” You stopped pacing, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“You know I do,” Finnick said, gently, trying not to let you get too far away from him. You’d had this conversation on more than one occasion, but he still indulged you, year after year. He was, of course, the only person you could really talk to — at least, the only one you trusted. “But I don’t have a choice. Neither of us do.” He crossed the room to you, encircling one loose hand around your wrist. “I think I’m pretty lucky, though. I have you.”

You blinked, feeling the onslaught of tears, though you shoved them down, tucked that grief deep inside of you. Every tear you shed was just another thing the Capitol had taken away from you. You refused to give them anything more.

“I hate them. Every single last one of them. I hate those fucking parties. I only drink to make them bearable. I hate the people that think their money gives them the right to my body.” You were shaking, though it was mostly out of anger, out of hatred for all the things you’d been forced to become.

You’d tried drinking, after seeing how the Capitol recoiled at Haymitch Abernathy, but you were young and pretty, and it only made you fun. You tried to be quiet, to never say a word, but that only made you mysterious. You tried being mean like Johanna, but they only laughed like you were a child, popped you a pill, and said, this’ll help you calm down.

It didn’t matter what you did, how unappealing you tried to be. You’d won the Hunger Games. Short of saying Fuck the Capitol on national television, there was little you could do to curb their fascination with you and the other victors.

“We’re not lucky. This isn’t lucky, Finnick,” you said, voice catching on his name. “We’re surviving. Would you even love me if I wasn’t the only one who understood, would you–”

He pulled you into him, tucking your head under his chin as you breathed heavily. Your fingers clutched the back of his shirt, nails digging into the skin of his shoulder blades, as he kissed your temple.

“Don’t be silly,” Finnick said, running his fingers down your back. “You know I’d love you through anything. I love you in this life, and I’d love you in another one.”

You breathed.

The two of you were miles and miles away from District Four, but Finnick still smelled like the sea. It was as if being caught in his embrace could transport you there, away from the Games, into a life where you were free. 

It was useless, you’d always known, to let yourself fall for a victor, especially one from another District. Yet, you’d gone and done it anyway; your heart spinning in your chest, jumping out of its rib cage every time you caught a smile from the Capitol’s Darling. 

Finnick spread his kisses across your forehead, down your neck. “You’re mine, you know,” he said, every word like a prayer, endless devotion laced into his voice. “They can’t have you.”

“Can’t they?” You’d meant for it to come out like a scoff, but it was barely above a whisper. “They already have me. They own me. They own you, Finnick. We can’t belong to each other any more than we already belong to the Capitol.” 

“That’s not true—”

“As long as I have someone I love, they own me.” 

You closed your eyes.

Finnick drew back, his soft, gentle hands holding your cheeks. It was hard to accept his kindness, and sometimes, you wished he’d just hurt you like the rest of the Capitols did. That would make it easier, to move on, to fall into your role in the Capitol, to let yourself accept you were the whore they wanted you to be. 

“They can’t take everything,” Finnick said, forcefully, eyes a blazing fire as you snapped your own open to meet his. There was never any guarantee that either of you would be alive when you met again, but even through all the doubts, this, he seemed certain of. “They can’t take your heart. They can’t take mine. Promise me you’ll never let them have it.”

You frowned, leaning your cheek further into his hand. “Finnick–”

It seemed futile, to swear your allegiance to him, but he didn’t back down. He kissed you, his lips lingering on yours, full of an adoration that made you swoon, fall back into his arms. “Promise me,” he said against your mouth. The breath ghosted your lips, melting the icy shield on your heart.

“I can’t promise you anything. I can’t promise you my heart.”

He blinked, resting his forehead on yours. There was a moment of silence, before he spoke again. “Okay.” There was no defeat in his voice, no sadness – he accepted your words, even if they weren’t what he had wanted to hear. “You can’t promise me your heart, but I can promise you mine. It already belongs to you.” 

The very heart in your chest, the one that did, in fact, have a chain around it with Finnick’s name on it, clenched. You couldn’t say it in so many words, but you knew, no matter what happened, that it’d always beat for Finnick Odair. Perhaps, if there was ever a time he died, it’d stop beating entirely. 

“It shouldn’t,” you said, softly. “I might get you killed.” 

“And I might get you killed,” he argued. “But I’d rather die than let the Capitol take you away from me. If I only get one good thing in my life, I want it to be this. For as long as we can manage it.” 

An exhale left your lips. Finnick’s lips were slightly parted, flushed with the passion and strength of the kiss you’d shared. His eyes were wide, blown open by an ocean breeze and the calling of a future – one that may be nothing more than a dream, but a beautiful one, all the same. 

You traced your fingers down his forearm, along the tendons and muscles of the limb, the bones of his wrist, the green and blue veins, before you found his heartbeat. It raced wildly, and you counted the pulses, each beat for a year you’d known one another. Then, you started again, wondering if the melody in your own chest matched his own. 

You weren’t sure how long it took you to answer, but you lost track, realizing the heartbeats were endless, that whatever number you assigned to them was meaningless. That they would continue to go on, until he took his final breath, whether it was one stolen by the Capitol, or the last exhale of a life well-lived. 

Nothing you did would change the fact that he loved you.

Finally, you nodded, slow and stiff. It wasn’t a promise of a future, but it was enough. It had to be. 

“I want the same,” you said, your smile crooked as you looked back at Finnick, through your lashes, coated with thick, black makeup.

Finnick, as if seeing into the sun, smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Before you could suck in another puff of oxygen, his mouth was on yours, pulling the life back out of your chest and into his own.

There was nothing permanent you could offer him, no life that you could live in which you could be tied to one another, but there was this. There was an overflowing, endless stream of affection shared between each of you, an unbroken chain of devotion that bound you to one another. No matter what happened, you’d know that Finnick cared, that he would continue to care.

And as long as there was that… 

Well, you supposed there really was nothing the Capitol could do to break you.

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