#i think I started answering it on the train

[extinctlesspains]

I really loved the salesman imagine.could you write one where the reader and the salesman had a romance.But he gives a card sending her to the games.Feeling and hurt and betrayed she does her best to survive and she ends up winning along with Gi-hun.now three years later the reader goes to visit Gi-Hun with her 2 year old daughter.(she had found out she was pregnant after the games)she walks in on Gi-hun and the salesman during Russian roulette 

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 [𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑛]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ: ʏᴇs ᴏʀ ɴᴏ

☆ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴛʜᴇ sᴀʟᴇsᴍᴀɴ x ᴀғᴀʙ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

☆ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ᴀɴɢsᴛ

☆ sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ sᴀʟᴇsᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ sᴇɴᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ ɢᴀᴍᴇs sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇs, ᴅɪsᴄᴏᴠᴇʀs sʜᴇ’s ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇʙᴜɪʟᴅs ʜᴇʀ ʟɪғᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ. ʏᴇᴀʀs ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ, sʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴғʀᴏɴᴛs ᴛʜᴇ sᴀʟᴇsᴍᴀɴ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴛᴇɴsᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ɢɪ-ʜᴜɴ’s ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴄʜᴏᴏsɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪs ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs.

☆ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs: ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ, ᴋɪssɪɴɢ, ᴠɪʀɢɪɴɪᴛʏ ʟᴏss, ᴀʀɢᴜɪɴɢ, ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴜɴ ᴛᴀʟᴋ.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　

It all started with a simple game.

You’d been on your way home, drowning in stress and overdue bills, when a man in a sharp suit approached you at the train station.

“Care for a little fun?” he asked, holding up a red and blue envelope.

At first, you wanted to refuse. But his easy charm—and your desperation—drew you in. He explained the slap-match game, and soon you were caught in the strange, exhilarating rhythm of winning and losing. By the end, you were breathless, laughing despite the sting on your cheek.

“Not bad,” he said, handing over the cash with a smile that felt too warm, too genuine for a stranger.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him after that. When you ran into him again a few days later, he acted like it was coincidence.

“Maybe it’s fate,” he teased.

Soon, he was everywhere—buying you coffee, walking you home, and making your life feel just a little less heavy. He made you laugh, listened to your frustrations, and looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

One night, after weeks of growing closer, you found yourself in his arms. You’d invited him in after a long evening, your walls lowered by exhaustion and the warmth of his presence. You were full of ecstasy after that night. The way his lips kissed your neck, the way his thrusts were so sensual.

“You’re special, you know,” he murmured as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back.

“Do you mean that?” you whispered, scared to hear the answer.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

His words were your undoing. That night, you let him see all of you—your fears, your flaws, and your dreams. For the first time in years, you felt safe.

The illusion shattered when he slid the card across the table.

“What’s this?” you asked, staring at the embossed logo. Circle, triangle, square.

“A chance to change your life,” he said, his tone eerily calm.

You frowned, a pit of unease forming in your stomach. “What kind of chance?”

“It’s a game,” he explained. “An opportunity to win enough money to solve all your problems.”

“Why are you giving me this?” Your voice wavered, the trust you’d built with him suddenly fragile.

“Because I care about you,” he said, his gaze steady.

His face softened, but he didn’t retract the card. “I believe in you, Y/n. More than you believe in yourself.”

His words felt like a betrayal wrapped in a compliment. Against your better judgment, you took the card, driven by desperation and the hope that maybe he was right.

The games were worse than you could have imagined.

Every death chipped away at your soul, and every betrayal reminded you of his. But you refused to break. Gi-hun became your lifeline, his determination and kindness pulling you through when you felt like giving up.

“We’re going to make it,” he promised one night, his voice steady. “We have to.”

You survived, but at a cost. The prize money felt like blood money, and the nightmares lingered long after the games ended.

A month later, you discovered the pregnancy.

At first, you were terrified. The thought of raising a child alone, of explaining where her father was and why he wasn’t around, felt overwhelming. But when you heard her heartbeat for the first time, everything changed.

You named her Hana, meaning “flower.” She became the anchor that kept you grounded, her laughter a reminder that there was still beauty in the world.

When she was born, you held her close, tears streaming down your face. “You’re my miracle,” you whispered.

Hana grew into a bright, curious toddler who filled your life with light. But you couldn’t shake the shadow of her father—the man who had once made you feel safe and then abandoned you to the wolves.

Two years later, you decide to visit Gi-hun. He had become like a brother to you, someone who understood the darkness you’d endured. As you climb the stairs to his apartment, Hana babbles in your arms, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit.

But when you reach the door, the sound of voices stops you cold.

“Are you sure about this?” Gi-hun’s voice, tense and uncertain.

“I never force anyone,” a familiar voice replies.

Your heart races as you push the door open.

Gi-hun and the salesman sit at the table, a revolver between them. The salesman looks as composed as ever, while Gi-hun is pale and trembling.

“What the hell is going on here?” you demand.

The salesman looks up, his eyes widening slightly as he sees you—and the child in your arms. “Y/n.”

Gi-hun stammers, “It’s not what it looks like—”

“You’re playing Russian roulette!” you snap, your voice rising. “How is that not exactly what it looks like?”

The salesman’s gaze flicks to Hana. “You have a daughter,” he says softly, putting the pieces together.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, clutching her closer. “You don’t get to talk about her. You don’t get to act like you care.”

“I do care,” he says, standing slowly. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You lied to me,” you spit. “You used me. You sent me to those games knowing I might die.”

“I gave you a choice,” he says, his voice calm but firm.

“You gave me a death sentence,” you fire back. “And now you’re here, dragging Gi-hun into your twisted games? Haven’t you done enough damage?”

The salesman’s jaw tightens. “It’s not that simple.”

“No,” you say, your voice shaking. “It’s exactly that simple. You destroy people’s lives and pretend it’s for their own good. But you don’t get to do that to us anymore.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nods, his eyes lingering on Hana one last time.

“Goodbye, Y/n,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

As the door closes behind him, you sink into a chair, trembling.

Gi-hun reaches out, his voice filled with regret. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, cutting him off. “He manipulates people. That’s what he does.”

Hana wriggles in your arms, her tiny hand brushing your cheek. “Mama,” she says softly, her voice filled with love.

You press a kiss to her forehead, tears slipping down your face. “We’re okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else.

Gi-hun watches you, his eyes filled with both guilt and gratitude. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“For saving me.”

You meet his gaze, your resolve hardening. “We save each other.”

[keferon]

"Once Swindle says Blurr’s name out loud, there will be no going back. Swindle has no doubts Onslaught will approve. He has no doubts Blurr will say yes." - A closer look at what might have been going through Swindle's mind at the end of Blurr Chapter 3

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

Swindle’s hand moves subconsciously to grasp the phone in his pocket as he thinks.  It’s not his work phone.  No.  This is a phone with only five numbers in it.

Swindle can feel Onslaught watching him across the desk.  He shifts to cover the extra time it’s taking him to respond – to think.  Not that Onslaught is likely fooled.  They know each other better than just about anyone else could.  But the act is such a habit that it’s impossible to drop. 

And Swindle does need to consider this -- carefully.  Because he knows exactly the kind of person Onslaught’s looking for.

Five numbers in the phone.

Only four of them are active.

And that number could drop at any moment.  That’s been the reality of their lives for years now.  Ever since Vortex. 

Swindle doesn’t even entirely know why he keeps Vortex’s number in the phone except perhaps out of habit.  It’s not as if he’s actually expecting to ever use it again, whatever Ons might say about ghost activity in his accounts.  Swindle has never received a ghost call.  He never expects to. 

One number is dead.

Three others are at risk.  Always have been.  That’s reality.

And the last…. 

Does Swindle really want to add the last number – the only outsider to make the list -- to their reality?  That’s the question he has a fraction of a moment to answer.

Because once he says Blurr’s name out loud, there will be no going back.  Swindle has no doubts Onslaught will approve.  He has no doubts Blurr will say yes.

That thought makes something twinge in Swindle’s gut.  He knows now, as they’ve gotten older, that Blurr was never quite as naïve, never quite as ignorant to the realities of the world outside his own privileged lifestyle as Swindle had believed him to be when they first met.  But still, the exact extent of what Blurr does and does not understand about Mecha is known only to the man himself. 

Swindle has never told Blurr their secrets and he has no intention of starting now.  It has always been nice to have someone who Swindle can act like he’s living a normal life with, even if just for an hour or two.  Swindle will lose that, he knows.  But they’ve all lost things before.  They will lose things again.  That’s reality.  They’ve already come this far.

Onslaught says they need someone to act as a social shield between the average pilot and the higher ups.  Someone who can be recognized as the person behind the machine.  Someone who can bring attention to basic issues like mech safety.  Someone far enough on the outside to still believe in things like the goodness of people and the heroic premise of saving humanity that Mecha has built up.  (Someone that hasn’t had that belief stamped out of them by years of the training and the testing and the unceasing, caring violence of the war.) 

Blurr meets all their criteria, Swindle knows.  Blurr will agree if Swindle asks, even as Swindle knows he will have no idea exactly what it is he’s signing on to. 

Blurr can act as their shield.  And Swindle – Swindle will take on the responsibility of shielding Blurr from the truth.

Ooohhh fuck oh I love this gmdmfjjgkd

The inactive number PLEASE. It's. Yes. Swindle would bitch about Vortex being huge pain in the ass and then keep his number saved after his death. I'm fine

Also Swindle basically destroyed his last little island of normal life when he got Blurr involved and I can easily imagine he would often regret it. He would also question the decision A LOT after the incident with the fire.

Damn...Imagine hating the shiny smiley guy who lured you into literal hell and then one day looking at yourself and thinking - I'm that guy now...

Side note. Because I can't stop thinking of it. What if Vortex decides to call Swindle during the whole Shockwave situation? You know..like. When he breaks free from Shockwave's mind control he also breaks the programming that was preventing him from moving without a pilot? And for the first time he has actual freedom to do whatever he wants?

What if he tries to call Swindle? What if after all those years Swindle's phone rings and for a second Swindle can't even fucking believe his eyes when he sees who is calling? Just. You know haha. Just a thought:)

[erin-unknown]

I don't really enough of a following anymore to actually play this game and wait for asks, but I still wanted to answer these questions. I'll just leave the answers here 💕

A little background for Dalgar Thorne, Grey Warden mage:

Born to elven farmers in the northeastern Anderfels, Dalgar was orphaned at the age of twelve and taken in by a pair of passing Grey Wardens, Casilda (Caz) Thorne and Olivier du Lac. He spent much of the next fifteen years of his life at a small outpost near Kassel, learning from several of his fellow Wardens, but primarily Caz and Olivier (who felt the most responsible for him). Caz was born in Rivain and trained as a seer until circumstances brought her to the Wardens. Olivier is a disgraced Orlesian duelist, once rather famous for their skill and showmanship, if only in the Free Marches.

Dalgar is personable and kind with a bit of a dumb, sometimes dark sense of humor. He can tap into a deep well of magic for some potent (if chaotic) spellwork and tends to act before thinking. He tries not to think too much in general, if he can help it.

He is very close with both Neve and Lucanis and romances Neve in the game, but I'm entertaining the idea that these three work out a polyam triad in the following years. The chemistry is just there. What can I say?

🌻 Dalgar is twenty eight. I think he’s forgotten that people celebrate birthdays; he never did back on the farm and Caz never thought to celebrate either (she’d defend herself by insisting that she wasn’t his mother). Her partner, Olivier, made up for this by frequently giving him useful items or sweets (an easy win with Dalgar).

The gift that has meant the most to him wasn’t a birthday gift; after Caz died (Dalgar was 21), Olivier gifted him her old, enchanted greatcoat. He's worn it every day since.

🪻 Dalgar suffered burns across his face and body from an accident at the age of 12. He awoke from a nightmare (a common occurrence) surrounded by fire that he had summoned in his sleep (not common). The fire burned down his home, the family farm, and his neighbors’ farms.

He was barely conscious for several days and has no real recollection of this time; the first solid memory he has is Caz healing the worst of his burns with the help of a spirit. She and Olivier inform him that he has been brought into Warden custody (his neighbors were out for blood) and present him with two choices: agree to train as a Warden and eventually take the Joining, or go to the Chantry, where Caz warns he will likely be forced into Tranquility (she doesn’t elaborate on why she is so certain of this and he never asks).

🌹 First fight? I’m actually not sure; he’ll avoid an argument forever, so it probably wouldn’t happen until after the game is over and the realities of day-to-day life start to settle in. Maybe something that seems small but is symptomatic of a larger issue.

🌸 Dalgar is an only child and, although he was one of several children nearby, he was the only elven child, so he resorted to being a clown so as not to be singled out or left behind. It's something he still relies on as an adult. When he came into his magic at nine years old, he was told to hide it (so he could stay on the farm), and it became harder to maintain any connections outside his father.

After joining the Wardens, he was the only child for miles but he grew very fond of the Wardens at the outpost and treated several of them like family (including Caz and Olivier).

🌾 Dalgar would be very susceptible to a Despair or Isolation spirit; he clings hard to hope, or the idea of hope at least, in as many ways as he can. He also finds what reassurance he can in the people around him. Any reminder at all, literal or figurative, that he’s not alone in his fight could help him find his way out.

🌱 Growing up with the Wardens left him pretty free with his physical affection. Caz and Olivier were committed but not exclusive, and the few Wardens around his age were living with the notion of death around every corner, so why not seize the day? Dalgar had never been in anything committed or long-term until Neve.

🌼 Dalgar smells like sorrow, the Fade, and hearth fire.

🌷 Dalgar would look for a tavern or café – somewhere he can sit in a corner and people-watch. He’s not used to not being surrounded by people, so this is the closest he’ll venture towards solitude. There he might read something or draw (he likes to draw).

If he’s not looking for solitude, he’d pester Davrin into taking Assan out for a walk or drag Neve and Lucanis out for a meal or something.

🥀 Caz would definitely be in Dalgar’s regret prison; although she was the one who made him swear to become a Warden when he was of age, she actually changed her mind over the years. Caz never told him directly, but instead kept finding reasons for him not to take the Joining until her death out in the field. This frustrated and confused him and ultimately complicated his grief.

When Dalgar was finally free to partake in the Joining, he did, determined to prove something to Caz’s memory and his own growing doubts. He struggles with this decision to this day; vaguely aware that Caz didn’t want this life for him, it feels a like a betrayal. He also feels guilty for wondering what might have been if he had gone his own way.

🪷 Dalgar is afraid of the dark.

🍀 Dalgar’s almost died several times in his life, starting with nearly being trampled by horses as a small child and most recently avoiding getting torn in half by a Reaver. He tries not to think about any of it too much, during or after. He survived, after all.

💐 Dalgar adores Evka and Antoine. He’s grateful that they put up with him and, although he’s mostly unconscious of this, their support and encouragement have gone a long way in making him feel at home again among the Wardens since he lost Caz.

🌺 He doesn’t remember much from before he joined the Wardens and everything he owned burned with his home, but he does fondly remember evenings with the Wardens during the colder months, toasting chestnuts at the hearth in the mess hall.

Olivier started this annual tradition after Dalgar first arrived at the outpost, to get him and the Wardens at the outpost accustomed to each other. Dalgar doesn’t know that.

🌿 No tattoos. (I might change my mind)

🍂 Dalgar doesn’t think about killing if he can help it. Darkspawn are a plague to be eradicated and it’s his sworn duty to combat the blight, so his feelings around them are not particularly complex.

In contrast, the first time he killed a person (a Venatori cult member), he accidentally looked them in the eye, and it kept him up at night for weeks afterwards. He’s grateful most of their enemies wear masks.

Spirits dying feel like a breaking wave to him. He doesn’t enjoy the sensation at all, but it does make him curious; it’s almost like a part of them still exists out in the ether. Dalgar finds something reassuring in that, although he couldn’t articulate why.

I have a handful of different Rooks, but Dalgar has been my favorite so far. When I have the energy, I'm writing for him! It's been nice.

Woe! Rook ask game be upon ye!

🌻 How old is your Rook? How do they feel about celebrating their birthday? What gift has meant the most to them? 🪻 What is the most painful injury your Rook has received? How has it affected them once it healed/scarred? 🌹 What’s the first genuine fight Rook got in with their love interest about? How was it resolved? 🌸 Does your Rook have any siblings or close friends they see as such? Where are they during the events of Veilguard? 🌾 If there was a demon trying to trap/take over Rook, what kind would be the most successful? What would break their hold? 🌱 Was Rook involved romantically with anyone before Veilguard? What was their partner like? How did the relationship end? 🌼 If someone was to ask Spite what Rook smells like, what would he say? 🌷If Rook needed to get away from their responsibilities for a moment, where would they go? Where is their safe space outside the Lighthouse? 🥀 What figure from Rook’s personal past would be added to the regret prison? 🪷 Does your Rook have an irrational phobia? (ie spiders or large man-made objects submerged underwater) 🍀 Has Rook had any near-death experiences? What went through their mind during what they thought was going to be their final moments? 💐 What is the relationship Rook has with their faction mentor? What was the moment they sent Rook away like? 🌺 Is there an object from Rook’s childhood they look back on fondly? (ie a favorite stuffed animal, book, or food) 🌿 Does your Rook have any tattoos? What was the moment when they got them like? If they’re a Crow where is their de Riva brand located? What vallaslin do they have/how did they earn it if they’re Dalish? 🍂 What was it like the first time Rook killed someone? How did they react afterwards?

[potchi-fics]

note: drunk again while making this. this bitch is yearning for you and not proofread, as always

tw: fuckboy ellie who turns out to be an awkward lesbian when it comes to you. faggots

      you hate ellie. god, you loathe ellie. the moment you saw her flirting with other girls right after she kissed you, you’ve never hated a girl so much in your goddamn life. she’s the biggest fuckboy you have ever seen in your life, too, and mind you, she’s a woman.

she’s been trying to get in your pants for weeks now; attending the same parties as you, annoying you when she spots you, or simply plain out asking you for a date. just like right now.

“one date,” she stares you down, almost pleading, almost, “just one date. why are you so uptight about giving me one date? you’ve never been in one or what.”

you give her a look, “if this is your way of asking me out on a date, i don’t think you’re pulling it off, seriously. and i’ve been to dates, i just don’t end up in bed with them like you do.” you push past her, your shoulder colliding with hers as you do.

“hey, hey, c’mon. just one date with you, pretty girl.” she rushes after you, talking while walking by your side. “aren’t you feeling bad for shutting me down multiple times now?”

“i just don’t want to be added to the list of the people you’ve slept with, williams.” the use of pretty girl flushes you, but you hide it, “leave me alone.”

“so you thought about sleeping with m–”

you let out an exasperated sigh, “not what i said, williams. shut the fuck up.” 

“look, look, listen.” she grabs your arm, halting you, you glare at her, “just listen, i’m serious, alright? just one date. i like yo–” you walk but she stops you again, “hey, i’m serious! i really like you.”

      your glance back at her, and you see ellie williams flustered. all blushing from her neck to her ears, eyes darting everywhere but you, she’s playing with her hands—oh my god, she is nervous. the ellie williams is all blushy and red-faced before you.

a soft giggle escapes your lips, and she’s immediately looking back at you, she covers her face.

“you’re serious right now?” you raise your eyebrow at her, amused at the state she’s in, “you’re not fucking with me?”

she clears her throat, scratching the back of her nape, “i am. i keep telling you, i am.”

      she’s starting to look like a kicked puppy when you don’t answer, only looking at her for a couple of seconds. 

and you utter the words she’s desperately yearning for.

“okay.” your voice cuts her train of thoughts, ellie perks up, “one date, williams.”

[aquamarixx]

breaking the internet

chapter eight when some clout chaser claims to be the mystery girl in the photo, Hiori shuts down the rumors and teases about the girl who truly has his heart blue lock longfic series pairing hiori yo x reader contains fluff, post blue lock timeskip, afab!reader masterlist

The speculations about Hiori’s mystery girl are definitely one of the highlights of his career.

Ironically, he finds it funny how people react to it. He’s already been scolded by both the team manager and the marketing manager, each lecturing him about how careless he’s been. It’s not like there’s anything inherently wrong with dating, especially as an athlete. Though it seems like he was scolded for not giving them a heads up and keeping it a secret. 

His parents, on the other hand, are pretty much predictable. His dad stays quiet about these sorts of things, but his mom? She makes it a huge deal. Despite their issues, she still showers him with love and attention in her own overbearing, only-child-parent way. She’s adamant that he’s been hiding the girl from her because he’s embarrassed or something.

Not to mention, his friends and teammates. His Bastard Munchen teammates—not exactly the epitome of calm, cool and connectedness as how they would look.

The moment he arrived into a field for training, Isagi sprints at him at high speed, like golden retriever finally seeing its best friend. Igaguri and Raichi moan about how unfair it is for Hiori to get a girlfriend before them. The older members, Geisner, Bachs and even Ndiaye praised him as if he scored a goal.

Even Noa himself gives him an approving nod, “at least we know you’re normal-er than the rest of these football heads.”

Again, a wild reaction from everyone.

Sure, he’s not the only eligible bachelor in the field, nay, in his team who have been elusive or secretive about their relationships. But sports gossip writers love to eat up news like this. Like vultures circling around a carcass, the media (even fans) are waiting to pounce on him any moment. 

“Who’s the girl you were caught kissing at the JFA party?”

“Do you finally have a girlfriend?”

“Is your girlfriend a celebrity?”

It’s the same old question every single time. And for Hiori, it gets tiring. He should be answering questions about the game, the team’s performance and plans ahead this season. People are too hung up on who’s his “flavor of the month”, as if he’s Oliver freaking Aiku.

But he knows how to play the game. It’s just like playing a visual novel. His answers already predetermined, all of them would either deflect or shut down the whole topic all together. 

“I have no idea what yer talkin’ about.”

“Are ya sure that’s me? Doesn’t look like me?”

“Looks edited though, don’tcha think?”

Like he promised you, he won’t disclose anything to the media or anyone else. Not that he’s the type to kiss and tell. But he won’t confirm or deny it either. He finds it fun to watch people squirm, teetering on the edge of curiosity and frustration. 

Plus, he values his privacy. That’s how it’s always been, and it’s how it always will be. 

Still, beneath his calm demeanor, Hiori worries he might fumble this. He likes you—really likes you. Enough to avoid making mistakes that might scare you off.

Fine, he likes you a lot. More than he thinks you even realize. 

In the months before you started dating, he found himself looking forward to every conversation with you, whether it was online or during work. He’d take whatever crumbs he could get, so to speak.

That’s why he got so frustrated when you started showing up way less for interviews. He understood it was just part of your job, something entirely out of his control. But when you got reassigned to other teams, it did threaten him. 

You were a natural at what you did—fun, easygoing, and effortlessly charming. No wonder he felt at ease with you from the get go. So it was just a matter of time till others saw you the way he did. 

Athletes like them are human after all. 

When Nagi—and, surprisingly, Reo—tried to squeeze into the picture, that did it for him. He hated how it felt, the simmering jealousy that crept in every time he saw them be all chummy with you. No amount of goals scored against Manshine City could ease the sinking feeling of losing you to one of them. Or, worse, both of them.

Hiori never thought of himself as the jealous type. But now he knows better. He despises the feeling. The tightness in his chest, the restless nights replaying imagined scenarios. Yet, there’s also a quiet satisfaction now. You chose him. 

Not publicly known, not splashed across headlines. But still, you’re his. If he gets jealous, he knows he’s not overreacting.

“I know who she is!” Isagi sing-songs, jogging over to the bench.

Hiori offers him a water bottle, cocking an eyebrow. “Whatcha mean?”

Isagi displays a shit eating grin, practically glowing with mischief. “I know who the girl is. Ness knows, too.”

Ness, approaching from behind, offers a polite smile—a polite smile that makes Hiori’s stomach drop.

“Nah, ya don’t,” Hiori says, chuckling nervously.

“We do,” Isagi insists.

“Ya don’t,” Hiori repeats.

“Well, we do,” Ness interjects smoothly. “Reo told us about how you cockblocked him and Nagi at the party.”

Hiori freezes, sweat beading on his forehead. “What?”

“You guys weren’t exactly subtle when you bailed,” Isagi adds, his shit-eating grin growing wider. “Miss Journalist seems to be really into y—what the hell, Hiori!”

A towel smacks Isagi square in the face. “Shaddap!” Hiori hisses, putting a finger to his lips.

Ness snickers, and Isagi pulls the towel off, laughing. “Alright, fine, ya got me. But can ya two keep it down? We just started dating,” Hiori mutters, massaging his temples.

“Relax, I’m not gonna spill,” Ness says with a wave of his hand but he gives a small smile, amused by Hiori’s reactions.

“Gotcha,” Isagi says, mock-saluting. “But, man, I didn’t know you had that kind of ‘HioRizz.’”

Hiori groans, glaring at Isagi. “I swear to God, if ya don’t shut up, I’ll leave ya out of every pass next game.”

Ness bursts out laughing. “Don’t worry, Isagi. I’ll pass to you.”

“Hiori has more rizz than Yukimiya! I should take notes!” Isagi jokes, only for Hiori to smack him on the arm before chasing him down the field.

Despite the chaos, Hiori can’t help but feel a warm sense of pride. These guys might be loud and annoying, but they’re also the ones he trusts most. And in a way, it feels nice to share this secret with them—a small piece of his happiness.

Because you’re his. And he’s yours. And to Hiori, that means everything.

“So… you’re telling me this is you?” Your roommate, Miko, thrusts her phone in your direction, her finger pointing dramatically at the paparazzi photo of you and Hiori plastered on her screen.

It’s only been a week since the photo started making rounds online, but you’ve been caught staring at it one too many times by Miko, your eagle-eyed, ever-curious roommate. Today, you finally caved. The whirlwind of emotions bubbling inside was too much to handle alone.

And now, you just had to tell her because things are driving you crazy at this point. 

“Yup.” The two of you are sitting side by side on the couch. She grills you with her own paparazzi-like questions while you sink in further the couch, the unfinished article on the laptop you’ve been drafting long forgotten at this point.

Miko squints at you, her head tilting as she studies the image like a detective analyzing evidence. Her brow furrows, and then, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, she gasps.

She springs up from her seat, pointing at your face accusingly. “Aha! Is this the guy you—" she gestures vaguely but suggestively with her hand, “—you know, slept with after that work party?”

“Yes, it’s him. No, we didn’t ‘sleep’ together.” You can’t help but laugh as you swat her finger away. “We shared the same bed, yes. But nothing happened.”

Miko raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Sure, sure. A pretty girl like you, and he didn’t try anything? In this economy?” She blows a dramatic raspberry and plops back against the couch, clearly unimpressed.

Your cheeks burn, recounting the night you spent with Hiori. It was intimate—sweet and wholesome in a way that still made your chest flutter when you thought about it. The kisses, his touches. It only makes you yearn for it more.

The morning after was even better. You spending a whole Saturday with him was like magic. 

She idly giggles to herself as she scrolls more on her phone, probably to stalk Hiori. The girl is chronically online so her stalking (research skills as she calls it) skills are on par with yours. She could be a damn good journalist if she wants to. 

“You’re such a perv, Miko,” you say, swatting her with a throw pillow.

“Says the girl who drools on this guy's sweaty photos,” she shoots back, laughing as she scrolls furiously on her phone. “Wait a minute—oh, damn. This guy’s a big deal. National team and Bastard München? He’s a whole package!”

You glance over her shoulder, smiling despite yourself. At 26, Hiori’s resume is nothing short of legendary. Back when you were just another journalist in the crowd, you’d been blown away by his talent. It was his brilliance on the field that inspired you to write that first viral article—the one that caught his eye.

Even now, it feels surreal. How did you go from admiring him from afar to… this?

“And you’re okay with not going public?” Miko asks, her tone softer this time. Her eyes flick briefly to you, filled with concern. She’s seen you through your fair share of bad relationships—flings that went nowhere and heartbreaks that left their marks.

“Yeah,” you answer, though there’s a hesitation in your voice. “Honestly, I’m kind of relieved. I don’t even want to imagine how people would react if they knew I was just… me. An ordinary nobody.”

Miko slams her phone down dramatically. “First of all, you’re not a nobody. You’re the girl who single-handedly brought Bastard München back into the spotlight. You’re the one who made everyone see their worth when they were tanking. You’re that bitch.”

You can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm, leaning into the side hug she gives you.

“But seriously,” you admit, letting out a long sigh, “it feels unreal. Like… we’re from completely different worlds. If this got out, I don’t think I’d be ready for the fallout. People would rip me apart.”

Miko frowns but says nothing, letting you pass her your phone. Together, you scroll through the endless speculation about Hiori’s mystery girl. Post after post describes someone glamorous and unattainable—completely unlike you.

“That’s ridiculous,” Miko says, her voice dripping with disdain. But before you can reply, she suddenly gasps so loudly that you nearly drop your phone.

“What now?” you ask, startled.

She shoves her phone into your hands, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and fury. On the screen is a video of a rising sports influencer, her perfectly curated appearance making her look every bit the part of someone destined for the spotlight.

The interviewer’s voice is casual, almost playful. “So, you attended the recent JFA party?”

The influencer smiles coyly, a soft, practiced laugh escaping her lips. “Oh, of course. I was there.”

You can feel the tension building as the interviewer leans in slightly, their tone dropping to something conspiratorial. “And… given your connections to Bastard München and your shared sponsor, you must know Hiori Yo?”

The influencer’s eyes sparkle, and she lets out a delighted giggle. “Well, who doesn’t know Hiori? He’s incredible—on and off the field.”

Pfft. As if she knows anything about Hiori and his brilliance.

“So… are you the girl Hiori Yo was caught kissing that night?” Your stomach twists as the interviewer delivers the bombshell, their voice taking on an almost teasing quality.

The influencer doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering as if to draw attention to the gesture. Then she twirls a lock of hair, her eyes flitting away from the camera for just a moment before returning with a mischievous glint.

“Well… isn’t that for everyone to wonder?” she says, her lips curving into a playful smirk. The answer is deliberately vague, but the mischievous glint in her eyes speaks volumes, leaving just enough room for everyone’s imagination to run wild.

Miko explodes. “The audacity!” she practically shouts, throwing her hands in the air. “What is wrong with her? She’s milking this for clout! And the interviewer—ugh!”

You can’t even respond. Your gaze is glued to the screen, your chest tightening with every second of the video. The influencer’s words replay in your head, her casual demeanor and sly smile feeding into the storm of doubts you’ve tried so hard to suppress.

Miko’s rant continues unabated. “She didn’t even deny it! She knows exactly what she’s doing. God, people like her make me so mad.” She paces the room, her gestures wild and exaggerated, but you barely register her words.

Your stomach churns as you scroll through the comments beneath the video.

she’s stunning—definitely Hiori’s type. this makes so much sense they’d look so good together

Each comment feels like a jab, their assumptions cutting deeper than you thought possible. The image of you and Hiori, so ordinary and imperfect in comparison, flashes in your mind.

You glance down at yourself: wearing your favorite but worn-out pajamas, the fabric soft from too many washes. Your hair is in a messy bun, a few strands rebelliously sticking out. You’re comfortable, sure, but the reflection from the phone staring back feels painfully ordinary.

The woman in the video, with her flawless hair and perfectly styled outfit, radiates a charisma that seems effortless. She looks like someone who commands attention the moment she steps into a room, someone whose beauty turns heads without trying. 

Normally, you wouldn’t care about looking “normal.” Most days, you’re content in your own skin, finding beauty in your own way. But this? This moment makes you feel like just another face in the crowd. No striking features, no captivating allure. Just plain, unremarkable. And right now, “normal” feels less like a badge of self-acceptance and more like a curse.

Miko stops mid-rant when she notices the look on your face. “Hey, don’t let this get to you,” she says, her voice softening. She sits back down beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “People love drama, and she’s giving it to them.”

“But what if people believe her?” you ask quietly, the vulnerability in your voice startling even yourself. “What if they think she’s better for him?”

She shakes her head firmly. “You can’t let strangers decide what’s best for him or for you. Hiori chose you, not some influencer fishing for likes. That says more than any of this nonsense ever could.”

You nod slowly, though the unease lingers. Deep down, you know she’s right. But as you hand her phone back, the thought persists: How long before the world finds out—and what happens when they do?

You spend the next weekend with Hiori at his apartment. Again. 

This routine has become a comforting tradition. Every Friday after work, you and Hiori grab dinner, sharing stories about your day. By the time the last train rolls in, you’re on your way to his apartment, lugging a slightly larger backpack than usual. Inside are the essentials: a change of clothes, skincare, and personal items, neatly packed alongside your work things.

It’s mundane yet romantic, this little ritual you’ve built together. Friday nights are reserved for catching up, sharing laughter, and exchanging updates about work and personal lives.

During one of these chats, he casually mentioned that Isagi and Ness know about the two of you now. You shared that Miko, your closest friend and roommate, knows too. But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him about the video. Not yet.

That Friday night, you binge-watch movies. This time, some of his favorites, including SPEC. It’s endearing to see him so animated as he talks about what he loves, his passion stretching beyond football.

Curled up on the couch together, a blanket draped over you, everything feels natural. His arm rests over your shoulders, pulling you close as you melt into his side. Occasionally, he leans in to kiss you—your knuckles, your cheek, the top of your head—absentmindedly, his eyes never leaving the screen. The faint scent of his body wash lingers in the air, grounding you in this moment, so intimate yet exhilarating.

By the time the third movie ends, you’re both ready to tuck in for the night. As you drift off in his arms, the comfort and warmth feel whole, complete.

You always wake up earlier than him. It’s a small, heartwarming detail you love about these mornings. He even got you your own coffee mug. A matching set of Nier Automata ones for both of you. With coffee in hand, you lounge in the living room, flipping through a book while the quiet hum of his apartment surrounds you.

Later, you make brunch together, settling into the kind of domesticity that makes your heart flutter. Saturdays with Hiori are always this way—unhurried and easy. You both slip into a rhythm that feels like second nature, each finding comfort in the other's presence.

When he’s gaming on his PC, you’re nearby doing some light work on your laptop, occasionally glancing up to watch his focus. When he switches to his PS5, you curl up beside him on the couch, yapping about the book or manga you’re reading as your fingers absentmindedly play with his hair. He listens quietly, humming in acknowledgment now and then, his contentment reflected in the small smile that lingers on his face.

It’s the kind of quiet companionship that makes everything feel right—as if the two of you were meant to exist in this peaceful harmony.

But this time, something disrupts the vibe.

Standing by the sink, phone in hand, your brow furrows as the video plays again. It’s the same one. The influencer, the coy smile, the teasing comments. You try to push it aside, but the weight of it lingers.

“Hey, you okay?” Hiori’s voice startles you. He’s slipped behind you, his hands resting gently on your waist as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“God, Hiori, you scared me!” You fumble with your phone, but instead of turning it off, the volume spikes, making you jump. Flustered, you quickly lower it.

“What was that?” he asks, noticing the unease in your expression.

You hesitate but eventually lead him to the couch, where you show him the video. As he watches, you fidget, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap.

“I just… it’s been bothering me,” you admit finally, your voice trembling. “Even though we’ve been dating for a few weeks now, I can’t shake this feeling that our worlds are too different. It’s pathetic that I let it bother me.”

Before he can respond, you continue, a weak laugh escaping you. “I know we’ve talked about this, but… it just gets to me sometimes.”

Hiori pauses, then gently pulls you into his arms. “Hey, s’fine. I understand. Don’t worry about them, ‘kay?” His voice is soft but steady, grounding you.

You feel his sincerity, but the nagging fear remains. “I don’t want to scare you with these feelings,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

“And I wantcha ya to know ya won’t scare me. Ever.” He tilts your chin up, meeting your eyes. “Is there anything I can do to help ease yer mind?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Just this… spending time with you like this, it’s enough for me.” But then, gathering your courage, you add, “Actually… I was wondering if I could take you out. On a proper date. Something special. Just the two of us.”

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but his smile grows almost immediately. “You’re asking me out, huh?” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss on the lips. “Of course. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned.”

And for the first time in days, the weight in your chest feels a little lighter.

When midweek rolls in, you know you'll be too preoccupied since it always comes with an avalanche of tasks, and today is no different.

You're neck-deep in work, juggling content planning for upcoming videos and articles while checking in with interns you’re supervising. They're compiling research on volleyball, basketball, and surprisingly, esports, which they’ve informed you is “the next big thing.”

You slump back in your chair, fingers aching from typing, and let out a long exhale. Cracking your knuckles, you reach for your coffee, savoring the warmth as it spreads through you. It’s moments like this when caffeine feels less like a drink and more like a lifeline for your overworked soul.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, lighting up with a notification. It’s a message from Hiori.

Oooh, a Hiori pick-me-up, you think, already feeling a smile creep onto your face. Just what you need to get through this impending burnout.

The message is short:

hiori: watch fer a surprise

Attached is a link. Intrigued, you click it, and a video opens.

It’s a recent press interview featuring Hiori. He looks effortlessly charming in a black hoodie, his hair perfectly tousled in that way that reminds you of lazy weekends spent curled up on his couch. You remember him mentioning this event last weekend, but seeing him on screen still catches you off guard.

The interviewer’s question catches your attention: “So, Hiori, there’s been a lot of buzz about you and a certain sports influencer lately. Any truth to those rumors?”

Your chest tightens slightly at the mention.

Hiori tilts his head, his expression as calm and composed as ever. “Sorry, who?” he replies, his tone laced with subtle mischief. “Oh, you mean the one who has the same sponsor with our team?”

Ness, seated beside him, nudges him gently, a silent reminder to tread carefully.

The interviewer presses on. “Yes. Rumors are that she's the mystery girl you're dating. Is she?”

Hiori chuckles lightly, dismissing the question with his usual nonchalance. “Nope, not at all. We’ve never even talked to each other.”

And then, just when you think he’s moved on, he adds, “Besides, I like my girl who’s a little nerdy, enjoys the same things I do outside of football, and, oh yeah—she talks a lot.”

Your breath catches.

The comments section beneath the video is already buzzing. Fans are losing it over his indirect confirmation of the photo rumors.

did he just confirm he's taken? he’s confirming without really confirming it! whoever the mystery girl is, she’s lucky af. i will crawl in a hole and cry

But you’re not focused on them.

Hiori’s words replay in your mind, each one feeling like it was chosen just for you. He didn’t name names, but the teasing specificity left no doubt in your heart. This was his way of sharing a piece of his life with the world—without giving too much away.

Your shoulders relax as the video ends, warmth spreading through you.

Another message pops up on your screen.

hiori: would you mind writing an article about how yer favorite football player, Hiori Yo, is no longer single? hiori: also, I can’t wait to see where yer taking me fer our date. 😉

You can’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head at his playful tone.

Oh, this man.

The stress of the day doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. With Hiori’s teasing yet heartfelt reminder of how much you mean to him, you feel ready to take on whatever comes next.

amari's notes: i just finished writing this last night, sorry it took so long! i got sick for some reason and still recovering from it. made the bf read this and pointed out that journalist is not my self-insert, the roommate is my self-insert. she is so me lol. also, happy new year to all my hiori loving people! anw, I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a reply or drop an ask. i'll greatly appreciate it! Hope you all enjoy this chapter! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ (if you wanna join the taglist, just comment or send me a message!)

taglist: @inu1gf @pookalicious-hq @dontmindtheevie @wannabepoeticischiya

[wordsofelie]

🎮Walls

Kenma x gn!reader

Summary: Life is falling into place for you: a spacious apartment, a good job, a healthy routine. That is, until you meet your neighbour—and the man is an asshole.

Content warning: time skip setting, manga spoilers, angst with a happy ending, alcohol consumption, mention of vomit, avoided sexual assault, swearing

Words count: 7.9k

Life feels like it’s falling into place. You have a new apartment in central Tokyo, in a building you used to admire when you were younger—one that made your neck ache from staring up at it. You’ve also started your own company, opening an architect's office that has been rewarding and you’ve made yourself a name in the field.

“What about your love life?” Your grandma asks.

And there it is—perhaps the one area of your life you’ve been neglecting. Well, that and your social life in general. Your work takes all your time. On the weekends you’d rather work or go to the gym or meal prep. Anyway.

“I don’t have time.” You answer casually. You always answer that.

Despite hearing this response hundreds of times, your grandmother still doesn’t seem satisfied. She hands you a box of miso soup and a bag filled with fruits and vegetables.

You chuckle, “thank you obaa-chan.”

“Are you sure you don’t need ojii-san to help you move?”

She points to your grandfather, asleep on the couch. That one couch that looks older than you and that you’ve seen your whole life. You often complain about the several holes and stains on it, but deep down, you know you would cry if they ever decided to get rid of it.

You put on a polite smile, “I think he needs to rest.”

The bag of food is well settled in your bike's front tray and when you start riding, you take a last glance at your grandmother waving from her window. You smile.

It’s only an hour by train, one and a half by bike, from your grandparents’ to your new apartment. Now that you have enough money and don’t have to live in a cramped studio that oddly looks like a garbage room, and with the university loans finally paid off, you chose to stay nearby—to be close to the family who raised you.

Your parents moved abroad when you were in junior high and they gave you a choice, which was probably the only time in your life that they listened to your opinion. And you wanted to stay in Japan, stay close to the two people you loved the most in the world. Your obaa-san and ojii-san, in their eternal kindness, sold their house in the countryside and moved to Tokyo so you didn’t have to change schools. You never told them, you guess because you were too grateful for what they did, but you wished you had left this obnoxious city, you wished you had grown up in their old wooden house instead of that tiny two-room apartment they brought—probably worth a lifetime of their work.

And the funny thing is, no matter how much you dislike the city, you stayed—for university, and now for work. The gods have a strange sense of humour.

You reach your apartment faster than expected. Outside, a few cardboard boxes are waiting for you alongside a team of sturdy men to help you lift them. You want to believe you could handle everything yourself, but after the first three trips between the sixth floor and the moving truck, you are overwhelmed with humility.

And remember, now you have the money to pay for this type of service.

You’ve struggled enough when you were younger—isn’t it finally your time to enjoy life?

The movers are surprised when you hand them generous tips with both hands. They bow a few times in gratitude. You want to tell them that you know what it’s like to have physical and tiring jobs like theirs, your grandfather has been there too—carpenter, brick mason, plumber, gardener, selling fish on markets from early morning.

Once they’re gone, you start to unpack everything. You keep a notebook with you to note down what you need to buy—extra sheets, dishwashing detergent, another glass of wine (if you ever invite someone over, the idea makes you cringe a little because gods know when that will happen, you don’t cross out the word anyway).

The first evening in your new place is… special. It’s quiet, spacious, clean in your living room, everything that you’ve ever dreamed of. You decide to open a bottle of beer and turn on your computer.

You still can’t believe you have a proper room where you can work, an office at home. It’s beyond what you imagined when you graduated from university.

It’s 8 p.m on a Sunday but you think that preparing for the week ahead won’t kill anyone. So, you sit down at your desk and check your emails.

The calm only lasts half an hour.

The first scream rings out, startling you so much that you almost choke on your drink. It takes a few seconds for your heart to return to a normal rhythm.

It is unusual. Absolutely, not like the screams in films. It doesn't sound like a woman’s scream, nor like someone needs help. Still, you ponder whether you should take a look outside or not.

 You’re about to finish writing an email when you hear the second scream, followed by thud of a fist hitting a table. This time you’re convinced of two things: first that it comes from the neighbour next door and second, that neighbour is raging over something.

A million scenarios play out in your mind. The worst-case scenario is that someone is being hurt—perhaps a child or a partner. If that’s the case, you can’t stand by and do nothing.

Barely a minute passes before you find yourself standing outside the neighbour’s door.

You don’t know where the courage to stand here comes from because when it’s time to knock on the door, all this courage disappears. What if they are drunk? What if they beat you up in return? What is your company going to become if you go to the hospital? What if you never see your grandparents again?

“D’ya need something?”

A low voice coming from behind you asks and when you turn around, you’re faced with a tall man with dark hair.

“I-”

He smirks as he crossed his arms over his chest and waits for your answer.

“Are you a fan?” He finally questions when the silence stretches for too long.

You blink, confused. “I heard screams,” is all you manage to say.

The man's reaction is anything but predictable.

He bursts into laughter—a loud and weird laugh, that you decide not to comment on.

“Ah, Kenma is probably playing LoL again. I told him to quit. It’s bad for his heart.”

Every word is said too fast, too casually. “Kenma? LoL?”

“You’re the new neighbour?” The stranger ignores your questions. Maybe you’ve whispered them.

“I am.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to keep it down,” he says, already turning toward the door.

“Thanks… I guess.”

“I’m Kuroo Testurou by the way.” He calls over his shoulder as he steps inside the apartment. You simply say your name in return before he adds, “have a lovely evening.”

And just like that he's gone and you're left here, confused.

At least the screams have stopped, and you know the name of the person next door. It’s better than nothing and you won't end in a crime documentary about a murderous neighbour.

You go to bed early that night, hoping that this was the last time you would get interrupted working.

It turns out, you get interrupted every evening. The wall separating your office from the neighbour room is paper-thin. It makes you crazy.

Some nights it’s screams of anger, other it’s just uninterrupted chatting. You can ever hear the incessant clicks of keyboard keys.

You want to convince yourself that you can handle the situation, but when you start having dark circles under your eyes, when you pour orange juice instead of milk in your coffee, when you don’t turn to the right street to go to your grandparents house and arrive an hour later to their lunch, your obaa-san starts worrying about your heath (both physical and mental health).

“It’s been two weeks since you’ve moved,” she informs you as if you didn’t know when you started being woken up every hour of every night. “And you’ve been acting weird, my love.”

“My neighbour isn’t the quiet type.” It’s the first time you explain the situation to her. You don't want them to burden them with your problems, but fatigue brings out some honesty in you and the words leave your mouth before you can register them.

Logically, she advises you to go and talk to them. “Be kind and explain calmly that you work from home and need to rest because your job is very demanding,” she says. She can’t help but speak with pride when she mentions your work, and you want to smile. But you don’t because all you can do with your mouth is yawn.

“I’ll go if they don’t stop.” She thinks she looks terrifying with her pink apron and her pointed finger. You get up and kiss her cheek.

“I’ll do it, don’t worry.”

You’ve depended on them your whole life, you won’t bother them again.

It’s strangely silent that evening and with a heart full of naivety, you believe you will finally have a good night of sleep. But before that, you need to work on a very important project, one in collaboration with the city hall, probably the most important of your career so far and that you won against renowned architects’ companies. The first sketch is done, and you can start doing the 3D model now.

That is until you hear the neighbour talk and talk and talk.

Enough.

You don’t even check your reflection in the mirror or bother changing into a decent outfit. You simply grab a jacket, put your shoes, and this time, you dare to knock on the door.

You must have been very insistent or perhaps the knocks were loud enough to drown out whatever music or phone call he was listening to—because after three or four sharp taps, he finally emerges from his cave.

The man is nothing like you imagined. Long hair with remnants of blond colouring, yellow eyes narrowed as if annoyed. He is not small but not as tall as who you assumed was his friend. His attitude reminds you of one of those nerd boys you avoided in high school, though you would bet he is around your age.

“Huh?” Comes out of his throat.

Your hands clench into fists at your sides when he doesn’t even greet you.

“Good evening.” You try not to bark. You need to be the mature one here otherwise he won’t be receptive. You’ve learned that from dealing with arrogant old men in your job. “I am your new neighbour; I live next door. It’s a pleasure to meet you but I was wondering if you could talk a little bit less...loudly.” You remember the points your grandmother has given you and it’s all you can think about (apart from insults and words you might regret), “I am working from home so it can be hard to focus with your chatting.”

His face turns into furrowed brows and a wrinkled nose. You're pretty sure you hear a sigh escaping his nose. He avoids your gaze and when he meets your eyes again, the annoyed stare has disappeared, and he looks blank again. He's unreadable.

“Sorry. I will be careful from now on.”

His words sound as scripted as yours. A knot in your stomach forms and the palms of your hands start to sweat.

Why in the world does this asshole seem annoyed when you’re the one who hasn’t been able to sleep and work for freaking days?

“Is that all?” He dares to ask.

“I hope it will be.” You threaten with pursed lips and your chin lifts a little.

“Fine.” He mutters and closes the door behind you.

Great. Your neighbour is a shithead.

The gods are unfair sometimes. Life is falling into place for you but they seem to have one last obstacle for you: him. Kenma.

A storm of questions keeps you wake that night, the main one being: what is this guy doing with his life?

Doesn’t he have a job? What is he doing of his days since he doesn’t seem to be sleeping at nights? And how can he afford an apartment like yours when he looks like he just graduated from high school?

Maybe he was born rich—unlike you. Maybe his parents are paying for everything and he just spends the days doing nothing and doing LoL?

What’s a LoL, anyway?

You search the term online and discover it’s a stupid video game. That doesn’t surprise you. Kenma seems like exactly the type to waste time playing video games all day.

You don’t want to play it stupid, but you can’t stop thinking about how detached he looked when you complained (nicely and respectfully). A part of you wants to make him pay, just a little. Your grandma would probably disapprove, but that's fair play, isn't it?

And so, during the day you start putting on music. Musical music, it’s the only genre that helps you focus when you work. You make your phone calls while standing right next to the wall separating you from Kenma. You even move your coffee machine into your office. The closer, the better, right?

Your little revenge lasts a week. You don’t want to be cruel—not that it would matter much, since you assume he’s jobless.

At first, he doesn’t seem to react, but the second you turn off the music and return the coffee machine in the kitchen, the sound of gunfire and monstrous roars make your walls tremble.

You invest in earplugs.

You don’t see him much—which is a good thing. Occasionally, you pass by him in the corridors or the lift. Neither of you speaks. A lazy look from him and a quick movement of your head to avoid his gaze are the only interactions you have. He always wears his hair in a half-ponytail and oversized jumpers, from a brand you don't know and has them in every shade of colour. You almost look up “Bouncing Ball Co.” online but decide you don’t care. You don’t care about anything related to this man. Really, anything.

The other neighbours, however, seem to like him. They smile at him, greet him warmly as if he wasn’t a pain in the ass who plays stupid video games at full volume. You conclude they’ve never had to share a wall with his gaming room.

When you complain about it to your grandparents over tea and sweet potato cakes, your grandfather suggests moving back to their house. Your room, after all, hasn’t changed a bit, with your old drawings and posters still hanging on the walls.

“They should fix the problem, coming back here won’t change anything to the situation.” She says while pouring you another cup of green tea, the hot drink feels good and warms you up, if only a little. “I’ll go talk to that Kenma boy.”

Your grandfather only shrugs, he never wins an argument with her.

“Please don’t,” you beg. Your grandmother does that thing she does when she’s lying—she smiles and closes her eyes.

“Whatever you want, darling.”

You try to stop the chaos by yourself. By trying you mean that you leave notes at his front door (some rather fiery when you’re not in the best mood, others more docile when you have been praised for your work by your peers.)

But the letters pile up, eventually covering the straw mat outside his door. One evening, you hear a child on your floor asking their mother why there are so many envelopes by Kenma’s door. The mother replies, “Oh, those must be letters from fans.”

Fans. This word again. Coming from Kuroo you thought it was sarcasm; the guy looks like he often uses sarcasm even though you don’t really know him, but now it really starts to make you wonder: who really is this man?

When your initial plan doesn’t work, you resort to a more direct approach. Every time you hear noise from the other side of the wall, you pound on it with your fist.

If that rude bastard can’t read a polite note (you fucking said “please”!), he’ll surely understand this.

The only thing keeping you sane is that you’re going away for work for a full week. The train ticket, the hotel, the food, everything is paid by your client and when you finally leave Tokyo you feel a wave of relief. The knot in your stomach that you’ve been carrying for days disappears.

You call your grandma to inform her you’re in the train now.

“Have a safe trip and don’t overwork yourself. Your worth is greater than any project.”

You smile softly, “I know. don’t worry.”

She’s about to hang up, but you interrupt by saying, “And please don’t go to Kenma’s in my absence.”

“Kenma this, Kenma that. It’s always his name on your lips these days.”

You’re glad the train starts moving, you blame the surprise of the movement for the slight skip in your heart, “Bye bye, I’ll call you when I arrive.”

The business trip goes well. You manage to make your voice heard and your opinion valuable. You meet a lot of other architects, some congratulate you for your work, other only glower at you. They envy your position. You’re young, you’re not the child of a well-known person and you still success in everything you undertake.

You meet a man of a year or two your senpai; he’s very polite, smiles a lot and seems genuinely interested in your ideas.

The absolute opposite of your neighbour.

By coincidence, he lives in Tokyo too, and you end up on the same train back. The discussion is easy, mostly about architecture, and you enjoy conversing with someone who truly understands the nuances of your job.

He offers to drive you home since his car is parked near the train station and even if you refuse at first, you finally agree. It’s better than calling a taxi, right? You’re still confused at the fact that you’re the person who sits in a taxi rather than watching them from afar.

You don’t see it coming, the approaches, the undertones. He suggests stopping at a bar, but you decline, you tell him you’re tired, and the more he talks, the more it’s obvious he didn’t offer that ride out of sympathy.

Your throat feels tight, and you start cursing yourself for trusting a complete stranger just because he does the job as you. How stupid.

You finally catch a sight of your apartment complex and even though you liked the hotel room and the calm of it, you’re suddenly desperate for the four walls of your place—no matter how noisy they can be.

“You can stop here,” you tell, perhaps a bit too loudly. You try to make the shakings in your voice away. “Thank you.”

He does as you tell, you’re about to open the door when a cold hand lands on your thigh. A shiver runs through you, and your legs seem paralysed.

“Don’t you want to stay a little longer.”

You can't meet his eyes. “I appreciate the invitation,” you absolutely don’t. “But I really have to go home.”

“Your boyfriend is waiting or something?”

You open your mouth to lie, but the tension in your neck and throat is too strong. In a sudden move, you open the door and babble a “thank you.”

The engine stops and you know he is looming closer to you.

“Wait,” you want to go faster but he whirls you around by taking your arm. “C’mon, don’t be shy. You were all talk on the train, let’s continue the conversation somewhere else. Or maybe you want to invite me over?”

The snicker that tugs at the corner of his lips makes you want to vomit. Just like with your neighbour, you’re done being compliant and if being polite doesn’t work then you might use violence.

“Ah, you’re home.”

You both turn to the voice. The lazy and unbothered voice. Kenma’s voice.

“I brought to make curry, is it fine for you?” He lifts a plastic bag while saying this.

His eyes flick to the man for just a second—brief, almost out of time—but the intensity in his gaze is enough to make him pause, and then, instinctively, take a step back.

“Let’s go,” Kenma tells you simply and you follow him.

He walks behind you, from the moment you step into the lift to when you finally reach your front door. Somehow, you feel safe.

Apologise, thank him. Your mind orders. But your hands can’t stop shaking and your throat is still dry.

“If you need something…” he starts but stops, his gaze shifts awkwardly to the side, as if seeking the right words. “Just knock. On the door or the wall. You seem good at that anyway.”

You’re left speechless when he closes the door.

It takes you a whole minute to find your keys and get inside.

It’s cold. Silent. Dark.

It’s strange how you suddenly feel lonely.

You’ve always dreamed of living in a spacious place like this; but the white walls, the too-cleaned surfaces, the too-tidy shelves are oppressive.

“Ah, you’re home.” Kenma said.

But are you really?

These four walls and you; they’re not warm, not lively.

You curl up in your genkan, your shoes still on, the light still off and you start crying.

You haven’t in months, or maybe in years.

Did you even cry when your parents left? When you’ve been mocked for wearing soiled shoes in school? When your so-called friends called you boring?

You find the strength to shower and crawl into bed. Kenma lets you sleep that night. You close your eyes wondering if he is thinking about you for you are thinking about him.

Kenma is away for the next week, and you wonder what he is doing. You don’t complain about the peace his absence gives you, but you also want to say thank you.

Thank you for two things; of course, for helping you with the man but also for leaving a bento of curry at your doorstep.

I made too much–Kozume

It is written.

Now you know both his name and family name.

Somehow, the thought makes you smile.

The curry isn’t really good–it’s too salty and the potatoes are too hard. It’s nothing like your obaa-san’s food. Still, you think it deserves an apology for being an asshole with him, not matter how fair you thought it was.

The clean plastic box is waiting for him in your kitchen, wrapped in a pretty furoshiki and when you hear keys and footsteps coming from outside a few days later, you rush out.

“Kenma-san,” you call for him.

“Hello there,” Kuroo answers in its place.

You only notice the tall guy at his side when he speaks.

“Good morning Kuroo-san,” you bow.  

“Heh?” Kenma raises an eyebrow.

“What? You’re surprised because I’m friends with your annoying neighbour.”

“Annoying?” You mumble and a “oops” escapes the dark-haired man.

“His words, not mine.” Kuroo clarifies, pointing a thumb at Kenma, who only sighs in response.

You clear your throat and hand Kenma the box, “thank you for the food. It was...convenient.”

Before you can finish the acknowledgement, Kuroo starts laughing, “convenient. Kenma, man, for gods’ sake, stop cooking.”

Your neighbour takes the box from you and clicks his tongue.

You don’t linger on the goosebumps his fingers leave on your skin.

“My manager said I should eat healthy food.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been telling you that for years, but you never listen to me. Anyway, we’re going out tonight, wanna come?”

You don’t realise he’s talking to you but the silence stretches for too long and his tilted head suggests he is waiting for an answer,

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Kuro…” Kenma mumbles and his shoulders slump.

You can't tell if he’s embarrassed or annoyed. He’s so hard to read, it almost upset you.

“Kenma won’t be there,” Kuroo informs as if he isn't standing next to him. “It’s gonna be fun. Apparently, you work a lot, it could be good for you, you know. It’s not just me, by the way, some old friends will come.”

“Okay.”

Kenma widens his eyes and Kuroo smirks. Both seem surprised, though you’re probably the most surprised here.

“Okay.” You repeat, maybe to convince them—or yourself.

“Great, I’ll see you at seven then.”

He grabs Kenma by the shoulder and leads him inside.

Your eyes meet yellow eyes one last time, and your heart skips a beat—or a thousand. Either way, it feels good.

It’s hard to focus on work that day. You keep thinking about what you’re gonna wear, what you’re gonna talk about. What if you make a fool of yourself? What if you’re boring?

Your forehead hits your desk, and a long sigh escapes your lips.

You get ready when it’s time, going for something comfortable and simple, and when seven rings, you find Kuroo standing in front of your door.

“There you are, shall we go?” He offers and though your eyes scan around you, you find no trace of Kenma.

Kuroo said it; your neighbour won’t come.

You knew that, and in lieu of relief, you’re disappointed. You ignore the reason behind it—it doesn’t make sense, but you feel it anyway.

“Sure, let’s go.” You say with a last glance at Kenma’s door, hoping it will open. When it doesn’t, you decide to follow Kuroo.

Kuroo’s friends are fun to be with. There’s Yamamoto, a bit too loud for your taste but nice, then there’s Kai, who’s interesting and makes you comfortable and finally Fukunaga, who is quiet and—something else. The four of them went to the same high school, one from the opposite district where you grew up. They tell you there are usually more of them but one of them is in Russia, another is doing a campaign abroad. Kuroo mentions the other ones, but you don’t remember all the names.

“We’ve got some pretty famous guys in the team,” Kuroo says with pride.

“Kenma the richest though,” Yamamoto complains, and you raise an eyebrow. So, he does come from a wealthy family, you conclude.

Two more join the group, Bokuto and Akaashi, and you can’t help but relate a bit to the latter, with his serious attitude and reserved nature, especially when Kuroo jokes that you’re both workaholics. You don’t deny the assumption.

The evening goes pretty well, faster than expected. You’re not too awkward and find yourself laughing at Fukunaga’s lines to Yamamoto and discuss literature with Akaashi.

You drink a little too much compared to what you’re used to and it’s almost 2 a.m when Kuroo offers to drive you home. The room is blurring, and you can’t refuse.

You sleep the whole way home, vaguely aware of the man helping you into the lift, and only realise you're almost in your flat when you catch the sound of Kenma's voice.

“I’ll take care of them,” you hear him say.

The next second you're pressed against him. His skin his colder than Kuroo’s but his scent is a mix between hazelnut and white musk. Your nose is drawn to his neck.

You don’t know how he manages to take your keys and remove your shoes, but when you open your eyes again, you’re on the couch and he is standing in your kitchen, pouring water into a glass.

“You’re being nice… again…” The last part is above a whisper.

He takes his time to answer, he always does that. “I’m not a brute.”

“I thought you were.”

“Sorry.” He apologises and despite the alcohol making your mind dizzy, your eyes widen and you sit up straight.

“I should be the one apologising.” You reply.

“Don’t be so loud.” He groans and hands you the glass.

“Oh, wanna talk about loud? Weren’t you the loud one when you played shooting games and LoL?”

“I don’t play LoL anymore,” he avoids your gaze.

“I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I tried asking nicely, but you wouldn’t listen or even look at me.” You let out an annoyed grunt, “just like now. You’re not looking at me right now.”

Your body moves on instinct, and inch forward, your nose almost touches his. His ears turn red, but you don’t flinch back. “Do I disgust you or something?”

When he finally turns, when his breath brushes your face, and the pupil of his yellow eyes dilate, you feel every single one of your muscles stiffen. You break the eye contact when your cheeks are burning up.

“You don’t disgust me,” he says but you've already forgotten the initial question.

“Thanks for helping me last time.”

He says nothing back and gets up.

“Drink water and go to bed.”

What happens next must have been a nightmare (you wish it was). But he’s one foot outside your apartment when your stomach twists violently, and you barely make it to the sink before letting your guts out.

It’s the first thing you remember when you get up the next day, Kenma helping you walk to the bathroom, helping you brush your teeth, putting you to bed.

You vomited. In front of your asshole neighbour. He helped you, cooked you food, showed you his kind side, and you vomited.

You’re nothing but shameful.

You want to hide in your bed and never get out of it. Maybe you should move out, sell your apartment and go abroad.

That would make your grandparents sad, though.

You sigh loudly, your head hurts but you still go to your kitchen to make yourself a coffee.

Being in this place reminds you of the night before and if you don’t want to drive yourself crazy pacing the floor, you decide to take your bike to go to your safe place.

Obaa-san notices it right away; the dark circles under your eyes, your bad mood, your incessant fawning—everything gives away your lack of sleep.

“Is your neighbour annoying again?”

Your heart races faster at the mention of Kenma, “what? No, no. It’s over, we found a… solution.” You lie through your teeth.

“What’s wrong? You’re not even eating your food.” She wants to serve you more soup, but you stop her.

You sigh, again, but tell her everything. When you’re done with the story, you see her brows furrow deeper and deeper.

“We didn’t raise you to vomit on people’s feet.”

Your stomach twists, “please don’t talk about vom—I’m embarrassed enough.”

“As you should be. Isao, let’s go.”

She calls for your grandfather and starts packing a bag of fruits.

“What are you doing?”

“We are going to apologise.”

You curse yourself and every single decision that led you to this exact situation. You’d rather quit your job than face Kenma and be forced to write excuses in front of your family.

It’s cruel, cruel, cruel.

You follow them anyway.

“Huh?”

“Kenma-kun,” your grandmother says. “We are sorry to interrupt but we came as soon as we found out what they did to you.”

You look down at the floor, not caring if you seem like a child instead of a twenty-something-year-old. You just want this to be over—soon, soon. But then, Kenma chuckles, and your head lifts.

“It’s fine,” he says. His laugh is soft, so nice to your ears. You’ve never heard him laugh before, but now, you don’t want to hear anything else.

“Please enter,” he offers the three of you, and you finally step inside his apartment.

The curtains are closed but lights cover the walls. Purple, red, blue. The couch is huge, and the kitchen looks too clean to be used. It makes sense when you see boxes of takeout and instant ramen on the counter. At the back, you see the door to his gaming room—the one next to your office—open. You can’t count how many screens there are, and cables are scattered across the floor.

Why does it feel so warm inside? Why do you feel safe here?  

“I brought fruits, it’s nothing, but please accept it.”

You end up staying there for about an hour, talking about everything and nothing at all. You learn he played volleyball back in high school, and that he is two years younger than you. Your grandmother is peeling fruits, your grandfather is drinking the lemonade Kenma offered and he explains that he owns a sports company.

“What a smart boy,” your grandmother exclaims.

You don’t really know what “sports company” means. It could be a million things, and it’s certainly more complex than that. He probably simplified it for your grandparents’ sake.

“Our grandchild is also very smart. They have an architecture office and are the youngest-ever architect to work with Tokyo City Hall. Do you know the new hospital they’re building in the suburbs? They designed the plans and-”

“Alright, it’s almost time for dinner.”

You get up suddenly.

The sun starts to get down, and you only take notice of the time by watching the hour on your phone.

The corner of Kenma’s lips lifts a little and you immediately turn to your grandfather for his smile is too sweet for your heart to handle.

“He is a kind man,” your grandmother whispers to you when they’re about to leave.

“I know, I know.” You groan.

She pinches Kenma’s cheeks, “call us if you need anything.”

You would’ve guessed he’d hate physical contact, but he doesn’t complain. His features are soft as she says goodbye.

“Good luck with them, they seem tough, but they can be very sweet!”

“Oi!” You shout but they close the door behind them, chuckling.

You don’t want to face Kenma, don’t want to show him the embarrassment on your face.

“So… dinner?”

“What?” you turn a little in his direction.

“You said it’s time for dinner. Do you want to order something?”

The question makes you happy even if it leaves you puzzled for a few seconds. It seems like Kenma Kozume is full of surprises. And maybe that’s what you need, so you shrug.

“Why not.”

When he takes his phone from his pocket and starts ordering food, you smile widely and bite your lips.

A dinner leads to another, and another, until it becomes a routine. You come to his place, usually on Mondays because it’s his only free night. He shows you some of his games, you never beat him, and he laughs when you blame it on the controller.

You’re impressed by his skills and think that maybe he should become a professional.

You pretend to be upset when you lose, but deep down, you just want to hear him laugh.

Sometimes you cook something together, though you’re the one in control of the quantity of salt and the temperature of the oven.

And he listens to you ramble or complain about your work.

When he’s out of town, which happens more often that you thought, you start to go out more. You decide that it’s time to put more colour in your apartment, so you buy cacti, and carpets and frames. You long to draw again, like you used to, so you bring back your old pencils and sketchbooks from your grandparents’ house. You missed the smell of that cheap paper and ceder. Sometimes, you have a drink with Kuroo after work (alcohol-free; you won’t repeat the same mistake twice) and a coffee with Akaashi on the weekends. It's often quiet with him; he reads a book and you draw him reading.

When Kenma comes home from his trips, you welcome him with drawings of beautiful places you saw while he was away and good homemade food.

“Better than what I ate at the hotel,” he says, and you can’t help but smile.

You don’t really know where this friendship is going, maybe it isn’t meant to go anywhere, but it’s comfortable and deeper than any relationship you've had in years.

You had no idea what you needed before, but since he showed up in your life, it all became clear.

You still know little about him; he remains a mystery to you, and you can never decipher what he's thinking. But you enjoy being with him—that is.

There are some glances exchanged that last a bit too long, hands brushing against each other, words left hanging in the air as if they’re too fragile to be spoken aloud. It’s not enough to call it something more, but it’s also too much to ignore. Sometimes, it keeps you awake at night.

It's Christmas and you hate this time of year. It's cold outside, crowded in the streets and on top of that, it's the time when your parents return to Japan. Apparently it's important for them to spend time with the family, which you find hilarious, given that they've never been here for any of your birthdays.

You complain and groan about it to your grandmother; she’s used to it. It’s the same song every Christmas. She always stays quiet, and when she does, you know she agrees with you.

It would have been more fun to be with Kenma, you can’t help but think when you’re sitting at the table, half-listening to your father talking about his new project in Singapore. Instead of being here, you could be eating KFC on Kenma’s couch, playing Mario Kart (you’re almost as good as him now) until the sun rises.

Your brother is watching YouTube on his phone (isn’t 12 years old a bit too young to have a phone? Why did you have to wait until you were sixteen and get a part-time job to buy one that lasted until uni?).

You don’t realise you’re glowering over him before your mother calls for him, “Kengo. Turn off that video, please, we’re eating.”

“But it’s Kodzuken’s last live of the year, and he’s breaking his record.”

You roll your eyes and get up to help your grandmother in the kitchen.

“Who’s that Kodzuken?” You hear your grandfather asks from afar.

“He’s the best YouTuber and streamer. You know he has over 10 million subscribers on YouTube, and he sponsors volleyball players too. He’s like the best.”

“Let me see that fabulous man,” Isao chuckles. “But that’s Kenma-kun.”

The plate you’re holding almost drops to the floor.

“Yes. His real name is Kenma Kozume.”

You feel the gaze of your grandmother on you, and she’s about to say something, but your voice chimes in, and you take the phone from your brother’s hands.

“What the fuck…” You curse.

“What’s wrong?” Someone asks; you don’t even know who. You’re too stunned to answer.

“I-I’ll go wash my hands.” You excuse yourself and go to the bathroom.

You sit on the edge of the bathtub and tap his name into the internet.

There are articles about him, a YouTube and Twitch channel, and your brother was right, with million and millions of views; he even has a Wikipedia page.

Why didn’t you know that? Why did you assume he was a rich kid too lazy to work.

You don’t know why but you’re feeling betrayed. It feels like you’ve been lied to—which technically isn’t the case, but it feels the same.

Everything makes sense now: the fans, Yamamoto’s comment about him being rich, the mention of his manager and above everything the sleepless nights spent on his games talking, chatting, screaming. He was just working.

You feel extremely stupid for not connecting the dots before, but you also wish he had told you. Not that it would have changed anything in your friendship, but at least you wouldn’t feel like you’ve spent the last few weeks sharing most of your time with a stranger.

The anger you experienced when your first met him is quick to come back, even if it’s not for the same reason now. It’s not because he is too loud, but because he is too quiet.

Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe you don’t matter to him as much as he does to you. Maybe he’s not the stranger, but you are, and he just pitied you.

It’s a good thing your grandmother opens the door to come and get you, otherwise, you could have spent the whole evening making up scenarios and speculating on why Kenma never told you what he was really doing in his life.

You act like nothing happened when you sit back down at the table. Your brother has turned off his phone, and your grandfather keeps glancing at you. You stay silent until your parents leave.

"Don’t be mad at him,” your grandmother says when it’s time for you to head home.

You don’t promise you won’t be.

You do go home, but instead of your door, you stand in front of his. He’s probably still doing his live, but you knock on the door anyway.

When he opens, you can see the red in his eyes, probably from staring at the screen too long.

“What’s that?” You show him your phone.

“My… YouTube channel.”

He’s so unbothered, so unimpressed, it makes you want to cup his face with your hands and scream at him.

“I didn’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you were doing this. You said you had a sports company.”

“I have a sports company. Why are you so upset?”

Kenma never asks questions, he usually just answers them and then listens to you talking, asking more questions. It leaves you confused.

“I know nothing about you.”

You feel your eyes getting wet and your throat tightens. Why are you so emotional when it comes to him? You hate how weak it makes you.

“What do you want to know?”

Everything. Everything, is the answer.

Your favourite colour. Your favourite food. What makes you laugh (apart from seeing me lose at Mario Kart). What films do you like? When did you start being friends with Kuroo? What's your happiest memory? Your saddest one?

“What do you think about me?”

Among the infinite questions rushing through your mind, this is the one you chose. Perhaps it’s the one you’ve wanted to know the most, the one that’s been eating you alive for weeks.

“I-”  He begins but stops immediately.

“Of course,” you turn around. Two steps, is all it takes to reach your door, but Kenma stops you.

When you face him again, you feel your blood rushing through your whole body, warming you up.

He’s avoiding your gaze, but his hand clings to yours and his face his red, from his chin to his ears.

“You’re interesting and it’s nice to talk with you… Your food is good. You’re passionate about your work and it makes me want to be more invested in what I do. You’re funny when you’re upset and you’re a terrible, terrible player.”

His grip loosens a little, and he straightens up.

“I think you’re great, a good person. Someone I like spending time with, someone I think of when I go to bed, and someone I miss when I’m away. I didn’t tell you about my job. Maybe because I assumed everybody knew me, well, at least everyone who uses social media. Maybe also because… you’re way cooler than me, and what I’ve done with my life is nowhere near what you’ve accomplished.”

You’re shocked, to say the least. It’s the longest you’ve ever heard him talk—he who never uses extra words, who makes minimal effort in everything he does—just bared his soul to you. He must be exhausted at this point.

You gulp loudly, and the only thing your mind can picture is you kissing him. So you do. One step toward him, a hand against his cheek, and your lips on his.

You fear he might push you, run away, and slam the door in your face. But instead, he kisses you deeper and his hands find your hair and the back of your shoulders and your waist.

You don’t know how long it lasts—one minute, forever. Your brain doesn’t seem to work properly, only your heart responds, and it screams his name.

Kenma Kozume.

One of you breaks the contact only to rest your foreheads together.

It’s awkward, but it feels right.

Someone passes by, one of your neighbours, and you both step back.

They greet you with a wide smile, excusing themselves for interrupting.

You clear your throat, “I-I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He says, not meeting your eyes.

That night when you go to bed, even though the sheets are cold against your skin, you think the walls feel warm.

“And so, if you want to marry someone, you just need to be annoying and insult them for being an asshole.” Kuroo explains matter-of-factly to Bokuto.

“I never said Kozume was an asshole.” You justify.

You hear Kozume sigh.

“Well… at least not directly to him. But I thought it really hard. Maybe I wrote it in the letters I left at his door-”

“Love… they got it I think.”

“Right, sorry…”

“Arrrrgh, I’m so jealous… I want to have a relationship like you guys.” Bokuto scratches the back of his neck and groans loudly.

“Bokuto-san, if you love someone just tell them.”

“But Akaaashi, I’m not a poet like you. I can’t just write love letters and stuff.”

“C’mon, bro,” Kuroo interrupts. “Isn’t it great to be single? You don’t have to worry about making the other mad or sad or-"

“Kuro says this because he doesn’t want to be the only single guy here.”

“Oi! Kenma, if I hadn’t helped you conquer their heart, you wouldn’t have been able to get someone like them.”

“You helped him?” You rest your chin in the palm of your hand and look at Kuroo.

“He never told you? The night when you were completely wasted, two years ago, I was the one who suggested he take care of you. And the day when-”

“Okay, time to go. Your grandparents are waiting for us.” Kenma gets up and you can see Kuroo smirk from the corner of your eyes.

You’re about to tell him to wait, you want to know more about his friend’s story. But Kenma takes your hand and leads you outside, not caring about Kuroo’s comments about him being a coward and Bokuto’s complaints about nobody caring about his love life problems.

Once you step outside, you call for him.

“Huh?” He speaks. He never says more than that.  

“I love you.”

He kisses the top of your nose and whispers, “I love you too.”

a/n: the story comes from a dream i had, i woke up and knew i had to write it haha. hope you enjoyed it

elie

[rubykgrant]

(very close to this one zombie story concept I was playing around with; weird zombie stuff starts happening, the world falls apart, but then it just continues on so long it gets treated as "normal" in the worst way. this one older scientist guy wants to find a cure/immunization method instead of just the current plan of "shoot all zombies and try to make safety-zones that don't work and only protect really rich people". he gets an assistant who is a dude that was literally only born because at one point, the military was like "hey, we need more soldiers, if citizens have a baby and promise to make the kid be a soldier later, we'll let you move into a nicer house in a safe zone". this dude was expected to just be canon-fodder, but he managed not to die, and live long enough to realize how much that whole system sucks, so he left the military and his awful family, and lives with scientist guy out in this big abandoned factory in a "wasteland" area, where they try to fix the zombie problem.

a running joke is; different weird zombie-cults/religious zealots and small-scale "armies" show up to knock on their door to try and sell the guys on THEIR totally true and correct opinions on the situation. some of them think they can like, just "drink a little bit of zombie juice" to gain immunity/super powers, some of them think "all the zombies are clearly the empty vessels left behind by some rapture that happened and then demons got in there so we need to do exorcisms about it", some of them think "the Lord wants us to use zombies as free slave labor we just have to train them to push and stack rocks", some of them think "we all need to die in some grand ceremony to avoid being zombies", some of them are just WAY too exited about the idea of "we can kill them for free so it doesn't count as murder but we REALLY like murder". so the guys just keep answering through a loud speaker- "No, we don't want to join the Church of Holy Mother Death. No, we don't want to be part of General Blood's Army of the New Life. No, we don't want to join anybody called Bishop or Deacon whatever. No, we're don't want to join the Un-Alive Movement run by that weird children-of-the-corn teenage prophet".

the various groups sometimes fight each other, or go bother different people, but the two guys are just not having any of it... however, they DO share medical supplies/food with travelers, they just don't give it out at their factory; they leave stuff at different abandoned gas stations, and people think they have successfully "raided" stuff others haven't found. this helps people, and also makes them less of a target)

has nobody done a zombie thing where every little group of survivors call them something different

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Does Berk think Hiccup is frivolous in Httyd 1? Maybe a little bit aloof?

Stoick tells him to stop joking around in the opening scene of the movie, after the dagons have left. "This isn't a joke, Hiccup!" He tells him. And he tells him that after his rant about how he has things to worry about, like making sure the village doesn't starve in the coming winter, Hiccup answers to with a sassy "the village could do with a little less feeding, don't you think?" Which really only manages to make Stoick even more mad.

After their first lesson in dragon training, Gobber asks the class "where did Hiccup go wrong?" and Astrid's response is "he's never where he should be." I think she means it literally. Why is Hiccup, of all people, in dragon training? Ruffnut and Tuffnut make sense. Snotlout makes sense. Even Fishlegs makes sense. (especially since Fishlegs has already shown effort by memorizing the Book of Dragons, effort Astrid clearly approves of given her shock at the twins and Snotlout disregarding Gobber's order to read the book.)

But Hiccup? Hiccup McSassyPants? Who gets told that his village could starve in the winter and answers with "well maybe they should eat less"? Who steps outside during a raid and actually causes more damage than the dragons pretending he's capturing a Night Fury? What is he doing in dragon training? That class literally ended with Hiccup almost losing his life to a Gronckle.

This is further backed up when after she has to protect both herself and Hiccup from a Deadly Nadder, which happened because Hiccup wasn't paying attention the whole time, getting them both in trouble. (Which is because he's fixating on figuring out a certain Night Fury, but they don't know that. To them, it just looks like he's annoying Gobber with meaningless questions. Why are you asking about the Night Fury? The one dragon who's single instruction is "hide and pray it doesn't find you"?) She explicitly asks him "Is this some kind of a joke to you?"

Followed up by "Our parent's war is about to become ours. Figure out which side you're on."

Once again someone questions Hiccup about how serious he takes things. But it's more than that, she's trying to give him a wake up call! Wake up, Hiccup, our parents are actually fighting a genuine war here and someday it'll be your turn! Stop making everything a joke before you get yourself or someone else killed!

Astrid actually isn't as much against Hiccup at this point as people often believe. There are actually a few points in which she eithers feels sorry for him or tries to help him in her own Astrid-y way. (And if the deleted scene hadn't been deleted, there would've been an almost friendly conversation had between the two before dragon training even starts)

Let's also not forget Hiccup's and Stoick's talk before dragon training even starts. When Stoick shows some actual vulnerability by laying his son's life in his son's and Gobber's hands when he decides to give in and let Hiccup go to dragon training while he's off on a voyage.

Hiccup tells his father "I don't wanna fight dragons!" in a tone that is rather pleading. To which is father chuckles and says to him "come on, yes you do!"

Remember in the opening, Hiccup practically makes the claim that he lives and breathes to kill dragon, it's "who he is." And now he suddenly claims he doesn't want to fight dragons at all? Can't fight them?

Stoick keeps his tone light, telling his son that he will fight dragons, don't you worry about that, Hiccup. With Hiccup doubling down that he's very extra-sure that he can't fight dragons, which makes Stoick double down in return, his levity disappearing.

"Can you not hear me?" Hiccup asks, desperate to be heard.

"This is serious, son!" Says Stoick. Which makes this three times that Hiccup is explicitly told to take something serious. (And you can just see the disbelieve or realization in Hiccup's eyes as he's once again not being listened to.)

(Followed by Stoick telling him to act like everyone else and to stop being Hiccup, which gets him, you guessed it, a sarcastic remark from Hiccup.)

We know that Hiccup changed his mind about participating in dragon training because he found out he couldn't kill Toothless. (or rather, he can't kill the scared and the defenseless, as the Red Death would later show) But Stoick doesn't know that. Berk actually seems to know very little about Hiccup and that's why they think that he's joking around at all times.

I'm willing to bet that the "disasters" he causes "every time he steps outside" aren't much of a help either. (and I wonder how many of these are actually Hiccup's fault or if Hiccup happened to be involved, so the blame is just automatically put on him.)

And this isn't a post to bash Hiccup. I love him to death, I love his sass as much as any other fan. And I am very much of the opinion that Hiccup's sass is a defense mechanism.

His feelings get hurt, so he tries to hurt someone else's back. Like when he probably feels guilty about his father worrying about the village getting through the winter, so he makes that comment about how the village could eat less to offset that guilt. (Which again, only makes Stoick angrier.) And I think the proof is in the rest of the franchise.

Hiccup sasses the most when he's 15-16, a.k.a from Httyd 1 to DoB. But by the time we see him again in RttE (chronologically) he sasses a little less and in a friendlier and more playful context, but he has also matured to deal with his negative feelings differently. RttE is, chronologically, when Stoick actually begins to consider if his son is ready to be chief. He can see how much Hiccup has matured, especially when there's such physicaly distance between them. It's the equivalent of not seeing someone over summer break or watching someone go traveling and see how much they've changed when you reunite with them.

(also, he can knock Snotlout unconscious with a single punch, I bet that helps as well.)

But it is the way Hiccup chooses to defend himself, giving sassy comments (think "Thanks, I was trying!" to Snotlout's comment about the mess he made) to either painful comments about him or actual serious statements like the ones Stoick makes that still gets him in the feels that make him seem so shallow and unserious in the eyes of Berk.

Then there is his apparent history of crying wolf. When he actually does manage to shoot down a Night Fury, his father doesn't believe him and Hiccup explicitly says "this isn't like the last few times, I mean I really actually hit it! It went down!"

When you combine all of this, you get a teenager who doesn't appear to take anybody serious, including the lives of himself and others. Terrible traits to have as a person, let alone when you're the chief's son.

Somehow, a narrative of frivolity and aloofness was build around Hiccup that he just could not escape no matter how much he tried to crawl out of it. At some point, Berk put him in a box, marked it "jokester" and Hiccup's efforts to get out of that box only grew and grew. When his efforts failed, whenever he sassed back, Berk just pushed him even deeper into that box. Not looking further into what Hiccup actually needed or was trying to say.

Do I think Berk was right? Not at all, because this is all surface-level, things Hiccup legitimately says and does to protect himself and nobody realizes this.

Toothless doesn't speak a single word to him during the Forbidden Friendship scene, yet he can get across exactly what he expects from Hiccup (mainly "keep your distance, I don't trust you enough") without being mean about it. He doesn't snap, he doesn't bare his teeth. He just gives him faces that Hiccup understands. Only growling or hissing when Hiccup passes a boundary Toothless very clearly isn't comfortable with. (or, let's say, when his feelings are hurt, like when Hiccup steps on toothless' first drawing.)

And it's because he's not mean about it that he actually makes more progress with Hiccup in half a day than Berk does his entire 15 years.

And that's sad. That's what this post is about. About how sad it is that Berk takes Hiccup at a very shallow level and decides that must be his entire self as a person.

[eobe]

You are reborn into the Star Wars universe, in a time, place, and family of your choosing. You retain all of your knowledge of canon events, and could change their outcome if you so chose. What do you do?

an unforeseen writing escalation. If you‘ve been tagged and don’t want to read – ignore 😂🫶

Oh kriff, what did I do to deserve that.

That’s what I asked myself, CT-1618, since I got fragment by fragment of the memories of my former life on a strange planet in a galaxy that far away, that my soul travelled not only through space, but also through time.

And Maker, this is kark. If I don‘t want to be decommissioned by first chance, I had to keep my mouth shut and my head down. If I had to speak, then well-considered. The silent, broody cadet with the ongoing frown and the crossed arms, that was me.

I almost enjoyed everyone getting calm and my clone brothers‘ full attention when I finally had something to say. So time came to use that for a greater good.

Down in the barracks after curfew I hesitated over-notable to make my batch vode curious and then I started cautiously asking them what they think about „The Mission“ – the one of our nightmares.

Either I had luck or it was easier than I thought to get them started to think individually. I recognized my chance to change things with patience, if I manage to spread some tiny well placed seeds without getting caught – and to get some tiny well placed stones into rolling.

Even as a single clone trooper I could try to find evidence. I only needed skills to get my chance, so I specialized on coding and data decryption and also spread cautiously word about my interests and achievements to get support from my superiors. It worked – I got qualified for ARC training.

I also noticed the rumor about „The Mission“ being not only a strange clone thing but something possibly dangerous made the round, also some more triggers I set, like that we‘re more than just numbers.

I asked my trusted vode to tell me if they heard news about the rumors other clones maybe whispering behind hands about things I started. I always had only one back question: „Did they mention me?“ Luckily never. My brothers mocked me being that nervous. „Vod, calm down. Source unknown as always.“

I felt a little hope the first time a stranger clone in the 79s chatted with me and after some time and drinks he hesitated with a calculating glance and asked with lowered voice what I think of those rumors about „The Mission“ – that one from our nightmares. I couldn’t hold back a small chuckle but answered well-considered as usual.

I collected and encrypted every data I could find, also tracking the reports of the 501st to stay tuned. Did little hacking attacks and got better. Being a silent and specialized ARC trooper in the 41st Elite Corps allowed me to broaden my network, but my connections and attempts to get through the security walls of Serenno for the chips‘ data went dangerously wrong.

My closest vode shivered with me as we heard talking our superiors about Serenno being cyber attacked – from our position. Kark, the seppies seem to have a new specialist.

„Do we know the source?“ My batch brother Forest asked – perfectly hiding that he knows the source better than he liked in this moment.

They didn‘t find the source. But I found something.

__

„Name and number, trooper!“

Done. The day and the moment had come and I was absolutely done, but I might have now the tiniest and silliest chance to change a really big event in the timeline!

I had lurked in the 79s, looking for some blue markings on armor to grab myself some key figures, but I had to run into the Marshal Commander of Coruscant himself. Literally.

And spilled his caf all over his spotless armor.

Kriff, maybe I was only done, but I have to try my luck for the sake of the whole karking galaxy.

„ARC-1618! Name‘s Source, Sir and I‘m incredibly sorry, Sir…“ I rambled? knowing that not only my own poor life depends on.

The first time in my life I babbled like the most talkative brother of my Squad (named Text, no kidding) and it was important to do so and to make it right – I had a plan that requires proper acting.

I had absolutely no problem to show my sweating nervousness and shrinked under the seething glare of the elder clone and finally sweared, that I‘ll spend him a caf every time when I see him – Pause for effect and dramatic gasp (for this one I imagined my big brother Voice the one time the bulky clone actually got unsettled) – then I widened my eyes like in shock, like realizing what I just said and I froze my body like prey that got caught and hoped that I just had managed my masterpiece.

And Dank Farrik, it worked. I knew that I had won in the very moment that I saw a slightly mad glint lighten up in the furious eyes of Coruscant‘s head and an actually scary grin showing the canine teeth, all the older and greying Commanders seem to share.

My heart and my brain were racing on my way to order the maybe most important caf in the whole galaxy and as I sat down at the table with the waiting Commander, who tried to hide his amusement I had the feeling that I truly got a chance now.

So I started to track the schedules and reports of the Coruscant Guard and „stumbled“ over Commander Fox as often as possible, without making the tired but sly man suspicious. We fastly got into really good caf talks and so one day I dared my luck, making the older clone curious with showing in a matter of fact truly undecided and hesitating.

l leaned a bit over the table, shooting a short look left and right and asked with lowered voice „Sir… may I ask you a question? I heared rumors and maybe the Marshal Commander is able to clear that.“

Fox raised an eyebrow with an asking glance.

I took a deep breath.

„What do you think about… The Mission? You know, the one of our nightmares.“

Great, I escalated 🙈 Thank you for the inspiration, dearest Anon. I‘m not a writer, I have a writing blockade for more than half of my life, but suddenly one of my unintroduced OCs took over… 🤷🏽‍♀️

Yeah, I hope you have fun with a non-mother tongue, non beta-read, non-writer‘s spontaneous writing 😂🫶

@foxwithadarkside Look, who‘s gone AWOL 😁

@crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf Does this count for an OC showcase?

Chaos Squad, you might recognize some names 😎 @lonewolflupe @wings-and-beskargam @ghostymarni

Taglist, I apologize for my attempt to override my current art blockade with a pathetic try to draw something with words: @eclec-tech @bixlasagna @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @covert1ntrovert @general-ida-raven @vrycurious @dystopicjumpsuit @chaicilatte @groguandthebadbatch @ladylucksrogue @spaceyjessa @morerandombullshit @freesia-writes

[j-k-writes]

The Brozen Targaryen Deleted Scene - 1

Summary - (Y/N) has enough on his plate with an unwanted betrothal and estranged father forcing himself back into his life. He does not need a new and unwanted dragon thrown into the mix. However, as (Y/N) begins his training as a dragon rider he realizes that perhaps one problem can help fix some others.

Warnings - General HOTD warnings, targcest (cousins), political marriage

The winner of the poll!

(Y/N) did not return to the keep until morning. His uncle and what looked to be the entirety of the royal guard were waiting for him as he dragged his feet through the gates. One look at (Y/N)'s mud and blood-soaked clothing was all it took for his uncle’s face to flush in fury. 

“Come with me.” Viserys bit out. “Now.” 

(Y/N) followed his uncle, and the guards who had not left his side since he climbed the stairs, silently. Not that he could blame them, he’d managed to slip their eyesight the night before, and look what happened. His uncle walked him to his chambers, dismissing most of the guards as they entered. 

“Fetch a maester.” His uncle said to one of the guards as they left, before closing the door behind them. He rounded on (Y/N), fury clear on his face. “Sit.” 

The tiny petulant child that lived in (Y/N)’s brain wanted to continue to stand but the exhaustion seeped deep into his bones and forced him into a seat. (Y/N) sighed as his aching back met the cushioned chair, and he watched as Viserys paced the length of the room. 

“What were you thinking?” Viserys said, but before (Y/N) could form an answer he spoke again. “You are a Prince of the House Targaryen, the heir to Runestone! Sneaking out at night? You could’ve been taken, or worse killed!” 

“I wouldn’t have been killed, uncle.” (Y/N) said, indignant at the thought that he would be killed by some random attacker in Fleabottom. It was the wrong thing to say as his uncle seethed further. 

“No?” Viserys spat. “Have you seen yourself, (Y/N)? You are covered in dirt and blood. What am I supposed to tell your father when he returns? That I allowed his only son to escape my watch and injure himself as he whored around Fleabottom?” 

“I think he’d be thrilled at the thought actually.” (Y/N) said, “But I wasn’t whoring, I just wanted a break. I am not used to the city, uncle. I missed the fresh air.” 

His uncle deflated at his words, sighing to himself. “If you had just told me-” 

“You would’ve sent me to the woods with at least four guards. I wanted to go alone.” 

The doors burst open as (Y/N) finished his sentence, but it was not the maester who entered the room but Rhaneyra. She was panting as if she’d run to his room. Rhaenyra looked to her father first and then to (Y/N), and when they made eye contact her jaw dropped. 

“What have you done?” (Y/N) laughed at her words. She approached him, face flickering between disgust at his mud-covered clothes, and worry at the blood on his face. 

“Rhaenyra-” Viserys started but his heir waved him off, grabbing a cloth from the water bowl on (Y/N)’s desk. His uncle sighed at Rhaenyra’s actions, turning to (Y/N). “We have not finished with this conversation, and I will be doubling your guard.” 

(Y/N) sighed, watching as his uncle left the room letting the chamber doors closer with a slam behind him. Rhaenyra approached, beginning to wipe the grime off his face. Her movements were harsh with anger, and (Y/N) winced as the cold rag made contact with the cuts on his face. 

“Tell me what happened.” Rhaenyra said, her tone leaving no room for argument. 

“I snuck out of the keep.” 

“I am aware of that.” Rhaenyra said. “The whole keep is aware of that as a matter of fact. I want to know who injured you.” 

“No one injured me.” (Y/N) said, and Rhaenyra paused her washing of his face at the honesty in his tone. 

“What do you mean?” 

“A dragon claimed me.” 

“You claimed a dragon?” 

“No,” (Y/N) said, wincing internally at how ridiculous he must sound. “I did not claim it, it claimed me.” 

“A dragon is not an it.” Rhaenyra chastised, swatting him on the shoulder. “Which dragon?” 

(Y/N) had not thought that far. Truthfully he knew little of his father’s family history, Maester Pate always cuffed him when he adamantly refused to study the books. He knew nothing of the dragon that found him last night, except that it was more stubborn than himself if such a thing was possible. 

“I do not know.” (Y/N) admitted. “It was bronze, like my house's sigil, and huge. I felt like a babe as it towered over me.” 

“Bronze?” Rhaenyra froze, eyes widening. 

“Yes.” 

Rhaenyra’s face broke out into a grin. “That is Vermithor.” 

“The dragon missing from Dragonstone?” 

“Yes, our great-grandfather Jaehaerys was his rider once.” Rhaenyra seemed ecstatic at the news, but (Y/N) could not help the fury that flared within him. It could be no coincidence that the dragon that left Dragonstone upon his father’s arrival on the island would claim him. Rhaenyra seemed to notice his worsening mood and frowned. “You do not seem happy.” 

“A dragon is the last thing I want, Rhaenyra.” (Y/N) said. “I am not like you, I do not take pride in being a Targaryen.” 

Rhaenyra drew away from him at his words, placing the dirty cloth back in the bowl of water. “I will make sure the maester finds his way to you, cousin.”

Rhaenyra was angry with him, that much (Y/N) was sure of. 

Since the morning he’d returned bloody and bruised and with a new dragon in tow, she had not spoken to him outside of their council visits, and even then her words were short and clipped. Once (Y/N) would have been grateful for his betrothed to show such contempt for him, the hope of a broken betrothal would have raised his spirits to new heights. But after weeks of enjoying Rhaenyra’s friendship, he could not bring himself to feel anything other than bored. 

While he still had little desire for a wedding, let alone one his father had arranged for him, he did wish for his betrothal to Rhaenyra to end. He did not love the girl more than anyone loved a friend, but perhaps one day he would bring himself to. She was comely enough for (Y/N) to admit his attraction toward her, and she was pleasant enough company that he would not mind being tied to her for the rest of his life. 

He had always known his marriage would be political, and was grateful that his intended was someone who understood him as much as Rhaenyra did. But he still feared that the quickness of their betrothal would forever stain their marriage, they did not love each other and probably would not for some time. 

Still, he could not have his future wife not speaking to him before their marriage was even official. 

The Dragonkeepers had sought him out a few days ago, claiming that Vermithor was restless and they had tried everything. He tried to tell them that he had no wish to properly claim the dragon and that they should just let him return to Dragonstone. Alas, it did not work that way and if (Y/N) continued to ignore their bond he would just cause Vermithor and himself more harm than necessary. 

So he made the lengthy trip up to the Dragonpit, without Rhaenyra this time. He made the trip every day until Vermithor was calm enough to be saddled and the Dragonkeepers determined his mastery of the dragon well enough to fly. He’d nearly fainted the first time Vermithor took off, but soon enough discovered that this was the fresh air he’d been dreaming of since leaving Runestone. 

He tried to keep his distance from the dragon, telling himself he was doing this only because it seemed he had no choice, but as the weeks passed on he found himself looking forward to his daily lessons with Dragonkeepers. 

Rhaenyra had begun talking to him again when she learned of his lesson, most likely from his father, and he was so relieved to have his friend back that he didn’t bother holding a grudge against the girl.

Her first wish, demand more like, upon their reacquaintance was to go flying. (Y/N) had mused that they’d done that before but Rhaenyra just rolled her eyes and insisted. This time (Y/N) would no longer be a spectator on the ground as she had her fun, he would be joining her in the skies. 

He was nervous on their ride up to the Dragonpit. Vermithor had become considerably more docile than when he first arrived at the Dragonpit, but there were still days that (Y/N) feared for the safety of those unfortunate enough to bear the dragon’s scorn. 

He watched anxiously as Vermithor crawled out from the Dragonpit, tilting his head side to side in search of his rider. (Y/N) approached him, laughing quietly to himself as the dragon pushed his snout into (Y/N)’s chest. He whispered calming words in his ancestral tongue, informing the dragon that they had a guest and he must behave.

When Vermithor stilled (Y/N) held his hand out to Rhaenyra, much like she had done when introducing him to Syrax. She approached the dragon slowly, looking up at him in awe. 

(Y/N) remembered that this was her great-grandfather’s dragon; she'd probably grew up on stories of Vermithor as much as she had his rider. 

(Y/N) pressed her hand against Vermithor’s nose, whispering calming words to the dragon as he huffed. After what felt like an eternity of anxious waiting, Vermithor calmed, blinking slowly at his rider’s betrothed. He heard Rhaenyra laugh next to him and he turned to catch her eye. She was still looking up at his dragon in awe. 

“You’ve done very well with little training.” Rhaenyra said, rubbing her hands down Vermithor’s snout. 

“Perhaps I am more Targaryen than I wish to be.” (Y/N) smiled at his betrothed, and Rhaenyra just nodded her head, smiling at him.

[xi-xi-chen]

Who would propose first between Jinx and Lux?

Because I’m sure that they’ll drive themselves crazy in order to propose in the best way.

Ooh I answered a similar ask in another post, my take was that Jinx would do the proposal.

I dont ever see someone's past as a competition to another's. So heres how it goes in my head:

If we're asking but referring towards my silly AU, then here's how we'll start with Lux, I just want to provide some context, sorry.

So far, the reason she ends up in Zaun is because she feels responsible for the death of her people in Demacia, but after her capture and branded both traitor and released from her House, she's sentenced to life of exile but the catch is that they gave her a head start before they sent out a notice for rewards on the capture of those responsible for the fallout.

Now, I'm not strictly following the canon events for Lux, so I've made her a bit younger to match with Jinx's upbringing.

Anyways, because of that, she's only known the life of her soldier training and having to accept she is a mage while trying to see past her home's ideology of the world that she now gets to roam. So, essentially, Lux becomes a nomad. She takes the time to learn all she can in certain places but doesn't make many lasting ties, for fear of the hunters and herself and just because she's got trust issues now.

But, with the travel and friendships seemingly breaking left and right, Lux feels like she isn't worthy of bonds or love. Often, she travels on autopilot and doesn't exactly feel like a real person anymore, and it's especially tragic because all she has left is the training and knowledge from a home that kicked her out.

But she remains hopeful despite it all.

Now, we all know Jinx's story. But my other take on her is that despite everything, people still end up choosing Jinx in some way or another. She gets tossed around a lot like a hot potato, and evidently, it seems like she's got no choice but to allow it for the sense of potential usefulness, survival, and love that she thinks they'll give her.

And that just sucks.

It's honestly annoying and frustrating trying to stick in the lines of someone else.

So, it can be argued that Lux would be the one to settle the tossing, but I say it's much more powerful that Jinx finally gets the choice and decisions in her life without press or encouragement from another element. And in turn, that would give Lux a reason to stay, if anything with Jinx always being seen as manic and free (and yeah, Lux technically has freedom now too) it gives Lux direction and a new purpose finally, no longer does she have to roam endlessly when she can follow this new spark in her life and Jinx can finally cradle something that she found and loved all on her own.

+ But yeah, honestly, I think Lux in my AU wouldn't even think about marriage. If anything, she's too busy making sure her girls (Jinx and Isha) are protected and cared for. Jinx would be the one freaking out and trying to be subtle about the whole thing and finally pop the question to her in a roundabout way.

[thedept]

I took my son to see Sonic 3 last night. Afterwards, even though it was late, we stopped at the Target two floors down to grab a few quick things.

As we walked in, they had a whole wall full of bins. Big bins for ornaments, long flat bins for wrapping paper, wreath bins, etc. I cracked the lid on our ornament bin getting it down this year and our wrapping paper bin has been ready to burst for years now. This constituted an exciting development in my middle aged life.

As will happen when I’m trying to do two things at once, I get flustered. In this case, it was texting my wife to find out the size of our current ornament bin and also answering a slew of questions from my son on multiple topics.

Then, a text comes into my phone from my mother. It was just “👌”. The weird thing is that my mother died in April 2020.

I text my wife, a panicked sort of “what the fuck is happening.” After a minute of hyperventilating I remembered something about my sister giving her then-6 year old son my mom’s phone when she died and that he just use it as a toy on Wi-Fi. And maybe also something in there about not getting around to canceling the line.

I text my sister and ask if my nephew still has my mom‘s phone number? She replies yes, why? And I tell her, and she’s like holy shit that’s awful.

So while at the time we don’t know why my now-11 year old nephew is texting me ok emojis, at least we know what’s going on, but I’m still all sorts of flustered.

We get home and my son goes to bed, and my wife & I are sitting on the couch and she looks at my phone. I had texted my nephew/mother asking about the size of the ornament bin. I realize that my son likely asked what I was doing and I said “texting mom…” as I was activating Siri to send a voice text. Hence, text sent to “mom,” not to “wife.”

So I’m not mortified at myself along with still freaked out for the couple of minutes that I questioned a death hoax from my mother.

This spurned two of what I can only describe as anxiety attacks. And then I went to bed but couldn’t sleep and was awake on our couch until after 4am. And then I had another anxiety attack this morning, making 3 in 12 hours. I told my wife that I needed to leave, and quickly got dressed, grabbed a coat, left, and started walking.

At first I was thinking I’d sit on a bench a block away and chill/stew/calm down, but I didn’t want to. So I walked. And walked. Before I knew it, I’d walked a mile. Then two.

It was a blur. I’d think that I was near a certain block only to look up and realize I was 5 or 6 blocks further. I called my wife somewhere after I passed 2 miles and while we were on the phone she pulled up Find My Friends, saw where I was, and asked if I’d driven there.

My knees and feet were aching. I wasn’t in good shoes for a long walk. Right after I passed the 3rd mile I came upon an N train station and got on it headed home. I’d been walking for an hour. I went from my neighborhood of Prospect Heights all the way to Sunset Park. This is far.

It’s taken me all day and I’m still not really totally back to normal. But I just took a melatonin and I’m going to try to sleep.

[modelbus]

Would you look at that, it's another COD songfic. ⚠️ WARNING: the last bit is a little spicy!! ⚠️

Pairing: John Price X Gn!Reader

Talk

I'd be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee that made him turn around

Your Captain was a good man. Everyone said it. He was revered, looked up to, practically worshipped. A man who got his team in and out, often in one piece.

A man who appeared around every corner you turned, a friendly smile on his face and a coffee in hand.

"Thought I'd catch you headin' toward the armory." He'll say, offering the cup to you.

"Did you need me for something?" You ask, although you know his response will always be the same.

"Just wanted to check on ya. Can't hurt to have some company."

John Price is always there. In the hall outside your room in the mornings, in the mess hall when you are, stepping into the range when you're practicing. A constant presence behind you, oftentimes with gifts.

It's as if he has to seek you out, a magnet pulling him to wherever you are. Maybe it should be alarming. Maybe. But your Captain is a good man.

"Old wraps are no good, you know." Price says from behind you, his footsteps quiet in the training room.

You reach out, steadying the punching bag. After a moment, you turn to see him, eyes flitting down to the new wraps he holds in his hands.

"We order new ones?" You ask, already starting to unwind the current ones around your knuckles.

"Aye. Meant to be made of stronger stuff. Someone likes to wear through them."

"Guilty as charged, Cap." He doesn't offer the wraps to you, so you offer your hands instead. You're rewarded with a smile in return.

Carefully, and perhaps taking too much time, he winds the wrap around your hands and knuckles. "Gotta take care of these hands. We need 'em." His hands squeeze yours before he pulls back.

Is it a crime to miss the contact? You'll ask the punching bag. "Yes sir."

I won't deny I've got in my mind now All the things I would do So I try to talk refined, for fear that you find out How I'm imaginin' you

"A man would be lucky to have you." Price tells you from behind his beer, dark eyes slowly tracing down your figure and back up again.

The hair on the back of your neck raises, like it always does when you're in danger. When you're the prey instead of the predator.

"Not all of them are worthy of having you, though." He continues, taking a sip—a swig—from the bottle.

Was it any wonder he'd find you in the rec room tonight, alone? That he'd have alcohol to share?

"Amen to that." You answer, laughing to try and diffuse the heaviness in the air.

"'M serious, love. Poets write sonnets 'bout the likes of you."

The idea is laughable. "It's the muscles." You joke to him, glancing down at your own empty bottle.

"A beautiful body." He hums, his gaze weighing on your skin like a physical touch. "With the mind to match, of course."

Bad ideas upon bad ideas. You didn't feel smart right now, just ensnared. A rabbit who stumbled into a trap, exactly like planned.

Price smiles at you, slow and relaxed. You smile back.

"Help an old man to his room?" He asks you, standing. There's not a hint of a slur in his words, nor does he wobble. You're willing to bet he isn't even buzzed.

"You're hardly an old man." Yet you stand too, waiting by the doorway for him.

"Compared to you?" He pauses next to you, ducking his head to speak the words into your ear. "It'd be a crime in God's eyes for me to touch you."

You're frozen in place, but he doesn't reach for your body. He waits, though it's clear he's anything but patient right now. The look in his eyes is hungry — for you.

"Don't think God watches us anymore." Your voice comes out quiet.

His hands land on your waist, pushing you against the doorframe as he boxes you in. "Let's hope not, yeah?"

I'd be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love I'd be the sweet feeling of release mankind now dreams of Imagine being loved by me

John's arm slides around your waist as he settles on the couch beside you, pressing a brief kiss to your bare shoulder where your sweater has dipped down. You relax into him and his warmth easily, eyes never leaving the intense board game between Soap and Ghost on the floor.

"Having fun?" John asks, dragging his teeth on your shoulder before relenting and stopping. "They still going at it?"

"It's the most entertainment we've had in weeks." You nod. "And I think Ghost will stab him in his sleep."

"I heard that!" Soap shouts, barely even looking up from the board.

"You got bigger problems, lad." John snorts, squeezing your waist. "And I have more important things to focus on." He adds, quieter so only you hear it.

He's the perfect gentleman. A good Captain, a good man, a good lover. Sweet.

But sometimes, when his lips ghost over your skin, soft as a breeze, you get the feeling he's playing a sheep in wolf's clothing. The blue of his eyes can't hide how they linger on you when he thinks you aren't looking, and no amount of gentle affection can mask the way he always grabs for you.

Sweet little soldier, caught in your Captain's webs. Somewhere dangerous that you love to be at.

He laces his fingers with yours, sighing quietly. Probably tired from paperwork that accumulates after every mission, per usual. At least it makes him a great pillow at night.

What an honor it is to be loved by him.

I won't deny I've got in my mind now All the things I would do So I try to talk refined, for fear that you find out How I'm imaginin' you

"Fucking gorgeous."

You tighten your hand in his hair, heading tipping back against the pillows as his lips trace a path down your body. You're peeling apart, splitting open, right along the seam of where his kisses are. Down the center of your chest, down your abdomen, down your stomach.

"So pretty." He murmurs, eyes on you even as he bites into your skin. His tongue lathes over the mark to soothe it, only for him to immediately repeat the motion elsewhere. "And all mine, sweetheart."

"Yours." You agree mindlessly. "Fuck, John. Just stop teasing."

John laughs against your skin, squeezing your thighs just because he can. His grip will leave bruises in the morning you're sure. It's not the first time, and wont be the last.

"I've got you all to myself, sweetheart. You think I ain't gonna enjoy it? Take my time putting you in all the positions I've imagined?" His eyes meet yours, and you swallow.

You're so fucked. Have been since the second you stepped foot on this base.

"Dontcha worry 'bout a thing." He lifts his head a little to grin at you. "I've got you."

As his lips return to your body—and that fucking tongue—you send a silent prayer to God to look away.

John Price may be a great Captain, but he was hungry for something you found out far too late, after you were in far too deep.

[lilyrachelcassidy]

Obsessed

a/n: low key a little inspired by @etherealily cuz I simply love this star, lets just state the obvious.

Summary: Be careful. He is watching.

Warnings: oh yeah. This is super dark. Not to spoiler or anything but physical abuse, language, and psychological manipulation. Also not proof read.

(images not mine. credits to whoever owns them, love ya.)

“What did you want, Nate?”

He grunted, saying nothing. His gaze was fixed on the floor the whole time, minutes elapsing ploddingly, excruciatingly. He was leaning over your locker, the backpack tightly wrapped around his shoulder, but not for long — without a word of explanation, he started taking it off, unzipping it as though trying to create the ambience of mystique.

But that’s Nate Jacobs — taciturn, surly, and simply fucking creepy. Well, creepy because it was the middle of the night, you just finished your training, and yet how the heck did he know where to find you?

Well, again, that’s Nate Jacobs.

“This is for you,” said he while taking out a bouquet of flowers from the said backpack. He wasn’t smiling nor wasn’t he wincing while doing the gesture; he was entirely blank as though it feared him to evince an emotion. See? Creepy.

“What is that for?” you asked, unsurely taking the flowers into your hands which you now noted were a bunch a lilies. Your favourite flowers. What. The. Heck.

Had you ever talked to the boy before? Well, yes, but that’s only because of the mutual friends you both shared. And it wasn’t like a fully-fledged conversation either but a few tacit words were exchanged, like “how was your day” or “oh yeah, the math classes are agonizingly boring.” The mere nothings. So literally where was this all coming from, you didn’t know. You also didn’t know whether to run, laugh, or cry.

“Just rising your standards.”

You furrowed, incredulous. “Literally what the fuck?!”

He then shrugged, the expression still unrevealing, not even a flicker of anything in his eyes, and then he took a step forward towards you. As your instinct, you wanted to recede but you were keenly aware that if you showed any sign of weakness in front of him, he would position himself as a predator, and you as his prey. He devoured in others’ fear. You didn’t want to grant him that satisfaction.

He extended his hand, grasping your chin so that now you are looking up at him and locking in the tenacious eye contact. He began playing with your bottom lip for a moment, flicking his gaze between your eyes and then your lips again. You persisted in that position for a half a minute or so (but you couldn’t swear to it, your heartbeat banged in your chest in a rabbit speed, your time passing as though in a slow motion). You stood, rooted to the ground, motionless. Anyhow, you even weren’t certain what to do, even if you wanted to move…

Was it a sign for you to finally run away from the soon-to-be place of a crime? What were you still doing, just standing here with his psychopath? After all, Nate Jacobs had a reputation… and not a good one.

At last, he scoffed but not shifting in his position in the slightest. “You should know what I mean. You think people in the school don’t know?”

“Know of what?” you asked, your voice increasingly demanding of answers, brows furrowed and you were sure that this amount of face muscles flexing should be a whole new category of a workout altogether.

“Your fucking dating profiles,” he finally disclosed, somewhat angry with that, and also proving for the first time this night that he wasn’t some kind of robot but a person. An unhinged person with some serious mental problems. But yeah whatever. “Love, you are way too beautiful for this shit. Way too beautiful…”

It was spellbinding, really, how quickly he could shift in between the moods because he was stroking your chin again, a small smile on his face, after just literally yelling at you for using the dating apps.

“Now how is that any of your business?” Your tone was laced with defiance, eyes now narrowed and ready to fight back.

He stared you down for a couple of moments, pausing his thumb on your chin and utterly disrespecting your personal space. Then he let out a small sigh with an almost imperceptible head shake. You could feel his breath tickling your skin, so minimal the distance between the two of you was.

“The first time I have seen you was next to this locker actually." Well, apparently we are dodging the questions now. "You were wearing your little skimpy pink skirt, flaunting yourself in front of all the guys. Or am I wrong?” He bent down a little, just enough to look you in the eye on the same level. Another scoff. “You are so fucking desperate for attention, aren’t you?”

Before you had a chance to object, he continued, his hand now growing rougher under your chin, almost as if making sure you weren’t ducking his gaze. “Then we talked during that one party. You know, when we celebrated our team’s win? You were so fucking shitfaced, I don’t even know if you remember this conversation at all. But I do.” His gaze became so hard on you, it was piercing and you really wanted to escape this whole situation now. Your survival instincts were turning glaring red right now.

“From there on I already knew you were just as fucking fucked up as I was.” And out of nowhere, his hand was suddenly wrapping around your neck and he was suffocating you. Violently. Frantically. Your eyes widened, shocked and breathless simultaneously, and your hand flew over to his grasp to try to unlock yourself from the hold but miserably failing in doing so. He chuckled at the attempt, just observing your face without flinching. You dropped the bouquet, and you could very acutely hear it as it hit the floor.

“You are too fucking locked up in your head, you don't even know how fucked up you are,” he spat out, the chokehold turning tighter and tighter every single second. His mouth drew closer as well and you could feel how his breath fanned over your face now; not that you could focus too much on that fact right now as you were dangling in a hold, unable to deliver any air to your lungs. “Trying way too fucking hard to fit into this societal bullshit.”

Your eyes started roaming around the entire place, praying for someone to enter the corridor this very instant, though you knew it would be unlikely for anyone to be here at this time of a day. You looked at Nate again, and noticed just how much he was relishing your horror right now; and it was definitely turning him on as you discerned a growing tent in his pants.

“You enjoy validation, don’t you? No…” He tsked his tongue. “You fucking love it.”

He chuckled again, ultimately releasing you after what felt like an eternity. Instantly you slid to the floor, now finally registering how tear-stained your face was. He stood in front of your cowering self, taking some time in inspecting how much damage he had done to you, and sickly relishing your state, your reddened face, your tears...

"Now listen babe." He hunched over you again, lifting your head with his callous fingers so that you were looking straight into his face and his demented smile. "You are going to delete those fucking dating profiles. Cease talking to whoever the fuck you met there. Because I'm telling you." He yanked your head a little, a little manipulative move of his to foreshadow a warning of some sorts. "They aren't worthy of you. None of them. I will show you, do you understand?"

His face was expressionless but you could tell, even with the tears in your eyes and streaming all the way down your cheeks, that he was seething. You didn't risk it, especially since you knew you were verging on the very dangerous territory right now -- you nodded, the most visibly you could so that he didn't find you uncooperative or something like that.

“Don’t fucking play around, kiddo. I know what's best for you.” He chuckled for the last time, pecking your forehead. And then was gone, probably returning to some mental hospital they keep him in.

You weren’t much aware of your surroundings at this point as you struggled to let the air back into your lungs, at the same time try as might to suppress your sobbing sounds. Your hands were clutching your throat, failingly attempting to loosen an invisible noose from your neck. You knew, in fact, that this was going to leave a robust bruise and that people will be asking questions. But you were going to lie because who in hell was going to believe that a star basketball student was also a fucking psychopath with some uncontrolled anger issues? He might have a reputation but even for him that seemed extreme.

Or had seemed extreme just half an hour ago.

You could feel your eyes still watering, unwittingly so, but after ten minutes or so you could finally make out what was happening around you again — you were in the black corridor, nobody around, and the bouquet of lilies still laid not far away on the sordid school tiles.

Upon closer examination, you noticed a small paper note peeking through, crisp and elegant. The churning in your stomach instinctively increased because you knew very well that it was yet another message from Nate fucking Jacobs among the slew of other messages you learnt about yourself from him today.

Slowly breaking through you fear and bodily shocks of the events, you crawled over to grab a little piece of paper.

You unwrapped it. As feared, you didn’t like it. Very much.

“Meet me in the school parking lot. Tomorrow. 1am.”

[winxfairyliveshere]

Just Mom

Joško Gvardiol x Wife Reader

Joško and reader has a 3 year old son that always wants to be with his mother.

Hi 🤸🏻‍♀️ I hope you will like it. Feedbacks are welcome 💞💋 English is not my first language, sorry for mistakes 😜

You heard the sound of Josko's car slowing down in the garage way. You were preparing a salad what's for dinner with your 3 year-old son who was next to you, climbed his ladder so he can see counter and help you. His head was resting on your left side, hands tapping the surface.

"Oh, tata is here i think Y/S/N" He seemed unbothered, still focused on you. You continued chopping vegetables because you were nearly done with it.

"I'm homee!!" Hearing his voice made you happy and grateful. Love of your life is here, came back to you again. Every time when he leaves the house you always wished him to come back home healthy and happy, considering he is doing a job where there is always a chance he can get injured. Or in traffic. Anything can happen in a blink of an eye. Maybe you are too concerned? Overthinking too much? Does it matter though? You want and wish your family to be healthy and secure every day.

You called to him "We are in the kitchen."

His perfume was faster than his steps. Firstly your nose felt his presence and then your body. He hugged you from your behind with his right hand, left hand ruffling your son's hair. You placed a light kiss to his face or his beard since he has a full beard. No matter how you wanted him to make it shorter a bit, he does not listen to you.

"Welcome home my love. Are you hungry? We are making a salad for dinner. And i cooked-"

"No i am not hungry yet, i ate in the training center." Josko turned his gaze to Y/S/N. He took his hand away from you and replaced both of his hands on Y/S/N's shoulders, squeezed them lighly.

"Did you help your mom big boy?" You finished the cutting meantime, poured what you chopped into the bowl.

"I washed the tomatoes, right mom?" and he started to wait for your approval.

"Yes he did." you washed the knife and chopping board. After you dried your hands, you turned back to them while leaning your back to counter. Y/S/N was still on top of ladder. You smiled with your full teeth to your husband.

"Welcome again." You gave Josko a hug. Tighter this time, warmer, caressed his back with your palms, placed a deep kiss on his neck. "What is this for?" asked Josko with a giggly voice. While you were still sticking to each other's arms, you gave him an answer.

"I wanted to give you a proper hug, like how you deserve." You guys started to swing left and right without realizing it until your son interrupted. He came down the ladder while you were hugging and started to trying seperate you two. He began to push you from each other along with little hits.

"Mooooom! Let's watch tv together. Mooom." You both turned your gazes to him, letting go of arms.

"What are you doing Y/S/N?" you talked back to him with a firm voice. He repeated his question, completely neglecting yours. Josko answered him with a cool tone this time.

"Go to living room we are coming after you." Your son waited for your answer but you did not say anything.

"I said go Y/S/N." Josko snapped his hands towards living room. He listened to his father's words. You felt a bit sad, he kinda looked broken by his father's words yet he has been acting unmanageable for a few days. Fussing with you, trying to delay bedtime, always wants to eat with you and sit next to you, clinging to your legs.

"I do not know why he behaves like that. He was not like this before. It's like he is a baby. Even babies are easier. Remember, he was sleeping most of the day, does nothing just sleep?" Josko pushed his hair back, directed his dark brown eyes to yours.

"Yeah i remember. Sleep, eat, poop, sleep, eat, poop. We wanted him to grow up that time." He caressed your upper arm. "Uhm, i remember you reading a book about child development, maybe there is the answer. Some crisis period, 2 year old syndrome maybe?"

"2 year old syndrome? Aren't we passed that? He is three now Josko."

"I don't know, we should find that book. Or surf on the parenting forums?" You nodded to his words and went to the living room together.

While you three were resting on the sofa, watching an animated cartoon Y/S/N picked, a deal has been made. Your son wanted to sleep with you tonight. Just you by the way, he asked you not Josko. You guys were keen on the decision that no kids in the bed. All of the documanteries you have watched, books you have read, conversations you had with other parents said the same thing: no kids in the parent's bed. This is something that negatively affects not only parents but also children's development. However, 3 year-old insisted to much, eyes filled with tears, so you guys agreed on after he falls asleep, Josko will take him to his bed.

********************************************************

Your morning started with sobbing. As you felt a breath on your face and some hairs getting in your nose, you woke up. You looked at your son in the daze of sleep. He placed his head on your chest, the wetness on his cheek made you shiver. You slid in a little more to prevent him from falling off the edge of the bed and continued to sleep by hugging him.

When you opened your eyes, you realized that the sun had already risen. You turned your head to the right and saw your husband who is looking to his phone. When he felt your gaze, he put the phone aside and turned to you, leaned on his elbow and winked to you following with a wide smile. You smiled back at him.

"Good morning moja ljubav (my love)."

"Dobro jutro draga (good morning darling)." He pointed Y/S/N with his eyes and head in a playful way. His curls moved cause of his head movements pointing him.

"He came in the middle of the night, i think he cried so i welcomed him." You looked over him, fixed the duvet so he does not get cold. Right that time a lightbulb appeared in front if your eyes. You turned to Josko suddenly and cleared your mind with a ear piercing sound.

"Oedipus!" Once the words came out of your mouth, you had to check on your son if he woke up or not.

"Sorry, this might be Oedipus complex. You know that right? Freud?" It was as if all the question marks had disappeared from his mind. He threw himself to bed, smiling widely.

"Well do i need to compete with him? What do you think? Stop touching you when he is near?"

His left hand started to caress your abdomen under the duvet, fingers stopped when he put them inside your pajamas. "Look, he is invading our bed." Your husband's fingers were resting on your lower, feeling his warmth. You answered him while your son was waking up, throwing off the duvet.

"I don't think so."

When your son woke up and sat on the bed, Josko took his hands off you. You guys said good morning to him and he gave his answer by lying top of your body. He tried to push his father away along with murmuring "I don't want him."

Josko grabbed him by his waist and pulled him. Now Y/S/N was under his dad's imposing body.

"What is that? You don't want me?" Y/S/N nodded his head yes.

"Well i am your father so you are stuck with me for your whole life."

"No! You are not my father!"

Now you've joined their childish conversation. "Honey, he is your father. You have to trust me."

"Yes, we should trust her."

"Should?! You should trust me?" You slapped your husband's shoulder lightly, making him laugh.

"Hey, kid is here. You are being a bad example." You got out of bed and tried to knock him over. He resisted you at first but then gave up. Right now he was lying under you, your son was also sitting on his legs. You guys began to tickling him, Y/S/N was enjoying it, you held back a little, so he could share a pleasurable moment with his father.

You watched them with admiration, you were so lucky to have them in your life. More than the rising sun, they were the real light in your life. And your husband, Josko, handled the whole situation calmly, did not mistreat your son even once. How lucky you are to have them with you.

[madrivervalleyicelandics]

@mylittlehony gonna reply to you here so I can type more haha (everyone read replies on this if you wanna know what we are on about)

Okay so yes! There is a TON we don’t know or understand about exactly how gaitedness works & it’s probably lazy to use the DMRT3 mutation as a shorthand for describing gaitedness because it probably is more complicated than just that mutation & I’m sure the more we look into that the more we will find. Rn it’s just the gene test we have for it. So, noticing prevalence of connective tissue disease in breeds that also have that gene mutation, that’s interesting - correlation isn’t causation, but could there be some connection between gaitedness & connective tissue disorder? That may be a better way to phrase the question.

ESPA is believed at this stage to be hereditary. But that’s really all we know so far, and really even that is a guess until we know more. Every vet I talk to about this is like, “my kingdom for a gene test!”

I’m continuing to talk about it even without KNOWING answers because for a long time the message has been, Icelandic horses are a hardy, healthy breed.

We kind of just keep parroting this but in reality, the past 10 years especially have shown us quite a few health issues the breed is prone to, or at least not immune to.

My GUESS is that’s because enough time has passed for the breed to get a real foothold in countries outside of iceland that have different expectations of horses than iceland has. In iceland, horses tend to have long breaks from training each year on pasture, which means that they’re ridden less, cumulatively over a lifetime, than we expect to ride our horses on average in the US for example. Rides in iceland also tend to be short - yes, even on treks, riders historically bring spare horses & switch frequently. I have ridden Vigri in TWO 100 mile competitive rides - most folks in iceland are simply not putting that kind of mileage on a single horse. We also expect to ride our horses for as much of their natural lives as possible, & while of course some people ride horses into their old age in iceland, many horses go out to pasture or retire for breeding or have their careers scaled back significantly at younger ages than I think most Americans would like. We just have different expectations here, and we also tend to do a lot more diagnostic tests and therapies to keep horses going where in iceland they might just retire the horse. I’m not saying one is better over the other, just that the sets of expectations are different, & now that we are enough generations into the breed existing outside of iceland, I think more has come to light than would have been discovered in iceland alone.

When we’re honest & open about these problems - like we were with genetic spavin - the breed community is incredible at collecting data & making improvements. Genetic spavin was a big issue for a while, now not so much because breeders started screening & soft culling (not breeding those horses).

ESPA is WAY harder to deal with even in concept because we don’t have a way to screen for it in asymptomatic horses - it’s progressive & that progression is inconsistent. You can have individuals fully crippled or incompatible with life as youngsters, like Sirius & Sylgja, or you can have horses living natural lifespans & dying of unrelated causes in old age, never diagnosed (that would almost certainly have been Vigri - I doubt he’d have been diagnosed at all if I hadn’t had the other cases and gotten obsessive about this lol).

So one of the arguments I’ve heard from breeders is that, if it doesn’t affect them into old age, why does it matter. Which I don’t think is a GREAT attitude, but I do wonder how pervasive this disease is. If it’s found to be very pervasive in populations across breeds or specific to certain breeds, maybe some degree of it IS normal - how could we know if we are only able to test the most symptomatic horses? That’s sort of what we’ve come around to with ECVM, right - that there has always been this range of what’s “normal” & we assumed it to be a problem because only symptomatic horses were getting diagnosed - we had no idea how many asymptomatic ECVM horses existed until recently.

And then there is of course also the reality that all horses will eventually break down and die of SOMETHING. We can’t prevent that, no matter how perfect we make our husbandry & breeding.

So the question then becomes, what range of mobility is normal, when does it become hypermobile, where is the line between aspirational & dysfunctional, & who decides that. And those are all questions I SUPER don’t feel qualified to answer. But I do know that in the gaited horse world, certainly in the Icelandic horse world, we all tend to toe the line when it comes to hypermobility. We select for huge gaits, extreme leg action, & a lot of the training for sport intentionally destabilizes the horse to increase the snap-&-fling action that everyone seems to love.

What I’ve been saying for a while is, we’ve got to stabilize these horses. The training has got to refocus towards stabilization & away from exaggeration. I think that’s likely been what’s saved Vigri so far, is that he’s had a lifetime of stabilization work with me - even when I used to show him in sport, I spent all my time in between shows stabilizing him so that he could cope with those performances a few times a year, because I knew the toll they took. When THAT’S the gait standard, & we are judging the horses for breeding at age 3-5 usually, & then breeding them to this standard, I think there’s a LOT of room for a progressive disease like ESPA to be passed on before it’s detected or symptomatic. It happened to me with Skvísa & I know for a fact it’s happened to others.

If people know to test this breed when they start to have “weird” problems like I did with my mares, I think we will start to get a better picture of what this looks like. We can diagnose ESPA with ultrasound, at least after a certain amount of disease progression, & if more people knew that, & knew all the weird ways it can manifest, they might choose to test. Right now, most people don’t know it’s a possibility. There’s too much misinformation about the disease itself, but also about hypermobility in horses - and a great deal of THAT misinformation is held in place by denial / willful ignorance to protect current gait standards. If we acknowledge that we may be breeding horses that are successfully meeting our standard BECAUSE their connective tissue is diseased, that calls quite a few things into question that a lot of folks would prefer not to examine. In all sports, human and equine, it’s hard to go backwards from an extreme, isn’t it? That’s a tough sell. I don’t think that many people who are winning under the current standard like the idea of horses moving more conservatively in the future.

I think that’ll make it hard for ESPA research to get the funding or attention it deserves, is what I’m getting at, but we’ll see what happens. In the meantime, I feel like the best we can do is just keep talking about it & ultrasound horses that we have questions about.

Since my two mares got ESPA diagnosed in 2023 I feel like everyone I know has ESPA dx’d or suspected in Icelandic horses. So all I’m gonna say here is that if you have weird mystery sensitivity, the horse is kind of reactive & weird some days & fine others & you’re ruling out a lot of common causes of pain & can’t really find muscular or chiropractic causes & the horse isn’t lame on one leg or neuro but something is just weird about the horse…..

Ultrasound those suspensories, bestie!

We just did Vigri this Fall & found that he has early signs of degeneration of his suspensories, too, but at 16 & sound this is “normal” progression of the disease (as opposed to the serious degradation of the tissues we noted in Sylgja at age 5, & her mom at 13 - I still think Skvísa probably would have progressed more slowly had I not bred her, which I’d never have done if I’d known she had the disease). Since he isn’t a mare, won’t be bred, & the current best practice for treatment is consistent, appropriate exercise, I’m responding to this DX by slowing down his workload, riding him myself less, ponying him more, having my child (who is very light) be his primary rider when ridden, & keeping up with the shoe package that’s been keeping him sound & comfy with his rotational deformities up to this point. Vigri is more comfortable / happy when in an exercise program so this makes sense for him at this level of progression, but we will be monitoring closely & re-checking. This comes w perfect radiographs (zero arthritic changes to hocks, fetlocks, etc) - we literally only US’d bc when I pulled him barefoot last winter I THOUGHT I noticed his fetlocks dropping slightly more than usual, & I wanted to see if I were crazy or not 🤡

But where I’m at w this now is I think it is FAR more common in the breed than previously reported & warrants serious examination certainly for anyone who wants to breed these horses. The prevalence in Standardbreds, pasos (disease was first discovered in pasos) etc has a lot of vets curious if there’s a connection between the DMRT3 mutation & this connective tissue disease. Worth noting as well that Vigri is of no relation to my other horses, & is actually not even from the same breeding farm. Looking back, I wish I could US Glæta… I have a lot of questions about past “complicated” horses I worked with that could be answered by this disease.

It’s super worth paying attention to because of the connective tissue involved w internal organ suspension. A friend just attended a dissection of an (suspected) ESPA horse in which the liver was found to be detatched. I know quite a few Icelandic horses that were “fine” until they suddenly died of some weird medical event involving digestion. Was it colic or something else…..?

We know this disease can affect the cardiovascular system, vision, etc. I’m certainly curious if Vigri’s intermittent difficulty pulsing down - even when his resp returned to normal right away - could be related to subclinical presentation of this disease. I’m even curious if his rotational deformities at birth might have been the earliest sign! I’m quite sure it explains his unusually sensitive skin, which rubs & chafes so easily. All of which is to say, this disease goes beyond workload / performance expectations, it’s not just a (potential) soundness problem. It’s potentially something that can negatively impact organ function.

Another interesting thing I’ve learned more recently is that research is suggesting that the bodies of these horses lay down layers of fat in unusual / unexpected places to compensate / protect the lack of healthy connective tissue. On dissection that’s apparently really interesting to see, sometimes the horses don’t even palpate or look especially fat until you get into the layers of the body. My ESPA mares did have an unusual amount of body fat & it actually complicated the muscle biopsies we did to rule out PSSM2….

Anyway this is sort of a disorganized dump of random ESPA thoughts but I haven’t had the energy or time to make more coherent thoughts for Instagram / FB & I know Tumblr doesn’t care.

Bottom line is if you’ve got gaited horses & they’re having “mystery” health or behavioral issues, you might want to consider a connective tissue disorder as a possible contributing factor! & certainly if you notice hypermobility or unusual flexion of the joints.