#imagine all of the crack possibilities???

[adieutristana]

of course! thank you for requesting <3

so i lost this request but did get a screenshot. anyways never tone it down! being sassy is not a bad thing!

summary; headcanons of arcane women with a sassy girlfriend.

characters included; jinx, vi, mel, sevika, caitlyn, lest.

tags/warnings; fluff, maybe some crack?, possibly suggestive in some parts, s2 spoilers, reader is feminine/femme, can’t think of anything else

men and minors dni.

jinx;

✧.* jinx is right there with you- hello season two.

✧.* she never sees your attitude as a problem, frankly. she's usually the one to be told that she has an attitude problem despite never seeing anything wrong with it. why would she see it as a problem?

✧.* but if anyone else were to insinuate that you had an attitude problem, you need to tone it down, any of that, believe that jinx is jumping in and defending you. both with her words and physically.

✧.* "hey, i'd watch what you're saying," she'd bite, right before whipping out her pistol and pressing the cold barrel to some poor guy's neck. jinx isn't bothered by how his eyes widen, he immediately starts trembling or even his blubbered apologies. "she'll talk to you how she wants to talk to you. got that?"

✧.* seriously, though, i think jinx would consider it pretty fun to have a girlfriend just as, if not more sassy than she is. she’s been told to tone it down, to watch her mouth, but you’ve always understood because you’re the exact same way. and that makes it so much more fun.

✧.* sometimes you guys feed off each other, and jinx finds it one of her pastimes. she's always had a smart mouth, especially when it comes to her sister, randoms in zaun, and topsiders. could you imagine sassing them together? incredible.

✧.* "fancy topsider here- that top's outta season, you know?" you'd giggle, playfully elbowing jinx in the process. it'd earn a laugh from her, though a grimace from said topsider. "i know. you guys are all high and mighty but can't even follow your own rules? please. i could do better tying together yarn."

✧.* and then there's times where someone's getting under your skin, you say something witty back, and she finds herself falling for you all over again. something about a girl who isn't afraid to speak her mind and is confident.. it's so attractive to jinx.

✧.* the fact that you're so confident, you don't give a shit how others perceive you, it's just amazing to her! she loves that you're so sure of yourself and you're not afraid to ruffle some feathers if need be. you're just expressing yourself in the way that works best for you!

✧.* "jeez, toots, do you have any idea how hot that was?" she'd grin, slinging an arm around you and pulling you in close to her side, her lips landing on your cheek in a wet kiss. "all i did was stand up to some dickhead." "still, that was hot! agh, you should've seen yourself!"

✧.* jinx also really loves that you're not afraid of how she perceives you, even though you're in a relationship. jinx is used to people being afraid of her, willing to do anything they can to avoid crossing paths with her. they'll lower their voices around her and try to say things they know will keep them on their good side- but not you.

✧.* and if anything? she finds that intriguing. because she knows you'd never be rude to her or sass her necessarily, but the way you're so confident around her knowing her reputation has her falling deeper and deeper.

✧.* like.. you could just be talking to jinx about something so mundane, and the way you hold your chin up and the tone you use would make her want to jump you and kiss you senseless.

vi;

✧.* are you kidding?? vi would find it so, so attractive! don't know who here has heard of the stereotype of 'femmes with attitude problems' but that's basically what i got from this request, and my god does vi love it. you're not afraid to mouth someone off in a pretty skirt, and that does something to her!

✧.* you could be talking off someone who's annoying you, your tone one that people would usually reprimand all while holding your chin up high, and it would leave vi feeling weak.

✧.* would she want you to be like that to her? depends on the context, usually not- behind closed doors after hours, sure. but gods, just seeing you with your brows furrowed, tossing your hair and crossing your arms while mouthing someone off is just incredible to vi.

✧.* she doesn’t see it as a problem the way she knows others might. while vi sees how it could be a problem, with the way you get yourself into situations with respected figures, she still thinks it’s a good thing.

✧.* vi loves that you’re confident. loves that you’re sure of yourself, and you don’t care what others think of you. she’s confident in her own ways as well- the brawl, the strength. the way she’s built herself out of seemingly nothing. but it’s different when it comes to you.

✧.* vi isn't exactly shy, but she's the more quiet and calm of you. and she likes to have that balance- the one who stays out of the way for the most part, and the one who isn't afraid to cause a stir. the confident one. you bring out each other's strengths and compliment each other.

✧.* “and then, i told him his mother was probably so disappointed when she’d seen how he turned out! and all he had to tell me was to watch my tone. can you believe it?” you’d ask, scoffing with your arms crossed over your chest. “no,” vi would shrug, though she’s honestly too awestruck to form meaningful sentences. “but you handled him well, if that’s all he had to say.”

✧.* vi makes sure to reign you in sometimes though- not because she thinks your attitude is a problem, but because she knows others might and she doesn't want to see things escalate to a dangerous point. it's all out of concern for your safety :(

✧.* "hey, you probably shouldn't be using that tone with her-" "why not?" you'd protest, furrowing your brows. "because she could send people to whoop your ass in minutes. you're right, but she'll just be offended. please."

✧.* she'll never voice her admiration for your demeanor and attitude necessarily, but she has a sneaking suspicion that you already know. it's in the way that she can only stare at you while you're being sassy, the way she's flushed when you're next to her walking like you own the damn city. you may not actually own the city, but you've got that exact hold over vi's heart.

mel;

✧.* i feel like she'd be a bit taken aback at first, usually people are very careful with how they speak to mel. she's one of piltover's most influential figures if not the most influential, a councilor. so seeing your confidence and the fact that you don't really care about making a good impression on her, it surprises mel.

✧.* but that surprise turns into intrigue rather quickly. she's never seen anyone quite like you, and it's interesting. that air about you is something she grows to admire over time, because it's something she's never had.

✧.* mel has to be very careful with what she says, both as a medarda and as a councilor. she has a reputation to keep, and public relations to preserve. so in a way, she admires you for being unafraid to speak your mind. for being unabashedly yourself. she sees something in you that she wishes she had.

✧.* but she isn't jealous! not at all. if anything, she just respects you a lot more for being able to do some of the things she could only dream of.

✧.* and trust me, there are times where she wishes she could tell someone off. wishes she could throw some smartass remark in their face, but she can't because of who she is- and you're more than happy to step in for her. she comes from a prestigious family, but you don't.

✧.* "darling, it's fine, really-" "no. they were messing with you, why would i just let that slide?"

✧.* "hey! you think just because you're a councilor, you can talk to her like that?" you'd scoff, placing your hands on your hips. pressing your glossed lips together in a scowl, while tugging your girlfriend close to you. daring him to challenge you. "and who are you?" "her girlfriend. who are you?"

✧.* while mel won't say anything after the fact beyond shaking her head with crossed arms, she really does appreciate you sticking up for her. she just warns you to not go too far, because it could reflect badly on the both of you in terms of press.

✧.* and seeing you be so confident, so sure of yourself, does inspire mel a good amount. she's always had problems with her perception of herself, having grown up with a mother like hers. finding out that she was a mage didn't help any either, and she's felt lost. but seeing you so secure in yourself, not giving a damn what others think, it makes her think that maybe she could be like that, too.

✧.* not exactly like you, no. you both are your own people, but that's the beauty of your partnership. two people from different walks of life, with different attitudes, who compliment each other. who love each other.

✧.* "and then, i walked off! because who the hell am i to let someone waste my precious time?" you'd scoff, tossing your hair over your shoulder in that dramatic way you often do. all the while, mel is just staring- her hand rested in her chin. "you're awfully cute, do you know that?" and you'd chuckle, placing a light kiss to her cheek. "i do, but it's always nice to hear it from you."

sevika;

✧.* yeah she's smitten. i think at first, sevika might try to act as if she's annoyed by your behavior, but truly, it's attractive to her. your confidence and demeanor is like a magnetic pull.

✧.* sevika is also confident and unafraid, but she's gruff. she keeps to herself, she's more rough around the edges, and she's not nearly as expressive as you are. so it's familiar to her, but your approach is new.

✧.* she doesn't know exactly what to make of you. one of the first times she'd spoken to you out of turn was to let you know- "you're... different. somethin' about you, i've never seen it before. huh."

✧.* though after more time spent with you (though reluctant at first) she grows to accept and even admire your attitude. sevika's never been the most friendly or warm person, but part of her rough demeanor and harsh words are a survival tactic. but for you it comes naturally- your sass and rough words are just a part of who you are.

✧.* and after even more time, i think she'd come to appreciate it. maybe even find it funny. seeing the look on people's faces when some dressed-up girl with her hands on her hips starts mouthing off is pure gold to sevika. they'd underestimated you, and you had no problem putting them in their place.

✧.* there's times you just get fed up, you're not being listened to by someone and it's frustrating. they underestimate you, maybe because you're not as traditionally aggressive as the rest of zaun's folks, maybe because of your appearance. either way, it gets under your skin. "hey! i'm talkin' here, in case you forgot," you'd scoff, snapping in front of the person's face. sevika watches from the sidelines, and she'll step in if she needs to. but she also knows you can handle yourself just fine.

✧.* or there's times where sevika's brought you along to the casino with her. you're sat next to her along with a group of guys from the industry- some old acquaintances, colleagues who had left the world of crime, the like. you're not exactly participating, but you know what's going on. sevika's got these guys in a trap, she always does. she's a damn good player.

✧.* until someone decides he's done with her skills and moves, slamming his deck of cards down on the table. "fuck this, 'vika. you've gotta be cheating, there's no way-" "that she's winning? maybe you just suck at this! ever thought of that, huh?"

✧.* sevika's trying so damn hard to bite back a laugh, but a little chortle does escape her. "the fuck are you laughing at?!" he'd ask, his jaw open in an expression of shock. offense that you'd dare talk to him like that. "you heard the girl."

✧.* the two of you balance each other out that way. the roughened woman on the front lines, who takes no bullshit and fights like no tomorrow- with the headstrong, sassy woman. the one with a pretty face, yet a sharp tongue.

caitlyn;

✧.* caitlyn might be a bit jealous at first. she's got a lot of thoughts, and she's a very opinionated person. she comes from a long line of influential figures, and her role is an important one to the people of piltover. but it's precisely those things that make it so she has to watch what she says. caitlyn can't say exactly what she wants to or means, because she has a reputation to keep and she can't afford to burn any bridges.

✧.* but it's nothing personal, of course, and with getting to know you better that jealousy turns to admiration. she's happy that you're able to advocate for yourself in that way, and that you have some of the freedom she doesn't.

✧.* and her seeing a pretty girl mouth someone off and put her foot down? seeing you know exactly what you're saying, what you're worth, and how to express yourself? yeah caitlyn doesn't have a chance.

✧.* with the amount of opinions caitlyn has and things she wants to say, the thinks that it's good you're outspoken, good that you're 'sassy.' she understands that others may see it as a problem, but she's never gotten that perspective herself. the way she sees it- more power to you.

✧.* "don't hold back," she'd tell you. "if you've got something to say, say it, damn it. it's only too much for people who can't take it."

✧.* the two of you become rather attuned to one another, and it's like you can tell what cait is thinking and vice versa. if caitlyn won't say it, you sure as hell will.

✧.* you'd be observing while at a gathering with your girlfriend, an event with some of the most influential figures in piltover in attendance. she's dressed to the nines, poised and proper in everything she does- though other guests are testing her patience.

✧.* "hey, leave her alone," you'd say, idly twirling your empty glass in one hand. "dunno what you've got going on, but she's clearly not interested in your ideas. i bet she thought of the same thing when she was twelve."

✧.* though the person on the receiving end is flustered and trying to brush off what you've just said, caitlyn is enamored. it's mere seconds before the woman is pulling you into the next room, slamming her lips onto yours. "gods, that was great," she'd mutter between rushed kisses, her arms snaking around your waist. "the look on his face."

✧.* your confidence just makes you all the more attractive to cait. you've got a good head on your shoulders, and you know that. you're damn beautiful, and you know that. there's no beating around the bush, only your shameless expression. it's amazing.

✧.* as far as caitlyn is concerned? she's got nothing to worry about as long as she has you by her side. she knows how to command a room, and you know how to demand one. you're better together!

lest;

✧.* she might be a bit taken aback at first, though it isn't a matter of intimidation. you're just different to lest, and she's not sure exactly what to do with that. she's always been the more peaceful, more observant one. she sits back and does her job while stroking clients' egos and telling them what she knows will make them happy.

✧.* she's expressive, yes, but she doesn't have nearly as much bite as you do. her confidence is something more innate, she just is and doesn't have the same air as you do. but lest does come to appreciate your demeanor and fire for what it is. comes to love it, in fact.

✧.* she's just in awe. you're so beautiful, so confident, but you've got a mouth on you. she's heard what others have said: that you need to know your place, that your attitude is a problem, that you need to watch yourself before you get into some real trouble.

✧.* but to lest, these traits are only something that makes you all the more alluring. the way she puts it, it's as if you've put a spell on her with your words and body language alone. a spell she hopes never wears off.

✧.* she's so in love with the way you carry yourself, and how secure you are within yourself. you don't take shit, that's for sure- whether it's a "hey, i wasn't done talking," or "i know the idea's good, i've only been pushing it this whole time!" the way you know exactly who you are and what you're worth enraptures lest.

✧.* you could be out in public with her, someone casting sideways glances at you for some reason you can't quite figure out- though it doesn't exactly matter. her tail swishing side to side, wide eyes keeping watch of everything around her. though she notices you looking at someone for a bit longer than usual. "everything alright, dear?" she'd ask.

✧.* "yeah," you'd affirm, though you'd be clenching your fists at your side. "just looks like someone has a staring problem. a real bad one." she'd look over to the figure, someone who seemingly doesn't belong here anyways. "i'll take care of him. don't worry about it."

✧.* it's mere seconds before you're marching over to the guy, tapping your foot and telling him off- "do i have something on my face, huh?" "no, i-" "then stop staring!"

✧.* she also comes to learn that you'll step in for her if needed. you never cause any harm- you're sassy, not violent. but if a client is getting a little too demanding with her and you're by her side, lest can count on you to tell them they need to remember she can very easily drop them.

✧.* afterward, you're always quick to tug her close to you, pressing light kisses to her spotted cheeks. "you okay, love?" you'd ask, your voice uncharacteristically tender. "i'm okay, darling, really," she'd affirm. pressing closer to your touch. "but thank you. i probably wouldn't have done that myself."

[vainvenus]

mind games. | ln4 | pt.2

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It's race day! That should be exciting, you're used to the feeling of a rock in your stomach and a lump in your throat but today feels even worse.

Includings: Dark!Lando Norris, paranoia ( per usual ), mentions of anxiety/stress, thoughts of doubt, gaslighting, a bit short.

An: I'm using the 2025 Grid and you can imagine whatever GP you'd like for this one because I didn't give it any thought lol

@slutforvoldy !!

Race day. It should feel familiar by now—the tension, the ritual of it all—but today, it clawed at your throat.

It’s too tight, too suffocating.

You stood in the paddock, arms crossed over your team kit shirt, watching the final preparations unfold around you. Mechanics swarming the car, engineers hunching over data screens, and media personnel buzz like flies. It’s the same chaos as every Sunday, yet something about today makes your skin prickle.

“You good?” Max asked as he walked by, brows furrowed. He’s already in race mode, that razor-sharp focus settling in.

“Yeah, of course.” You forced a smile, but he doesn’t look convinced.

Neither does Christian when he stopped you near the hospitality suite. “You seem a little off today.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Just race day nerves.”

“Hmm.” He studied you for a second too long before nodding and walking off.

Even your performance coach has noticed. “You should try some breathing exercises,” They suggested as you sit in the garage, leg bouncing restlessly.

“I’m fine.” It started to sound rehearsed.

The drivers' parade isn’t any better. Perched atop the classic little bus you waved at the fans, smile for the cameras, do everything expected of you. But your grip on the railing is tight, fingers digging into the metal.

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Charles murmured beside you.

You scoffed. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” You reassur but your voice is too rough and it has some bite like you're trying to convince yourself more than him. “Just ready to race.”

Lando, sat on the opposite side of the car, is watching. You can feel his eyes on you even when you’re not looking. When you finally meet his gaze he sends you a playful wink before turning his attention back to Oscar.

Back in the garage, you paced. The countdown to lights out ticks on, but time feels slow, dragging you through molasses. Every movement around you feels too sharp, too loud.

“Take a breath.” Someone said behind you.

You turn. It’s Lando. He leaning against the wall, arms crossed, helmet hanging loosely from his fingers. His voice is calm, but his eyes are still studying you.

"You look like you're about to pass out."

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t say anything, just tilting his head slightly, like he's waiting for you to crack.

You didn’t. Instead, you exhale sharply and grab your helmet. “See you out there.”

"Good luck." He hummed.

★

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, your leg bouncing slightly as you sat in the cockpit. P13. Too far back. Too much work to do. The race hadn’t even started yet, and already, frustration curled around your ribs.

You won't be able to get a podium from here. Points are possible but a podium is laughable.

Your own mind whispered the doubt, but you shoved it down. That wasn’t you. That wasn’t how you thought.

You exhaled slowly, trying to clear your head. The grid was full of movement—mechanics making last-minute adjustments, team members rushing back behind the barriers, engines revving. The tension before lights out always felt thick enough to choke on, but today, it weighed heavier.

Your eyes flicked up, scanning the rows of cars ahead. Your stomach twisted when you saw him.

Lando was lined up in P4, helmet still off as he spoke with his engineer. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t overly animated—just nodding, listening. Focused.

But then, almost as if he felt you looking, he turned.

The moment was fleeting. Just a second where his gaze locked onto yours like he was just scanning around and his eyes just happen to meet yours before he turned away, pulling his visor down.

No. No, you were looking for things that weren’t there.

Your engineer’s voice crackled over the radio. “Focus up. We’re going aggressive on strategy. You make up positions early, we can fight for something big.”

You swallowed, rolling your shoulders back.

You just had to focus. Just focus on getting past Alex, Ollie and Liam for P10 and that would be points for the team. It wouldn't be a Jos Verstappen approved victory but it would give you some peace of mind. You inhaled softly, keeping your eyes on the lights.

The first light illuminated.

Then the second.

The third.

The fourth.

The fifth.

And then the lights went out.

You reacted instantly. A perfect launch, your tires hooking up as you darted between cars, slipping into gaps that barely existed.

Turn one was chaos—carbon fiber flying, late dives left and right—but you found the space, threading through the mess like a needle through fabric.

By lap 5, you were P9.

By lap 15, P6.

The podium was no longer a fantasy. It was possible.

And then, there was him.

Lando.

P2. Right in front of you. You didn't need to push anymore, you were already P3, a podium and points but P2 just would have felt better. A 1-2 Redbull win.

You should have treated him like any other car. But as you closed in, something unsettled you.

He wasn’t defending. Not really. He was holding the racing line, sure, but there was something too relaxed about it. No erratic movements, no aggressive blocks. Just… waiting.

You pushed closer. DRS open. Gaining.

And then—

A twitch.

Not a defense. Just a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of his car to the inside.

And it worked.

You hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.

And then he moved back, like he hadn’t done anything at all.

Your stomach twisted and brows knitted together in pure confusion.

Did he do that on purpose?

Your engineer’s voice cut in. “You need to send it if you want that P2.”

You nodded.

Lap 23. You lined him up. This time, you wouldn’t second-guess yourself.

Late on the brakes, you lunged, forcing your car up the inside.

And he let you go.

Just like that. No fight.

You were past before you could process it, settling into P2 as the race continued to unfold.

It should have felt like a victory.

It didn’t.

Because as you looked in your mirrors, you swore you saw it—

A smirk.

★

The checkered flag waved.

Podium.

P13 to P2. It was unreal, the kind of comeback that should have left you buzzing. And yet, as you climbed out of the car, the uneasy feeling still hadn’t left you.

Lando was already there in parc fermé, pulling off his gloves, his expression unreadable.

You wiped sweat from your brow as you approached, still trying to shake the feeling that he let you have that position.

“You didn’t defend,” You said before you could stop yourself.

Lando glanced at you, tilting his head slightly.

A beat of silence.

“Didn't I?"

Your brows furrowed even more. “What-”

But before you could question him he already walked away to go and celebrate with his team.

You stood there, heartbeat hammering, mind racing—but before you could make sense of anything, Max pulled you into a hug, his congratulations cutting through the haze of your thoughts. You exhaled, letting yourself lean into the moment, just for a second.

You smiled, walking over to the team as they cheered, their hands patting your back, your head—grounding you. It should have felt like relief.

So why did you still feel like you were biting your tongue, holding your breath and walking around on eggshells, bracing yourself for something to happen?

[mahowaga]

THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT FOR THE BEAU IDÉAL OF IDIOCY | N.K. — TASK #2

SUMMARY: you're supposed to be in the stands, eating snacks and talking strategy with your friends, enjoying watching the three champions battle for the triwizard cup. you're not supposed to be entangled in what seems to be your own personal (hell) triwizard tournament.

PAIRING: ravenclaw!nanami kento x hufflepuff!fem!reader | mc's best friend yu haibara GENRE: hp x jjk au, (friends who are) idiots to lovers, romance, fluff, crack, profanity PLAYLIST: the course of true love never did run smooth WC: 6.6k WARNINGS: none, a thrown bread roll

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— TASK #2: HOW TO SUCCESSFULLY FAIL AT FINDING SOMETHING TO WEAR AT THE ABSOLUTE LAST MINUTE

(Imagine sewing a whole tie and headband to wear to the Yule Ball with your date but forgetting that you don’t actually have anything else to wear. That’s the predicament you find yourself in, scrambling to get your hands on a dress just two days before the Ball. You blame Kento for being so distracting with his charm, but at least you’ve gotten better at dancing - and that was by practicing with the aforementioned distractingly charming young man. You have to give yourself flowers for that one.)

If you play stupid games you’ll win stupid prizes. Except you didn’t get your stupid prize for completely submerging Fushiguro Toji in vinegar.

You wait it out for two whole days before you meet up with Satoru and ask him what the situation is looking like - why the two of you haven’t been summoned to the Headmaster’s office. He’s just as confused as you are. 

Ultimately, the two of you decide that Toji didn’t press charges, so to speak, because how is he supposed to justify being in the kitchen corridor and asking you, of all people, to the Ball? And, let’s face it, everyone saw what happened between the two of you when you asked him the first time, and they sure as hell heard what he’d called you. (There’s just no space for a change of heart within such a short timeframe, Your Honor.) It just wouldn’t make sense on his part. At least he has the brainpower to come to that conclusion.

The spray paint duo gets away with yet another assault against Toji. History always repeats itself. You’re glad it’s in your favor once again.

You’re sitting with the rest of the Hufflepuffs in the Great Hall, listening to the constant buzz of excitement as the Yule Ball draws even closer. You can’t deny that the enthusiasm is also getting to you. Especially not when you look up from your plate of eggs and toast and make direct eye contact with Kento over at the Ravenclaw table.

Your heart flutters violently (a normal occurrence for you these days). He’s eating porridge, or cereal, or soup - something he needs a spoon for - and when he catches your eye, he puts the utensil down and raises his hand in a small wave, his lips quirking up ever so slightly.

It feels as if you’ve been struck by Cupid’s arrow. It hits you square in the chest, sharp and burning and aching; Kento is truly your heart’s one true weakness, seeing how it decides to act up everytime he looks at you or talks to you or touches you. (Even thinking about him does numbers to you.) The version of you from your Fourth Year would not have survived the knowledge that you and Kento are now kind of a thing. (It’s up in the air. You haven’t really discussed it with him.)

You wave back, albeit timidly, and his smile grows wider before he turns his attention back to his breakfast and the students chattering around him.

Haibara catches you biting your lip when you return your focus to your toast. He nudges you with his elbow.

“Did I just see you waving at lover boy over there?” he asks. You don’t even want to look at him, already knowing he has an incredibly smug grin on his face. (You do it anyways and prove yourself right. You know this boy better than the back of your own hand.)

You exhale slowly, trying to make yourself look as innocent as possible, and reply, “You act like you wouldn’t do the same thing. He’s your friend, too, you know.”

Haibara huffs a laugh. “Sure, he’s my friend,” he says, glancing at Kento on the other bench, “but I don’t blush after I say hey to him.”

That’s it. He’s done. You’re going to physically assault him.

You shove him, cursing his entire lineage, only for him to burst into laughter. If you knew anything about wrestling it would be instant lights out for him. He would be in the Hospital Wing before he could even say ‘lover boy’ again.

“What’s happening here?”

You pull away from Haibara and straighten immediately, turning your head to see who came up behind you. You relax (slouch) when you realize it’s just Shoko.

Her red and gold tie is loose around her neck. She leans between you and Haibara, the end of her tie brushing against your shoulder. (You’re reminded of a certain tie that a certain someone will be wearing at a certain ball in two days.)

You clear your throat, trying to look put together. Hopefully she doesn’t notice how red your cheeks are - not just from Kento, but from your best friend calling you out. The last thing you need is an onslaught of questions about who the object of your attraction is. (That would be your last straw, you fear. You wouldn’t make it out alive.)

Thankfully, Shoko doesn’t seem to pay attention. Instead, she seems to have her sights set on grabbing Haibara by the collar.

He stiffens. She pulls him close, her voice low. You stifle a laugh.

While he’s getting interrogated, no doubt about what color he’s wearing to the Ball, what time he’ll meet her and all the other tiny details, you shift your attention to the table behind you.

The Slytherins.

You’re not scanning the faces of the students for Toji. You’re looking for-

Satoru waves at you, and because he’s built like an insanely tall and lanky tree branch, he looks like one of those inflatable tube men with the wavy hands you find at gas stations.

You let out a laugh at his ardor and wave back. Your heart isn’t exactly racing, but it feels lighter than usual. 

Without the weight of imminent suspension or expulsion on your shoulders for your crimes, you’re feeling pretty good about the Yule Ball coming up in two days. After all, you’re going with Nanami Kento, who seems to get bolder with you with every passing day, always knowing exactly what to do to make your heart race. (Then again, maybe you don’t hide it as well as you think you do. Your face is a canvas of every streak of emotion you feel.) And Toji hasn’t bothered you in a hot minute either - he’s no doubt afraid you’ll pull your little vinegar trick on him again. (You really ought to figure out a spell that shoots the damn thing out of your wand.)

Shoko jostles your shoulder, pulling you out of your self-made bliss. You blink slowly before realizing she’s talking to you.

“Huh?”

She rolls her eyes. “Your dress?” she repeats. “What style are you going for?”

“My dress..” you murmur. You’re pretty sure your eyes have glazed over. (The prospect of a bright and unproblematic future has you in a chokehold.)

Wait.

Wait a minute.

Your dress?

“My dress?” you ask.

Haibara presses his lips into a thin line and pulls Shoko by her arm, her attention returning to him, since he’s clearly given up on the thought of you ever coming up with a coherent answer.

A beat. Then-

It hits you like a sack of rocks. Pointy rocks. Right in the gut. It takes all the air out of your lungs. If anyone is looking at you, all they’ll see is you keeling over your breakfast, groaning in horror.

Haibara, only mildly concerned, throws a bread roll at your head to make sure you’re alive, but you don’t even feel it bounce off of your cranium because:

You. Don’t. Have. A dress.

The biggest event of your life with the guy you’ve been crushing on since forever and you don’t have anything to wear besides a stupid hairband you sew yourself.

You wish for nothing but death to come and take you.

(Explaining your situation to Kento is probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever had to do (and you know a thing or two about embarrassment). What makes it worse is that you have to spill the beans after he catches you trying to go to Hogsmeade on your own when it’s clearly become a thing the two of you do together on the weekends. To his credit, when you tell him he simply shrugs and says, “Let’s go get you a dress, then,” before taking your hand. He’s really a roll with the punches type of guy, you’re beginning to realize. After every incredibly humiliating thing that has happened to you within the past few weeks that he has had the adversity of witnessing, he doesn’t bat an eye and takes it in stride, continuing to look at you like you’re the warmest, freshest loaf of bread that’s come right out of the oven, the scent of flour and yeast and comfort wafting into the air, hitting you with fond memories, contentment and comfort. Or maybe he just looks at you as if he can’t believe he’s stuck going to the Ball with a person whose entire existence could be characterized by a pair of clown shoes. You hope it’s the former.)

The snowflakes fall from the sky slowly, reminiscent of cherry blossom petals in the wind. They’re gentle, unassuming, simply fluttering down from the neverending expanse of gray up above with no real destination, piling on top of each other to create a soft, icy blanket on the ground.

You hold on to Kento’s arm as tightly as you can as you walk through the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, determined not to slip and fall. You’re not sure you’ll ever recover if that happens to you.

The village is quiet, as if it is holding its breath as it observes you (a clown) and Kento (a distinguished young man) strolling down High Street, boots sinking into the powder-y snow that’s accumulated after three hours of snowfall, leaving behind an exquisite delineation of two people huddling together for warmth - and maybe something more.

You sneak a glance at Kento. His cheeks and nose are painted a rosy red, a souvenir of sorts, from the arctic winds blowing through the street. The temperature itself isn’t that unbearable - it’s the wind making it feel chillier than it is. It’s overreacting. (Quite like how he probably thought you’d been overreacting when you had a minor freak out about not having a dress.)

He catches your eye and nudges you, pulling you closer against his side. Your arm is looped around his, your other arm holding onto him, occasionally grabbing a fistful of his coat’s sleeve when the ground beneath you decides to transfigure into a skating rink.

“Is there something on my face?” he asks, the corner of his lip twitching upwards.

You tear your eyes away from him with a roll of your eyes, shoving him ever so slightly, flustered by his antics. (That boy knows damn well why you’re looking at him.) 

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter.

He doesn’t let go of you. Instead, he holds you tighter. “Am I really?”

You double down on your statement, because you are not a coward. “Yes.”

He laughs at that, then tilts his head so that it touches yours. A gentle touch that makes your insides liquefy.

A comfortable silence slots itself into the gaps between words unsaid - words that don’t need to be said because your actions speak louder.

This is how it often is with him. It’s quiet. Quiet in the way that whispers of tenderness and ease, a sense of coziness, of relief that neither of you expect each passing moment to be permeated with the cloud of conversation. You can just be, and it is nothing short of bliss.

The snow thins out on the cobblestones as you make your way to your destination, creating a thin layer of what you can only call a slip hazard. You’re half-tempted to ask Kento if he’s found some sort of charm to keep himself from falling over because as of right now you’ve managed to slip three times, bend your ankle twice, and land on your ass once. That’s six times he’s had to stop himself from cracking up. (Your ego can’t take a seventh.)

You choose to ask him about something entirely left field.

“What do you want to be when you graduate?”

For a moment it’s like he hasn’t heard you, but you know he has - he’s just processing. He reminds you of one of those humanoid robots after being given a slightly complicated task.

After a while Kento hums, his voice deep and resonant. He rolls his shoulder. “I’d be an Auror, maybe.”

You look at him, your eyes narrowed. You’re trying to imagine him as an enforcer for the wizarding governing body. It’s not as hard as you thought - he follows rules to a fault, hates people who cause trouble, and he’s got the brains and the brawn to find and raise hell.

He’s a model employee. The blueprint.

“I can see it,” you say, nodding. You wonder about your own goals and ideals. Being an Auror definitely isn’t in the cards for you. 

You raise your eyes to the sky in thought. The snow descends gently, weaving a delicate veil over your face and settling on your lashes like tiny crystals.

Kento shifts beside you. He pulls away, untangling your arms. You feel the loss of his warmth instantly. It’s glaring, and the winter’s chill doesn’t allow you the leisure of processing it before swooping in and latching itself onto you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, but you try to do it discreetly so that he doesn’t notice you’re freezing.

Unfortunately for you, he’s been watching you the entire time, and now he’s stepping in front of you. The flakes of snow are still stuck in your lashes, stubbornly refusing to melt or even blow away with the winter wind. You groan internally, regretting ever turning your face to the snow to think about the future, and blink as quickly as you can so you don’t miss whatever he’s about to do.

Kento reaches out, placing his hands on your cheeks, his touch feather-light. “Let me,” he murmurs. Your body locks up immediately.

He leans in, close enough that his breath is warm against your chilled skin, thawing you bit by bit. He’s so close that your world narrows down to him, only him, and the gentle exhale that sends the stubborn snowflakes fluttering away.

You don’t move. You don’t even blink.

You feel your heart quicken, the sheer intimacy of the moment - of such a simple yet significant action - catching you off guard. Your brain is running as fast as it can, trying to recognize whether his gesture is an act of affection, or, rather, an act of care. With Kento, you can never tell. You want it to be both. (You are also greedy.)

His hands don’t leave your face. You lift your eyes to meet his, your breath hitching when you find a certain warmth in his gaze that is strong enough to mirror the winter’s chill.

Then, as if waking from a reverie, he lets go of you. You just stand there, fixated on him, as the snow continues its gentle descent around the both of you, painting the entire scene with a certain ethereal beauty that you can’t replicate anywhere else.

Something has shifted between the two of you - quiet, unspoken, yet undeniable. You don’t have any concrete proof of it just yet, just a persistent hum in your gut. (And you’re beginning to learn that when it comes to him, your gut feelings are usually right on the money.)

Something has shifted, and you’re very aware that he’s not trying to be your friend anymore (not that he has been one for the past few weeks). He’s making a statement.

Maybe he’s been making one for a long time now, and you - wrapped up in your own head, tangled in your own overcomplications - have been too blind to see it, because he’s right there, patient, steady, hand outstretched for you.

Maybe he’s been waiting for you to notice all along, and you’re not sure how to digest this revelation.

You reach for his hand, your heart suddenly calmer than it has been in a long time, your nerves completely passive, as if you’re finally allowing yourself to acknowledge that there is a real connection between you both that goes beyond a meager crush, or even just physical attraction. You don’t feel like you’re caught between anticipation and vulnerability anymore, no longer stuck between a rock and a hard place (your mind being the outstanding puppeteer to all your overthinking). 

No, something inside of you has dislodged and is granting you complete permission to feel the closeness, the profound tenderness in everything you do with him.

You take a deep breath and exhale, your breath misting in the cold air. It steadies you. His hand in yours works, too.

“What do you want to be?”

You’re still reeling from the realization that what you have with Kento is real and has substance that you don’t hear him for a split second.

You frown. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Kento smiles, bright as ever, full of nothing but pure joy. He shakes his head slightly before pulling you closer. “I asked you what you’d want to be when we’re done at Hogwarts.”

Oh. Right. You still don’t have an answer. Well, there’s always the option of being-

“A professional quidditch player,” you blurt out. Despite your heartbeat being normal and not bordering cardiac arrest, it doesn’t stop your nerves from firing back up. Being this close, pressed against him, basically, just inches away from his face, your head tilted up to look at him, it makes you jittery. In a good way. Because now you get to stand there, your hand in his, his attention solely on you, and gloat in the fact that he is yours. (You should probably wait for confirmation before saying all that.)

A beat of silence.

“You know,” he says, his voice low, like he’s saying something meant for only you, “the other schools are going to be at the Ball. They’re going to have their eyes on the champions, sure, but they’re going to be looking at you and Gojo, too. The two of you are Hogwarts’ best quidditch players in years. There’s no doubt they’ll put in a word for you guys.”

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. He basically just repeated Satoru’s pitch back to you, except he didn’t tell you you should go with Gojo instead of him.

Huh. You underestimated Nanami Kento. You’d originally thought he’d sacrifice being your date to let you receive your flowers from the other schools’ higher ups, but it seems he’s found a way to satisfy both your needs: he gets to keep his date, and you get your exposure.

He’s a genius, actually. You simply look at him in awe. They don’t make guys like him anymore, you’re sure of it. Your grip on his hand tightens, and if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

You force yourself to nod. “You think, though? I mean, Satoru’s a given, but me?”

Self-doubt is a disease.

He raises a brow. “You’re one of the best players I’ve ever seen,” he says, touching your cheek. “Trust me, no one is going to skip over you.”

You beam at him, and he does the same, though his eyes are sharp, as if telling you Don’t ever put yourself down like that ever again.

You swallow hard and tear your gaze away from his.

The street is basically empty, save for some locals wandering around, but that’s because it’s not exactly the selected weekend for Hogsmeade visits. You’re just here because Kento gets Head Boy privileges.

The signature pink framed windows of Gladrags Wizardwear catches your eye in the distance. That’s your destination.

Your fingers tighten around his, a quiet anchor in the cold. “Come on, I see it over there.”

He chuckles, but he doesn’t just oblige - he readjusts his grip and laces his fingers through yours, squeezing once before following your lead.

The warmth envelops you the moment you step into the quaint shop. (You say quaint because it looks like a hole in the wall from the outside, but it’s actually as huge as a standard grocery store on the inside.) Your skin tingles from the sudden change in temperature, but you’re glad for it. 

The scent of candle wax, fabric and something vaguely floral lingers in the air. The walls are lined from top to bottom with dresses, robes, shoes, accessories - it’s the type of place where you can either find exactly what you’re looking for, or nothing at all. You’re just hoping you can get your hands on something beautiful enough to complement Kento, because you’ve no doubt in your mind that he’s going to look absolutely dashing. (He always does, but that’s besides the point.)

Kento steps in beside you, exhaling slowly, shaking off the chill from outside. He takes his gloves off and stuffs them into his coat pocket, then rubs his hands together absently, flexing his fingers, trying to jumpstart the blood circulation.

You try not to stare. (He’s making it hard not to.) Everything he does seems so effortless. (He literally just took off his gloves.)

His hazel eyes slide over you before he looks around the store, scanning it with an almost lazy curiosity. He’s not here for himself, after all. He’s here for you. The mere thought makes your stomach flutter way more than it should.

“Do you have something in mind, or do you need help picking something out?” he asks casually, and for a second you want to scoff, because there’s no way this boy is acting like everything’s normal when he just held your face and blew snowflakes off your lashes. Absolute madness.

You cast a glance at your surroundings, eyeing the entire section dedicated to dresses. The size of the selection is vaguely threatening. (You’re sure that if you don’t find something it will quite literally get you blacklisted from the shop - over one thousand options to choose from and nothing catches your eye? Something has to be wrong with you.)

“I, uh. I mean.” You swallow. Get it together, please. “I can figure it out,” you mumble, shifting towards the displays.

“Okay.”

Kento follows, keeping close - too close (but you’re not complaining.) You like knowing he’s there, feeling his presence, his warmth at your back. It also serves as a reminder that you can’t exactly spend all day here because you need to get back to the castle before curfew. You doubt it’s very ladylike of you to abuse Kento’s Head Boy privileges more than two times a day. (You’re joking. Mostly.)

You flip through the vast selection on the rack nearest to you, skimming through embroidered silks, soft velvets, delicate laces and shimmering chiffons. You’re hyper aware of his eyes on you despite his fingers ghosting over the gowns as if he’s sifting through them, too.

It’s silent for a while. Then-

“You’re stalling.”

Your eyes widen. “I’m not.”

He raises a brow. “You are.”

You pretend not to be rattled when he reaches over and curls his fingers around your wrist, tugging gently. The contact is brief but scorching, sending a jolt up your arm. You move over to where he’s standing. He looks at you, smiling- no, smirking. He knows what he’s doing to you.

“Here,” he says, plucking a gown from the rack and holding it up against your frame. He eyes you up and down as if assessing how well it would work. When he seems satisfied, he nods slightly. “Try this one on.”

You look at his pick. It’s an off-the-shoulder gown with an intricate lace pattern on the bodice, the color an intense, enigmatic cobalt blue. It’s elegant, flowing and not too over-the-top. (You can’t deny he has taste. More than you, maybe, because you were eyeing a puffy yellow dress.)

“Blue?” you ask.

He lifts a shoulder. “My dress robes are blue. I thought you’d want to match.”

While he’s not wrong and you’re currently trying to imagine what he’s going to look like at the Ball your mind is plagued by something else. Something absolutely horrifying.

You recoil. “Blue?” you ask again, and before he can say anything you continue, “With that yellow tie? Kento.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, shaking your head. (That spotted yellow necktie is an ignominious failure of yours.)

He looks amused, huffing a laugh. “I think it goes well with my outfit.”

“We need to work on your fashion skills.”

“My fashion skills are unmatched.”

You scoff, and return your attention to the gown in his hands. It’s not the type of style you’d usually go with, but before you can protest (or bash his sense of style), he’s lightly guiding you towards the fitting room, his hand hovering over the small of your back.

Your brain is seriously lagging. Too much has happened and is happening. You’re just going with the flow at this point - it’s the only way your survival is guaranteed.

You’ve been standing in the fitting room, slack-jawed, for at least ten minutes now, just staring at yourself in the floor length mirror. You adjust the fabric over your body, making minor adjustments.

It’s perfect.

The color, the fit, the way it moves when you shift - it’s everything you’ve wanted and more. (So Kento does have taste.)

You smooth your hands down the bodice, tracing the lace as you do, a nervous thrill curling in your stomach.

From outside, you hear Kento’s voice, casual, but expectant.

“You’ve been in there for a while,” he says. “Do I have to come in there and get you out?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you because you can just hear him grinning. You step out anyway, lifting the fabric so you can walk.

His eyes light up when he sees you. He doesn’t say anything at first - it’s just his gaze sweeping over you, taking in every detail, every wrinkle, every curve. His grin fades into something quieter. Something unreadable. His eyes flicker over your figure again, tracing the lines of the gown, the way it falls around you like it’s made for you. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve actually rendered him speechless.

Then, finally, after you’ve somehow convinced yourself that he doesn’t like it, his lips twitch upwards.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “That’s the one. It looks- you look beautiful.”

God, you wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. Like you’re something worth admiring.

“Really?” you mutter, twisting around, trying to do anything to avoid his piercing gaze. “I mean-” You catch sight of the price tag hanging from the sleeve. You reach for it, praying it isn’t an outrageous price, and flip it over.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh no.”

It’s more than you expected. Way more.

Kento notices the frown on your face almost immediately. He leans forward. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, awkwardly shoving the tag into the bodice, and turn to him. “Nothing.”

(You lie here because, and Helga Hufflepuff will most definitely back you up on this, nothing is more humiliating, i-want-to-chug-poison inducing and jump-in-front-of-the-Hogwarts-Express inspiring than admitting you’re broke to the boy you like. You think you deserve a pass for this one.)

His brow arches. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Of course this is what he clocks as your worst lie (not the one where you said you were basically a professional at ballroom dancing). It’s not your finest moment.

You sigh heavily, your face burning. “Fine. Have you seen the price on this thing?”

He comes closer to take a look while you hold out the tag for him. His brows raise and he casts you a glance. “Oh, that’s-”

“Expensive,” you finish, already making your way back to the fitting room, the fabric lightly gripped in your hands.

“So?”

You pause. So?

You turn around, the gown flaring. “So I’m not about to spend an obscene amount of Galleons on a dress I’m only going to wear once.” (You’re hoping you sound logical instead of heartbroken, because you’ve fallen in love with the gown - but price hikes are truly a dealbreaker.)

He huffs a laugh. “Okay.”

“Hmph.”

Kento watches you as you disappear into the fitting room and come back out with the gown back on its hanger. He doesn’t say anything as he watches you hang it up rather forlornly, your fingers lingering on the fabric longer than necessary. You are crying on the inside. Such a waste. Such a shame it is way out of your budget.

You don’t look at him as you turn away, pretending to be interested in another rack of dresses - ones that are, unfortunately, also expensive.

It’s not looking too good for you. You might end up being blacklisted, but this time it’ll be because you’re practically bankrupt and not because there wasn’t a single garment that tickled your fancy.

Kento, for his part, leaves you be, silent as ever. You’re not too sure what’s going through his brain. Has he given up on helping you? He’s probably realized that there’s nothing here that’s within your ideal price range. He stands there, watching you without a word, before he walks off toward the counter where the shop employee is standing.

You don’t really pay attention. You assume he’s just giving you some space to find something you like without him hovering - seeing as how the one thing he chose was so close yet so far.

You’ve probably gone through at least ten racks of gowns and it’s all for naught. There’s a ton of gorgeous ones (although that blue one really is the love of your life) but they’re all way too overpriced for your liking. You can’t afford a single one without completely putting yourself in a tough spot financially.

You exhale in defeat and make your way over to Kento, who is talking to the employee, his voice low.

When he sees you come over, he nods at the employee and then gives you his full attention.

You spread your hands and shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Maybe we should come back tomorrow. They might have something cheaper.”

His expression is surprisingly unreadable. You frown slightly, trying to make out what he’s thinking.

“Yeah?” he says.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He slips his hands into his pockets, a smile tugging at his lips as he tilts his head. “Good. They’re having a sale tomorrow. He just told me.”

You blink. “What?”

“A sale.” He shrugs, smiling. “Fitting, huh?”

You poke his chest. “Fitting? That’s the worst pun ever.”

He laughs, taking your wrist in his hand before you poke him again.

Something’s off. Something about the way Kento’s acting, from his unreadable expression to his smile, which reeks of mischief and trouble, is eating at you.

You squint at him, leaning in until you’re a few inches away from his face. “Are you up to something?”

He gives you the most innocent look ever - his eyes wide, his head cocked, his brows raised - one that screams, How dare you accuse me of committing a crime? Look at me. (You can’t argue with the logic there.)

“Come on,” he says smoothly, tugging you along with him as he makes his way towards the door. “We’ll find something tomorrow.”

You follow him, but you glance back at the blue dress. You blow it a kiss in your head, as if you’re parting ways with a forbidden lover. The moment you do, the employee takes it down from the rack and starts to pack it into a box.

You sigh. Someone already bought it.

Kento’s looking at you with a small smile on his face when you finally leave the shop and step out into the wintry air once more. It hits you like a brick wall, bringing you back to reality.

You squint up at him once more, and his lip twitches.

Oh, he’s definitely up to something.

By the time you make it back to your dormitory, you’re rightfully breathless (physically) and exhausted (mentally). You lean against the door to catch your breath - the chilly winds had somehow decided to pick up as you made your way back to the castle, and it had both you and Kento pushing your way through, breathing hard once you were exposed to the warmth of the school once more.

He’d dropped you off at the barrels near the kitchen, as usual, and before he left, you’d tried to ask him what he was up to again, only for him to kiss your cheek and leave with a grin on his face. (How insufferable of him.)

A groan leaves your lips. Your legs ache, your brain is absolutely fried, and your heart is still very much recovering from the absolute menace who runs around Hogwarts with the name Nanami Kento.

You don’t even want to think about how he looked at you while you were in that dress, how he’d cupped your face in his hands like it was second nature to him and blew the snowflakes away, how he’d reached for your hand time and time again - and how you’d let him do each and every one of these things without hesitation.

Sighing, you push off the door and head over to the dresser, shedding your layers like they’re a second skin. All you want to do right now is collapse into bed and pass out, forgetting about the world for a moment. (The circuits in your head are too overloaded to even begin to process anything that happened today.)

As you drape your coat over the back of the chair, something clicks. While you mightn’t have gotten the dress you set out to get today, you did get something much more meaningful - the realization that you and Kento have crossed a line in your relationship. It’s no longer just surface-level romantic gestures and playfulness - it’s comfort, care, understanding.

The thought makes you smile out of giddiness. You used to pray for times like these, to be the one Kento looked at like you hung the stars in the sky, the one he spoke to in that soft voice of his, the one he smiled at - it’s still unreal to you, but you’re beginning to accept it. He’s different from the person you admired from afar.

He’s better.

You cast a glance around the room to make sure your roommates aren’t there to see you blushing like a maniac. No one’s here yet. They’re all probably with their dates for the Ball, finalizing last minute details, making sure everything is the epitome of perfection.

You exhale slowly, remembering that you have yet another long day of shopping ahead of you tomorrow. You grumble under your breath as you change into a warm sweater, cursing the wizarding economy and capitalism. (For the price they were selling that blue dress for it might as well be threaded with real silver. Actually, that’s an overstatement, but your point still stands.)

You huff, mildly annoyed. At least you get to spend tomorrow with Kento again. That’ll be the highlight of your day.

With that thought, you make your way to your bed. The house-elves made your bed while you were out again, because it’s as neat as ever and you know you left it looking like a hurricane had run through the room. You murmur a silent thanks to them.

You glance at the bedside table to make sure your lamp is switched off.

Wait.

You freeze-

Because there, sitting neatly on the rich mahogany of the table, is a blue box.

A rather large, elegant, expensive-looking blue box. With a bow. (Very important.)

Your heart skips. You lean in closer. Is this-

No. No way. Absolutely not. This can’t be.

You turn away quickly, covering your eyes - if you can’t see it it doesn’t exist.

Obviously, that doesn’t work.

You sigh heavily, your heart thumping hard against your chest, butterflies rioting in your stomach, and reach for the box, slowly, cautiously, as if it might explode.

Your fingertips graze the embossed surface. The golden ink spells out the name Gladrags Wizardwear. You close your eyes tight, hoping this isn’t what you think it is.

Kento, I swear to God-

Beneath the ribbon is a plain white envelope. You pluck it off, and even before you flip it open, you know who it’s from.

Your stomach does somersaults when you read the singular line scrawled on it in impeccable cursive:

For my favorite delinquent Quidditch captain.

You stare for a moment, unable to make sense of it. Kento has knocked you off of your axis. You shake your head slightly and stare harder.

It’s like your soul is buffering, like it has lost its internet connection and is scrambling to find a suitable replacement to get the job done. While all this happens you’re just standing at your bedside table, reading and rereading that one line, your lips slightly parted.

Your brain doesn’t want to accept the truth, because this can’t be what you think it is. It simply can’t be.

Except, unfortunately, it most definitely is.

You exhale shakily. Your hands tremble slightly as you pull at the lace ribbon and then lift the lid, holding your breath.

It’s exactly what you think it is.

There, neatly folded, looking as perfect as it did in the store-

Is the gown. The gorgeous cobalt blue dress. The one he’d picked out for you and had fit you like a dream. The one he liked. The one you liked. The one you’d reluctantly had to give up because it was way out of your budget. The very one you’d seen the employee start packing away-

Your breath catches in your throat. Your pulse pounds in your ear. Your face burns like a thousand suns.

You slam the box shut hurriedly.

(Kento’s really doing a number on you.)

You open it again, slower this time, as if making sure it’s real, that it’s still there. Just to make sure you’re not hallucinating (as one does).

It’s still there. Still real. Still from him.

(At this point, you’d like to add, your brain is screaming. It wants to revolt after everything you’ve put it through. It’s begging you to get a lobotomy so that it can finally escape its confines.)

It hits you like a ten-tonne dump truck to the face. He bought this for you. That’s why he’d been talking to the employee in such a low voice. It’s why he’s had that look on his face the entire time after. It’s why he was ecstatic when you told him you’d come back tomorrow, because he knew you’d come up to your room and find this here.

Oh, he’s on another level. He’s playing 4D chess with you.

You sit on the edge of your bed and run a hand down your face.

He bought this for you.

He bought this for you.

He bought this for you.

He bought this for you. 

He bought this for you.

It was expensive. And he spent his money on this. For you.

What. An. Idiot.

You close the box and snatch the card back up again, reading his stupidly casual message over and over again like it might magically explain what he thinks he’s playing at. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. (Sure, you had a revelation about your relationship with him but that doesn’t mean your brain and heart got the memo.)

You flip it over and find another line scrawled there:

Don’t worry about the price.

(He knows you too well.)

You groan, burying your head in your hands. You fall backwards onto your bed, simultaneously kicking your feet and cursing his very existence.

Ugh. You have no idea how you’re going to face him ever again without losing your damn mind.

Nanami Kento is going to be your salvation and your undoing.

A/N: thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed this one, it was by far one of my favorites to write simply because of how much i love snow. (art by elitamasan on X)

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

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Masterlist

Chapter 10.5

Reconnections Cont.

The walk to Hongjoong's quarters passed quickly, the ATEEZ's corridors now familiar territory after days aboard. Unlike her initial exploration characterized by strategic vigilance, this journey carried different purpose—movement toward reunion rather than careful reconnaissance.

When she reached the captain's door, y/n paused briefly, years of conditioned caution creating momentary hesitation. Then, with deliberate resolve, she knocked firmly—an active choice rather than passive response.

"Enter."

The single word, carrying both authority and unmistakable anticipation, created unexpected nervousness in y/n’s chest. This wasn't approaching a dangerous captor or potential ally, but the boy who had first called her "Treasure" during midnight stargazing aboard another ship fifteen years earlier.

She opened the door to find Hongjoong standing near his desk, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that suggested prepared formality despite obvious emotion in his expression.

"You came," he said simply, the observation containing both gratitude and lingering disbelief.

"I did," she replied, matching his direct approach.

For a moment, they simply regarded each other across the room, fifteen years of separation creating a distance that went far beyond the physical space between them.

"How is Mingi?" Hongjoong asked with genuine concern.

"Improving," she answered truthfully. "Still unconscious, but responding more strongly. Yeosang seems cautiously optimistic."

Hongjoong nodded with visible relief. "He's strong," he said quietly. "Always has been, even before circumstances required such strength."

"Please, sit," he offered, gesturing toward comfortable chairs positioned near his cabin's small porthole.

As they settled into their respective seats, momentary silence stretched between them—not awkward tension but necessary adjustment, recalibration after fifteen years of imagined possibilities on both sides.

"I don't know where to begin," Hongjoong admitted finally, unexpected candor replacing his usual strategic approach. "Fifteen years planning this conversation, and now all those carefully prepared words seem completely inadequate."

"I know what you mean," y/n acknowledged. "I've recited your names every night for fifteen years, and now actually sitting across from you feels..." she hesitated, searching for the right description, "...both completely surreal and strangely familiar at the same time."

Something shifted in Hongjoong's expression—surprise followed by dawning comprehension. "Every night?" he repeated. "For fifteen years?"

She nodded, the confession emerging without calculation. "Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy," she recited softly. "Like a prayer or a spell. The one thing I had that Blackwell couldn't take away, couldn't even know existed to try destroying."

Hongjoong's composed expression cracked momentarily, his hand moving unconsciously toward the inner pocket where Mr. Hugs had traveled for fifteen years.

"We searched everywhere," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "Every port, every auction house, every slave market. Every rumor of a young girl sold in Halazia fifteen years ago."

"I know," she replied gently. "Yunho and Wooyoung told me. And I heard you yesterday, in this room, when you explained your mission to Ella. When you had no idea I was her."

Hongjoong's gaze met hers directly. "When did you know?" he asked. "That we were the boys from The Crimson Serpent?"

"I suspected almost immediately," she admitted. "The way you all interacted—your patterns, your distinctive mannerisms, the specific ways you moved together. Fifteen years changed so much, but those core dynamics remained recognizable."

"Yet you said nothing," he observed, the statement containing a question.

Y/n considered her response carefully. "Survival required certainty before disclosure," she explained. "I needed to be sure it was truly you, not coincidence or manipulation. That Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, and Puppy had actually found me after all this time."

"And what convinced you?" Hongjoong asked with genuine curiosity.

"Everything," she replied honestly. "Wooyoung's spiced honey cakes. Yunho's stories about the stars. Mingi's compass mark on everything he creates. Seonghwa arranging objects in perfect right angles. Your habit of Rubbing the back of your neck.”

These specific details created visible impact on Hongjoong's face. Her observations revealed genuine recognition beyond surface appearances.

"You noticed all that?" he asked softly, wonder in his voice.

"Survival depended on observation skills," she explained simply. "Predicting others' actions, anticipating responses before they happened, seeing patterns others tried to hide—these weren't optional abilities during fifteen years as someone else's property."

The blunt assessment created momentary silence between them.

"I kept him with me," Hongjoong said abruptly. "Every day, everywhere we sailed."

Without further explanation, he rose and moved to the locked sea chest she had glimpsed during earlier exploration. With practiced movement, he retrieved a key from around his neck and opened the chest's intricate mechanism.

From within, he carefully lifted something wrapped in protective cloth, his movements containing reverence beyond mere caution. With gentle precision, he unwrapped the bundle to reveal its contents: a worn teddy bear missing one eye button, its fabric patched in multiple places, stuffing periodically renewed yet still unmistakably itself.

"Mr. Hugs," y/n whispered, childhood memories rushing back at the sight of her long-lost companion. "You really kept him all this time."

"We found him after Captain Redmond took you to auction," Hongjoong explained, his voice thickening with emotion despite his attempt at control. "In the harbor mud, near where the gangplank had been. Like you'd deliberately left him where he might be found rather than simply lost in the struggle."

The memory surfaced with unexpected clarity—her final moments of freedom before Blackwell claimed ownership, desperate calculation amid terror and grief.

"I did," she confirmed softly. "I knew I couldn't keep him with me, that captivity would mean losing everything I valued. But I hoped somehow—if I left him where you might find him—that you'd have something to remember me by."

Hongjoong's composed expression fractured further. "We used him to make our oath," he said with difficulty. "That night, after failing to protect you. Our blood, our promise to find you again—no matter how long it took, no matter what sacrifice was required."

"May I?" she asked, hands extending instinctively toward the teddy bear that had been her sole childhood comfort aboard The Crimson Serpent.

Hongjoong hesitated fractionally before deliberately placing Mr. Hugs in her waiting hands.

The familiar weight settled against her palms, memories flooding back. This wasn't simply a childhood toy recovered, but tangible proof that five boys had remembered, had searched, had transformed themselves into the most feared pirates on the seven seas specifically to fulfill an oath made during childhood failure.

"Hello, old friend," she whispered, fingers gently straightening his worn bow tie with movement identical to her childhood ritual. "You've had quite the adventure while I was gone."

Hongjoong watched this reunion with visible emotion despite his attempts at control. When y/n looked up, she found his eyes suspiciously bright.

"We failed you," he said abruptly. "That day in Halazia. Our escape attempt caused the fire that created the perfect diversion for Redmond to take you directly to auction. If we'd planned better, secured proper resources, established a backup meeting point—"

"Stop," y/n interrupted firmly. "You were children. Five against an entire crew of experienced sailors and armed guards. The fact that you even attempted rescue shows extraordinary courage beyond what most adults would have shown."

This perspective created visible impact on Hongjoong's face. Unlike vague reassurances, her specific acknowledgment addressed the core of the guilt that had apparently survived fifteen years.

"But we promised to keep you safe," he countered, though with less certainty. "And instead created circumstances that accelerated your capture and sale."

"You did keep me safe," she insisted. "For three months aboard that hellish ship, you five created protection that allowed me to remain whole when everything around me threatened to break me. You made space for laughter when terror seemed the only possible response. You showed me stars when darkness seemed absolute."

She held Mr. Hugs gently against her chest, body remembering the comfort from childhood. "And most importantly, you showed me that genuine connection could exist even within captivity—that human bonds survived despite deliberate attempts to prevent them. That lesson sustained me through fifteen years when Blackwell and others systematically worked to eliminate any sense of self beyond what they defined."

Her honest assessment created space between them for acknowledgment beyond blame or dismissal. Unlike empty absolution, her perspective offered reconsideration based on specific impact rather than just general reassurance.

"We kept searching," Hongjoong said finally, acceptance gradually replacing his self-accusation. "Even when logic suggested it was impossible, when years passed without leads, when false hopes repeatedly appeared then vanished."

"I know," she replied softly with genuine understanding. "The ATEEZ itself stands as evidence of that commitment—your reputation, your operations, your specific targeting of slave traders rather than just profitable vessels. Everything you've built represents extension of that original promise from The Crimson Serpent."

Something shifted in Hongjoong's expression—surprise followed by dawning recognition. Unlike assumptions that reunion represented completion of their mission, y/n’s assessment acknowledged the ongoing nature of their commitment—a fundamental purpose that had grown beyond just finding her to address the systemic injustice that had facilitated her captivity.

"It started as search for you specifically," he confirmed honestly. "But eventually expanded beyond personal mission to address larger patterns we witnessed throughout the maritime world. Your captivity became emblematic of widespread suffering that demanded response beyond individual rescue."

"And that expansion makes your oath more meaningful rather than less," she observed. "What began as promise to a single child grew into commitment that has freed countless others from similar captivity. The girl you knew aboard The Crimson Serpent would consider that fulfillment beyond original intention, not deviation from it."

This perspective—acknowledging growth beyond original parameters rather than just static adherence to childhood promise—created visible impact on Hongjoong's features.

For several moments, they sat in comfortable silence, Mr. Hugs resting against y/n’s chest while Hongjoong watched with expression containing both joy and lingering disbelief despite confirmed recognition.

"I still can't quite believe you're really here," Hongjoong admitted finally, genuine wonder in his voice. "After so many years searching, so many false leads and disappointments, to actually have you sitting across from me feels..." he hesitated, seeking adequate description, "...like a dream suddenly becoming reality despite everything suggesting impossibility."

"I understand completely," she replied with a gentle smile. "I spent fifteen years believing myself forgotten or abandoned by anyone who had ever shown me kindness. To discover that five boys not only remembered but transformed themselves into the most feared pirates on the seven seas specifically to fulfill a childhood promise—it challenges fundamental assumptions that guided my survival for fifteen years."

Hongjoong leaned forward, his eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made the captain's usual strategic calculation fade away. For a moment, he was just a boy who had made a promise long ago.

"Not a single day passed that I didn't think of you," he said, his voice low and rough with emotion. "At first, I thought the pain would fade with time, but it never did. It just... transformed. From that sharp, desperate grief into something more focused. More purposeful."

He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture that reminded her of the fidgety child he once was. "There were nights when I stood on deck, looking at the same stars Yunho had taught you about, and I swore I could feel you out there somewhere. Even when logic told me the chances were impossible, even when others suggested we redirect our efforts, that feeling never went away."

Hongjoong's eyes glistened in the cabin's soft light. "We became pirates because we had nothing to lose. We became feared because we had everything to gain. Every ship we freed, every slave trader we crippled, was a message to Blackwell and his kind. But it was also a message to you, wherever you were – that you weren't forgotten. That you mattered enough to change the course of our entire lives."

His voice broke slightly as he continued, "I needed you to know that. That you were never just some child we failed to protect. You were our compass point. The reason we kept going when everything else fell apart. And now you're here, and I—" he stopped, overwhelmed for a moment, "—I don't have the words for what that means. I've commanded ships and men for years now, but sitting here with you, I feel like that eight-year-old boy again, making promises I wasn't sure I could keep." 

A single tear escaped, which he quickly wiped away, smiling through it. "But this time, this one time, I kept the most important promise of all. We found you, Treasure. And nothing – nothing – in fifteen years of sailing has ever felt as right as this moment."

Before y/n could respond, gentle knock interrupted their conversation—reminder that ship operations continued regardless of personal revelations. Hongjoong's expression immediately shifted toward captain's authority, though without completely displacing genuine connection established during their exchange.

"Enter," he called, automatically straightening his posture.

The door opened to reveal a messenger rather than officer—young crew member. "Captain, Quartermaster Seonghwa requests your presence regarding salvage operations from yesterday's engagement," the young man reported respectfully. "Says timing flexibility is available given non-critical nature of discussion."

The report, delivered with specific acknowledgment of interruption's limited urgency, revealed consideration beyond mere hierarchical demand. Seonghwa had clearly indicated room for personal judgment regarding appropriate timing—respect for privacy despite operational necessity.

"Thank you," Hongjoong acknowledged with genuine appreciation. "Inform the quartermaster I'll join him shortly."

As the messenger departed, closing the door with careful precision, momentary silence settled between them—not awkward pause but necessary transition, adjustment between profound personal connection and inevitable operational reality aboard working vessel.

"Duty calls," y/n observed with understanding smile, no criticism coloring her acknowledgment. "Ship operations wait for no one, even when fifteen-year quests finally reach fulfillment."

"Unfortunately," Hongjoong confirmed, though regret remained visible beneath captain's responsibility. "Though I'm grateful for Seonghwa's consideration in noting timeframe flexibility. He understands the significance of this conversation despite his own... current adjustment difficulties."

The diplomatic phrasing—acknowledging quartermaster's emotional distance without criticism—revealed care beyond mere tactical assessment. Unlike potential judgment that might have interpreted withdrawal as rejection or personal failure, Hongjoong demonstrated understanding beyond immediate reaction.

"He needs time," y/n agreed, matching his careful consideration despite the lingering hurt she felt at Seonghwa's coldness. "Space to reconcile fifteen years of searching with actual reunion. To adjust expectations developed during extended separation with present reality that inevitably differs from imagined outcome."

Hongjoong studied her thoughtfully, genuine appreciation flowing beneath tactical assessment. "Your understanding shows remarkable compassion given his apparent withdrawal following your identity confirmation," he observed. "Many would interpret his response as rejection requiring defense rather than adjustment deserving patience."

"Fifteen years navigating complex social hierarchies during captivity teaches careful distinction between genuine rejection and self-protective withdrawal," she explained simply. "Seonghwa isn't rejecting connection but creating necessary space for internal recalibration. The difference matters significantly, even if it still hurts."

The insight created visible impact across Hongjoong's features. Unlike casual assessment based on surface behavior, her analysis demonstrated perception beyond immediate appearance to recognize underlying emotional reality.

"You've become remarkably perceptive," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Though perhaps you always were, even as a child aboard The Crimson Serpent, and circumstances simply sharpened existing abilities rather than creating entirely new characteristics."

His perspective—acknowledging essential continuity despite necessary adaptation—offered recognition beyond mere observation. Unlike approaches that might have separated childhood identity from adult development, Hongjoong suggested integration rather than division—connecting past and present.

"Sometimes I wonder," she admitted, unexpected candor emerging without strategic calculation. "How much of me survived fifteen years of systematic attempts to eliminate independent thought or identity. Whether the girl you knew aboard The Crimson Serpent still exists beneath necessary adaptations required for survival as someone else's property."

This vulnerable disclosure created momentary silence between them, significance flowing beyond casual exchange. Unlike tactical revelation designed to extract specific response, her genuine wondering invited shared exploration.

"I think," Hongjoong began carefully, each word containing deliberate consideration, "that core aspects endure despite external pressure to eliminate them. That essential characteristics persist beneath necessary adaptations, transformation occurring without complete replacement."

He gestured toward the unconscious movement of her fingers gently straightening Mr. Hugs' bow tie—identical to childhood ritual performed countless times aboard The Crimson Serpent. "That gesture hasn't changed in fifteen years," he observed softly. "Nor your habit of breaking honey cakes in half before eating, arranging objects at right angles when distracted, watching horizons with that specific combination of wonder and calculation."

These simple observations affected y/n more profoundly than elaborate declaration might have. Unlike abstract discussion regarding identity continuity, Hongjoong offered tangible evidence of characteristics that had survived fifteen years' systematic attempt at elimination—concrete proof rather than merely comforting hypothesis.

"I never realized," she whispered, unexpected emotion flowing beyond calculated response. "That so much remained visible despite years of deliberate concealment."

"Not to casual observation," Hongjoong clarified, no criticism coloring his acknowledgment. "Only to those who knew you before, who recognized essential patterns beneath necessary adaptations. To others, your careful presentation remains exactly as intended—strategic composure revealing nothing beyond deliberately selected disclosure."

This distinction offered understanding beyond mere observation. Unlike potential approach that might have suggested failed disguise or inadequate protection, Hongjoong recognized both effective concealment and specific connection that transcended general perception.

Before further conversation could develop, second knock interrupted their exchange—gentle but distinct reminder that ship operations required captain's attention despite personal significance of current interaction. Unlike previous messenger's supportive approach, this signal carried subtle urgency beneath its restrained delivery—genuine need rather than merely scheduled interruption.

"You should go," y/n said, understanding flowing without resentment or disappointment. "The ATEEZ needs its captain regardless of personal revelations. The crew depends on your leadership beyond individual preference or private connection."

Hongjoong nodded, genuine appreciation visible beneath returning captain's authority. "This conversation isn't concluded," he said. "Merely paused by circumstance."

"I know," she replied with gentle smile. "Until circumstances permit its continuation."

As she rose to depart, still holding Mr. Hugs against her chest, Hongjoong's voice stopped her momentarily—softer than his captain's tone yet carrying equal certainty.

"Keep him with you," he said, gesturing toward the teddy bear. "He's been waiting fifteen years to return to his rightful owner."

This simple statement created unexpected emotion within y/n, gratitude flowing beyond strategic calculation. Unlike potential retention that might have maintained control through limited visitation, Hongjoong offered complete restoration without qualification—genuine return rather than merely supervised reunion.

"Thank you," she said simply, the words containing multitudes beneath their minimal surface. "For keeping him safe when I couldn't. For carrying him through fifteen years when I had no way to protect him myself."

"He carried us just as much as we carried him," Hongjoong replied, unexpected vulnerability flowing beneath returning captain's composure. "Reminder of promise that sustained us when circumstances suggested impossibility, tangible proof of connection that survived despite cosmic forces aligned against its persistence."

For a moment, they simply regarded each other across shortened physical distance that nonetheless represented vast emotional terrain—fifteen years of separation creating space requiring navigation rather than simply physical proximity. Then, with mutual understanding that transcended verbal confirmation, they moved toward their respective responsibilities—Hongjoong toward ship management demanding captain's attention, y/n toward injured gunner whose recovery represented another aspect of their collective reconnection aboard the ATEEZ.

As she returned to medical bay, Mr. Hugs held securely against her chest, y/n found unexpected certainty settling within her. After fifteen years believing herself forgotten or abandoned, she had discovered truth beyond memory or whispered ritual: five boys from The Crimson Serpent had never stopped searching for her, had transformed themselves into the most feared pirates on the seven seas specifically to fulfill blood oath made during childhood failure.

More significantly, sixth connection had manifested through seemingly impossible coincidence—Yeosang joining the very crew specifically searching for his childhood friend, their separate paths converging aboard notorious pirate vessel despite cosmic forces aligned against such intersection. The wooden wolf they had shared during captivity now joined by Mr. Hugs returning after fifteen years' separation—tangible manifestations of connection that had survived despite systematic attempts at elimination.

And y/n, who had survived fifteen years of captivity through necessary disguise and strategic isolation, had finally reclaimed identity beyond mere survival—authentic presence rather than tactical necessity, genuine connection rather than merely calculated alliance. The wooden wolf, tiny sparrow, and now Mr. Hugs remained tangible proof of bonds that had survived fifteen years' separation—physical manifestations of connection maintained despite systematic attempts at elimination, reunion achieved against impossible odds.

Taglist: @hopeless-lovex0 @frankielou02 @jilxxasu @kur0kki @lezleeferguson-120 @uniquecloudbread @miniverse-zen @symmieangela @monstacheol @ateezswonderland @comicnerd557 @pixie0627 @fumaluvr @princesscallie @green-moon @starryjoong-jeongcheollie @wiccanmetallicrose @atinyapple1117 @sassy-snassy @soulphoenix1618

[sturnioz]

I actually haven't been that active on the fratboy Chris tag in a WHILE. So, imma give my take on what I think had happened in their pasts and what could possibly happen.

We all know Chris can be and is and asshole. He doesn't care for romantics, and it has been proven time and time again. He's cold and closed off, even to his brothers which you would assume he'd let loose a little. He's close to his mother (from the phone call bun overheard) which I'll get back to. But that's kinda it? He doesn't plan on opening up to anyone, so maybe something triggered that and there could be a future stressor to reopen that. Who knows what your series will say.

Now, bun is different. Not in the way of 'opposites attract' but there are key differences that are mentioned. Her shy behaviour for one. She has only been with Chris and had all her firsts with him. She isn't exactly as shy anymore in thay department but either way, she is close to Chris given that he is the only one she's been with. But I also don't immediately take her for an overtly romantic person. I'm sure she dreams of it or imagines situations like that but if she really wanted that then would she stay with Chris? I doubt it. Bun has friends, connections and it's stated that Chris isn't making her stay with him that way sooo...

To their pasts I'd say they are similar with a lot of aspects. A decent childhood with opportunities like a lot of other children, a close network of friends and family to keep them well. However, I'm thinking that Chris had his start to differ maybe around puberty or a little later. A lot of kids start to explore sexually or in relationships and something could have changed with him. A bad relationship made him stiff, not wanting to open up like last time. The fact he is still close with his mother in a way also gives me reason to think his father or other family member was narcissistic or problematic. (Based on my own experiences). Either way, he wasn't always like this, a triggering event or course of events changed his behaviour when he was vulnerable to change.

I'd say that Bun has been consistent a lot of her life. She was always shy in childhood and kept to herself, enjoying quiet more than most. A tight network of friends that she wouldn't dare stretch from unless she was introduced by another friend etc. I wouldn't say she's had any stressor to make her suddenly submit into herself, hence her naïvity around Chris' situations and attitude, brushing it off as 'him'.

I do think Chris will crack at some point. Like mentioned before, a stressor could occur where he lets something slip etc. During the whole formal event, he was upset and beginning to subtly get upset when bun wasn't messaging back. If he was any closer to bun than he was, some shit EASILY could've gone down, paranoia, arguments etc. Bun might find out information she isn't meant to? The phone call with Chris' mother was enough to make her question things for a moment. Let alone anything else of any other level. I don't mean stuff he does eg. Sell drugs - one, he is open about that, and two, he has no reason to lie over it. Yet, knowledge is more powerful in this context.

This is slightly vague over scenarios I see them in, but I'm going a lot based on psychological reasons rather than just imagination, so I'm likely to be wrong. I also haven't read a lot of your recent works due to my inactivity, so this may have been proven wrong in updated posts. However, this is just what I think. I could easily write about if Nick or Matt knows what happened to Chris or even if the same thing happened to them etc. But I'll save that.

Enjoy I guess lmaoo

im sorry i dont have much to say to this without giving my own plot away but i just want you to know that i enjoyed every second reading this beautiful fucking take.. the way you analyse everything is so fucking gorgeous

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

I Didn't Know How To Love You (Ch. 2)

[Chapter 1]

❗Mentions of suicide (non-graphic, and nobody gets hurt). For those sensitive, please proceed with care.

Read below or on AO3.

Thinking about Tommy has never been Buck’s problem, quite the opposite. He’s studied recipes, worked overtime and exercised harder because he needed the distraction. Because he needed to prevent his thoughts from spiraling around questions he probably wouldn’t like the answers to. It’s still hard to switch off his thoughts as he drives home from Hen and Karen’s, their words are living rent-free in his head now.

He steers the jeep almost mechanically through the night, wondering if his brooding will start all over again. It’s a depressing thought, somehow. Buck has spent days, weeks even wondering if it all had been his fault, whether the simple offer to share a household sounded too much like an invitation to share a life. It had been easy to convince himself that that was exactly what had put Tommy off. Tommy had never held his dreams and whims against him, but this was something big, an idea too much out of the blue. It's just… maybe there wasn’t any hidden agenda in Buck’s question that night, but he had been able to imagine it. All for himself, in the back of his mind, and in bright colors even. Not the white picket fence and garden kind of dream, at least not in L.A. Just a future with somebody he liked, a lot. Somebody who wanted him and took him for what he was, with all his faults and quirks. It seemed such an innocent wish, so little to want, yet Buck knew it wasn’t.

So, life’s lesson repeated and Tommy left. Naturally, Buck assumed it was his fault. Whatever Tommy’s plans for the future were, they didn’t include him. Though it had not made much sense to him, neither the crack in his voice nor his words. “You'll break my heart,” Tommy said, and had instead broken Buck’s. It was the strangest, worst reason why anybody had ever broken up with him.

But if Hen is right – and Buck has no reason to believe she isn’t – Tommy's answer had little to do with his identity and everything with the fact that he’d been hurt. An universal experience that Buck shared and understood, but at the time, that evening, he’d done neither. Now, he was so plagued by guilt and doubt that he didn't know how to react. Buck’s the kind of person who prefers to deal with conflicts head-on rather than let them fester, not least because he can’t stand the thought of being the cause of someone’s distress. Was it anger at Buck that had kept Tommy from getting in touch? Or had his fingers hovered just as indecisively over the keys of his phone as Buck’s, consumed by a feeling that he had to make amends but couldn’t figure out how?

His thoughts aren’t getting him anywhere. Days of indecision pass, having Buck pondering about the best way to do something, anything. Work, at least, offers some kind of distraction. L.A. is still full of people jumping into empty swimming pools during nighttime break-ins or burning down fifty acres of parkland out of carelessness. Work offers stability, even without Eddie, though he’s missing the latter’s dry wit and their mutual, wordless understanding. They talk on the phone, but while Eddie reports on his tentative progress with his son, Buck remains silent about any thoughts he has about Tommy.

During work, Hen's clever, gentle eyes behind her glasses often seem to rest on him. He avoids her gaze as if it contained the question of a decision, yet Buck’s never been so indecisive in his life. It’s a strange day anyway. There’s a certain tension in the air, one of those days with high humidity and heat; the television blared warnings all morning, and everyone knows the city will go crazy. The silence in the fire engine seems palpable, forced even, as if everybody thinks that if they’d disturb it with so much as the clearing of a throat, it will jinx bad mojo. Not even Howie cracks one of his stupid jokes, instead he stares out the window, possibly pondering his future with two kids. It’s kind of humbling, the mere thought that everyone has problems is able to distract Buck from his own musings.

Bobby is wise enough not to break the silence with unnecessary instructions; they’ve all heard dispatch and will get the picture on scene. Police has been called to a mixed-use office building where an argument about water-saving devices apparently escalated, while temperature has reached 89.6 °F as early as 8:30 a.m. Typically for L.A., especially on a day like this, it wasn't just a small brawl between white-collar guys. For some reason, a fire had broken out, and now the 118 is approaching, blaring siren and all.

The brawlers turn out to be two women, one with tousled hair and a bruise on her cheek that only needs some ice – Buck notices Hen's almost disappointed look. But the other one has a torn skirt and a broken wrist, she’s standing at the side of the road howling like a puppy because they’re putting handcuffs on her.

“Good heavens, only cuff one hand and let the paramedics have a look on her,” someone snaps at a young police officer, and this someone turns out to be Athena.

“Nice to see you, Sergeant Grant,” Bobby says, raising his helmet mockingly.

Athena just gives a snort, brushing a sweat-soaked strand of hair out of her forehead.

“That’s Grant-Nash, Captain, you keep forgetting that and troubling my day even more?” She laughs, flashing her pearly teeth, but soon becomes serious again. “These two claim they’d nothing to do with the fire on the 26th floor, and on a day like this, even I'm inclined to believe in coincidences. But that’s for you to decide. All I know is that there are still people inside who called 911 as they fled to the upper floors. Luckily it’s still early in the day; apparently not all the offices were occupied yet.”

“All right,” Bobby replies with a final wink, then turns to his crew. His orders are brief and to the point, and everyone knows what to do. There’s no smoke billowing out of the upper-story windows yet, Buck observes, squinting against the sun as he stares upward.

Howie, as the most senior, is leading the vanguard today; while Bobby wants to have Hen on the ground, Howie, Buck and Ravi will secure the building. As they trudge up the stairs, chasing down a few office workers who apparently didn't take the police warning seriously, Buck wonders if Bobby now regrets turning down the Chief's offer this morning. Apparently, Eddie's departure was much more spontaneous than he's admitted, and now they’re short-handed. Many young people today seem more likely to pursue a career as an Instagram star than to serve the city in the fire department, despite Firefox's efforts.

“It won't be easy to fill the gap,” the Chief had said. Yet another overheard conversation, and again completely unintentional. As Buck walked past Bobby's office, just as he was coming out of the washroom, he heard their conversation because for some reason, Bobby had put his phone on speaker. “City has put us on a hiring freeze, as you know. You’ll have to work with stand-ins for a while. For today, I can order the 133 to lend you someone.”

However, Bobby’s declined the offer. Initially, Buck was fine with that, though his motives were probably less altruistic than Bobby's, who didn’t want to mess up everyone's roster. Buck, however, was not ready for anyone replacing Eddie, especially not a permanent one. Now, however, things look different. Bobby coordinates the operation from below, but his skeptical look tells Buck that he would rather plunge into the fray with his crew. He’s ordering reinforcements, but by now the morning rush hour is in full swing.

Despite everything, Buck enjoys the adrenaline rush of it all. This is more than a mere mission, it’s a way to feel alive. To feel like a part of something. His nerves are taut in a good way, like ropes on a pulley whose use serves a purpose. Every unclear situation offers a thrill, but right now, Buck has no idea how true this will turn out to be. Because if the last few months have taught him anything, it’s that the future is always uncertain. From one moment to the next, the world changes, focus disappears and plans fall apart. It's better to live in the present, and that finally includes smoke developing on some of the 32 floors they pant up in full gear.

“SCBA, guys,” Howie reminds them curtly, pulling his own mask over his head. His voice is muffled when he adds, “According to Dispatch, there are two companies on this floor, and the fire must have started here. Ravi and I will start extinguishing, Buck, you check to see what it looks like on the upper floors. Allegedly, the employees managed to evacuate the floor in time. Come back immediately when they are reasonably safe.”

Buck saves his breath and just nods; the attitudes of his younger self have largely disappeared, and he respects his brother-in-law enough to follow his instructions. He trudges up another floor, his panting booming loudly in his ears, tightly enclosed by his protective gear. The smoke here is not quite as thick, but it is still dense enough; Buck has to shine his flashlight to see that he’s on the 27th floor.

“LAFD,” he calls, “anyone up here?”

If they were smart, the employees would have run further up, maybe even to the roof. If they were even smarter, though, they would've turned downstairs, not upstairs to where smoke rises. But people in distress rarely think rationally. The fire alarm, which now only emits a vague blare, must have been very loud a few minutes ago. Buck has seen people so frightened by the sound alone, they kept running towards a fire instead of away from it. Once, a guy even openly admitted that he’d run to the roof because he hoped for an air rescue.

“Hello?”

The call echoes from the landing over Buck. Someone has opened the door to the hallway, a well-coiffed man in a gray suit; probably he’s usually one of those calm go-getters. Now, however, he peers down nervously.

“Is there anyone left on this floor?” Buck calls up to him.

“No, we're all up here,” the man replies. “Is there still fire?”

“Yes. Stay there until we give the all-clear. How many are up there with you?”

“About twenty, I think, and… the people from this floor’s companies. I’m not sure, actually. Everyone’s a bit nervous, though. Are we getting evacuated?”

“Sooner or later, sure, but right now…” Buck raises his hand as his radio crackles, gesturing for the man to wait. It's Bobby.

“118, we have new information,” he starts, but Howie chimes in, “So do we: fire’s as good as under control. Buck, how about the employees?”

Buck is about to press the button and answer when Bobby's voice clatters out of the device again, more urgently this time, “Hang on. Another emergency call has just come in. Apparently, there’s someone on the roof at risk of jumping.”

“On this building?” Howie asks incredulously, and Buck can't blame him. Bobby doesn't seem to believe it’s a coincidence either, because he replies, “Athena's checking for a connection to the fire and the argument between the two ladies, but that’s not our concern right now. Are there any casualties we need to deal with? Dispatch is arranging for a psychologist, but in the meantime we could...”

“I'm on it,” Buck calls into his radio.

“Wait,” Bobby advises. “I'm already on the fifteenth floor.”

Buck stops in his tracks. Of course Bobby would want to take matters into his own hands, protocol aside. A call like this strikes a particular chord in him, and it’s a tune he must follow. It's not because he considers himself an expert, an authority for people considering suicide – Bobby is neither megalomaniacal nor is he shallow. No, Bobby is driven by compassion, by an understanding that only people with the same experiences can feel. And at the same time, he’s the best proof of how people can rise above themselves and their trauma. Buck knows all this. And normally, when he thinks of Bobby, the father figure larger than his real father, he does so with his heart. Now, however, he thinks rationally, or so he believes. Taking two steps at a time, he rushes upstairs, where the guy in the suit stares at him wide-eyed.

“And I'm on the 28th,” he speaks into his radio. “I'll be on the roof in a minute.”

He squeezes past suit guy, slams the door shut and tears off his mask. Up here, the smoke is just a vague memory; the hallways are equipped with fire doors, and it can’t have been a huge fire.

“Go back to the others and wait for the all-clear,” he tells him, so hastily that his stress stutter doesn't stand a chance to evolve. “Keep this door shut. Firefighters are two floors below you, we’ve everything under control.”

The man, whose ridiculous moustache reminds Buck all too much of Eddie in his self-discovery phase for a moment, opens his mouth to say something. Buck won't let him. He slips out the door again and runs up the stairs to the roof.

It doesn't take a minute, even if Buck doesn't count. There are people who run up the 102 floors of the Empire State Building in 9.5 minutes. Such trivia distracts him long enough to steel himself for the view that awaits him at the top. The last two floors consist mainly of showrooms with huge windows, and at the very top, a narrow ladder leads to the roof through a hatch. Sunlight blinds Buck, but his gaze is magnetically drawn to a woman who seems to be floating in the air.

He pushes his way onto the roof, which is mainly a huge, gray open space. A bunch of buildings are taller than this one, but standing on the edge of the balustrade, it certainly gives the illusion of touching the clouds. It's just that the woman, a young brunette in a billowing cardigan that envelops her like a cape, isn’t standing at the edge of the roof with its wind vanes.

The top two floors are connected to the roof of the 30th floor with steel struts that either represent decorative elements or actually serve a structural function, Buck couldn’t care less. Some of these elements, however, extend a bit beyond the end of the roof. Whoever thought it was a good idea to put them up there in a way they could easily be climbed was an idiot in Buck's eyes. The woman is standing at the end of a narrow beam; it looks a bit like she is standing on the plank of a ship, only there is no one to keelhaul her but herself. She turns around as she hears the hatch slam onto the roof. Despite the distance – Buck estimates it at 15 feet, just under seven steps, if he's fast – he sees that she’s been crying, narrow black streaks from her mascara adorn her cheeks.

“Hey,” he says cautiously, trying to paint his voice in a tone that she won’t find threatening. “I'm Buck. Well, it's a nickname, maybe you have one too? What's your name?”

“Don't come any closer,” she replies, but she continues to look at him.

If she jumps now, there's no guarantee that she'll be killed instantly, and Buck wished he could make her understand this without scaring her away. The metal struts are anchored in the roof of the 30th floor, which forms a kind of surrounding balcony to that floor. If she falls onto it, from a height of around 25 feet, it does not automatically mean certain death. Even if she falls onto the balustrade. The vanes are turning violently to the northeast, which means that she would probably have to take a run-up if she wanted to throw herself off the entire building from here.

Buck doesn't want that. He doesn't want to have to explain to her how many bones she might break, how many organs she’d damage, and for what? She might end up still alive and with the same problems as before, plus a lot more on top. He doesn't want her to jump, because it might not end her life, but it would most certainly ruin it. Strangely enough, as he’s standing up here with the wind ruffling his hair, his mouth feels dry. Buck is rarely at a loss for words, but now he can't think of anything to say. He’s almost relieved when the hatch opens again. Bobby is panting quite a bit when he reaches the roof; once at the top, he puts his hands on his knees and takes a few deep breaths.

“Lady, I'm a little too old for this,” he gasps, Buck recognizes gravity behind his chatty tone. “I'm Robert, but everyone calls me Bobby. You look about the same age as my boy here, and you know what? If he were standing there, I'd have something to say to him.”

The feeling of being called my boy by Bobby, as if he were actually his son, tingles like electricity. It's like being struck by lightning again, only this time it doesn't hurt, yet a warm sensation remains.

“Can I come a bit closer?” Bobby asks.

“I don't know,” the woman replies defensively.

“That’s okay. Will you at least tell me your name?”

“Violet,” she says, as if she simply cannot escape Bobby’s sonorous voice.

“Violet,” he echoes, rolling her name over his tongue as if it were heavy, good wine. “Now I know two things about you.”

“Two?” she sniffs, carelessly wiping her nose with a sleeve.

“Yes,” Bobby replies with a smile. “Your name, and that you don't really want to jump.”

Violet stares at him in amazement, then she starts laughing. It's a sound interrupted by sobs, but it is genuine laughter. Buck fears that the wind and her laughter will blow her off the roof after all, but she stands firm, looking at Bobby.

“How would you know?” she asks, although her eyes show a glimmer of hope: she already suspects the answer.

“I'll be happy to tell you, Violet. But do me a favor and come down first, okay? You can stand at the edge of the balustrade if you like. I won't persuade you. But air support is to arrive shortly, and I don't want your decision to be taken from you, if you know what I mean. Wind's strong up here.”

“You requested AirOps?” Buck mutters under his breath.

Bobby turns his head to him and whispers, “There's still smoke covering at least one floor, Chimney reports, the vents aren't working anymore.”

Of course, she could be led down the stairs wearing Bobby’s or Buck’s mask, but that’s still 32 floors, and maybe Bobby's decision has something to do with considerations similar to Buck's. If Violet were to jump and be seriously injured, a helicopter might be her best chance of making it to the hospital in time. Right now, she no longer looks like she's particularly keen on throwing herself off the building; yet it's better to be safe than sorry, and it's Bobby's decision.

He continues to gently coax her, and Buck holds his breath. Even now, so much can go wrong. The wind is strong up here, and she might just slip. Or she could freeze in the grip of sudden panic; it happens quite often that someone who was just so determined loses their courage. But if Violet has lost anything, it’s only the will to die, at least here and now. She approaches Bobby slowly and cautiously, ignoring his outstretched hand. Instead, she crouches and awkwardly slides down to the relatively safe ground of the rooftop, just as the roaring of a helicopter’s rotors announces its arrival.

“There’s actually a chopper,” Violet says, almost reverently.

Her tone suggests that she’s mostly amazed by Bobby's honesty, which is quite sad, actually. It also reminds Buck that he, too, was once fascinated by these machines, if for a different reason. There was a time when he’d longingly watch the sky whenever he’d hear the familiar sound of rotor blades, always hoping that if Tommy was up there, he’d be safe. He’s since given up this habit, for obvious reasons, but appearances can be deceptive. Because as the helicopter door swings open with the last slow rotation of the rotor, his heart skips a telltale beat.

[optiwashere]

Opti! 11 pls, I could use some fluffy ☺️

Thank you so much for requesting this one! 💜

I already did one rendition of it here, but Shadowheart deserves more than just a little joy, right? Right.

11. A kiss in joy.

---

A rush of cool air brushed through Shadowheart’s hair, trailing a loose lock across her cheek. Not unlike the icy whispers of Shar in her ear, it was enough to startle her awake in the room at the Elfsong. The door and window were both flung open, and panic roared in her chest.

Almost as soon as it came upon her, the feeling died when she spotted the intruder.

“I tried to be quiet,” said Asheera, slipping a muddy boot off as stealthily as if she were wearing her plate armor. “Guess I messed that one up.”

“I suppose you did,” Shadowheart said, yawning. As she stretched, she could not help but notice Asheera keeping something close to her chest. “Where were you? Off traipsing to the tavern for a morning meal?”

“Wasn’t hungry.” Asheera tried to angle herself to keep her back to Shadowheart as she removed her other boot. “I was… um. Busy.”

“Busy. Right. What do you have there?”

Asheera glanced over her shoulder, fighting back a smile against her tusks. “Am I that obvious?”

“Not a master of secrecy, no.” Shadowheart bunched the covers up around her and dragged herself beside her lover.

To her surprise, Asheera held in her hand a flower. The vibrant green of the stem contrasted against a layered, round array of pink petals. She twirled it between her fingers and caught Shadowheart watching her as she made another full rotation between her thumb and forefinger.

“So much for the surprise,” she said with a chuckle.

“Is that a peony?” Shadowheart tilted her head to the side to consider when, if ever, she had mentioned them to Asheera. “Not exactly my favorite, but they’re quite pretty. The color’s incredible this time of year, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. And… hang on.” Turning to face her, Asheera tucked Shadowheart’s loose hair over one shoulder and placed the stem of the flower over her ear. “There we go.”

It wasn’t large enough for the petals to be obnoxious, and in a way, it was extremely silly. She could imagine herself in the mirror now, bedraggled and sleep heavy under her eyes, with the brightest, most eye-catching flower stuck in her hair. Surely, it was a joke.

But Asheera didn’t laugh at her. In fact, all she did was stare. Gaze flickering up to her eyes, then back to the flower, all while a grin broke across her features. In the wavering, fresh light of the morning sun, her ruddy brown eyes glowed like embers of a fire while they roved all over her body. Wandered yet always returned to the peony in her hair.

“Was this your surprise?” Shadowheart asked, unsure why it was so hard to ask that. After everything they had been through together, through life and death, this was nothing more than a gift of a flower. “You didn’t have to sneak out to go find one of these, you know.”

“I know,” said Asheera with a nod, “but I woke up early. Had to do something with the time.”

“Plucking peonies from gardens another pastime of yours?”

“No.” Asheera slid closer, resting a hand on Shadowheart’s naked hip. The other spread a broad palm against the side of her neck, fingers reaching up to touch the stem resting on her ear. “More like, I was busy finding a way to somehow make you even prettier. Don’t know if I succeeded, but I’m not sure if it’s even possible. I wanted to find something colorful for you, at least.”

How silly. How romantic. How foolish, rote, and… and heat bloomed along Shadowheart’s throat, climbing her neck before it reached her face. The sudden rush of that indescribable feeling was not the flower, not really.

Not long ago, she told Asheera that the last thing she wanted was more darkness in her life. The draw of a startlingly bright colors — within and without — grew too strong to ignore, and she wanted it. She believed all she might have of that promise, of a brighter future, was Asheera’s word, the cracked amulet hanging from a leather band, and their bond that felt unbreakable at this point.

Yet there she was, somehow finding a way to make good on her promise already. Though there were still battles ahead of them, Asheera found time for this moment.

The slice of time where all that mattered was finding that brief splash of color to bring into her life. Into their lives.

It was all too much. Shadowheart moved, and it seemed Asheera noticed as well because they both found one another in a kiss that deepened beyond a mere chaste peck on the lips. One that lasted long enough that they would have to claim that they decided to sleep for a while longer than usual.

[blakeswritingimagines]

Kink List With Auston Matthews

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Auston is always the most gentle when it comes to aftercare, even though he's a professional hockey player. He'll wrap his arm around your waist, holding you close to his chest. He'll place small pecks on whatever part of you his lips can find, sometimes your forehead, cheek, even your shoulder. He never fails to tell you how perfect you are, how you're his everything.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Auston loves every part of your body, but there's something about your waist that seems to draw his hands in. He can't help but place his hand lightly over your hip, or give it a small squeeze. And his favorite part of his body? He's extremely proud of his arms. They're toned and muscled and he loves to flex them.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Auston is always very careful with where he cums, he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable, he always makes sure to have a towel on hand (or under you) to clean up. He cums a pretty average amount, and if he's in a dominant mood he likes to have it all over you, marking you as his.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Auston has a secret praise kink. He loves for you to tell him how good he is, how he makes you feel, but he doesn't tell many people. He's also a big romantic at heart but hides it behind his usual, cocky demeanor.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Auston is very experienced and knows exactly what he's doing. He's not cocky, but he is confident, and he definitely knows how to make you feel good. He likes to take his time, to tease you and build you up until you're desperate for him. He knows your body, and he uses that to his advantage.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Auston loves having you riding him. He'll sit up slightly, his back against the headboard, so he can watch you, his hands on your hips, guiding you gently over him. The way he looks at you, those big brown eyes filled with love and adoration, it's enough to make you go weak. He also loves from behind, but that's for when he's feeling more possessive of you.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Auston can definitely be goofy, and he is most of the time. He's always cracking jokes, no matter the situation. When he's with you though, he's much more serious, almost completely opposite of his usual self. The only time he ever really jokes around is when he teases you, but it's always done in a lighthearted way.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Auston keeps himself fairly well groomed, he shaves regularly, usually having a slight stubble on his face. He also keeps the area down below nicely trimmed, he's not super hairy to begin with so he doesn't have to worry much about it.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Auston is very intimate, especially if he's being gentle and slow. He likes to be as close to you as possible, his body almost completely pressed against yours. He'll always have a hand on you, either on your shoulder or stroking your cheek. He's the type of guy to always whisper words of love and affection into your ear, and to kiss just about every inch of your body.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Auston doesn't really have much time for masturbation, but when he can he will. He doesn't often let himself finish though, and always imagines it's with you. He almost always uses videos and pictures that you've sent him, as well as the memories and fantasies in his head.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Auston has several kinks, but the main ones are praise, degradation, and body writing. He loves it when you tell him how good he is and how good he makes you feel. He loves to take you, to have you all to himself. And body writing, he loves to mark you as his, just like he says, he's a pretty possessive guy.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Auston loves anywhere and everywhere you do it, but he does have favourite places. The shower is the first that comes to his mind, the feel of your wet, soapy bodies pressed together is something he always looks forward to. He also loves his bed, the place where he feels the most comfortable with you, and if he's feeling especially possessive, he'll take you on the couch after a night out together.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

For Auston, it's as simple as hearing your voice, or seeing your face. It doesn't matter if you're dressed up or if you're just waking up, he finds you beautiful in every single way and he's powerless to resist you. He loves every inch of you, and when you're in his arms, he feels absolutely safe, and he's the most comfortable he's ever been, both physically and mentally.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Although he can be a bit possessive, Auston will never be violent or cruel towards you. He'll never raise a hand or his voice at you, even if he's upset or angry. He also can't stand when you're upset, he can't bear to see you cry. He'll never do anything to purposely hurt you, and he'll always be the first to apologize for even the smallest argument, because he hates being apart from you.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He loves giving more than he loves receiving because he loves to hear the sounds you make, to make you feel good. He loves the way you look, the way you sound, and how you feel. He's very good with his tongue, and he knows exactly how to use it in the best ways possible. He's not selfish, when it comes to oral, he wants to make sure you're just as satisfied, if not more so, than him.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

It all depends on his mood, some nights he's very gentle and slow, other nights he'll take a bit more control. He'll usually start slow and speed up a bit as he goes. He'll sometimes take his time, teasing you, making you as desperate for him as possible, and other times he'll be a mess, needing to have you as soon as possible.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

As much as Auston loves taking his time with you, he definitely has a appreciation for a quickie. When he gets desperate, he needs to have you as soon as possible, and he'll often just end up using you to get what he wants, almost like an animal. When he does this it's almost always very rough and passionate, and he loves every single second of it.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Auston is pretty willing to experiment. He's not too into anything that's too extreme, but he does enjoy taking some risks. He's also very protective, and so he'll sometimes be a bit cautious, just to be sure you're safe. When he is willing to take the risk though, you can guarantee it'll be something both of you won't forget.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Usually, Auston can last for at least three rounds. However, on a night after a game, he's often much more exhausted and can only really go for one, maybe two. When he has nothing to do the next day and he's got the energy to burn, he's been known to go up to five rounds.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He doesn't own any himself, but if you suggest using them, he'll immediately be on board. He loves using them on you, he loves to see you all helpless and shaking beneath him, the feeling of you completely at his mercy. He's also definitely open to having them used on himself, he's very willing to try new things and he'll never turn down anything you suggest.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Auston is a massive tease. He loves to watch you squirm, and he loves to see you desperate for him. It gives him an almost sadistic sense of satisfaction that he can reduce you to a mess of needy moans and whimpers just by a simple words or a touch here or there. When he's teasing, he'll usually start out innocent enough but the teasing will get more and more intense until you're a begging, pleading mess and he can finally give in to what you both want.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Sometimes he'll be loud, but it depends on how much he gets into it. He's got a very deep and soothing voice, which can get huskier the more worked up he gets. Most of the time though, all you really hear from him is heavy breathing and low, quiet moans. He's usually the most vocal when he's talking, and he definitely loves to whisper sweet nothings and filth in your ear.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

A random fact is that he's definitely a big fan of public play. He loves the thrill of doing something so naughty in a public place, where anyone could see. He especially loves to do these things with you when you're in a big group, he'll brush against you every so often or whisper something dirty that only you can hear. He gets a special sort of satisfaction from the risk of playing with you in a room full of people.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Auston is definitely thick and well-above average in length. He's pretty much completely smooth, with a single vein running up the underside, just thick enough to be noticeable. The head of his cock is nice and bulbous, almost leaking pre-cum, begging for your attention.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Considering Auston is an NHL player, he's often tired and worn out after games and practices, and so it usually takes a bit for him to really get going. However, he loves to watch you, and seeing you in little to no clothing can almost guarantee that he'll be in the mood. His libido is higher than average, and he's definitely in the mood at least once a day, if not more.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Once Auston is finally tired enough and satisfied, he can really sleep through anything. He'll usually fall asleep right away, pulling you into his arms so that he can have you as close as possible to him. He'll usually always stay awake long enough to make sure that you're good and comfortable, though, he loves those moments afterwards, where you're both just laying there together, enjoying each other's presence.

[kenvamp]

may I humbly request more Four :D (maybe him with shadow?)

Shadow teaching Vio the acts of villainy (ft. The cain of Pacci)

[infinizero]

Demon Twin AU but Damian has been seeing ghostly visages of his twin slowly growing up with him

So, the Danny Damian Twin AUs! They're fun!

But what if, when Danny fakes his death/is killed, he actually dies and becomes a halfa as a kid? Danny because he is Danny, has the great idea to live a double life upon figuring out he can be both ghost and human!

As a human, he goes to America where he gets adopted by the Fentons and live as Danny Fenton

I headcanon that halfas are very adaptable and basically get powers according to their needs. So he figures out how to portal.

As a ghost, Danny stays around Damian and helps him out. Sometimes he slips up and Damian sees Phantom right next to him.

To Damian, this is the Pit Ghost of his brother who has come back to haunt him, made even worse when he realizes that Danny is also growing exactly at the rate he was despite being dead. He thinks that Dannys last wish was to grow up with Damian that's why he's doing that.

It gets even worse for Damian when he realizes the ghost of his dead twin brother has been helping him invisibly the entire time and it's possible that that's why Danny's staying around

Now, I need you to picture one of the Batfam seeing Danny

Imagine them asking him about it

Imagine Damian having to explain that the ghost of his dead brother sometimes accompanies him

Of course, on Danny's human side of things, the Fentons finally made that portal and he has to take up being a hero in Amity Park. Meaning he has less time to look over Damian.

What does this look like to Damian?

It looks like his brother is fading away slowly because Danny's decided Damian is now in a safe place

This all comes to a head when Danny disappears for a long time, long enough for Damian to think he's gone gone

And then Danny comes back and he's injured or maybe he has a baby Ellie and for the first time in years actually talks to Damian and asks for help

[arthur-lesters-spinal-cord]

The existence of the Noelverse suggests that there is an alternate universe where Charlie died in the war instead of Noel and that there is an actual Noel who is still alive in one of those universes. Maybe he even goes by Charlie Dowd.

This also works in wider malevolent multiverse stuff but this was the context i first thought of it in.

[victorie552]

Kind of a weird AU but hear me out:

Finwe marries Indis, right? Most controversial thing Finwe ever done and that includes leading elves from their ancestral home to a new continent to live with gods. Silmarillion says that it happened because he fell in love and I believe it BUT what Silmarillion doesn't tell you is WHEN Finwe marries Indis. I saw posts that say the canon is inconclusive and Tolkien probably changed his mind a lot, and half of what of what Tolkien wrote is thrown from the window by fandom, so.

Anyway, one of the versions said Feanor was at least a teenager when Finwe/Indis happens (I think). What Silmarillion states is that Feanor married VERY young by elven standards, and that Nerdanel was below his station (classism? in elven society? apparently!).

Last thing before I get to the main point: Fingolfin marries Anaire, a Noldo lady, who I saw often enough written as a noble or a court lady, perfectly fine that, no idea if that's canon. And Finarfin very much marries Teleri princess.

...I don't know guys, it feels very convienient. For princes to fall in love with exactly the kind of women who would be approved by royal court and strenghten political ties with other elven factions. If it was anything else than silm, I would call political marriages.

Time for crack: based on what I wrote above I propose an AU where it was FEANOR who was supposed to marry Indis. For politics! Vanyar are the most important faction in Aman! Let's marry into that!

But the MOMENT Feanor became an adult and they could process with courting without making it creppier than it already is, Feanor runs off to elope with his coworker and there's nothing they can do. Well, that's what Finwe tells Ingwe when Ingwe rages about it to him.

Finwe loves Feanor, he wants him to marry for love, and that's exactly what happens. But, uh, all Vanyar are pissed that there's no political marriage when they were promised one (they mad cause they look stupid now), and, well. Finwe decides to bite the bullet. For his son.

It's not true of course. But imagine family dinners after that.

[comradecowplant]

*** weewoo weewoo, Severance rant incoming, avoid or gather 'round depending on your preference, weewoo weewoo***

oofda Severance went from what's gotta be the best episode in the series-- visually, emotionally, character drive, general plot development, etc.-- to probably the weakest. Dgmw, I absolutely adore Patricia Arquette's performance as this sad off-putting woman and was eager for a Cobel check-in, but back-to-back bottleneck episodes leading up the finale was a TERRIBLE pacing choice, just completely missing the mark in a season that has already been plagued with pacing issues-- I'm lookin' at you, beloved by many but meh to me bc I have never been a melly shipper & thought it was a frustrating cut-away from the previous episode's dramatic final moment, Woe's Hollow-- & did not really provide much new information/plot momentum to make up for it-- yeah yeah Cobel lifelong Kier cultist, child labor & mommy issues, groomed & exploited scientific prowess, Lumon ruining anachronistic ether-huffing towns economically & spiritually; didn't really dig deeper or meaningfully build on anything we already know of in a away that needed to be a full break-away episode for, imo. Coulda & shoulda been the b-plot to a Milchick's continued spirit breaking/background to Ms. Huang (which would have very much thematically tied together to each!) -focused episode. And considering how short the episode is compared to the rest, I kind of suspect it might have began production that way but it was changed for some reason further along, but that's purely vibes based speculation.

These pacing issues paired with the knowledge that there are only nine episodes a season in this silly era of television, I am increasingly nervous about the finale, particularly considering ms dipshit mama bear super sibling withOUT a background in neuroscience who thinks she knows better than the scientist who was already digging around inside his noggin Devon followed through and reached Cobel 🤦‍♂️ like, clearly there are cracks in Cobel's Kier worship/Lumon militancy-- I think she has an ego that 1) cannot forgive how tossed away she was, especially with the newest detail of her being the overlooked inventor of the severance technology, & 2) despite the indoctrination, she has enough self-preservation to bridge the cognitive dissonance that rationalizes Lumon's abuses now that it's HER that might get locked away in the mind wipe torture basement-- but you're watching a different show in a different universe if you think we've gotten any evidence to strongly indicate that she is actually trustworthy. As the inventor of the chip she could be the perfect person to help Mark with the final reintegration steps... or, as I suspect will be more along the lines of what will happen, she could activate any of the other "modes" that have so far been only eluded to/cause further brain damage/betray mark & ragbhari to leverage herself into a better position with lumon/whatever will benefit her in her quest for... well, besides survival & credit for her invention, I really can't say for sure what her motivations currently are, but legitimate compassion & concern for Mark/the innies certainly are not among them.

Idk, just overall I think this season has put its hands in too many plot pies, especially now that the other outies have been given more character development time, a choice I've liked overall but that has not been 😏 integrated 😏 well with the rest of the story, largely because (forgive my repeating myself) of the pacing/9 episode limit-- we've gotten the central Mark reintegration plot, then we have melly romance b-plot, dylan emotional affair with his own wife c-plot, outie irv + his relationship to the testing floor & whatever the fuck is going on with burt/his husband d & e-plot, milchick being racially micro-aggressed f-plot, ms huang & the spectre of child labor g-plot, nasty lady helena eagan & her sinister side swept blunt bang h-plot, whatever cobel's deal is i-plot, the general overarching What Evil Mysterious Schemes is Lumon Up To j to whatever plot, and finally, the most pressing plot point to me that has been frustratingly shelved until episode 7, What's Happening to Gemma plot. I don't expect nor want wrapped packages with bows, but satisfying narratives involve give and take, and I simply don't have much confidence in the real estate provided by the 49 remaining minutes of the season that we'll get much of anywhere (except mad over what bad things are likely about to happen to Gemma, that is one thing I have begrudging confidence in 😔)

[toadlilyaus]

Incredibly self-indulgent quick sketch of the ot3 rare pair (trio?) that is Jean/ Neil/ Andrew; cause I feel like y'all ain't seeing the vision lol

If it ends up winning the poll maybe I'll get around to cleaning this up a bit and adding color and such, but for now this is all we get 😘🦊🦊🐦‍⬛🔑

[whitmore]

charlie slimecicle slash lore very clearly knows codeflippa isn’t juanaflippa somewhere inside of him. the specific avoidance of questions with codeflippa points us in that direction and is further confirmed by the direct questions he asked juanaflippa today during dia de los muertos— are you safe? are you in a happier place? he’s not in any level of denial barring performative, he’s just willing to settle for a codeflippa rather than no flippa at all, and that’s paraphrased but he’s said something very akin to it out loud. plus today he realized that if the missing eggs don’t have ofrendas they’re likely still alive, and i think to some end even after really processing that his current flippa isn’t the original juanaflippa, he’d still want her around emotionally to cope with the possibility of bearing witness to everybody else’s real egg reunifications. mariana isn’t around, his entire family was fundamentally gone at one point. he doesn’t want to have nothing again. and if codeflippa leaves, he’s left with nothing. again.

[phantompages]

Same Age AUs are so fascinating to me, and of the ones I've seen I really like them. In particular if we have Reigen and Shigeo both as middle schoolers because instead of an older mentor figure Shigeo is ending up with another kid. He gets to have a friend his age who gets to drag him around to do stuff and it's nice, really nice to have a friend he can relate to. Meanwhile Reigen has soooo many ✨issues✨ but hey he's great at bullshitting and is getting Shige to open up some more, while on the flip side he's also getting a friend and can go out and do more now that he has someone to do stuff with. Plus they make great business partners so this is going amazingly :D

Another version I like is if this is the result of some time travel shenanigans, mostly because I like seeing a more stark contrast between kid Reigen and adult Reigen, especially through Shigeo's eyes because... this isn't his shishou, not exactly, because kid Reigen doesn't have the years of life experience that helps his words hold more meaning, even if kid Reigen is still a great talker and bullshitter. He can't say everything right that Shige needs to hear and its a bit off putting, especially if kid Reigen has different views on being "special" and whatnot (considering... "I want to be someone"). But there's still elements there that is just so Reigen in the way he talks and the way he moves that its like. Yeah, this is a kid, but it's the same person and everyone can see just how Reigen is, this is how he started. He's not Shigeo's shishou but he's still Reigen.