#it's almost “ironically” but not quite

[miange1]

KISS ME MORE✿

owners dish. . . : gym rat toji x yoga male reader

side dishes. . . : toji uses you to workout, reader is hinted to be slim and smaller, flexibility kink, dirty talk, breeding kink, jerking off to each other's pics, public-ish sex, reader is lowk loaded cuz i said so, sweat kinks

owners note. . . : i never proofread. i want taco bell

gym rat toji, who woke up everyday with his bullshit. by the time you woke up, he was back home dripping with sweat and gripping his water bottle like a lifeline from his morning run. his thin shirt was wet, sticking to his frame to make practically everything visible. his chest protruding through, big and real good to look at. his frame tight and built, the shape of his abs noticeable to your tired eyes. he could wash later.

gym rat toji, who was obsessed with himself second to you. his gallery was filled with photos of him flexing, videos of his working out in which he all sent to you. and he would thank it all to you too. hell, the two of you went to the same gym. he purposely did his sets right next to the yoga class built inside, his eyes glancing over your body was you stretched and arched yourself into unthinkable positions. them tight ass clothes that shaped your pretty body had him going crazy, almost lost count.

gym rat toji, took loads of protein— gave the man too much damn energy. after you had your own sets, he wasn't finished just get. you could help him. he'd use you like a personal weight, and he wanted to do it so he could feel your body against his. push ups with you on his back, squats while you piggy backed him, lifting you up and down.

gym rat toji, who only followed you and you only followed him. when you weren't there with him he could check your account and next thing he knew his cum was splattered all over his screen. god, he wondered how he could have you. you were so irresistible it was insane. how you stretched yourself to those angles, legs spread wide, back bent in to perfection– that ass poking out real good. couldn't lie to himself saying he didn't zoom in on certain parts of you.

gym rat toji, who would have some gym sessions with you in the back of the changing rooms. one leg wrapped around his waist, the other pushed up past your shoulders. "c'mon, straighten that leg out a bit more. thought you were more flexible than that?" his face was so close to yours, dick pulsing as it thrusted in and out deep inside you unstopping. "f–fuck it's hard asshole.." ironic. but you had been trying, getting your leg straighter and straining your body like hell. but it felt so good. "quit squirmin',' his voice cut through your moans, burying himself deeper inside with a mocking wet squelch. his cum seemed to tease you as it dripped onto the locker rooms floor.

[noralia20]

okay so first of all i read your others sinner fics and they are chef’s kiss!! Could i request a jannik x fem reader who plays tennis but not like pro level, just as a hobby, but she has problems with low iron and low blood pressure so sometimes playing can be challening. So I was thinking maybe at Wimbledon (I’m obsessed rn) they are chilling after a match and just playing around a bit but reader isnt feeling well and maybe faints?

Heart made of iron

sum up : Sometimes what makes the body weak makes the heart harden. But that doesn't mean he can't break through.

Loved the idea, I'm a low-almost-deadly-iron-girly. So I know that feeling by heart

You’d stopped competing in tennis years ago, right around the time university and adult life started demanding more from you. You never quite lost the love for the game—your racquet still rested near the front door, and on free weekends you’d hit the courts for fun or friendly matches—but the edge of competition had long since faded.

Still, it helped. Dating Jannik Sinner, a world-class tennis player who lived and breathed the sport, sometimes came with pressures that not everyone could understand. But when his coaches spoke in numbers or techniques, or when he needed to vent after a match, you got it. You spoke the same language—even if your court days were behind you.

The relationship worked. You’d been together for over three years now, and though the time zones were hell and the airport reunions bittersweet, it never wavered. He was gentle and silly and just shy enough to make every “I love you” feel like a warm secret passed between two kids at a school dance.

But lately… something was off. You’d been tired. Not your usual end-of-day exhaustion, but something heavier, like someone had siphoned all your energy out through your bones. You woke up tired. You fell asleep tired. Your hair had started thinning around your temples. You joked it was the lack of sunlight in your apartment, but deep down, you knew something was off.

A doctor’s appointment, a routine blood test. You didn’t expect much.

Then the lab called. Not your doctor—the lab. That’s when it stopped feeling like nothing.

The screen lights up just as you settle into the couch, a blanket pulled over your knees and your body heavy from another day of doing too little, yet feeling like you’d run a marathon.

Jannik FaceTime Incoming

You hesitate. Just for a second.

You forgot you’d told him about today. The appointment. The test. You hadn’t wanted to worry him—he was across the continent, somewhere warm and loud, training or preparing for a match, living the kind of schedule that didn't need a tired girlfriend clouding it.

Still, your thumb slides across the screen.

The video connects, and his face fills your phone—a little blurry at first, then clearer. Damp curls, hoodie slung over one shoulder, the hint of a hotel bed in the background. His mouth curls into a smile the moment he sees you.

“Ciao, amore,” he says softly, voice warm with affection.

You smile without thinking. “Hey.” He leans closer to the screen, inspecting your face like he always does. “You okay?” You nod quickly, then yawn. “Yeah. Just tired.” He frowns. “You look tired.” You arch a brow. “Wow. Compliment of the year.”

“No, no!” He chuckles nervously and runs a hand through his hair. “I mean—you’re always… beautiful, ovviamente. Just more…” He flaps his hands awkwardly, then sighs. “Okay, I’m bad at this.”

You laugh—because he is, and because it’s endearing. “Sleepy-beautiful?” He perks up. “Yes! That one. I was going to say that.”

“Sure you were.”

He grins sheepishly. “So. How was it?” You blink, confused, your heart beating faster, though you were doing nothing. the feeling of being caught like a child stealing cookies. “How was what?” His eyes narrow slightly. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Then it hits you—the blood test. The results. The entire reason you’d gone to the clinic today. You make a guilty face, trying to busy yourself by cleaning the apartement while still holding the phone. “A little.”

He waits, expression soft but expectant. “Tesoro…?” You stop mid cleaning of the living room. You know you can't escape this, because he will push or you will feel guilty. And feeling guilty and anemic doesn't sound like a great combo. You reach for the little paper bag on your coffee table and hold it up to the camera. “Iron supplements.” You make a small grimace, as if it would make it all softer.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Anemia?”

“Very low iron levels,” you explain. “Not enough to send me to the hospital or anything, but the lab called before my doctor could, which apparently is a big deal... according to my mom...” You sound sheepish.

Jannik goes quiet. His expression changes—not panicked, but focused. Like he’s trying to take it all in without letting the concern leak out too visibly.

“I thought it was just winter blues,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “Or too many late nights. But turns out, no. My body’s running on empty.”

He only sighed, taking it all in at once. “Dio mio…” he mutters under his breath, then meets your eyes through the screen again. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You shift the blanket higher around your shoulders. Reaching down to pick up something but deciding against it when you moved too fast. “I didn’t want to stress you out.”

“That’s not your job,” he says, softly but firmly. “You’re allowed to tell me things. Even when they’re not fun.” Your lips part to respond, but he keeps going—his voice gentle, but determined. “We’ve been together three years. You don’t have to carry it alone, you know?”

Your chest tightens. “I know. I just…” You rub your eyes. “I didn’t think it was serious.”

“Do you feel sick?” he asks. “Like, really?”

“Honestly? Kind of. Everything’s heavy. Even holding the kettle earlier felt like lifting weights.” you look into space, remembering about you trying to make a simple task : making tea. Though your body made it seem like a workout.

He runs a hand over his face. “Okay. Alright. So what now?”

“I take the pills,” you say, lifting the bag again. “Every day, with vitamin C. More daylight, better meals. My doctor was very kind about it. She said it’s fixable.”

He nods slowly, still worried. He knew how stubborn you could be, and out of nowhere. Like a tantrum you wouln't listen to something simple but obey when it's difficult. “And you’re going to listen to her?”

“Yes, Jannik, I’m going to listen.” You roll your eyes affectionately. “Good. Because I’ve already started Googling iron-rich recipes.” You now noticed how his face was moving while he tipped on whatever research blog the diet changes. You blink. “Seriously?”

He looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Did you know dark chocolate has iron?” He scans the screen, probably searching other benefits.

You snort. “Yes. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“Okay, but—dark chocolate and spinach? That’s like… the perfect combo.” He scrolls again. You cringe a little at the two ingredients. “Are you suggesting I eat them together?”

“No! I mean… maybe? I don’t know.” He laughs. “Google says oranges help, too. Vitamin C and all that.” He's really proud with what he's finding. “So now I’m eating spinach, oranges, and dark chocolate in the same meal. Sounds delicious.”

“You’ll be strong like Popeye,” he says, proudly. Then he pauses. “Wait, do you know Popeye?” You scoff, slightly offended but not holding it against him. “Yes, Jannik, I know who Popeye is.” He smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Just checking. He’s very famous in Italy.”

You roll your eyes again, grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously helpful,” he corrects. “Do you have any chocolate at home right now? You know, maybe from the last time you got your periods.” You glance at the drawer. “Probably.”

He nods. “Go get it. I prescribe one square every ten minutes.” You were already mid-step when you froze at what he was saying. “That’s not how prescriptions work.”

You could see a laugh bubble in his chest but he held it, trying (and failing) to lift a brow. “I’m Italian. We do things with more love.” You pause, then burst out laughing. The weight your bones seem to carry feels less heavier for a few seconds. After calming down a little, you manage to mutter quietly, “Thank you. For making me laugh.”

He softens, it's like for a moment his green eyes changed colors. You don't know if it was because of the lightening or out of love. “Sempre.” There’s a moment of stillness. You’re both quiet, just watching each other through your screens. Then he adds, “You know I love you, right?” You nod, throat tight. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he says. “Even on bad days. Even when you’re tired. Even when your iron’s at zero.” You bite your lip, trying not to cry. “Well if it is at 0, I'd be dead. But I love you too.”

Early july- Wimbledon

The London sun had decided to overperform that day, casting a stubborn golden glow over the Wimbledon grounds. While the crowd clustered around the courts to soak up the rare warmth, you lingered beneath the shelter of a side awning, your back leaning against the cool metal support beam. The slush of melting ice clinked softly in your plastic cup, the only sound beside the occasional pop of a ball being struck.

You tilted your drink back, catching another half-melted cube between your teeth and crunching it slowly. It was oddly soothing—a recent comfort you hadn’t expected to adopt. Chewing ice wasn’t exactly normal for you, but lately, it calmed the static in your chest, the lingering fatigue, the haze that hadn’t quite cleared since the anemia diagnosis.

The medical update a few days ago had been cautiously optimistic: your iron levels had finally started creeping up. Not great, but better. You could feel the difference. The crushing exhaustion had dulled, your limbs felt less like wet towels, and your hair had finally stopped shedding like you owned nine cats. It wasn’t over, but it wasn’t as scary anymore—and Jannik… well, he had finally stopped watching you like you might disappear if he blinked.

You could still feel his eyes on you sometimes, though—like now.

Out on the grass court in front of you, Jannik was clearly in his element, or at least pretending to be. His coppery hair stuck up in every direction, slightly flattened by his backwards cap, and his shirt clung to his back in places where sweat had soaked through after his earlier match. He was playing around now, laughing with Aryna Sabalenka while Novak Djokovic lounged nearby, calling out teasing commentary for the cameras lined up beyond the court.

It was a rare media-friendly moment after a match, a lighthearted interlude where players could be silly and charming and less like warriors. Aryna thrived in this kind of spotlight, grinning brightly, her voice carrying across the court like summer thunder. Jannik wasn’t as flashy, but today, he looked relaxed. Comfortable. A little shy, maybe, but happy.

You watched him pivot on his heel during a footwork challenge, swinging his racquet with an exaggerated motion before hopping sideways—too wide, too clumsy for his usual form.

You couldn’t help it. The words slipped out before you thought.

“I’ve seen tighter pivots at an amateur doubles match.”

It was barely above a mutter, more to your melting cup of ice than anything. But Jannik’s head jerked slightly, and his shoulders paused mid-turn. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked over his shoulder, straight at you.

“What was that?” he called, eyes narrowing with faux indignation.

You raised a brow and crunched louder on your ice cube, offering him an innocent shrug.

Aryna turned too, following Jannik’s gaze. Her grin widened. “She just roasted your footwork, Sinner.”

“Oh, she does that all the time,” Jannik replied, swinging his racquet casually over one shoulder. “She’s a retired competitor. Brutal. No respect.”

You grinned from behind your cup. “Hey, I’ve played. I know what good footwork looks like. That little scissor-hop you just did? Bambi on ice.” Aryna howled, nearly dropping the can she was about to set up on the baseline. From the sideline, Novak’s laugh boomed across the court. “Better come back from that one, mate!”

Jannik squinted at you, placing a hand on his hip and pointing his racquet directly at your lounging figure. “You’re brave, sitting over there with your cup of ice.”

“And you’re bold, thinking that was a proper recovery step,” you fired back, adjusting your sunglasses with theatrical flair.

He paused. You could see it in his face—that glint, that calculating little flicker in his eyes. He was plotting something. “You still know how to hit a target, right?” he asked, voice light. Your brows pinched. “Jannik…”

He turned fully now, his weight shifting onto one foot as he gestured to you with his racquet like a conductor signaling your solo. “Come on. If you’re going to criticize my technique, let’s see yours. Hit the can.”

You sat up straighter. “No. Nooope. Not doing this.”

“You scared?” His voice dropped playfully, low and teasing. A grin began creeping onto his face—soft, crooked, and smug. You crossed your arms. “Don’t you dare.”

“I mean, it’s okay,” he said, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You’re a little out of practice. And with your energy still low…” He gave you a dramatic wince. “No need to prove anything.” Your mouth opened slightly. A slow, dangerous breath filled your lungs. “Excuse me?”

Jannik didn’t respond—just turned to his side and walked backward a few steps, facing you with a mock-sympathetic smile and hands spread in surrender.

Sabalenka tilted her head and looked between the two of you, visibly amused. “Oh, he absolutely is geyting you back for all this.”

“Jannik…” you said again, warningly this time.

But the truth was, your feet were already shifting. Your free hand was already tensing, nails curling slightly against your palm. Your pulse picked up—not with irritation, but with something that felt suspiciously like excitement. It had been a while since you’d felt that snap of competitiveness. That thrum in your chest.

You knew it was stupid. You weren’t fully better. You still tired easily. But God, you wanted to wipe that smug little half-smile off his freckled face. He tilted his head. “You used to be able to hit a ball with your eyes closed,” he said with a faintly nostalgic sigh. “But I get it. Iron levels, long bench rest, early retirement…”

Your eyes narrowed into slits. “Oh, sei morto.” ("you’re dead")

You pushed off the bench, your sneakers scraping against the pavement, and with a defiant crunch of the last of your ice cube, you tossed the empty cup in a nearby bin and crossed onto the court.

The moment your foot crossed the white line, Jannik lifted his chin slightly, watching you approach like a cat sizing up a rival. You moved with quiet confidence, the sun casting long streaks across the court, outlining your figure as you stepped onto the grass and stretched your arm once overhead.

You rolled your shoulders back and rotated your wrist out of habit, letting your fingers ghost along the frame of his spare racquet, which he’d left propped against the bench like bait. You picked it up, feeling the familiar weight of it settle into your palm.

It wasn’t your racquet—yours had a thicker grip and was strung a little looser—but this would do. You spun it once in your hand, gauging the balance.

Jannik was already at the opposite end, walking backward toward the baseline, that slow swagger in his step like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Alright,” you called. “If I hit the can in five shots or less, you buy me those stupid matching couple shirts.”

He paused mid-step, blinked. “The ones with the little cartoon fruit?” You grinned. “Yes. You’re the peach, I’m the strawberry. Very romantic.” He groaned, throwing his head back. “They’re hideous.”

“But they’re hideous together,” you said, settling into position near the service line. “Just like us.” He exhaled a laugh and rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying not to smile. “Fine. Five shots. But if you don’t hit it…”

“I will,” you said firmly. He raised a brow. “But if you don’t—you wear my old junior training kit for a whole day. The one that still has the huge red sponsor patch on the back.”

Your nose scrunched. “The one that smells like teenage sweat and ego?” He smiled innocently. “It builds character.”

“Deal,” you said, tossing the ball once and catching it. You walked toward the baseline and set the can yourself, placing it right on the corner of the line. It was dented already from earlier hits, slightly crushed on one side, but still standing proud. You backed up slowly, eyes on the target, calculating the angle.

Jannik stood with his arms crossed, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, like he was watching a fireworks show with a personal stake in the finale. “Take your time,” he said lightly. “I’m just worried about your stamina, you know. Don’t want you fainting mid-swing.”

You didn’t rise to the bait.

Instead, you adjusted your stance. Left foot forward. Shoulders square. You bounced the ball once, then twice. Calm. Stay calm. Tennis wasn’t just movement. It was rhythm. Precision. Control.

And mind games.

“You’re chewing the inside of your cheek,” Jannik called across the net. “You always do that when you’re concentrating. Come un piccolo criceto.” (Like a little hamster)

“Shut up,” you muttered, shaking your head but grinning. You threw the ball up. Your first hit—crack—was clean. It soared across the net and clipped just past the can, maybe a hand’s width to the right. Close.

Jannik whistled. “Oooooh. So close. Too bad close doesn’t count.”

You inhaled deeply, nodding once. Not biting. You knew his tactic. He’d try to distract you, throw your rhythm, tease you until you tensed your grip or rushed your toss. It was how he won a lot of points in smaller matches—poker-faced, slightly irritating, totally unreadable unless you knew him.

And you did. Second serve. You rolled your wrist a little more this time, adjusting your grip ever so slightly for a curve. The shot went wide. Not awful—but not good. “Two down,” Jannik sing-songed. “Pensa alle camicie…” (“Think about the shirts…”)

You didn’t look at him. You bounced the ball once, twice, paused, and stared down the can like it had personally offended you.

You threw the ball up, swung—

Third shot. This one hit the net. Too low.

Jannik clicked his tongue, mock-concerned. “Is it the sun? The ice withdrawal? I can get you a new cup if that helps.” You glared at him, lips twitching at the corners. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’re cute when you’re losing,” he replied, barely able to keep the smile off his face.

Fourth shot.

You threw it a little higher this time. Let the arc give you time. You planted your feet and twisted your hips into the swing.

The sound echoed just a little louder. Ping.

The ball hit the can dead center, sending it skidding sideways and tumbling to the ground in a little metallic spin.

Silence. A single beat of stillness. Then—

You lifted your arms in a mock victory pose. “BOOM!” Jannik let out an exaggerated groan, his head dropping into his hands. “No. Noooo. Not the fruit shirts. Anything but the fruit shirts.”

“You agreed,” you said, striding forward with the confidence of a Wimbledon champion. “I expect them printed and wrapped by the finals.”

Aryna’s voice rang out from the other court. “She hit it?! I missed it!”

“Dead center,” Novak said, shielding his eyes to look over. “It was surgical.” Jannik dropped his racquet dramatically on the ground and collapsed onto the grass, arms spread like he’d been mortally wounded. “I’ll never recover from this.”

You stood over him, nudging his leg with your foot. “Come on, sore loser. I want the strawberry shirt to say ‘serving looks.’”

He squinted up at you through one eye. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you said, crouching beside him, “you’re in love with me.” He groaned again, softer this time, but there was that smile—the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and tugged unevenly at his mouth. The smile that betrayed how proud he was. How impressed. How utterly smitten.

And then he reached up and tapped your nose. “Alright,” he whispered, “You win.”

Just as Jannik rolled onto his side, still sprawled on the grass in defeat, you leaned down, elbows resting on your knees, and said softly, “Hey. Play one set with me?”

He blinked up at you, brows furrowing slightly. “Now?”

“Just a short one,” you said quickly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Like a warm-up. Nothing crazy. You don’t even have to go full power.”

He searched your face for a moment. You knew he was checking—scanning you the way he always did lately. Since the diagnosis, since the low iron, since all the scary unknowns, he’d become hypersensitive. But now, you smiled, light and coaxing.

His expression softened. “You’re sure?”

“Promise,” you said, already turning to grab a few balls and toss them into the air with a flick of your wrist. He rose to his feet with a sigh, brushing off grass from his shirt and shaking his head. “You’re lucky I like you.”

From the adjacent court, Aryna called out, “I’ll be your referee! But only if I get to mock both of you equally.”

“Deal,” you and Jannik said in unison.

You both moved into position. The rhythm came back quickly—your grip tightening naturally around the racquet, your body falling into the familiar choreography of serve and return. The first few minutes were light, easy. You danced across the court, laughing as Jannik hit a wide slice that made you scramble to the far corner.

“Oh, come on,” you panted. “You said warm-up!” He grinned, bouncing slightly on his toes. “This is warm-up.”

“Not for someone with half a liter less blood in her system,” you muttered, but you were smiling, and he caught it. You hit a clean forehand, placing it just along the baseline with a drop in your wrist—his signature move. He stopped mid-step. “Did you just copy my technique?”

“Maybe,” you said, innocently. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, then turned to Aryna. “That was clearly out, right?”

“It was in,” she sang. “By a whisker. And also way cleaner than your version.”

The three of you burst into laughter, the kind that echoed across the court and made a few heads turn. Jannik ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, mock-offended, and you wiped your brow with the sleeve of your shirt, heart racing from the volley.

You didn’t notice right away, but your breath started hitching in a different way. Not from fun. From fatigue.

The sun pressed harder on your back, like it had grown more intense in just seconds. Your vision blurred slightly at the edges, as if someone had turned down the contrast. But you pushed through it. Just a little longer.

You rallied another point—quick footwork, hard return. The court blurred slightly underfoot, but the ball was still visible, still spinning in the air like a magnet for your focus. You chased it down, feet pounding the grass, muscles working on instinct.

The laughter faded. You became quiet.

Jannik noticed first. His shoulders lowered, gaze narrowing. “You okay?” You nodded quickly, even managed a breathless “Yeah.” He served again. You met him with a solid backhand. It clipped the line.

Aryna whistled. “This is getting tense. Should I actually keep score?”

But you barely heard her. Your brain had tunneled into one single channel—keep playing. You weren’t even registering the heat anymore. Or the slight sway in your stance after long runs. Or the way your breath had stopped catching up between points. Your skin prickled as if the heat had crawled under it.

You shook it off.

Another serve. Another point. Jannik slid low to return it with a grin—he was enjoying the competition now, pushing just a little harder, confident you could handle it.

You didn’t even swing.

The ball flew past you.

You stood still, eyes locked on it as it bounced once, twice, and rolled into the back net.

Jannik froze. “Amore ?”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. There was something strange about the light. It was brighter than it had been seconds ago. Or maybe everything else had dimmed. You opened your mouth to say something. Your legs felt wrong. Trembly. Like standing on stilts made of wet paper.

The ground swayed beneath you.

You looked up at the sky—blue, blinding. Then a hot wave rolled over your chest like someone had cracked an oven door in front of you. Your heart skipped. Your fingers twitched.

Then everything tilted. Jannik’s expression shifted in an instant—from confused to terrified. “Wait—hey!”

But your knees were already giving out. You dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, your racquet slipping from your hand as your legs buckled under you. Your head hit the grass with a thump, not loud, but final.

Gasps erupted from the sideline. “No—NO!” Jannik’s voice cracked as he sprinted forward, the sound of his shoes ripping through the grass sharp and panicked.

You didn’t hear it.

All you felt was heat, then nothing.

Jannik barely registered the moment your body hit the ground.

It was the way your knees buckled—like the tendons simply let go—and the way your racquet fell from your hand without resistance that made his stomach lurch. One second you were upright, flushed with motion and sunlight, and the next… gone. Collapsed into the grass like a puppet with its strings abruptly severed.

He sprinted toward you, his shoes skidding slightly on the soft Wimbledon turf as he dropped to his knees beside your unmoving body.

“Amore,” he gasped, voice jagged. He reached for you with trembling hands, palms hovering before finally pressing to your cheeks. Your skin was clammy, and far too warm. “Tesoro, hey—hey, look at me.”

You didn’t move.

A heavy silence rang in his ears despite the sudden stir of voices around them. Someone in the crowd gasped. Aryna’s footsteps approached fast behind him. Somewhere to the left, Djokovic’s voice called out sharply, but Jannik couldn’t understand the words—everything had blurred into static.

He tilted your chin toward him gently, brushing your hair back from your face. The tiny crease between your brows broke his heart.

“Guardami,” ("look at me") he whispered, more broken this time. “Please.”

Aryna dropped to the ground on the other side of you, her hand going to your wrist as she checked your pulse. “She just dropped. Her legs—she didn’t brace the fall. I think she hit her head.”

Jannik sucked in a breath like it hurt. “She was fine five minutes ago. We were just—she was teasing me, she was laughing—”

“You don’t always see it coming,” Aryna said, calm but serious. “Exhaustion creeps up. The heat’s brutal today.” You made a faint sound then. Not quite a word, more like a groan pushed from somewhere deep. Your eyes fluttered open.

Jannik’s chest squeezed painfully. “There you are,” he breathed.

Your eyes opened.

The light hurt a bit. It filtered through the tent roof, soft but too white. You blinked. Slowly. Everything was blurry at first, like you were underwater. Shapes formed. A person leaned close. A hand—warm and familiar—curled around yours.

Jannik.

His eyes were so wide. Wider than usual. A little bloodshot. His curls clung to his forehead, damp with sweat.

You blinked again. His lips moved, but you didn’t quite hear him the first time.

“Jannik…?” The word was featherlight. You sounded confused. Small.

“I’m here. I’m right here,” he said quickly, cradling your head in one palm, his other hand squeezing yours. "Stai bene, amore. Stai fermo. Non muoverti, okay?" (“You’re okay, amore. Just stay still. Don’t move, okay?”)

Your breath hitched. You looked around, your gaze flicking over Aryna, over the court’s edge, the crowd, then back to him. “I’m… I’m fine,” you whispered, as if to convince yourself. “No,” Jannik said, firm but tender. “You fainted. Hard. Don’t try to sit up.”

“But I—” You made a weak attempt to lift your arm, but it shook, useless. “You’re burning up,” Aryna murmured again, pressing the back of her hand to your jaw. You turned your head slightly. “Just felt hot. That’s all.”

“Hot is what you say before you pass out on grass courts in front of everyone,” Jannik said, his voice straining to stay calm. You tried to smile at him—half-hearted, apologetic. “Didn’t want to stop playing…” He stared at you, heart crumpling. “That’s the problem with you,” he whispered. “You don’t stop.”

A bottle of water was passed down from Novak, who knelt beside Aryna. “Ambulance is coming,” he said quickly. “Medical’s been alerted. They’ll check her vitals.”

Jannik helped tip the bottle to your lips as you took a shaky sip. You winced and turned your head, clearly dizzy. The effort alone seemed to sap you. He gently patted your cheek with a damp towel Novak handed over, wiping away sweat.

“She needs fluids,” one of the medical staff said moments later, already crouched beside Jannik. “And full cooling. We’ll set her in the shade, get her on a stretcher just in case. Probably heat exhaustion, compounded by low hemoglobin. The fainting is a red flag.”

Jannik’s voice was immediate. “She’s been dealing with severe anemia. Diagnosed months ago. She’s been recovering, slowly, but she’s still low. The doctor said it’s not critical—but…”

“But this can happen,” the medic confirmed, already working efficiently. “She likely didn’t notice the signs because she was pushing through them.”

“She does that,” Jannik muttered, eyes still glued to your face.

The medical staff started organizing transport to the tent, gently shifting you onto a stretcher. Jannik was at your side the entire time, gripping your hand tightly, brushing your forehead with the back of his fingers.

Once under the large parasol in the shaded tent beside the court, they laid you down with a thin sheet across your legs. The light filtered softly through the canopy above, dull and yellowish. You blinked slowly against it.

Jannik sat beside the cot, elbows on his knees, watching you breathe like it was the only thing holding him together. You were pale. So pale. You stirred faintly, your lashes fluttering again. Your view came back in slow, blurred fragments: the soft flapping of the tent’s canvas in the wind. The dull throb in the back of your skull. A warm pressure on your fingers.

You turned your head slightly—and there he was.

Jannik, hair messy, curls stuck to his temple, his t-shirt damp with sweat. His eyes were locked on you with unspoken panic. His grip on your hand tightened the moment he saw you move. "Mi hai spaventato oggi," (“You scared me today,”) he said, softly.

You tried to swallow. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he murmured. You blinked again. “Do I still get the fruit shirts?”

It took him a second to react. Then he let out a sharp, choked laugh—half-relieved, half-wrecked—and dropped his forehead to your hand.

“Yeah,” he whispered, lifting it to his lips. “You get the stupid shirts.”

Your lips curved into the faintest smile, even as your eyes fluttered closed again. He kept holding your hand, rubbing soft circles into your wrist, grounding you with touch, with presence.

There were still checkups to come. Monitoring. Maybe more tests. But for now, you were safe, and he was there. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

dividers : @strangergraphics

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request some or a couple moments where Clark is pathetically in love with reader (established relationship)

Clark had been compared to a puppy in love in terms of how every thought seemed to be of you, how every word had to be accompanied with something that you have done recently that he kust couldn't quite keep to himself in the fear that he'd feel as though he wasn't loving you enough like he should, it was even in the way he looked at you above all else.

His eyes were filled with adoration and devotion, fully trusting of you without an ounce of doudt, fully trusting of the fact that you would take care of his heart that he had given to you since the day you had almost collided with each other. A smile that seemed as though to be talior made for you and only you, it was a smile that spoke of the love he withheld for you, encapsulating every aspect of you that made him more then willing to smile.

Going back to how Clark often spoke your name after saying something completely unrealted with to to begin with, Clark does it to the point where he needs to be told to cut it out and that they get it, they get that he's in love and a complete loser when it comes to you that it felt as though your name would be the one thing he's remember should his memorise be taken; or at least remember how you made him feel deep within his chest, nestled close to his soul as though you've made a home there.

He could be looking at some flowers that were ironically your favourite and will say to himself as though on autopilot: '(name) loves those flowers, saya their meaning uplifts them and gives them meaning, they take quite the effort to keep in good health but are worth the effort and hardships when they blossom.' He would end up getting you some, but if he couldn't get you the flowers then he'd get the necessities to do so, and get you some seeds so that you could grow your own.

Clark could also smell the baked goods of a nearby bakery and be able to deduce that the scent that wafted his was none other then your favouite baked good, fresh out of the oven and being put aside to cool, immeditely the tense shoulders of his were relaxed, his brow was unfurrowed and a tender smile upon his face could be seen clear as day. Calrk breathed the scent of baked goods in deeply as flashes of memories of you telling him the first time of how you loved this specific bakery, highlighting how they often tried new and inovative things that seemed to taste just as good as all the others but you had your favourties.

He even remembered how you split the baked good between the two of you on your first date so that he could get a taste, humming in delight when the flavours and warm buttery pastery hit his tastebuds. 'i know they've been having a stressful day, this should make them feel somewhat better, if they've got two of their favourite pastry then that's even better.' Clark would tell himself as he wanders into the cosy, welcoming bakery with no other goal then to make you happy: to his delight they did in fact had two of your favpurite pastry were tucked protectively agaisnt his chest as he weaved through thr crowded streets back to your shared home, acomplished with himself.

He lived to make you happy and content becuase that's how you made him feel tenfold without even having to lift a single finger.

Clark would even find himself uttering your name in conversation with others regardless of the subject of conversation, he will make it about you damn it. Someone could be talking about getting takeout later and Clark will suddenly be remembered of how you wanted takeout later on and will blurt out through no control of his own: 'my partner was talking about getting takeout later tonight, i should text them and ask if they want to have their usual or try soemthing new, they want to try everything but also want to stay with what they like at the saem time.' It would earn him knowing looks from Jimmy and Lois, who don't spare anytime in teasing him in how obsessed he was with you to remeber such specifics about you.

Clark doesn't dispute against this becuase it's true and he's not going to deny it, not when the mere thought of you brought him the most joy and the most grounding feeling he's ever felt, he's going to revel in it for a very long time.

[janluxe]

MY SHY BOY .ᐟ — JINU KPDH

–summary; shy!Jinu in your area, who discovers feelings atop rooftops

–contents; pure fluff, sprinkle of angst, huntrix member!reader

–w/c; 800

The leader of the infamous, upcoming banger of a band, the Saja boys. A boy band that broke records worldwide in the shortest period of time, as if their songs had been enhanced with some kind of otherworldly power meant to attract the people.

Well, they were, but not many knew – apart from the demon hunters of the country who still fell for their cheap tricks.

And you've just made the worst mistake, walking right into a trap and blindly ignoring every piece of advice kindly offered to you. Call it stupidity or attraction, either way, like a moth to a flame, you started spending more and more time hanging around Jinu, getting to know the rival idol.

Inevitably, you grew closer. He treated you differently, and it made you feel special. You had memorized his behavior with others, how sharp-tongued and indifferent he acted, deceiving people around him to his advantage, harmlessly.

Still, he'd turn fifty different shades of pink when your eyes met, his usual confidence melting at your feet. He spent his nights restlessly rolling on his bedsheets and overthinking about accidental bumps between you two from like a month ago instead of catching a wink of sleep. You'd notice. You'd try to confront him about the way he struggled to remain awake during fan meetings, but he'd rather vanish than admit to his feelings.

At first, he could avoid all emotion that would betray his former human nature. Not anymore, though. "You did well today." You'd compliment him in the friendliest manner right after a performance. He swears he knew how to open his mouth to speak just a second ago.

Who could've thought that an almost 400-year-old demon constantly tormented by Gwi-Ma rotting in his mind alongside his guilt would be this deeply in touch with his feelings? Well, certainly not your group, huntrix.

It was a foolish trait coded into human nature to judge books by their cover and summary.

"Since when are you quiet?" You murmured, hoping to engrave the pleasant sensation of the breeze gently hitting your skin as you sat atop a rooftop. In all honesty, he had never been the obnoxiously loud type, chaotic? Sure, but never this quiet.

In your presence, everything was... strange, in a way he couldn't quite place; his mind finally felt like his own, and he understood what it meant to be seen and heard. "... I talk." Jinu replied simply, voice soft and calculated while he busied himself dusting his shoulders. It had been part of his deal, after all.

You couldn't help the subtle scoff that escaped your lips, "I'm not doubting your ability to speak, Jinu." Your hands cupped his face almost instantly as he tried to look away, avoiding your gaze like it was holy water on his skin. "What has happened to you?"

His breath hitched, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. "Please don't do that..." He began, flinching at first before he gave in, pressing himself closer to your warmth, hoping to be enveloped in it. However, the determined look on your face told him that he wouldn't be able to escape your question that easily.

"You happened." Jinu finally voiced the thoughts he had tried so hard to push to the back of his mind. "And I stopped talking, so I could listen to you." His gaze dropped, filled with an uncharacteristic amount of vulnerability shielded from everyone's view, yet it couldn't escape yours. He didn't sign up for this when creating the Saja boys.

And all of a sudden, Jinu looked so reserved, an ironic image of a nationally loved idol whose fame precedes him. Even more ironic for a demon drenched in melancholy and misery to be head over heels for a mere human.

Cheeks flushed, dark eyes stealing a few shy glances as his brows furrowed, head lowered, like a lost puppy desperate to hear any kind of sentence, word even, roll off your tongue.

Your heart ached at the pathetic sight before you, and he tugged at your heartstrings. How could you respond straight away to something so emotionally impacted?

"You know... I used to think that you were cold and dangerous." You mumbled under your breath, your words just for him to hear. "But you're a poet." A small joke meant to ease the tension.

"It's humiliation, not poetry, Jagiya." [Darling] He finally smiled, playfully rolling his eyes before they finally set on yours, hands clenching in his lap before they hesitantly took hold of your wrists; not pushing away or pulling closer, just keeping your hands in place.

"It looks good on you, Jinu."

One remark and he was done, brain short-circuiting once more and every trace of the outside world wiped from his mind as he rested his temple against yours.

–a/n; I love him sb. Def out of character tho,,, thank you so much for reading. have a nice day/night ♡♡ :)

[lumilasi]

Finally finished these. I have also written the scene this was based on/was sort of an inspo for. (Fun fact; Originally that brown thing on Jayce's arm was supposed to cover the rune embedded into his arm, but I changed my mind about how the rune works in the plot so uh...he no longer has that in the story, its a non-canon detail lmao)

Here's the scene in question, or its current draft version anyway: (Side note, Commune!Salo plays a MAJOR role in this fic, but also ISN'T like canon at all as Viktor doesn't do brainwashing, he HAS changed to arguable a better person, but in a veeeery different way, you'll see....)

Viktor had to admit, he was relieved to find out the entity had been right after all; that Jayce wasn’t actually angry at him over this. Still though…

”Was…was that why you didn’t speak to me much after that? You were…wondering who Ren was?”

Jayce looks up at him confused, then seems to realize something, eyes widening in alarm. He then stands back up, making his way to the bed to sit down next to Viktor, letting his crutch fall to the floor - a bit foolish perhaps - before grasping his cheeks gently.

”Oh, no no no! I wasn’t—I wasn’t mad at you, no. Just….”

He shifts closer, pressing their foreheads together as his fingers slide down to the sides of his neck, rubbing some strands of Viktor’s hair between them. The touch was so warm it almost makes Viktor shiver, and he swallows down hard, closing his eyes as his free hand lifts up to rest against Jayce’s chest.

”I…wouldn’t have blamed you.”

”No. I was just….I had a lot of things in my mind. Not just Ren and trying to think who her parents might be.”

”Oh? Then what were you thinking about?”

Viktor asks mildly curious now, caressing Jayce’s chest with his thumb; he was quite fond of the fact Jayce hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt coming here tonight. Probably found it a waste of time when he had better things to do.

”Well…a lot. Mum and how worried she must be. If your friends can bring her a message given the curfew situation up top. If Cait blames herself for this, thinking I’m dead. How despite how stupid and reckless my actions were, I somehow got insanely lucky, ending up here of all places.”

Jayce pauses, seemingly getting distracted for a moment by just the feel of Viktor’s hair and skin under his fingertips. Viktor was very afraid his heart would leave his body anytime now to crawl inside Jayce’s.

”…..Admittedly, I am still puzzling over the fact Salo is here, and somehow he’s less of an ass, and you two even seem to be….friends?”

Last words are spoken like a hesitant question; Viktor opens his eyes for a moment, gaze fixating on the hand he held against Jayce’s chest. The glow had crept down to his wrist, still not wanting to touch Jayce, but it was at least visible.

”I….suppose?”

Viktor hadn’t thought about it that much really, but…he admittedly did have Salo accompanying him the most outside Huck. He let Salo call him out in ways others didn’t - or wouldn’t. There was just something about that bluntness, that when removed from the context of Piltover and a political figure looking down at him like an ant, that he appreciated.

There was also, again, what had happened after Finn’s ill-fated invasion attempt. No, even before that, when Salo had had his personal crisis over his past. Perhaps, he’d indeed started to consider the man a friend without even realizing it, and wasn’t that ironic? Even though Salo had admittedly always been a bit more amicable towards them than some others, typically voting in their favor, he had still been just another politician. Another pampered Piltie that cared only how useful you were to them.

That Salo was long gone, replaced by something far more capable than his past, spoiled self with access to all the possible resources could’ve ever been. He had far less now, but held himself with the kind of steady pride that was far more justified and resolute, not based on social hierarchy.

”A lot has happened since you last saw him Jayce, as said.”

”I can tell.”

Jayce chuckles quietly, and they fall silent for a moment, just….enjoying each other’s closeness. Jayce’s warm fingers resting against his neck, playing with his hair, his palm, pressed steady against his chest, feeling Jayce’s heartbeat under his palm, a reminded that he was alive. That this was real.

”….Viktor?”

”Mmm?”

”Can I….kiss you?”

Viktor felt his face glow with a faint blush, but he nods almost shyly, feeling Jayce lean closer, those hands coming up to cup his cheeks. The kiss was soft, and gentle, and incredibly relieving. Solidifying the fact he’d indeed ’painted demons in the walls’ as the entity had put it.

Something clatters on the floor, Viktor vaguely aware that he’d dropped his staff, pressing both hands against the warm and solid chest, gaining a surprised gasp from Jayce, before one hand slips down to his waist. He’s pulled closer, closer, until they’re both pressed flush against each other, Jayce’s fingers firmly laced into his hair.

[motzglorp]

Just a little smoke - Part 3

Part 2

CW: Drug use, smoking weed, talking about effects of drugs, not much smut in this one, mdni, nsfw, 18+

"Hey, always wondered... Do you taste different, when you're high?" Soap was currently sprawled on your swing, head on Gaz' lap. You are still a bit surprised how you got here, sitting in your garden, surrounded by some very deadly, very disciplined men, smoking weed and having them observe you.

When Price came to your office the day after Ghost had learned about your habit, you expected to be interrogated or fired. Which was sad because you had warmed up to the 1-4-1 and they seemed to like you as well, inviting you to stay for a cold beer and a chat or asking you to join when Soap got a care package with delicious cookies from home.

Instead he had a proposition. Or a favour to ask you.

"You know that we fill an unusual position, that gives us more freedom than others and certain privileges regarding who we work with. When I requested you to be our main liaison here, that made you part of a very exclusive group of people who get our trust." He started and kept his eyes on your face, watching every reaction.

"I hope you trust us as well. As long as you are not compromised by it, your private time is your own. But it doesn't have to be."

Of course he registered your confusion and curiosity. You were incredibly professional but you also watched their training way more often than reasonable, stayed for a beer even if you barely drank, let Johnny hug you, as soon as you were a little bit tipsy.

"What do you.. Captain Price, could you be more specific? I'm afraid, I don't follow ..."

"We, the team, would like to spend time with you. Private time. Get to know you outside of work. As I said, we trust you. And to be frank, Ghost suggested that we could use a little bit of help with relaxing on our leave. Which happens to be the same time you are on leave."

You had no idea what he saw in your face but he seemed to like it, his voice almost turned into a purr. "The boys would be very grateful for a nice evening in a private garden or so."

"Grateful, you say..." You immediately had an idea how they could thank you and you just hoped you wouldn't ruin anything. "Let me think about it. And thank you for the paperwork."

After Price left you had spent half an hour thinking about any wild possibility this thing could go. And then made a list of things they had to talk about before doing this. Starting with food preferences, going through former experiences, expectations and emergency plans. With all of them being prime PTSD candidates you didn't want to risk anything.

It had been a few weeks, a mission putting your plans on hold, but you took the time to get to know them, talk to them and you found that you really liked them. More than a bit. But you knew to keep it professional, because you would not get your heart broken again. You had their trust and maybe friendship, that was enough.

And now they were here in your house, a perfect summer evening with dinner and stories, almost like they had done this before. But there was still the reason they were here in the first place.

"You can still say no." Price had said as you pulled out your stash, a beautiful box with all your tools. "Nah, I'm curious what you think. And what you want to know." It wasn't a lie, even though you were nervous. Ironic, since you knew the first draw would calm you down and it always made you feel like you were one step away from needing instead of merely wanting. Your hands moved without hesitation, grinding, rolling, licking the paper... You went classic today, best to start here for an introduction.

You felt their attention on you, watching your moves.

"Hmm, like the smell of it.. earthy sweet, it's calming" Ghost was sitting across from you at the table.

"Yeah, the scent and taste vary quite a bit depending on the strain. Some absolutely stink, I like this one because it reminds me of freshly cut grass and flowers." You lit the joint and inhaled, closing your eyes to savour the taste before you let out the smoke with a sigh, the act alone calming.

A few minutes later you knew your smile was a bit dopey and you felt that sweet buzz under your skin. Shit, you forgot that you got really cuddly with this one. Usually you were alone here, so it didn't matter, but now you were absolutely aware of Ghost's thigh under the table and his hand turning your grinder like a fidget toy.

"You do look even cuter now" of course Johnny was flirting. "More relaxed. Softer." You just wanted to describe how it fest, when Johnny dropped the next question.

"Hey, always wondered... Do you taste different, when you're high?"

"Some things" you started to explain, "Or it's more intense, it's not exactly different, more.. enhanced. Like you feel and taste details, you weren't aware before" is how you started but Johnny stopped you.

"No, I mean. When you eat asparagus and for a day you have that certain smell. Even your sperm, you know? Is it the same?"

Oooh, that question. Leave it to Soap to escalate a situation.

"Honestly, I don't really know, never put much attention to it. If you eat it, like in butter or brownies, probably. Guess you would have to find out yourself." You meant it like he would have to taste himself, but the moment you said the words you knew it was too late, four sets of eyes fokussing on you. Ghosts leg pressing against yours, his hand suddenly still as you looked up. "Whatever happens here, stays here, remember?"

You nod, suddenly the air is heavy and you are aware that you only wear your panty and a soft summer dress. "Not going to do anything you don't want to."

You nod again. So focussed on Ghost that you didn't notice Gaz moving over until a warm hand turned your face towards him. "May I kiss you?" A third nod, then soft lips on yours and you sigh into the kiss. Until that moment you weren't quite sure if you read the signs correctly but now the last bit of doubt vanishes. You trust them, you want them. So you open up, let Gaz taste you, leave you a bit breathless when he breakes the connection of your lips.

"Hmm, less smoke than kissing the captain" he grins, earning a huff from Price. "Maybe we should move this to a more comfortable position."

They move you, lead you to the blanket and pillows you had placed conveniently, since you liked to sleep outside sometimes. Soap and Gaz taking turns to kiss your lips, your neck, making a point of licking and biting to taste you. Until they have you where they want you, sitting between Ghosts thighs, leaning against his front, strong hands groping your hips, the fat of your tummy, holding you in place.

And if you had hoped it would come to this, then it was none of their business.

[slippinmickeys]

Familiar (41/?)

“You’re different from the last time I saw you,” the man in the other cell  said. His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “There’s something more to you,” he said, eyeing her up.

He tilted his head slightly, nostrils flaring as though scenting something just beyond reach.  “Light,” he murmured. His smile deepened, curdling into something hungry. “I can feel it.”

He stepped forward, coming to the bars that divided the room. Dana backed away without thinking, the backs of her knees bumping into the bench behind her.

There had been fear in the woods, yes—but this was worse. Not just the threat of violence, though that still lingered beneath his words. It was deeper now. Her stomach twisted. Her skin crawled.

“What are you?” she asked, the words pulled from her throat.

He gave a soft laugh. “I might ask you the same.”

He licked his lips, pale tongue darting out to wet them.

“I knew coming below the veil would pay off” he said thoughtfully. “I know power when I smell it.” He inhaled again, deeply, and smiled. “And yours is ripening.”

He leaned his forehead lightly against the bars. “The mark you wear,�� he said, flitting his eyes to her wrist. “Is it a gift?” he asked, voice lower now. “Or a leash?”

Dana didn’t answer.

He studied her. “You don’t know, do you?”

She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Why are you here?”

He gave a slow shrug. “Needed shelter, I did. I was weak.” He rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly, as if even that movement pained him. “Too long on the high road. Too little to keep me going.”

Dana’s pulse quickened.

He smiled, lips thin and cold. “But luck brought me here. And now—well.” His eyes moved to hers, and lingered. “There’s strength in you. Enough to draw from. Maybe even enough to feed.”

Dana tried to back away more, but there was nowhere else for her to go. The air between them felt heavier now, thick with something she didn’t have a name for.

“But not yet,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Not quite. Still figuring it out aren’t you? You haven’t tapped all of the way in.”

Dana swallowed thickly. 

He pressed a hand to the bars, watching her as though weighing something. “Still. You shine, girl. That’s rare these days.” His smile deepened. “And rare things are… hard to resist.”

Dana’s stomach turned, as if a nest of snakes had come alive inside her, shifting and curling with unease.

At that moment, the raven appeared in the window, her wings stirring a gust of air as she landed lightly on the iron grate. Her feathers gleamed in the late afternoon sun, blue-black with a silken sheen. Tied to her leg was a small cloth parcel, bulging slightly.

Dana stepped toward her, but froze halfway.

The man in the opposite cell stood at the bars between them, too close, his gaze fixed not on her—but on the bird. His nostrils flared.

He hadn’t moved during the raven’s arrival, hadn’t spoken. But something in him had shifted. He stood straighter now. Head tilted. Breathing deeper.

The raven gave a low, almost reptilian click deep in her throat. Not a sound of fear—but unease.

She studied the man. “What is he?” she asked Dana. 

“I don’t know,” Dana replied. 

The raven ruffled her feathers. 

“Be quick,” she instructed sharply, without taking her eyes off the man. “There’s a wrongness in him. Like rot under stone.”

Dana nodded. She stepped to the grate, untied the parcel, and unfolded it. Inside were three things: a sprig of ironwort, brittle and fragrant; a pinch of bone ash folded into waxed paper; and a small, unused iron key, the bow smooth and unmarked.

She exhaled shakily.

“Are we planning a prison break?” the man finally spoke, watching her closely. “With your familiar?”

Dana looked up sharply.

“What fun,” he said, smiling with too many teeth. 

“Hurry,” the Raven said. “You need to get away from him.”

Dana swallowed, pulse quickening. She gathered the ingredients into her palm and closed her eyes. Reached inward. Downward. Let her awareness sink, like roots into soil. But it was difficult. She could feel the man staring at her hungrily, and something in him pulled uncomfortably at something in her. 

“I can’t,” Dana said. “He’s–” 

The raven hopped down off the sill of the window and opened her wings, swooping down to fly at the man on the other side of the bars, causing him to jump back. 

Dana felt suddenly lighter, and she could feel herself ground to the earth as her magic stirred. Slowly, then with sudden clarity. It gathered like a tide behind her ribs. Her skin felt too thin to contain it.

She gasped—but she didn’t stop. Not now. She held the ingredients tight and opened her eyes.

A sharp intake of breath echoed across the cell.

The man had gone still.

His eyes were on her now, no longer casual or amused.

Hungry.

“You shine, witch,” he said, voice low and shuddering with need. 

The raven let out a dry, metallic trill—something between a warning and a curse.

“Work fast,” she told Dana. “Whatever he is—he’s waking up.”

The key in Dana’s hand turned hot once more—and then the spell completed.

She gasped, her knees buckling slightly as the magic drained through her fingertips like spilled water. 

Something was pulling at her.

A thread of her power was unraveling, vanishing into the air—and she wasn’t the one directing it.

She staggered, catching herself on the cold stone wall.

Across from her, the man’s posture had changed entirely. No longer feigning casualness, no more sardonic smile.

He was breathing deeply now, like someone inhaling the scent of fresh bread after a famine. His pupils had dilated. His fingers curled around the bars.

“Dana,” the Raven said sharply, voice loud and urgent in her mind. “He’s feeding on you.”

Dana swayed, heart thudding wildly. Her limbs felt leaden. The hand still clutching the key trembled violently.

“What is he?” she asked the bird weakly.

“I don’t know.” The Raven’s voice was tight with alarm. “I’ve never felt something like this. Not mage. Not witch. Not familiar. Just—wrong.”

She fluttered hard, agitated.

Dana tried to move—but her legs wouldn’t respond properly. Her knees gave a wobble, and she had to grip the wall again just to keep from sinking to the floor. Her vision blurred around the edges.

She could feel it now, not just as a tug on her magic, but as a sickness behind her sternum. Like something was eating its way through her.

“I can’t—” she started.

“Listen to me,” the Raven said sharply. “I must go tell my companions what is happening. You must use the key. On this cell first. Then on the heavy door just there. It leads into an old clerk’s office. There’s a passage at the back. A hidden stairwell. Follow it down.”

Dana’s vision swam. She could hardly hear.

“Fox will be waiting at the bottom. But you have to move.”

The Raven launched herself from the windowsill, her wings kicking up dust as she vanished into the sky.

Dana was alone.

The man gave a long, slow exhale. His eyes had glazed over and he looked as though he was in his cups.

“Your magic,” he murmured, swaying a bit on his feet. “It’s beautiful.”

Dana clenched her jaw.

Every motion was a war. But she lifted the key with shaking fingers and turned toward the lock.

She stumbled into the bars of her cell, the metal biting into her shoulder.

The weight of her own body felt doubled.

She reached the keyhole. Fumbled once. Twice.

The metal clinked uselessly.

The man was swaying on his feet. “Oh,” he breathed. “Such a shine…”

She hissed through her teeth. Forced herself to steady the key. It grew warm in her hand again, gave a jolt of vibration and—

Click.

The bolt gave way.

Dana fell forward into the outer chamber.

She felt a thin, steady pull at her spine, as if the air behind her had grown greedy.

She didn’t dare look back.

Dana lurched to the door of the old clerk’s office, barely able to lift the key in her trembling hand. Her vision swam; the corridor tilted. She braced her weight against the frame, fingers fumbling for the lock. The key scraped against iron, missed the hole entirely, slipped from her grip—she caught it just before it hit the floor. Gritting her teeth, she tried again. Her arm felt like it belonged to someone else. She forced the key into place. It didn’t want to turn.

She thought of what the raven had told her: out her cell, into the old clerk’s office. Find the passage that leads to the stairs. Fox would be waiting at the bottom. 

Fox. She thought to call out to him, fumbling toward the bond with shaking, splintered will.

The mark on her wrist began to grow warm. She looked down. The mark was glowing, the key in her hand growing hot and then—

The key turned and the lock gave with a heavy clunk, echoing down the corridor like a warning bell. Dana gasped in relief, shouldered the thick wooden door open, and all but collapsed into the room beyond.

The air inside was stale, the light dim and dust-choked. Cobwebs trailed like curtains from the corners, and the scent of old ink, mildew, and something long-forgotten clung to every surface. Her eyes swept past shelves stacked with crumbling ledgers and shattered jars, toward the far wall where the raven had said the passage would be.

She lurched forward, letting the door fall shut behind her with a solid thud. Her hand fumbled for the latch—and found it. With the last of her strength, she dropped the bar into place. The iron bolt slid home with a satisfying scrape.

Instantly, she felt the change.

Something unseen withdrew its claws from her spine. She sagged, reeling, but whole. The invisible pull on her magic stopped. Her breath returned in small, shallow gasps. Her legs, still trembling, could hold her up again. Not well. But enough.

Behind her, in the chamber she had just fled, the man let out a cry of rage. It was wordless at first—a sound more animal than human, like the screech of an owl. Then came the words, sharp and furious, echoing through the stone walls.

"Help! Escape! Your prisoner has escaped!"

Dana froze.

Boots thundered on the stairs. Voices called out. The Constable. The guards.

Panic surged through her, rattling her already shaky nerves.

Turning from the door, she scanned the room, eyes still fogged with weariness. The window was grimy but the day’s dying light illuminated something. There. At the back wall—a shadowed recess, barely visible in the gloom. She stumbled toward it, crashing into the desk on the way, sending scrolls flying. Her fingers touched the wall. Wood.

Boards.

The passage the raven had spoken of.

But it was sealed.

She let out a soft sound, halfway between a sob and a curse. Pressed her palms to the boards. They were old. Dry and weak.

She braced herself. Pulled.

The first board resisted, groaning against the nails that held it. She gritted her teeth and yanked. It tore free with a sharp crack, sending a puff of dust into her face. She staggered back a step, coughing, the board slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor. She reached for the next, her grip unsteady. Her hands trembled, slick with sweat and weakness from the spell—and from whatever he’d drained out of her. Still, she pulled.

Another board. Then a third.

Behind her, the thick wooden door rattled. A voice shouted for keys. Someone else banged against it.

She turned to the gap she’d made—narrow, but maybe wide enough. She dropped to her knees, dress snagging on a jagged nail. It held fast. She cursed and jerked forward, the fabric tearing in a sudden rip up the side of her skirt.

She scrambled through.

The boards scraped her back. One caught at her braid. She ducked and twisted, and finally, finally, she fell forward onto stone.

A stairwell. Narrow. Curving.

The air was cooler here, and damp. Dana paused for a breath, Then another. Then she pressed her hand to the wall, steadying herself, and began to descend. Every step was a guess. It was dark in the passage, illuminated only by arrow slits cut into the thick walls emitting a weak, evanescent light.  Every turn might hide another figure. But the voices behind her were muffled now, fading.

She descended, her breath rasped in her chest. Her feet were clumsy on the stone, slipping more than once. But she didn’t stop.

The stair turned ever downwards.

And then she saw a faint glow.

She reached the scullery which was empty and dusty. Its once-used shelves sagged beneath forgotten kettles and cracked bowls. She unlatched the back door and shoved, its hinges creaking with disuse.

She pushed through.

The alley was quiet. Narrow. Lined in cobblestones slick with evening mist.The sky had turned the color of bruised violets. The sun, a sliver above the rooftops, was slipping away.

And then—

Movement just at the edge of her vision, a flash of autumn fur, then the wet popping sound of bones reshaping and—

Arms caught her.

Warm. Strong. Human. 

Fox.

He gasped as she collapsed into him, her body giving out completely now that it could. Her head dropped to his shoulder, breath shuddering.

He cradled her close, murmuring something she couldn’t hear.

Darkness folded in.

Drifting and filled with the relief of reunion, she let it take her.

[zishuge]

Sad Bonus:

Di Feisheng? The devil of Jinyuan Alliance, Di Feisheng? Don't you know it's because of him that my master has been missing for ten years? How could you be with someone like that? Mysterious Lotus Casebook (2023) | Ep. 13

[mermaidsirennikita]

Interesting convo about the suitability of Ancient Rome as a setting for historical romance led to the question of "If Ancient Rome not okay for historical romance setting, why Regency okay" (a good convo to have, imo), which then led to "Regency okay because we can say this duke was good to his servants which is an acceptable handwave; no acceptable handwave for Ancient Rome".

With the implication being that because the everyday exploitation is VISIBLE in Ancient Rome, whereas it's Off Elsewhere for the dukes (who benefited, let us be clear, from an empire based on slavery, indentured servitude, and colonialism, whether or not they WANTED TO), the dukes can get a handwave

And I find that. Pretty bad tbh.

[bbrokenbback]

Mechanicus way or a little Nostramo🇫🇷 way.

[cluescorner]

I cannot imagine being a Damian stan right now. You've got both Zdarsky's bullshit (where he clearly doesn't give a shit about your boy) and The Boy Wonder (where Juni Ba clearly gives so many shits about your boy) coming out on the same day. The whiplash must be insane. I hope y'all get some nice warm soup for your efforts jfc

[angel---eater]

[ilkkawhat]

idk if it's just cause i am just like. scared about the idea of taking time off for my health and/or being sent to the hospital (for what, I don't know but i will say i've had a lot of heartburn lately and with my last blood being in the diabetic range who knows what's going to happen with this new one i just got taken), or if it's that i've been told twice now, but idk how i feel about this statement of "you're too young to feel this way" in regards to me just melting down every goddamn day. like does that mean if i was 50 years old it'd be acceptable and expected?

[jon-sedai]

“Dead. He’s dead.”

“No.” The eunuch’s voice seemed deeper. “He is here. Aegon has been shaped for rule since before he could walk. He has been trained in arms, as befits a knight to be, but that was not the end of his education. He reads and writes, he speaks several tongues, he has studied history and law and poetry. A septa has instructed him in the mysteries of the Faith since he was old enough to understand them. He has lived with fisherfolk, worked with his hands, swum in rivers and mended nets and learned to wash his own clothes at need. He can fish and cook and bind up a wound, he knows what it is like to be hungry, to be hunted, to be afraid. Tommen has been taught that kingship is his right. Aegon knows that kingship is his duty, that a king must put his people first, and live and rule for them.”

(ADWD Epilogue)

Varys’ words to Kevan Lannister about Prince Aegon are so interesting because of the overarching insinuation that the boy has had a slew of advisors and teachers who have carefully and extensively prepared him for the task of ruling. His listed examples to that point are rather peculiar, however: a knight to train him in arms, a septa to train him in the faith, and various tutors to train him in history and languages.

Now there’s nothing inherently wrong about Aegon’s educators but one has to ask, what do these people even know about actual ruling? What have they seen about the nature of ruling and the nitty gritty of it? What experience do they have? And if they themselves don’t really know what it means to rule, what does that say of their young prince’s education?

It’s an important question to ask when we consider Aegon’s narrative foil: Jon Snow. Jon does not have the expectation of ruling. In fact, as a bastard, he knows that he can never ever get a lordship let alone a crown/throne. Yet Jon has, unlike Aegon, a crew of experienced tutors who have shown him the nitty gritty of ruling. Every single one of his on-page mentors is either a ruler or a leader of men; in addition to the other tutors he had growing up.

So I wanted to take a look at Jon’s mentors and the positions they have held to contrast their experience (and thus the validity of the lessons that they give Jon) as opposed to the lack of experience in Aegon’s crew.

Ned Stark - Jon’s first and (arguably) most impactful mentor. While teaching Jon important lessons about rulership, he was serving as the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North; thus making him one of the most powerful men in the entire realm. He then went on to serve as Hand of the King - the most powerful official save for the king. The irony is that Ned didn’t teach Jon as a successor. Robb was the one meant to succeed him. Yet Jon absorbed his lessons all the same.

Benjen Stark - we don’t actually see much on-page mentorship from Benjen, yet he still is one of Jon’s many father figures in the series. He is a a man of the Night’s Watch so he is sworn to hold no lands or titles. Yet as First Ranger, he is undoubtedly one for he highest ranking officials in the Watch and potentially a skilled warrior. He takes on the role of the knight or leader of men among Jon’s teachers.

Tyrion Lannister - despite being an ‘outsider’, Tyrion comes to hold considerable power. He is an exceedingly learned and intelligent man and managed to impart important life lessons during his short time with Jon. He rises to become Hand of the King and later Master of Coin. Though he doesn’t actively teach Jon how to rule, he’s still an important part of Jon’s character development.

Maester Aemon - one of the anomalies in this list. Yet his impact on Jon’s life cannot be understated. He is a teacher to Jon; we have various references to Jon going to Aemon for advice on how to lead. Aemon also gives Jon advice meant for kings: “kill the boy and let the man be born”. What makes Aemon an interesting addition is that he is a would-be king. And an interesting contrast between Jon and Aegon is that both parallel Aegon V; Jon more organically, Aegon rather artificially. If we remember, Aegon V was a hidden prince who ultimately became king. This is the very same trope that Jon and Prince Aegon are following. And it’s interesting that Aemon, Aegon V’s brother, gives advice on governance to Jon; the same advice given to the unlikely king. So it’s Jon who is carrying the torch of kingship from Aegon V, not Young Griff.

Jeor Mormont - one of the most direct mentors in Jon’s arc. Not only is he a surrogate father to Jon, he does what Ned never did: he directly grooms Jon to be his heir. Jon gets to watch Jeor actually govern the NW as his steward but it’s interesting that he shadows the LC through servitude. Though Jon is intended to succeed the Old Bear, he has to humble himself; he has to follow before he can lead. It’s a contrast to Aegon who would hold power over most (if not all) of his tutors.

Donal Noye - the other anomaly save for Maester Aemon. He is a humble Blacksmith. Yet he has been in the service of kings (having served the Baratheon boys who would all end up as kings). He plays an important role in bringing Jon’s ego back to earth and helping him sympathize with those less fortunate than himself. Despite his humble origins, he does briefly take command of the Wall during Mance Rayder’s attack and then transfers that command to Jon, purely because he believed in Jon’s ability to lead (and he was right).

Qhorin Halfhand - another who takes on the role of a skilled master at arms for Jon. He is an undoubtably powerful warrior. But he is also a leader of men. He teaches Jon important lessons on leadership during their time together beyond the Wall - e.g., to lead your men you must first know them. And in true ‘fridged mentor’ fashion, Qhorin dies so the young prince can take over and grow as a leader.

Mance Rayder - the King Beyond the Wall and one of the most important leaders in the books despite spending all his time in the North. Mance’s role as a mentor for Jon is doubly important given that he also takes on the role as a Rhaegar proxy. Despite Jon coming to him as an (undercover) enemy, he’s still able to impart powerful lessons on how to command an army and wrangle support from different factions of men. Jon learns a lot about diplomacy from observing and being under the KBTW. Mance is a skilled warrior, commander, and politician. A charismatic and gifted man - the picture perfect king for Jon to emulate.

Tormund Giantsbane - a leader of the freefolk who rises to become an unlikely ally for Jon. A skilled warrior and proven leader (we know that he took charge of a couple of thousand of freefolk), Tormund becomes important when there’s a transfer of power from Mance to Jon as leader of the freefolk.

Stannis Baratheon - by law, he is the rightful king of the seven kingdoms. According to prophecy, as Melisandre says, he is the promised messiah. Despite a less than ideal personality, he’s still an important part of Jon’s political arc in ADWD. Arguably a man of immense administrative potential, Stannis is also one of the most successful military commanders in the series; which is great for Jon since he also learned from Ned, who ran an undefeated streak as a battle commander.

The total count now comes to: two kings, two Hands of the King, a ruling lord, three warriors, one wise maester (who has counseled a king), and one commander. That quite a resume for Jon. All these men have some experience leading men and commanding armies, however big or small. So Jon’s preparation has been quite thorough.

What a stark contrast between the two boys, then. Varys’ words give us a roadmap of a “perfect ruler” (or as perfect as one can be) yet when we actually take the time to examine what we see in the text, Aegon is not at all suited for that role - Jon is. In fact, not a single character in ASOIAF has had the intensive preparation to rule that Jon has.

It’s beautiful irony. The prince, the one promised to rule, is actually quote underprepared for the task of it. Meanwhile the bastard, who is at best promised a life of servitude, is the one with the most preparation (and experience) for rulership. It’s the way Aegon, as a narrative foil to Jon, acts as one who validates Jon’s journey. There are certain things needed of a ruler. Jon has them, Aegon doesn’t.

Winds isn’t out yet so we don’t yet know for certain where these two boys will end up. But I’m almost sure that young Prince Aegon is doomed and though he may hold the throne for a while, he will not be the king at the end of the story. And it just might be his inexperience that ultimately dooms him. So what does that say for Jon then? Aegon can’t hold the throne as he’s unprepared for it, but what about Jon who is?

[tj-crochets]

So I've discovered quilt jackets are a thing (thank you @anotherdayforchaosfay) and I am making a list of the ones I want to make so I can remember them later: - absolutely ridiculous scrap jacket - staggered rainbow and black jacket, like that baby quilt top I made recently, with the rainbow on the back of the jacket - shades of one color basic patchwork jacket, probably purple but possibly green - rainbow gradient jacket - plaid flannels! just all the plaid flannels. all of them - stained glass jacket? Idk about that one but maybe

[acertainmoshke]

I have typed up an entire notebook of Cold Iron, 298 pages worth! The second notebook only has 57 pages, which is like 2 weeks worth of days of actually working on it

This is good

However

This draft is a fucking mess of a story that honestly can barely even be called a story and I can't imagine just how much I have to do to make it readable. Figure out how they get out of half a dozen situations, to start, and tie some of the random filler happenings together, and make the plan make sense, and maybe do something more satisfying with the Background Children