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sixeyesonathiel · 23 days ago

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your tutor of marital propriety!satoru teaches you how to kiss.

a/n: perchance i ever expand this into a full oneshot… who do you all think should be the poor, oblivious betrothed of our princess? they will, of course, be embarrassingly, spectacularly cucked. please choose wisely 🫶🏻

you are stubborn. painfully, deliciously stubborn. that is the first thing satoru realizes the moment you stand before him in the empty antechamber, the silken weight of your skirts set stiff with pride, chin tilted in regal defiance. as though you might ward him off with your sharpened glower, as though you could command him to yield with the simple arch of your brow.

it thrills him. it always has. it coils in his chest, sweet and intoxicating, the memory of you haunting him since that spring banquet so long ago. the stubborn line of your jaw. the proud tilt of your head. the way you walked amongst nobles as if you were already their sovereign, despite the heavy chains of tradition looped around your wrists.

“why must i learn these things from you?”

your voice is taut, every syllable wrapped in distaste, your lips pressed together in a line he has longed to unravel since that day. you were but a young thing then, trailing dutifully behind your father, cloaked in silks and privilege, precious and untouchable—but impossible to ignore. you had not spared him more than a glance, and yet he had seared you into memory: the bold set of your shoulders, the fire in your gaze, the quiet defiance you wore like a crown among a den of wolves.

he had wanted you even then. had wondered how your lips might tremble beneath his teeth. had dreamed of the sounds you would make if cornered just right. had yearned to break past the polished veneer of your courtly manners and drag forth the unguarded version of you. the one who would tremble beneath his hands.

“because, princess,” he answers, letting the honorific drip like sweetened wine, “i am the only one who is qualified.”

he allows his words to linger, stepping closer with the measured gait of a man who knows he will not be refused. your shoulders tense beneath the weight of his stare, and he savors the knowledge that you cannot help but react to him. it curls warm and heady in his chest, a delicious pressure that presses against his ribs, urging him to take more.

“you have lived your life tucked safely within these gilded halls. your intended hails from a distant empire, where the expectations placed upon a wife are foreign to you. i was schooled there. i know their customs. i know the ways of their court.”

his tone is soft, the cadence easy, as if he does not mean to ensnare you. but he does. he has been weaving this web from the moment the king appointed him your instructor, the moment he realized he would have you within his reach, day after day, lesson upon lesson. he smiles, slow and deliberate, as a pale lock of hair slips to graze his cheek, his glacial eyes sinking into yours with practiced precision, carefully adjusted over years of quiet longing.

“unless, of course,” his voice drops, a velvet thread tightening around your ribs, “you would prefer to learn these things from another man?”

his question strikes you cleanly, his satisfaction blooming as he watches the slightest movement of your throat, the smallest quiver in your composure. you loathe him. but beneath that loathing, there is the shimmer of curiosity, the reluctant awareness that what he offers you is necessary. you are no fool. you know what awaits you. and satoru—the silver-haired heir to the northern dukedom, all silk and poison—holds the key.

“fine,” you snap, as though the concession scalds your tongue. “but you will not kiss me as though you mean it.”

his lips curl, slow and amused, as though your stipulation is a game he is eager to play, a rule he has no intention of following.

“of course, your highness. i would never presume.”

it is a lie.

he approaches with deliberate steps, each echoing click of his polished boots measured and slow, the faint trace of his cologne arriving before his touch. you flinch as he raises his hand, but he merely tucks a loose strand behind your ear, the brush of his gloved fingers grazing your temple, lingering far too long, savoring the softness of you beneath his leather.

“relax,” he murmurs, savoring the tremble that dances through you. “it would not do for you to be so tense when your husband-to-be touches you.”

“i would prefer he never touch me at all,” you bite, though your voice falters when his hand settles beneath your chin, his thumb pressing delicately against the stubborn line of your jaw. you try to sound strong, but the frantic pulse beneath your skin betrays you. your pride burns bright, but your body does not yet know how to resist him.

“ah, but he will.”

his gaze dips to your lips, his breath faltering—just once. it is the only fracture in his composure he permits himself. he has envisioned this too many times: the softness of your mouth, the fire in your eyes as you surrender piece by reluctant piece.

“part your lips,” he whispers, his thumb coaxing, circling lazily across the seam of your mouth. “good girl.”

your eyes flash, your pride bristling at the endearment, but you obey. you do not pull away. you tremble, uncertain, your hands fluttering at your sides, unsure of where to land. his chest swells with triumph at your hesitation, the subtle fracture in your resolve.

“this is merely a lesson,” he reminds you, his voice low and reverent, his thumb never leaving your lips. “nothing more.”

it is the sweetest, most exquisite lie he has ever told.

he lowers his head slowly, relishing the soft tremble of your lashes, the way your breath catches when his lips brush yours—a fleeting touch at first, no more than a whisper. his hand slides to the nape of your neck, drawing you firmly into him as he deepens the kiss—greedy, voracious, as though he might consume you whole.

his tongue prods at the seam of your lips, insistent, until you—hesitant, trembling—allow him entry, still clumsy, still learning, but so unbearably eager despite yourself. you taste of sweet spring wine, stubborn pride, and something wholly forbidden. satoru groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that spills from him unchecked, ragged and desperate.

he had meant to teach you restraint. to guide you carefully. but instead he devours you—his lips slanting over yours again and again, his tongue tangling with yours in wet, breathless strokes, his hunger plain and shameless. each sound, slick and obscene, echoes in the chamber, every beat of his heart a thunderous ache beneath his ribs.

his other hand drifts to your waist, his fingers curling into the rich fabric of your gown, anchoring you as though he might leave his mark upon your skin. his teeth catch at your lower lip, drawing a startled gasp that he drinks greedily, desperate for more, desperate to swallow every breath that escapes you.

his hands explore the curve of your waist, the subtle dip of your spine, the quickened pulse that flutters beneath his touch. he grips you harder, more desperately, as though terrified that you might slip through his fingers and vanish. his palms burn against the thin barrier of your gown, his thumb pressing firmer, as though imprinting his touch upon your flesh.

he is drowning in you. intoxicated by the soft, shaky moan that tumbles from your throat when his fingers trail the delicate column of your neck, tangling briefly in your hair before settling possessively at your nape. his breathing is ragged, his lips returning to yours with renewed frenzy, unwilling to part, unwilling to yield, until the burning in his lungs forces him to relent—and even then, he hovers, his mouth brushing yours, his breath mingling with yours as if the mere inches between you are too cruel to bear.

his kiss drags on—a feverish, hungry thing—until the heat beneath your skin leaves you swaying against him, your balance teetering, your hands fisted weakly in the fabric of his coat. he presses forward, guiding you with slow, suffocating steps until your back meets the cool stone wall of the chamber, caging you with his body as though you belong there, as though you were made to fit within the curve of his arms.

his lips leave yours only to trail down the curve of your jaw, pressing firm, open-mouthed kisses to the delicate skin there, his teeth grazing, biting, soothing with the sweep of his tongue as though tasting every inch of you he dares to touch. his breath is hot against your skin, his hands skimming the sides of your bodice, sliding up to your ribs with a bruising grip that makes you shudder and arch involuntarily against him.

he kisses the hollow beneath your ear, his tongue darting out to taste the faint sheen of sweat gathered there, his teeth scraping, dragging a whimper from you that shatters whatever pitiful defense you might have clung to.

“you are learning so quickly,” he breathes, his voice a ragged whisper, a dangerous spark alight in his gaze, the fragile leash on his composure long since abandoned. “perhaps we should practice more often. again. and again.”

“satoru—”

your protest is weak, your breath shattered, your lips swollen and glistening with the evidence of his touch. your hands cling feebly to the front of his coat, suspended between resistance and reluctant longing, the last embers of your defiance flickering beneath the haze he has woven around you. your legs are trembling, your heart stumbling in your chest, uncertain whether to fight him or to follow him.

“shh,” he soothes, pressing another kiss to your trembling mouth, softer now, but still steeped in possession, as though he might claim you with the gentle weight of it. “you need not thank me, princess. your education is my duty, after all.”

when he finally pulls away, a string of saliva clings between your lips and his, glimmering and obscene, refusing to part until he brushes his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the dampness he left behind with slow, reverent strokes, as if to etch the taste of you into his skin.

he drinks in the sight of you—disheveled, flushed, the rapid rise and fall of your chest betraying the storm beneath your proud facade. his hunger sharpens, solidifies, anchoring itself deep within him, feeding a yearning he has long since ceased trying to temper.

his thumb drags once more across your lip, slow, lingering, as if he cannot bear to let even this fleeting touch go. he leans in, pressing a final kiss to your chin, to the corner of your mouth, as though marking you in all the places he has yet to claim.

“we shall continue tomorrow,” he whispers, a promise, a decree, as though you already belong to him. he speaks it like a vow. like a threat.

for he will not let you go. not now. not ever.

#gojo satoru #yandere gojo #gojo smut #gojo drabbles #gojo x reader smut #yandere gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk smut #jjk drabbles #jjk x reader #tw yandere

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spencersmopbucket · 7 months ago

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Tides of Venom | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: During the Tribute Parade of the 3rd Quarter Quell, Finnick meets an infamous female tribute from District Seven. She's just as interesting as everyone says.

The people of Panem knew your name as well as, or maybe better than, they knew their own. You were Y/n L/n, or better yet, The Snake of Seven. The victor who had turned the 67th Hunger Games into a masterclass of strategy and survival. At sixteen, you were reaped from the sawdust-strewn streets of District Seven—a girl who looked too small, too quiet, too fragile and too beautiful to survive the bloodbath. But you had fooled them all.

You didn't survive by brute force, God no. You didn't have the size for it. You survived by being smarter, colder, and crueler when it mattered. You waited, watching from the shadows, letting the other tributes tear each other apart. When you struck, it was precise, calculated, and lethal. You weren’t just a fighter; you were a predator. You turned the arena into your hunting ground, weaving snares from vines and luring enemies into deadly traps. When you got them captured, like a rabbit in a trap on the snow covered ground, you quickly and efficiently did away with them.

By the time you’d reached the finish line of success, the area was soaked in blood — close to none of it yours. You had outlasted them all, and not just through skill, but by ensuring that every single thing you did was deliberate. Every alliance you made was temporary manipulation, every smile a well-placed mask. When the final cannon fired, it wasn’t just because you had survived. You had conquered.

The Capitol adored you, of course. They polished your image until you gleamed like the blade that had won you the crown. They said your name with awe and fear: The Snake of Seven. To them, you were the perfect mix of beauty and terror, a creature that captivated even as it threatened. Of course, your biggest fan was President Snow. But for all the Capitol’s praises, you knew the truth. The arena hadn’t just taken your innocence; it had carved out pieces of your soul and left them to rot in the jungle where you’d won. The nightmares came often, visions of the traps you’d set, the image of you slitting a throat, the screams that followed, and the sickening silence afterward.

Even still, you played the role you’d been given. It was that or die. It was that or lose your family (an ultimatum given by Snow.) The Capitol needed you to smile in your interviews, to look stunning in gowns designed to look like snake skin, to sip champagne with Snow’s favorites. You did it without flinching. You’d learned through the experiences of others before you that defiance came with a life ruining price. And so, with snake-like venom aimed inward at yourself, you were poisoned until only steel remained.

The 3rd Quarter Quell was nothing like any previous Hunger Games. It was a reminder of the Capitol's absolute power, and this year, they chose to mark it with a brutal twist: the victors, those who had already been crowned, would now be thrown back into the arena. Every single one of them—a brutal celebration of their own suffering. And you, The Snake of Seven, were no exception. When you'd been Reaped, you stepped forward, ever confident, your e/c eyes the sole vision of determination, focus, and bloodthirst. But you were always so good at keeping people at arm's length, never letting them see how you truly felt.

You were devastated. You felt doomed — but the worst part? You'd always known you were from the start. This was just the confirmation.

Today was the Victor Parade.

The streets of the Capitol buzzed with an unsettling energy. The crowd, with its eager eyes and gleaming teeth, watched as the tribute chariots rolled down the grand avenue, a parade of former winners paraded as if they were just another form of entertainment. The Capitol was reveling in their cruelty, and you knew, deep down, that it was more than just the games this time. The Capitol wanted to break the victors, to make sure they knew they were never free, never truly safe. You had survived the Games once, but this time, survival would come at a greater cost. You were by far the most thrilling tribute to watch, solely because they knew you'd do anything to win.

Your district partner, a tall, athletic and somewhat shy Victor named Reid, stood beside you. He was a few years younger than you, but his respect for you was evident in every glance. He had a crush on you. It was easy to see in the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice caught when he spoke your name. But, much like everyone else in the Capitol, you weren’t here for love or affection. You were here to survive—and if you had to, you’d use Reid’s infatuation to your advantage. But, you’d never admit it aloud.

Reid was a good fighter, but he wasn’t built for the Games like you. His focus was too soft, too sentimental, which made him vulnerable. He wanted you to recognize him as a friend rather than just a district partner. Rather than just an ally that you'd eventually have to turn on. But you? You knew. Reid would have to be the first to go. You'd put him out of his suffering before any other Victor could get their hands on him. In a cruel sense, it was you being kind. If anyone else got him, his death would hurt much more.

Your outfit, designed by Capitol stylists, was as extravagant as it was deadly. You weren’t just a symbol of beauty; you were a living weapon, and your outfit reflected that. The stylists had draped you in a shimmering black gown that hugged your form, slithering down your body like the skin of a serpent. Silver, delicate scales shimmered along the bodice, almost seeming to ripple as you moved. A thin, sharp line of emerald green ran across your eyes, reflecting the coldness that had taken root deep inside you. Your hair was twisted into a sleek, tight braid that framed your sharp features, the tendrils of the braid curling at the ends like snake’s fangs. The design was meant to evoke fear. To show that beneath your beauty was a creature that could and would strike. The Capitol admired you, but they feared you too.

As the chariot lurched forward, your eyes scanned the crowd—thousands of faces staring back at you, each person either adoring or shocked. The screams, cheers, and jeers mixed into a cacophony that only heightened the tension in the air. It was a celebration of blood, and your life was the prize. But you didn’t need their approval. You didn’t need their affection. You were here to survive—nothing more, nothing less. You forced your cold eyes forward, staring at the person that continued to ruin your life, over and over again.

Snow.

He gazed down at you with a lukewarm smile, one to say, 'welcome back, Snake.' You simply glared back, fighting the snarl that threatened to develop on your lip.

As the chariot rolled forward, you could feel Reid’s nervous energy beside you. His hands gripped the edge of the chariot so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his broad shoulders stiff as though he were bracing for an attack. His unease was palpable, and while you could sympathize with it, you didn’t have time to coddle him. This wasn’t his first Games; he should know better than to show fear in front of the Capitol. Weakness was blood in the water, and the Capitol’s sharks would circle the moment they saw it. It would draw attention to the two of you, something you didn't need more than you already had.

“Relax,” you muttered, your voice low enough that only he could hear. Your eyes remained fixed on the glittering horizon, refusing to meet his. “You look like you’re about to jump out of the chariot.”

Reid’s head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of surprise and embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he said, though the strain in his voice betrayed him.

“Sure you are,” you replied dryly. “Just remember, they’re not cheering for you. They’re cheering for the show. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re the opening act.”

Your words cut sharper than intended, but it was necessary. Reid needed to toughen up, and fast. This was no place for soft hearts or shaky hands.

The chariot came to a halt in front of President Snow’s viewing platform, and the crowd’s roar reached a deafening crescendo. Snow himself stood like a vulture on his perch, his thin smile radiating smug satisfaction. His presence was suffocating, a reminder that every move you made was under his watchful eye. You held your head high, refusing to let him see the disgust simmering beneath your carefully constructed mask. If he wanted a performance, you would give him one.

You stared at the other Victors. You knew who they were, of course, since you'd been paraded around with them before. The most notable ones were the ones from the Career districts -- and District 12. You saw Cashmere and Gloss looking disgustingly gleeful. They were District 1 Careers, always loving the attention they were getting and the idea of getting to put up a fight. Brutus and Enobaria, District 2, were the same way.

Your eyes lingered on the Careers for a moment longer, taking in their smugness, their overconfidence. Cashmere’s sharp laughter cut through the murmur of conversation, a high, shrill sound that grated on your nerves. She and Gloss stood close together, their matching golden armor glinting under the Capitol’s harsh lights. Their every move screamed superiority, a reminder that they had been bred for this, groomed for the arena like thoroughbred horses. You didn’t doubt their skill, but you also didn’t fear them. They were predictable, and predictability was a weakness.

Your gaze swept past them to Brutus and Enobaria, whose confidence bordered on feral excitement. Brutus’s bulk made him look more like a battering ram than a man, and Enobaria’s predatory grin, with her infamous sharpened teeth, was a haunting sight. They thrived in the chaos, their bloodlust an edge that couldn’t be underestimated.

But it wasn’t just the Careers you had to worry about. Your eyes flicked to Beetee and Wiress, District 3’s champions. The Capitol often overlooked them, mistaking their quiet demeanor for weakness, but you knew better. Their minds were their greatest weapons, and they could turn the arena itself into a deathtrap.

Then, blurring out the other Districts, there was District 12.

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark stood together, the Capitol’s golden pair, their unity a sharp contrast to the division around them. Katniss’s stormy eyes locked with yours for a fleeting moment, and you could see the fire smoldering behind them. She didn’t trust you—good. Trust was a luxury none of you could afford. Peeta, on the other hand, exuded a calm that was almost disarming. Almost.

And then there was Finnick.

He sat casually in his chariot, his trident resting at his side, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes roamed the area, sharp and calculating. His sea-green outfit, designed to evoke the beauty of District 4’s oceans, only served to heighten his allure. Beside him, Mags sat with quiet dignity, her frail form a stark contrast to his vibrant presence. Yet, there was strength in her weathered gaze—a reminder of the resilience that had carried her through her own Games decades ago. The Capitol adored Finnick, just as they adored you, but his charm was a weapon, honed and deadly, and Mags was his anchor, her mere presence a testament to the bond between them and the wisdom she carried into the arena.

His gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. His lips curved into a faint smile—not the easy, flirtatious grin he reserved for the Capitol’s audience, but something quieter, more genuine. It was unsettling, that smile, because it felt like he saw through you, saw the armor you’d worked so hard to construct.

You broke the connection first, turning your attention back to Reid, who was fidgeting nervously at your side.

“Stop moving,” you muttered under your breath. “You’re drawing attention.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and apologetic.

You sighed, the weight of his unexpected inexperience pressing down on you. If he didn’t toughen up soon, he would make you look foolish too. He didn't act like a Victor. And the rest did.

Snow’s voice crackled over the speakers, his tone smooth and syrupy as he addressed the gathered victors. “What a spectacular display,” he said, his words dripping with false sincerity. “You are all reminders of the strength and resilience of Panem. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The room fell silent as the announcement ended, the weight of his words settling over you like a shroud.

Reid leaned closer, his voice barely audible. “What now?”

You glanced at him, your expression hardening. “Now?” you said, your voice cold. “Now we wait. And when the time comes, we fight.”

Finnick’s laughter rang out suddenly, drawing your attention. He was talking to another Victor, his posture relaxed, but his eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment. There was something in his gaze—challenge, curiosity, maybe even understanding.

You turned away, refusing to engage. Whatever Finnick Odair was playing at, you had no intention of getting caught in his game.

As the outro anthem of Panem played, you felt a shift in the atmosphere. Your gaze flickered to the chariot beside yours, where Finnick Odair stood, resplendent in a sea-green ensemble that glittered like sunlight on the ocean. His golden hair caught the Capitol lights, making him look every bit the god they believed him to be. But his expression wasn’t one of triumph—it was of quiet defiance, a subtle rebellion that only those who knew the arena could recognize.

When the anthem ended, the victors were led to the holding area behind the parade route. The Capitol’s cheers faded into a low hum as you stepped off the chariot, your gown shimmering with each calculated movement. Reid stayed close to you, his presence a reminder of the responsibility you didn’t ask for but couldn’t ignore. Capitol stylists swarmed you both, fussing over stray folds and imagined imperfections. You barely acknowledged them, your focus already narrowing on the other tributes gathering nearby.

"Reid," you muttered under your breath, your tone sharp but quiet enough to keep Capitol ears from catching it. "Stand tall, and stop looking like you're about to bolt."

He straightened, though his hands still twitched at his sides. You suppressed a sigh.

Before you could step further into the mingling chaos of tributes and Capitol elites, a voice laced with sugar-coated steel sliced through the noise.

“Well, if it isn’t the darling of District 7. You’re just as intimidating as they say.”

You turned to see Cashmere gliding toward you, her golden locks framing her face like a halo, though the icy gleam in her eyes was anything but angelic. Her gown shimmered like molten gold, every inch of her radiating Capitol-perfect elegance. But there was no mistaking the predator behind the polished façade.

“Cashmere,” you greeted, keeping your tone neutral, even bored. “You flatter me.”

“Oh, it’s not flattery,” she replied, her smile sharp enough to cut. “It’s admiration. You play your part so well. Cold, dangerous, untouchable—it’s a wonder the Capitol isn’t already throwing parades in your honor.”

Reid shifted uncomfortably beside you, his unease a palpable presence. Cashmere’s gaze flicked to him briefly, her smirk widening as if she found his nervousness amusing.

“Who’s your little shadow?” she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “Does he speak, or is he just here to look pretty?”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but before he could stammer a response, you stepped in.

“He’s my district partner,” you said coolly. “Focus on yours.”

Cashmere arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the tension. “Protective, are we? How sweet. Though I can’t imagine there’s much point. If he’s anything like my dear Gloss’s partners, he won’t last long.”

You took a deliberate step closer, your gaze locking with hers, sharp and unyielding. “And yet, here you are, wasting your time on him—and me. Be careful.”

Her smile faltered for the briefest moment, the crack in her composure almost imperceptible. But then she laughed, a light, airy sound that somehow felt more menacing than genuine.

“Always the sharp tongue,” she said, tilting her head. “I suppose it’s what keeps you alive. Just remember, darling—words can only cut so deep. Out there, it’s the blade that matters.”

“Thanks for the advice,” you replied, your tone as biting as hers. “I’ll be sure to remember it when the time comes.”

Cashmere’s eyes narrowed slightly, the playful mask slipping just enough to reveal the steely determination beneath. “Do that,” she said, her voice a whisper of warning. “I’ll be watching.”

With that, she turned and strode away, her golden gown catching the light with every step.

Reid let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his voice low. “What was that about?”

“Don't worry about it,” you muttered, watching her retreating form. “Everyone’s playing their own game. Hers just happens to be gilded in gold.”

The energy in the Capitol’s holding area was electric, each victor carefully eyeing the others, feeling the tension rise with every passing second. The air was thick with power and the weight of what was to come—the 3rd Quarter Quell was unlike any other, a twisted reminder of the Capitol’s dominance, and each victor knew they were not only fighting for their lives but for their dignity as well.

Reid stood close, his nerves still apparent, his eyes darting from one tribute to the next. You could feel his discomfort radiating from him, and though you didn’t have time to indulge him, you found yourself slightly irritated by it. This was supposed to be a place for cold calculation, not weakness.

“Take a breath,” you muttered again, your eyes scanning the crowd of tributes. “You’re making us stand out.”

“I—sorry, I can’t help it,” Reid replied, the sincerity in his voice mixed with frustration. “This place... It’s too much. I never imagined I’d be back here, much less be facing them again.”

You took a deep breath, letting the noise of the Capitol’s elites wash over you. It was a dull hum compared to the chaos of the arena, but the stakes here were just as high. You weren’t just a Victor anymore; you were the prey.

“I get it,” you said, your voice colder than before, but not unkind. “But you need to act like one of them. We’re not here for anything other than survival. And in case you haven’t realized, that means playing their game better than they do. Don't let them think you're weak, even if you think you are.”

Reid nodded, his jaw set in determination, though the unease still flickered in his eyes. You didn’t think he’d ever truly understand. His idealism would be his downfall, you could already see it. The Capitol’s games had broken you, stripped away your humanity, and in the end, it had made you stronger. You knew better than anyone that to survive in this world, you had to be willing to kill what remained of your soul.

As the seconds ticked by, the other tributes continued to mingle—some more comfortable than others. A few whispered amongst themselves, their eyes darting in calculated glances, while others stood proudly, basking in their newly cemented fame. You didn’t join them. You had no need to.

A moment later, a voice rang out in the distance, one that cut through the tension in the air like a blade—soft, melodic, but with an undeniable edge.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous Snake of Seven.”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His voice was unmistakable, like the sea itself, deep and quiet but filled with a hidden strength. Finnick Odair.

You met his gaze, not surprised to see him standing at the edge of the crowd, his trident at his side, the shimmering blue of his outfit contrasting with his golden hair. His green eyes gleamed, mischievous yet sharp. His dimpled smirk only deepened when he noticed the way you studied him—cold, calculating, as always.

“Finnick,” you replied coolly, your voice betraying no emotion, even as your insides clenched. “I didn’t realize the Capitol was still fascinated by my name. I thought they’d moved on to the next little toy.”

His smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving yours. “Oh, they’ll never tire of you,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, almost like a whispered secret meant only for you. “Not with your reputation. It’s not every day that the Snake of Seven steps into the arena, is it?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sound almost impressed.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be?” Finnick’s tone was casual, but there was an edge to it that made the words feel like a challenge. “The odds of you making it this far... I’m curious how you’ve done it.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the curiosity in them. There was something in his gaze that felt like he wasn’t just talking about the Games anymore. His eyes raked over you, not in the way the Capitol admired his victors, but like he was trying to peel away the layers and understand the person standing in front of him.

“Survival,” you answered simply. “It’s not as hard as people make it out to be. If you’ve got the right instincts, the right drive, you can make it through anything.”

“And you’ve got both,” he said, his voice quiet but unmistakably admiring. “I can see it. But I think there’s more to you than that. More than just the survivor everyone sees.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, just holding his gaze as the crowd around you continued to buzz with their typical Capitol energy. There was something about the way he looked at you, though. Like he wasn’t just sizing you up as a potential ally or foe, but like he was seeing through to something deeper. And it unsettled you.

“You’re not one to mince words, are you?” you asked, your voice sharp, trying to redirect the conversation, but you could feel the pull of it all the same.

“Why bother?” Finnick’s expression softened just the slightest bit, his eyes glinting in a way that made you wonder if there was something he wasn’t saying. “This game’s already full of lies. We don’t need to add to it.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “And what would you suggest, Finnick? That we just lay it all bare? Is that what you think is needed to win this?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Maybe. Or maybe the truth is the only thing we’ve got left.”

The words hung between you, a quiet tension settling in. His gaze didn’t waver, but something in his stance softened, almost imperceptibly. For a moment, you saw past the Capitol’s golden boy, the victor who had charmed his way into the hearts of millions. You saw the man who had fought in the arena, who had survived the same twisted game that you were now part of. And for a fleeting second, there was a vulnerability in his eyes, something raw and unspoken.

“You know the game better than anyone,” you said quietly, your tone softer now, the challenge gone. “But we’re not all playing by the same rules, Finnick. I don’t think you understand that.”

His smile faded slightly, and he tilted his head. “Oh, I understand more than you think. But you’re right. Not everyone is playing by the same rules. And that’s why I’m curious about you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, the weight of his words sinking in. There was something in the way he said it that made you feel like a puzzle he was dying to solve. But you wouldn’t make it easy for him.

“Curious about me?” you repeated, stepping closer to him, your voice low but firm. “Why? Because I’m a challenge? Or because I’m something you can’t control?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. If anything, he took a small step forward, closing the gap between you. “I don’t want to control you,” he said, his voice steady. “I want to understand you.”

The words were simple, but they carried an undertone of something that felt more intimate than anything you’d heard in a long time. His eyes searched yours, the playful mischief replaced with something darker, something more serious.

You almost faltered. Almost.

"Then understand this," You lean in, boring your eyes into his. "When you lean into the face of a snake, it sinks it's teeth in."

Finnick’s eyes gleamed, a flicker of admiration dancing in the depths of his gaze. His smirk only deepened as you leaned in, the challenge clear in your words and your posture. He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down—if anything, the tension between you only seemed to grow.

He paused, taking a slow breath before responding, his voice low and even, carrying a hint of something darker beneath the surface.

“Well, I’ve always been a fan of a good bite,” Finnick said, his tone smooth, but there was an edge to it now, like the words themselves were an invitation, a dare. He stepped just a fraction closer, narrowing the distance between you with a kind of quiet, deliberate confidence. “But don’t mistake my curiosity for weakness. If you sink your teeth in, be sure you’re ready for what comes after.”

His eyes never left yours as he said it, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy in the air, and for a moment, you could almost feel the pulse of something dangerous, something thrilling, between the two of you. Finnick Odair wasn’t afraid of a fight. But neither were you.

Finnick’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, his lips curving into a more playful smirk as he took another slow step back. But the mischievous glint in his eyes told you that he wasn’t done with you yet.

“I have to admit,” he said, his tone lighter now, but no less charged. “You’ve got grit that I wasn’t expecting. Most people would’ve backed down by now, but not you. No, you’re… interesting.”

He took another step, the air around you thick with an undeniable pull. “You know, I like a good challenge. But you,” Finnick continued, his voice dropping an octave, “you’re something different. Something… unpredictable.”

He leaned in just slightly, his breath a faint whisper against your ear. “I’ll admit, I’m curious to see what else you’re capable of.”

You glare at him as he leans away.

"Curiosity killed the cat, now didn't it?"

Finnick’s grin only widened at your sharp retort, the gleam in his eyes turning into something almost predatory. He didn’t seem offended—if anything, your challenge made him more interested.

"Maybe," he mused, his voice soft, playful, but still with that underlying edge. "But I’ve never been one to shy away from danger. And I’m not the type to get caught in a trap either." He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the game between you two.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment, his green eyes flickering with amusement. “You’re quick with your words, but I have a feeling you’re not just all talk.”

His gaze traveled from your eyes to your lips, lingering just long enough for it to be obvious, before returning to your gaze, the tension between you thick enough to slice. “Tell me, what else do you have up your sleeve, hmm? Because I’m starting to think you’re not just some venomous snake. There’s something else there… something more.”

He stepped closer again, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, but not quite enough to touch. The space between you seemed to shrink with each word, with each look, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Finnick wasn’t just teasing anymore. He was genuinely intrigued.

"You’re right," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but satisfaction, well, that’s what makes it all worth it, don’t you think?" He let the words hang in the air between you, daring you to respond, to challenge him once more.

Finnick was getting closer to you now, but there was no rush in his movement—he was taking his time, savoring the moment. The air between you felt charged, a magnetism that was impossible to ignore.

“Just remember,” he added softly, his lips yet again dangerously close to your ear, “you started this game. And I’m not the type to lose."

With that, Finnick Odair strode away, looking over his shoulder to give you one last dimpled smile.

409 notes · View notes

cozymoko · 9 months ago

Text

Wild, Wild West 𐚁

Introduction fic for my cowboy OC idea. I hope you guys like this. This was in my drafts for at least half a year, haha.

Pairing: Yandere Cowboy x City Girl! Reader

Format: Short fic; 1.4k words

WARNING(S): Yandere themes, possessive, minor insecurity from reader.

Synopsis: Jealousy, Jealousy, read all about it! When in a new environment, insecurities are bound to surface. Why don't you go get you a drink to simmer down a bit?

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!

The old Texas sun was relentless, harsher than usual, beating down on the skin of those poor townspeople just going about their day. Its temper reminded you of your late grandmother, always nagging and pestering like there's no tomorrow.

You found refuge near the large clumps of hay by the stables. The smell was mundane, simple as though it were straight from a story book—unpleasant, sure, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

Why the hell were you out here anyways? Damn you for wanting to tag along to keep that big oaf company. He couldn’t stop poking fun at you, pushing you past your limits. It was like he knew you inside and out, from the surface of your pampered skin to the depths of your fluttering heart. For a man who wasn’t too fond of school, he sure seemed to study you quite a ton.

And speak of the devil. There he is.

He wiped dirt and grime off the worn denim that hung low at his waist. “What’s the matter, darlin’?” he called out, glancing over his shoulder to meet your eyes. “You don’t look too hot.”

Hell, that was an understatement.

He sauntered over, slipping his hat off his head. His long strides had him at your side in moments, staring down at your seated position. Pushing his deep auburn hair from his damp skin, he squatted next to you. “What’s the matter?” he asked, placing the hat back on his head with a lazy grin.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, torn between telling him and keeping your indignation to yourself. You weren’t even doing any of the heavy lifting, just spectating, but somehow, that made the heat even worse.

“It’s hot,” you mumbled, swallowing your pride.

“Then take ya' shirt off.” He grinned, raising a brow. “It’s just you ‘n me today, and it’s not like I haven’t seen you without it anyhow—”

“Stop!” you shouted, hugging your knees to your chest. If not for the heat, you were sure you'dve flushed even redder.

“Alright, suit yourself.” Jamie smirked, planting a quick kiss on your temple before rising to his feet in one swift motion. He turned back to his polished truck, the one he treated like gold. Sometimes, you swore he loved that hunk of metal more than anything, but you’d soon learn that his world revolved around you.

Your eyes followed his back, tracing the way his muscles moved with each twist of the wrench. Jamie was a tease, but damn if he wasn’t easy on the eyes. Your gaze drifted to the tattoos scattered across his tanned skin, lingering on the intricate, slightly faded markings near his jugular—your name, carved right there. The sight of it made you hot all over, and you even found yourself popping open a few buttons.

You had told that stubborn fool not to get it, warning him that tattoos were permanent and took hours of pain to remove.

“Why’re you sayin’ something like that?” he’d chuckled back then. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I get this baby removed, sugarplum. Dont worry about me nun’.”

The memory made you want to laugh. Jamie was as stubborn as a bull—and as big as one too. Too bad all that stubbornness would be the death of him. Not literally, of course.

“You wanna help me with the cattle? Think they need some lovin’, too.”

You tilted your head, a spark of hope flaring up. Maybe he was serious about wanting your help, about spending time together—maybe he was letting you be part of this place, tending to your shared home. But then he shrugged.

“Or I could get Mary Anne to come by. She’s always good with ’em—knows her way around horses like she was born with ’em.”

Mary Anne. Just the mention of her name made your blood boil. You’d seen her—all soft curls and sweet smiles, the kind of girl who fit right in here. Unlike you.

Your lips thinned, the jealousy rising like a rattlesnake. “Oh, is that so?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even despite the bitterness creeping in. “Mary Anne this, Mary Anne that—why don’t you just go on and ask her, then, since she’s not a ‘city girl’?”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “Hey now, what’s got you so riled up, sugar?”

“What’s got me riled up?” you snapped, rising to your feet. “You know damn well, Jamie. You think I don’t notice how you bring her up every time it’s my turn to help?”

You took a deep breath. “I know I’m not as capable as the others, but this is my home too. I’ve been here for over a year, and you still don’t ask me to help.”

He rolled his eyes, sighing as he straightened up, towering over you. “Aw, hell, [Name]. You actin’ like this ’cause you’re on the rag or somethin’? Ain’t no need to get all hot ’n bothered over nothin’.”

The words hit you like a slap, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, disbelief turning into a wave of fury. “You think that’s what this is about?” you hissed, your voice sharp as a knife. “You think that just because I’m upset, it’s gotta be because of that?”

Jamie shrugged, unfazed, and that was the last straw. You spun on your heel, the dusty ground kicking up beneath your boots as you stormed off. “Go on and call her, then!” you shouted over your shoulder. “I’m sure she’s just itching to help you!”

You didn’t wait for his response. You marched across the sunbaked field, fists clenched tight. You needed to get away—somewhere he wasn’t. The barn blurred into blobs of red as tears stung at the corners of your eyes. But you weren’t about to let him see you cry. Not now, not ever.

This is not where you wanted to end up. An old, run-of-the-mill saloon on a Friday night, surrounded by drunkards and divorcees, the air thick with the stench of stale tobacco. Voices murmur, glasses clink, and the laughter around you is harsh and grating. To hell with it all. To hell with them.

The whiskey settles in your veins, warm and familiar as you lean against the sticky bar. Neon lights flicker, casting a red glow across your half-empty glass, and you blink to clear your vision. You know you’ve had too much, but the night’s long, and the noise makes it easy to drown out everything.

"Fuck," you mutter, rubbing your temples.

You’ve never been much of a drinker. After moving to the countryside to be with Jamie, life on the ranch demanded your focus. Jamie hated liquor, practically despised it.

Dammit, [Name], forget about him. You shake the thought away.

“Now, darlin’, looks like your glass is ‘bout empty,” a smooth, slow drawl cuts through your thoughts. The man tilts the brim of his hat back just enough for you to catch a glint in his eyes—cold, calculating, like a snake. “Why don’t you let me get you another?”

Oh, right. You weren’t exactly alone.

“Sound good?” he asks again, his voice dripping with intentions you’re too drunk to untangle, coaxing you with the rough pad of his thumb tracing over your knuckles.

You hum. “Thank you.”

For a moment, you try to recall his name—Michael? Richard? Ashton? Danny? None of them sound right. Nothing about him feels familiar. Just another face in the blur. You decide he’s irrelevant.

"You don’t want it to get cold now, do ya?"

A voice in your head tells you to stop, to head home before you cross a line. Something about him makes your stomach churn, but you blame it on the alcohol. It doesn’t take much persuasion before you reach for the glass.

The liquor is bitter but good. But once it slips down your throat, the room spins. You blink hard, trying to steady yourself.

The barstool creaks as you sway, gripping the counter for balance. The stranger’s grin stretches wider, eyes watching you like a hawk. You know you shouldn’t have taken that drink, but it’s too late. The world starts tilting.

You turn, ready to brush off the man beside you, when you hear the heavy boots. They echo on the old floorboards, slow and deliberate, each step sending a chill down your spine. Then, a hand rests on your shoulder, the grip firm, possessive.

“Takin’ drinks from strangers now, sugar?” His voice is low, a whisper against your ear. “Why’d you go and do that for? You know better.”

Jamie.

His breath is warm, almost too close, as his fingers dig into your shoulder just enough to keep you anchored. The stranger’s hand pulls back, and you catch the flicker of fear in his eyes.

Jamie’s fingers tighten, not enough to hurt, but enough to warn. “Ain’t polite to drink without me, darlin’.” His tone is calm, but there’s a tension in it, like a leash pulled too tight.

You look up at him, the soft light catching the curve of his grin. The cowboy hat sits low, loose curls brushing the nape of his neck, his button-up shirt hugging the broad stretch of his shoulders. His forearms, tanned and strong, are exposed as his sleeves are rolled up. His eyes, though—dark and unreadable—pin you in place. There’s a hunger in them, one that makes your skin prickle.

He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping off the smudge of your lipstick. His grin widens, revealing sharp canines that peek between his lips. It’s friendly enough—too friendly. Like the way foxes smile when they’re circling prey.

“Mm, you’re drunk.” He says it like it’s a fact he’s already known for hours. “How much you had tonight, sugarplum?”

You stare at your glass, pretending you don’t know. You don’t want to admit to your carelessness.

Jamie chuckles, a low, knowing sound. “So, quite a bit, huh?”

His laugh is loud, and it feels like a warning. He leans in, his hand settling on your hip, fingers curling possessively. “And flirtin’ with some nobody at the bar. That’s new.” His eyes narrow. “So, you gonna tell me who he is?”

The stranger shifts uneasily, glancing between you and Jamie. His bravado fades, and he mumbles, “Look, I didn’t mean no harm. Just thought she could use some company.”

Jamie doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are locked on yours, sharp and unyielding. “Ain’t that sweet?” he says, his voice soft, but his grip on your hip tightens, like he’s claiming a prize. “But I think she’s got all the company she needs.”

The man hesitates, looks like he’s weighing his options, then backs off with a muttered apology, disappearing into the crowd.

The world tilts again, and you’re struggling to stay upright. The bar fades around you, the noise drowning in the back of your mind. The room swims, and your vision blurs, the faces blending into nothing but shadows.

Jamie’s presence feels suffocating. His eyes linger on you, dark and intent, like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s testing you. And you know, deep down, that he doesn’t just hate you drinking—he hates you here, surrounded by people who aren’t him.

“Let’s get you home, darlin’.” His tone is almost gentle, but there’s an edge beneath it, something nasty and foreign brewing beneath the surface.

Before you can protest—before the room spins again—he’s there, pulling you into him, lifting you off your feet like you weigh nothing. His arms wrap around your waist, and the world blurs as you’re hoisted over his shoulder, carried out the bar like a mere sack of potatoes.

The night air bites at your cheeks as he strides through the darkness, the cold wind cutting through the haze in your mind. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and sure beneath you, and his fingers grip your thigh, possessive and unyielding. He’s not letting you go.

Everything in you says to fight back, to push away, but he smells like home—like honey and oak. The world narrows down to him, the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his touch.

“Man, you’re gettin’ heavy. Eating too much pumpkin pie, huh, sugarplum?”

“Fuck you,” you manage, but it’s weak, and the smile he gives you is sharp and satisfied.

You close your eyes, the world tilting again, and for a moment, you let yourself sink into it. Maybe this isn’t so bad.

Maybe this is just how it’s meant to be.

⠀⠀𐚁

⠀. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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angeliteeyes · 1 month ago

Text

I promised @cmiru Aven content. And now, I deliver to you

Aventurine x Reader Headcanons

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

- I don't care that Hoyo was dumb and gave him plain ass nails. He 100% loves to get them done, especially if you're also into it. On his own, he's more of a manicure kinda guy, but he's more than down for you to do his if you offer. Even if you're a bit clumsy and the polish gets everywhere, he'll take it in stride. Although, he may have to make sure his gloves are on during business meetings.

- You do NOT have to worry about toxic masculinity with this man. Yeah, sure, he's got plenty of overwhelming insecurities bubbling under the surface, but this isn't one of them. He loves the finer things in life, so why should he limit what pleasures he indulges in? Frankly, it's the least life can give him after the shitshow that was his past.

- You would expect him to win every game you two play together, whether it's a card game, board game, or whatever else—as long as it involves luck. I mean, it's him we're talking about. Yet, after some coercion on his part to get you to play, you actually win? Like not every once in a while, you win more rounds than he even does. If you comment on it or start to boast, he'll just sit there and happily take it. Little do you know that this is what he was hoping for, to see you all happy and excited like this. So really, who's the winner here?

- He laughs a lot when he's nervous. The more nervous he is, the louder it tends to be. It gets especially bad if he ended up blurting out something that he immediately regrets or finds embarrassing, which is a lot once he tries to court you. The end result is shit like this:

"Wow, the sunset's really pretty... like you."

"Huh?"

"HAHAHAHA nothing! Nothing..."

Aven. Please. You're not being as sneaky as you think you are.

- Surprisingly not that forward when it comes to flirting with you? At least, not once he's seriously into you and wants to have a genuine relationship. His mind is eternally stuck in gamble mode, which means that he ends up seeing you yourself as a game of luck. And in turn, he sees all the chances for things to go wrong. Maybe he'll go too fast and make you uneasy around him. Maybe he'll take things too slow and you won't realize just how earnest his feelings are. He's used to making bets, but not like this.

- His saving grace is that he's got socializing as a whole down pat, which he uses to his advantage to learn as much about you as possible. What kind of guys you're into, which ones you're not into, insecurities, pet peeves, and so on. This way, he can get his odds of winning your heart up as much as possible before the final bet of asking you out.

- For how much time he's spent worrying about if you like him back, it really doesn't show when he bites the bullet and confesses. If you take a moment to think about it, you can tell pretty easily how rehearsed and planned out the whole ordeal is though. Every line is as sweet as honey, painfully so, and without a hint of shyness or embarrassment in his voice. Don't let his act fool you. There's a reason why he hasn't made direct eye contact with you this whole time, and why his hands you caught shaking are now surreptitiously hiding behind his back. For his sake, pretend you didn't see anything.

- Once he actually has you as his partner, he has no fucking idea what to do. Of course, he's thought about it a lot. His fantasies of going on dates with you, holding you, etc. have been the one thing getting him through all his boring business meetings, after all. But he was so focused on getting you that having you feels like a far-off notion. His search history may or may not have an embarrassing amount of questions like "how to be a good boyfriend" or "things you should never say to your partner" (gotta be prepared).

- It's not too noticeable unless you're already dating but... the way he thinks of you is a little off, or more accurately, how he thinks YOU think of him. He constantly gets you nice, luxurious gifts, spends plenty of money on you, all the works. Yet it feels like a given when he does, as if there's no other option in his mind. Even if you don't ask for a single thing or even say explicitly you don't want material stuff from him, it's like he can't comprehend it. As if he doesn't believe you'd sincerely like him and stay with him without some sort of transactional benefit. If you reassure him enough or refuse his gifts, you might be able to change this for a little... but don't be surprised when he reverts back to his old ways.

- He thrives off of any sort of positive reactions or general affection from you. It helps a lot to ease the neverending fear he has that you're losing interest in him, and believe me when I say he needs that help to stay sane. He won't say it out loud, but he likes you best when you're clingy or possessive. It means you want him and won't run off with some other guy, right? ......Right?

- On a happier note, he loves saying your name every chance he gets. Specifically in a happy sing-song sort of way. He kinda just likes singing to you in general, whether it's soft, romantic melodies or random, jokey stuff to make you laugh.

Imagine him singing Sweet Caroline. Now imagine him very loudly going

BUM BUM BUM

because he knows you'll find it funny. There you go.

- Also. When he laughs way too hard he snorts like a pig and then goes dead silent from shame. Looks at you like this

Unless you also snort when you laugh, in which case congrats!!! You two can live in a barn together happily <3

#aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #honkai star rail headcanons #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr x you #x reader #oink oink or whatever #—stellaronhvnters.#the writing slump is getting to me... but the headcanon format is keeping me afloat for now

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sexiestpodcastcharacter · 2 months ago

Text

Sexiest Podcast Character 2024 — Scripted Undefeated Bracket — Round 5

Propaganda

Renée Minkowski (Wolf 359):

Please. I beg of you. Read all the propaganda I wrote, and then vote Minkowski. If you're still not convinced:

She's a first-generation Polish immigrant, and a huge part of her arc is about feeling like she had to hide her identity and prove herself to make it in the US. When she lets her accent slip out in episode 52, it's the sexiest thing to ever happen.

She has the entire rule book for her space mission memorized so she can better take care of her ship.

She talks to ghosts on multiple occasions.

She has a gay little dynamic with the 2024 sexiest podcast character, Isabel Lovelace.

She expertly navigates multiple hostage situations.

Along with musicals, she's ALSO really into Sylvia Plath.

She lives under a rock and does not know anything about pop culture, which is adorable.

She writes show tunes!

vote for the commander you fools, vote like the wind!!!!!!!!!

John Doe (Malevolent):

VOTE JOHN DOE EVERYONE!!!! LOOK AT HIM!!!!! MY BELOVED YELLOW GLOWING EYE CREATURE!!! HE CERTAINLY DESERVES YOUR VOTE !

PLEASEEEE VOTE FOR JOHN😭😭😭 he’s so GODDDD HES AN ELDRITCH GOD THAT JUST WANTS LOVE😭😭 (if you know me PLEASE VOTE FOR JOHN I KNOW YOU DONT KNOW HIM BUT PLEASEEEE HES PERFECTTTT!!! And also listen to Malevolent 🤩)

(vote John tho, he's such a baby, you wouldn't hurt a baby!)

i wasnt gonna say anything and just see how it turns out but PLEASEEEE VOTE FOR JOHN PLEASE MY POOKIE💔💔💔💔💔FAVOURITEST GUY EVER HIS VOICE IS SO NICE PLEASE PLEASE💔💔

Let’s not let this trans icon down guys. He didn’t fight to be who he decides for nothing. And that is the sexiest thing imaginable.

John was absolutely an eldritch nightmare BUT is literally getting better and learning empathy and consent which is very sexy

Hello my friends and random people in my phone. Please consider voting John Doe for Sexiest Podcast Character. He is barely beating Helen Distortion and eyes are so much cooler than spirals. John deserves one (1) nice thing and if that nice thing is being voted the Sexiest Podcast Character of 2024, who am I to deny that to him? Who are we to deny that to him? Use your voice, tumblr. Vote for John.

The one who’s changing and growing, powerful and terrifying but can be tender and good, capable of mind-fuckery but instead trying to be a better being and make up for thousands of years of terrible choices

John's entire identity is about defying the rules you were forced into at birth, and deciding you can be whoever you decide. And nothing is sexier than that.

Hello, we the good people at John's campaign headquarters, come to you with a very special message about our candidate and why he deserves your vote with a compilation of his best hits.

A vote for John is a vote for justice. And being your true self. And choosing your own name. And being really really cool.

youtube

John Propaganda video by @lunaescribe and @rotflea.

JOHNDOE2025 video by @curbledmiilk.

John Doe Acceptance speech by @malevolentcast.

Additional propaganda below the cut:

Renée Minkowski (Wolf 359):

the most badass commander there is. she spent a week hunting a plant monster living on the air ducts of her station with a goddamn harpoon. she managed to keep her people alive and get them home. she managed to keep Eiffel alive for like five years and for that alone she deserves a fucking medal

She did not just spend one week hunting the plant monster, she spent TWO WEEKS hunting the plant monster. Later on, she used the very same harpoon to murder an evil capitalist WHILE SHE HAD A BULLET IN HER CHEST.

She's haunted by the memory of the first time she took a life, and what's sexier than a character with regrets?

She works out. Muscle women. Enough said.

She's devoted to protecting her crew above all else, and despite her self-doubt, she's REALLY damn good at it.

She's a theater kid! She loves musicals! She writes showtunes! Sondheim is her favorite composer!

She Russian-Roulettes a guy into not blowing up her ship, and does such a good job of it that he never even realizes there aren't any bullets in her gun.

She's been trapped in a time loop, possibly multiple times.

She's the best character in all of audio drama, I love her, she's beautiful, she's sexy, and she deserves every vote.

#minkowski my beloved. love of my life. other half of my heart. sexiest woman in podcast ever. i love her

#MINKOWSKI!!!!!! #i love her sooo much fun fact

#my girl! my favorite girl! she won! #let's keep this energy going everyone!

I don't really remember anything about Wolf 359 since I only listened to a few episodes so I'm throwing my lot in with whoever has the most compelling/funniest propaganda. I think this would be funny and I commit to nothing if not the bit

This is propaganda for all the female characters. Voters please remember how pretty all women are and factor that into every single vote you make. Thank you.

But. MINKOWSKI. Please read all that Minkowski propaganda I wrote and then consider voting for her. She's the love of my life and THE sexiest podcast woman, bar none.

MINKOWSKI

John Doe (Malevolent):

A fragment of the Eldritch Deity that has gained independence, attached to possibly the world's most pathetic man. Also have you heard his voice

JOHNNN, JOHN I BELIEVE IN YOU

Gonna need everyone to vote for John plz

Don't let John down, he needs a win, he's had a miserable time lately : (

his voice is jsut. really good

sorry but queer rumbling voice John Doe is too powerful to not vote for here. Also no one in canon will tell him this and he deserves to know.

ok but the way John Doe said labrynthine

If John wins I'll write him kissing Noel

Trans Icon

LISTEN TO HIS VOICE

Threatens to disembowl anyone who hurts the person he loves

Once tried to kill a priest for making goo goo eyes at his man

Was an evil warlord turned soft poetry lover

Can still throw hands when needed

Clever as fuck

Wants to see a movie SO BAD

Memorizes poems just for his wet cat -V protective of his wet cat partner

VOTE JOHN

Crew we can't let trans icon movie lover, most jealous husband in the universe John Doe lose...

If John wins I'll cosplay him again

Vote John!! he's everything. eldritch god, in a codependent relationship with a feral cat of a man, nice voice, he even likes poetry

I've actually nutted to John's voice before. /hj

like this isn't even his full power s2 voice but mannnnn he sounds so hungry and feral for Arthur all the time...

ASSEMBLING THE MALEVOLENT CROWD. POOKIES FOLLOW YOUR DUTY AND HELP THIS MISERABLE MAN OUT!!!!

do NOT let my glorious goat LOSE!!!!

JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN JOHN J

Vote John Doe!!!

MOOTS PLEASE VOTE JOHN 💔💔💔💔

VITE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN VOTE JOHN

LETS GO JOHN DOE

malevolent fans RISE

JOHN LETS GOOOOOOOO

hey all my mutuals, do some work for your favorite yellow boy

Vote for John!! Joohn!!!!

IM SORRY BUT PLEASE VOTE JOHN HES AWESOME I PROMISE

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theonottsbxtch · 3 months ago

Text

A LOYAL HEART | OP81

an: the longer i was writing redcoat the longer i was falling in love with this version of oscar and i was held at gunpoint to write something for our dear boy. i loved writing this little universe, come talk to me about it if you like it!

warnings: mentions of death and miscarriage

wc: 5.0k

summary: Following Lando's story in Redcoat, this follows Oscar, a former soldier adrift in the quiet after war. Burdened by loss and shaken faith, he finds unexpected solace in a sharp-tongued widow with wounds of her own. Through rainstorms, shared silences, and slow-blooming trust, they learn that even the most weathered hearts can find home again.

redcoat part one | redcoat part two

CHARLESTON, 1785

The war had ended, or so the papers claimed.

But the streets still bristled with the memory of it. With boots, with bruised pride, with banners torn down but not forgotten. Charleston stood like a house after a storm: upright, but no longer quite the same.

Oscar had been posted there six months now. Not as a soldier, they said, but a man of peace. He wore the same red coat, only now it felt thinner. Not in fabric, but in meaning. Where once it had shielded him with duty, now it hung from his shoulders like a story no one wanted to read again.

He still polished his boots each morning. Still folded his letters to Lando with precision. Still stood when women entered a room and removed his hat as if God Himself were watching.

It was routine that kept him breathing.

And routine that led him, one golden afternoon, into the old quarter, where homes leaned tiredly into one another and shops bore names not meant for British tongues.

There, nestled beneath the shadow of a drooping willow, was a small apothecary.

It was nothing grand. A bell that clattered like a cough when the door swung. Shelves lined with glass jars, some empty, some filled with dried herbs, some labelled with scrawl barely legible. A counter smoothed from the brushing of many elbows. And behind it was a woman.

She did not smile when he entered. Nor did she greet him. She simply looked up from her mortar and pestle and said, “You’re bleeding.”

Oscar blinked. Looked down. Sure enough, a thread-thin cut ran across the back of his knuckle, courtesy of a brass buckle and his own damn stubbornness.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said.

“No,” she replied, “you lot never do.”

And then she turned, muttering something about oak bark and stubborn fools, and disappeared into the back.

He should have left. Truly, he should’ve.

But Oscar stayed. Drawn by something he could not name—perhaps it was the way she had not flinched at the red of his coat. Or the way she’d looked at him not like a soldier, not like a symbol, but like a man too daft to clean a wound.

She returned moments later with a scrap of linen and something bitter-smelling in a chipped jar.

“This’ll sting,” she warned.

“Good,” he replied.

She arched a brow, and the corner of her mouth twitched, but did not smile.

“Sit.”

He obeyed, without question.

And for the first time since the war had ended, Oscar felt something stir in him that was not guilt, not weariness, not displacement.

It was... quiet.

And curious.

And very much alive.

He came back two days later.

No injury this time. Not even a scratch to excuse his presence. Only a chill to the morning air, and the slow, unsatisfying drag of time between dawn and noon. He told himself it was the sound of the apothecary bell that drew him. That odd, metallic cough. Something needed mending.

But it wasn’t the bell.

It was her.

She looked up as he entered. Still no smile. Still no formal greeting. Just that same flat stare, heavy with appraisal, as though weighing not his presence, but his purpose.

“You’re not bleeding,” she observed, arms crossed.

He cleared his throat. “I noticed the door hangs. Makes a racket when the wind kicks in. Thought I might fix it.”

“Do I strike you as someone helpless with a hinge?”

“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But I’ve spent so long fighting men, I thought I might try fixing something instead.”

There was silence. Then, with the softest exhale, something between disbelief and reluctant amusement, she gestured with her head.

“Toolbox’s under the stairs. Don’t break anything.”

He nodded once. Removed his coat, slowly, almost reverently, and hung it over the back of a nearby chair.

It struck her then, how deliberately he did everything. As though every action were a confession. As though the very act of folding, of lifting, of hammering quietly, was his penance.

She watched him work. Not openly, but from behind her shelves. Between tasks. A careful, covert study.

He didn’t hum, as some men did. Didn’t boast or explain or ask for praise. Just knelt, straightened, tightened, and tested. All in holy silence.

At one point, he murmured, “You’ve made something peaceful here.”

She paused. Dried her hands on a cloth. “Peace is expensive.”

He glanced up. “And who paid for yours?”

She didn’t answer. Only said, “If you’re after a confession, you’ll have to find a priest.”

Oscar smiled, not broadly, but in that quiet, stunned sort of way a man does when something warm touches a cold place he’d forgotten about.

“I stopped trusting priests when mine told me war was glorious.”

She looked at him then. Properly. And something unspoken passed between them, not flirtation, not fondness. Something older. Graver. A shared truth without the burden of speaking it aloud.

When he stood, the door no longer squeaked.

He gathered his coat, eyes still on her. “I’ll be by again,” he said.

She arched a brow. “More hinges?”

“Not if I can help it.”

It was the kind of storm that made you feel watched. Thunder low and rolling, like God pacing behind closed doors. Rain that struck the shutters with impatient fingers. Wind that howled not for entrance, but in warning.

She had just locked the shop when the knock came.

Not loud. Just three quick raps. Measured. Controlled. And yet somehow...desperate.

She opened the door to find him drenched. Hat forgotten. Red coat darkened by rain, hair plastered to his brow, shoulders hunched like the weight of silence had finally broken him.

“Oscar,” she said, blinking. “What in heaven’s name—”

“Our quarters flooded and I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, voice raw, like it had rubbed against something sharp.

She stepped aside without question.

Inside, the apothecary felt even smaller against the storm. Shelves cast long shadows by the hearth’s glow. The scent of dried lavender and damp wool clung thickly in the air. She handed him a towel without asking. He accepted it with a murmur of thanks.

They didn’t speak for a moment. Just the fire. The distant moan of wind. And the quiet thump of his heartbeat trying to calm itself.

She watched him as he stood by the hearth, drying his hands but not his eyes. He looked like a man who’d wandered too long in a wilderness of thoughts.

“What’s on your mind, soldier?” she asked, soft but steady.

He let out a laugh, bitter and hollow. “You ever sit so still the past catches up with you?”

She tilted her head, waiting.

“I’ve been... proud,” he said slowly. “Too proud to admit it. But the war didn’t just take lives, it took the map I lived by. God, country, command, all of it. Gone quiet. I watched boys younger than me fall with prayers still on their lips. And I kept waiting, for something. Some divine sign. Some reason.”

He swallowed.

“But it never came. Only more orders. More blood. And now... Lando is alive, and happy. And I’m glad. I truly am. But it makes the quiet louder, somehow. Like the war gave him purpose. And all it left me was... this.”

He gestured vaguely, to the coat, to the rain, to himself.

Silence fell again, thick and reverent.

She looked at him, not with pity, but understanding. A shared ache. A mirror held at an angle.

“It’s funny,” she said, “how quickly the world moves forward while we’re stuck in the past, isn’t it?”

Oscar turned to her, brow furrowed but not questioning.

She met his gaze. Unflinching. Voice softer now, almost lost to the crackle of fire. “I was married. Before the war.”

He said nothing, but his eyes said everything.

“He was a printer. Fingers always ink-stained. Used to read scripture aloud even when no one asked him to. Said it kept the walls holy.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched, as if holding something back.

“They sent his effects in a box smaller than a Bible,” she said. “Told me it was a noble death. As if nobility made the bed feel any less empty.”

A beat.

Then she smiled—not brightly, but with the grace of someone still alive despite everything.

“So no, you’re not the only one who’s lost his faith.”

Oscar breathed in. Something shaky. Sacred.

And then, after a long moment, he said, “May I stay? Just for a little while. I don’t wish to be alone tonight.”

She nodded once, and crossed the room to light a second candle.

Not for brightness.

But for company.

The storm pressed on, but the room had settled. Two souls made smaller by time, and yet somehow, just tonight, stretched wider than they’d dared in years.

Oscar sat in the chair closest to the fire, boots off, coat hung to dry, sleeves rolled just above his elbows. He looked… less like a soldier now. More like a man learning to breathe again.

She handed him a mug of something warm and when their fingers touched, just briefly, he didn’t flinch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough from use.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, but there was something in her eyes that said it was.

A kind of silence grew between them. Comfortable. Earned.

“I used to love storms,” she said, glancing at the window where rain danced like it had secrets. “When I was a girl, I’d stand on the porch and count the seconds between thunder and lightning.”

“And now?”

“Now I just listen. There’s something honest about a storm, don’t you think? It doesn’t pretend.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “I used to think they were God’s way of shouting.”

“And now?”

“I think… maybe He’s just tired of whispers.”

That made her look at him. Really look. And for the first time, Oscar didn’t look away.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone like this in a long while,” he admitted.

“You mean a woman?” she teased, brows raised.

He chuckled, low and unguarded. “I mean anyone who doesn’t expect me to salute or bleed.”

That quiet fell again. Like a blanket. Like a church.

After a while, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze locked on the fire.

“Lando… he has a future,” he murmured. “He talks about land. About building things. You can hear it in his voice, hope, like he’s already halfway there.”

“And you?”

“I’ve only just stopped being angry. I don’t know what comes next.”

She moved to sit across from him, knees close, skirts brushing his boots.

“You don’t have to know,” she said. “Not tonight.”

Oscar looked up at her, something fragile in his expression.

Then, “Will you read to me?”

She blinked. “Read?”

“You said he used to read scripture aloud. Your husband.”

“I—yes. I did.”

“You don’t have to. But… I’d like to remember what it sounds like. Holy words in a quiet room.”

She hesitated, then reached for a small worn Bible that still lived on a shelf above the counter. She hadn’t opened it in some time.

Her fingers turned the pages until they found something old and comforting.

She read, voice soft but sure. “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest…”

The storm cracked loud outside, but Oscar closed his eyes.

And in that moment, with scripture on her lips and thunder in the heavens, something inside him, something angry and hard, bent ever so slightly toward peace.

When she finished, they said nothing.

But he stayed. All night.

On the floor beside the hearth, with a spare blanket and a pillow she brought without question. She watched him fall asleep, his brow soft in sleep, his shoulders less haunted.

And just before she climbed into her own bed, she looked up to the ceiling and whispered, “Maybe You haven’t gone quiet after all.”

He was up before her.

She found him standing in the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled once more, hair sleep-ruffled, brow furrowed like the kettle had offended him personally. He held a spoon in one hand and stared at it, as though willing it to explain what, precisely, it was meant to stir.

“You look like a man attempting sorcery,” she said, leaning on the doorframe.

Oscar glanced up, utterly unbothered by the state of him. “I’ve faced battle with less confusion.”

“Did you… attempt tea?”

“I may have boiled it to death.”

She crossed to him, took the kettle gently from his hand and laughed, soft, lovely. “That’s not even tea, Oscar. That’s penance.”

He huffed through a smile. “Fitting.”

As she re-boiled the water properly and laid out two chipped cups, he leaned back against the counter, watching her. Something in him had quieted. Not dulled, but steadied.

“I haven’t had a morning like this in years,” he said at length.

“With poorly made tea and a storm-soaked floor?”

“With… kindness.”

She didn’t look at him, just poured the tea, steady hand and all. “It’s not kindness,” she said. “It’s tea.”

He took the cup she offered, holding it with both hands. “It’s more than that.”

She sipped her own, smirk tugging at her lips. “You always speak like you’re mid-sermon.”

“And you speak like you’ve no time for sermons.”

“Perhaps because I haven’t,” she replied, lifting her chin. “I’ve lived through war. Grief. Raising a child who never came.”

That silenced the room a little. Not heavy, but honest.

Oscar swallowed. “You never mentioned a child.”

“Because I didn’t get to know them. War doesn’t just steal men, Oscar. It takes the things they leave behind.”

He said nothing for a moment, just set down his cup and reached for hers. His hand touched hers when he took it, eyes holding hers with a gentleness that undid her for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m not asking for sorrow.”

“Then what would you ask?”

“Company. Real company. Not charity or pity or pride. Just… presence.”

A pause. He nodded. “That, I can offer.”

They stood there, the kettle between them, the storm long gone but its echo still on the windows.

After a moment, she sighed. “So. What now?”

He blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Are we just two people in a kitchen, or are we friends?”

Oscar looked at her for a long, long moment. Then he stepped forward, ever so slightly.

“We’re two people,” he said. “But I think… I’d like us to be more.”

“And what does that look like?”

“A promise. Not grand. Not immediate. Just, if you’ll have it, a loyal heart. Mine.”

She smiled, the sort of smile she hadn’t dared since the world ended.

And as the clock ticked on the mantle and the morning sun peeled itself over the wet horizon, she reached for his hand and said, simply.

“I’ll have it.”

The storm passed. The roads dried. And Oscar didn’t leave.

He made excuses at first, something about checking the roof tiles, how the cellar door didn’t shut properly, how she oughtn’t be lifting crates that heavy. She scoffed, but never told him to go.

They fell into rhythm. Not of love, yet. But something gentler. She caught him humming once as he mended a broken latch. He caught her staring too long at his hands, then pretending she hadn’t.

They shared tea in the mornings. Supper in the evenings. Walks when the weather allowed. Silence when it didn’t.

It wasn’t rushed. There was no grand declaration, no clumsy grasping at passion to fill the empty space between them.

Just… space filled with something else.

One morning, she found him kneeling in the garden, sleeves rolled, palms in the soil like it might speak to him. A sprig of rosemary tucked behind one ear. She leaned against the doorway and called out, “If you’re going to start whispering to the vegetables, I’ll need warning.”

Oscar looked up, grinning. “They’ve heard worse confessions, I imagine.”

That evening, he brought her a handful of violets. Didn’t say a word about them. Just left them by the bread bin and pretended they weren’t there.

She noticed.

Later that week, he fixed the fence at the back and returned with a cut on his palm. She stitched it with a sure hand and said, “Try not to bleed on the sheets.”

He didn’t miss the ‘our’ she hadn’t said.

They went to market together on Saturday. She bought flour and honey. He bought a book of poetry he said he hated. She read from it at night, by the hearth, and he closed his eyes and listened like it was scripture.

One night, after too much wine and too little food, she leaned her head on his shoulder and murmured, “Do you believe in second chances, Oscar?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then—

“I think I’m living one.”

She nodded, quietly. “I think I am, too.”

One particular nice day, the bell above the apothecary door tinkled.

She looked up from the counter, apron dusted in dust, and saw a stranger with the air of a healing man. His coat was a little too fine, boots polished to an almost theatrical shine, and though his hair was longer than regulation, there was no mistaking the military in his past.

“Good morning,” he said, voice rich and warm like burnt toffee. A British accent. “Is this the apothecary that also stitches windows and fixes fences and lends books of poetry with dog-eared pages?”

She blinked. “Depends who’s asking.”

He smiled. “A friend. Hopefully still one.”

From the back room, Oscar’s voice called out, “I’ve got the ledger right—” and then it stopped. She turned just as he came into view, cloth in hand, and froze.

“Lando?”

The stranger grinned wider. “Hello, Osc.”

Oscar cleared his throat. “What… what are you doing here?”

“Went to your quarters. Your old bunkmate, Logan, was it? Said you’d vanished. Thought you’d gone back to sea. But no here you are, keeping house and hearth.” His eyes flicked between them. “Rather domestically.”

Oscar looked like he wished the floor might open up and swallow him.

She raised a brow. “Friend of yours?”

Lando turned to her, offering a hand with gentlemanly flourish. “Lando Norris. At your service, miss.”

She hesitated because the name meant nothing to her but took it politely. “Pleasure.”

He looked at Oscar again, smug now. “May we… walk? A moment?”

Oscar muttered something and shrugged on his coat.

They walked the back path into the tree-line, boots scuffing frost-hardened soil. Lando waited until they were far enough to be alone with the wind before elbowing him lightly.

“So, Osc,” he said, with mock gravity, “I think you’re not telling me something here.”

Oscar groaned. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“She’s lovely.”

Oscar stared ahead. “I know.”

“Sharp, too. Pretty sure she could kill me with a piece of cotton.”

“Probably.”

Lando chuckled. “You haven’t told her about me.”

Oscar shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have, just not much.”

“I’m hurt Oscar, I thought I was your best friend, you don’t even mention me.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “What’s there to say? That once upon a time I was a soldier, and now I’m not? That once I watched you get nearly drowned, and thought maybe I should’ve joined you?”

Lando was quiet. Then, gently, “She’s brought you back, hasn’t she?”

Oscar let the silence stretch. “I don’t know where I went, Lando. But yes. She did.”

Lando nodded. “Then you ought to tell her. Eventually.”

Oscar looked up at the grey sky. “Maybe. When it’s time.”

The sky had gone full pewter by the time they turned back for the house, quiet now but not awkward. Comfortable. Like an old coat dug from the chest, worn but warm.

Oscar spoke first, voice low. “So why’d you really come, Lando?”

Lando gave him a look, wry, gentle, just a shade too soft to be teasing.

“Because I wanted to see you,” he said. “And because my wife’s expecting.”

Oscar stopped walking.

Lando laughed, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Aye. I know. I still feel like a boy some mornings, and now I’ve got a child on the way.”

Oscar didn’t know what to say. “Congratulations,” he managed, voice a bit raw.

“There’s more.”

He looked over.

“I want you to be godfather.”

Oscar’s breath caught. “Lando—”

“You saved my life, Osc. More than once. I want my child to know that kind of loyalty. That kind of love.”

Oscar looked down at the mud-spattered path, lips pressed together.

“You know I don’t go to church,” he muttered. “I barely know if I believe anymore.”

Lando just smiled. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll do it anyway.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached the shop. Lando kissed the woman’s hand with a bow that was both sincere and mischievous, then vanished into the dusk like a ghost in.

That night, the rain returned, soft against the windows.

Oscar lay awake on the bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The candle flickered low on the side table. He’d barely touched the stew she’d left him, too full of something else.

Not quite sorrow. Not quite joy. Just… time. The feeling of it passing. The knowing that he wasn’t young, not anymore. That his hands ached in the mornings and he no longer reached for his boots out of habit.

She knocked on the doorframe softly. “You still awake?”

He turned his head. She stepped inside, arms crossed.

“I saved you a roll. It’s got more butter than sense.”

He smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

She hesitated. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“In a way, I have.”

She perched beside him, folding her legs beneath her. “What did he want, the friend?”

Oscar stared at the candle. “He asked me to be godfather.”

Her brows lifted. “That’s—”

“I haven’t set foot in a church in three years,” he cut in, quiet. “And even when I did… I don’t know. I think somewhere between the dying and the silence, I stopped looking up.”

She didn’t answer straight away. Just reached over and placed a hand gently over his.

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t still good,” she said softly. “Still worthy.”

He looked at her then, and something in his chest shifted, like a stone being moved after years at rest.

A week passed and they never spoke of that conversation again, Oscar had mulled over the idea of being the Godfather to Lando’s child but he still held some hesitation. What if he wasn’t enough.

Oscar was sat near the hearth, polishing his boots though he had no real cause. They weren’t dirty, hadn’t been since the last rain, but the motion soothed him, gave his hands something to do while his mind wandered far from the worn leather.

She was sat across from him, her fingers moving deftly over wool and needles. The fire threw warm shadows across her knuckles, catching in the curl of her hair. He’d seen her like this more and more, half-turned from the world, busy with something gentle.

“What’s that going to be?” he asked finally.

She glanced up, smiling faintly. “A bonnet. And mittens, if I can manage it.”

“For...?”

“Lando’s wife. The baby.”

Oscar stilled.

She didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, and chose to pretend otherwise.

“Thought it might be nice,” she added, soft. “You said the other day you two went far back. And she, well. I imagine she’s nervous. I was, first time.”

He nodded slowly, the ache rising in him like water through floorboards. Not for her knitting. Not even for Lando.

But for the grace of her. The quiet, unspoken goodness that made her think of others while still mending her own shattered life. She had not just stitched wool, she had stitched him back together without even meaning to.

She stood to fetch more yarn from the corner basket, and as she passed, the firelight caught on her cheek in just the right way, and he saw her not as widow, nor war-bride, nor shopkeeper.

But as hope. As forgiveness.

He rose, as though pulled.

“Don’t move,” he said, low. His hand brushed hers before she turned fully, and she stilled beneath the touch.

“Oscar—”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Too long, maybe. But I reckon now’s the time.”

“For what?”

“For this.”

He kissed her like a man afraid he’d wake from it. Not hurried, not forceful. Just quiet. Like a prayer whispered in the dark.

When they parted, she blinked up at him.

“About time,” she murmured.

He huffed a laugh. “Aye.”

The moment lingered between them like the softest of silences, one that spoke far more than either had ever expected to articulate aloud. His lips still tingled where they had pressed against hers, but the feeling was not rushed, not desperate, only a deep understanding. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was something else. Something neither of them had known they needed until the moment their hearts had silently declared it aloud.

Oscar pulled back just slightly, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against hers, eyes closed, as though he feared this was a dream he might wake from too soon. The air between them was thick with a thousand unspoken things, things that had been building, unravelling, stitching themselves together, even when they hadn’t noticed.

She, too, felt that tension easing from her chest, the weight of grief and doubt beginning to lift, replaced with something else. Something raw. Something tender.

“What was that sigh for?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady, as though she wasn’t sure if she was reading too much into every little everything.

Oscar’s hands lingered on her arms, his fingers tracing patterns, as though drawing her closer even in the stillness. “I think,” he said quietly, “it was one of relief, I should have done that long ago.”

Her breath caught, not in surprise, but in understanding.

“You’ve been broken,” she whispered, looking at him with eyes that had seen her own version of that same thing. “I know what it’s like to feel lost. Like you’ve reached a place where you can’t feel anything anymore. Where everything you thought you knew is... gone.”

He nodded slowly, his voice lower now, a confession of his own. “I’ve spent so long fighting the world. Fighting everything inside of me. For what? For who?” He paused, meeting her gaze, the vulnerability raw. “Then I met you. And you fixed me.”

Her eyes glistened, a soft laugh escaping her lips, though it was full of something deeper, something more complicated. “Oscar… you were never broken. Not to me. You just needed a little time. A little care. Maybe you needed someone who could see past all the pieces you thought were shattered. And all this time…” She inhaled, holding onto the truth of what she was saying. “All this time, I’ve needed you too.”

His heart raced with something that felt like relief, like the burden of years, of pain, of lost faith, lifting from his chest. "You make me believe, you know," he said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur. "You make me believe that maybe I’m worthy of something more than just being a soldier. More than a broken man."

She gave a small, trembling smile, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his coat. "I never thought I was worthy of more either. Not after... everything." Her voice cracked, and she steadied herself. "But you showed me that there could still be something good. Something to hold on to, even in the hardest parts of life."

Her eyes met his, and he could see the raw emotion there. The kind of emotion that had once been buried beneath layers of grief, now unspooling in front of him. “I never thought I’d trust anyone again. Not after everything I’ve lost. But you’ve been patient with me. You’ve never pushed. You’ve just been here. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that's the only thing I need to keep going.”

Oscar’s heart clenched at her words. She was giving him pieces of herself that she’d kept locked away for so long, pieces he didn’t deserve but would cherish with every fibre of his being.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder, of something he hadn’t felt in years: hope. “But I do know this. I don’t want to lose you. Not now. Not when you’ve made me feel like I’m not just a soldier anymore. Like I’m something more.”

She smiled through her tears, gently wiping them away, the softness of the gesture almost making his heart shatter. “You won’t lose me, Oscar. Not if you’re willing to try. Not if we’re willing to try.”

There was something deeply comforting about that promise. Not an empty one. Not a fairytale. But a promise of a shared struggle, of quiet companionship through the storms they both carried.

She reached for his hand, her fingers trembling as they intertwined with his. "I think, maybe for the first time in a long while," she said, her voice catching, "I’m not afraid of what comes next."

Oscar's breath hitched, a soft smile breaking across his face as he pulled her into his arms once again. This time, there was no hesitation. Only trust. Only the quiet certainty that they had both found something rare in each other, something worth fighting for, no matter what.

And as they stood there in the warmth of the firelight, with the rain still softly pattering outside, they realised that maybe they hadn’t just found each other. Maybe, just maybe, they had found the courage to begin again.

Extra:

Oscar’s letter to Lando with the bonnet and mittens:

Lando,

You’re a bastard, asking me to be godfather. But you knew I’d say yes. I’ve no cross hanging round my neck, no perfect prayers left in me but I’ll love that child like blood. I’ll teach them to read, to keep their chin up, to look after those smaller than them. I’ll tell them stories of their father both the soldier and the fool who once nearly drowned in a river.

Give my love to your lady. Tell her the wool’s from someone who knows what it’s like to start again.

Yours, Oscar

He sealed it with wax. Not a crest. Not a signet.

Just the simple stamp of a man beginning again.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana @bookishnerd1132

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happy74827 · 3 months ago

Text

Something Like Bliss

[Homelander x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Even in moments that seem serene, you can’t let yourself forget the truth of who he is, and what he’s truly capable of {GIF Creds: dilfgifs}

WC: 1714

Category: Hurt/No Comfort

After nine months, I felt another Homelander fic was necessary. Especially after seeing Antony in G20 🙊

『••✎••』

The penthouse is quiet tonight, except for the faint hum of the city below. You’re perched on the edge of the suede couch, fingers tracing the seam of a throw pillow, its fabric too perfect, too pristine, like everything else in this place. Homelander’s place.

The air smells faintly of his cologne—something sharp and expensive, like cedar and steel—and it clings to everything, including you.

You shift, your bare feet brushing the cool marble floor, and glance at the clock. He’s late. Not by much, but enough to make your stomach twist. He doesn’t like being late. Or rather, he doesn’t like anything that suggests he’s not in control.

The door hisses open, and there he is: the world’s greatest hero, Homelander, striding in like he’s stepping onto a stage. His cape sways behind him, catching the dim light of the chandelier, its red fabric almost liquid in motion.

He’s immaculate, as always—blonde hair swept back, not a strand out of place, suit pristine, the star-spangled blue clinging to his frame like it was painted on. But you notice the little things, the ones most people miss. How there was a slight tension in his jaw, a muscle ticking just below his ear. The way his gloved hands flex at his sides, fingers curling ever so slightly like he’s restraining himself from something.

His eyes, those piercing blue eyes, scan the room before landing on you, and for a split second, they’re not the warm, practiced gaze of America’s savior. They’re sharp, predatory, and assessing.

"You’re still up," he says, his voice smooth but with an edge like he’s testing you. He tilts his head just a fraction, and the light catches the faint stubble along his jaw—barely there, but enough to remind you he’s not entirely the polished god he presents to the world. There’s a humanness to him buried deep, and it’s in these moments you see it most clearly.

You nod, offering a small smile, careful not to overdo it.

"Couldn’t sleep," you say, keeping your tone light and neutral.

His eyes narrow slightly, and you wonder if he’s using that x-ray vision of his, peering through you, searching for a lie. You’ve learned to keep your heartbeat steady around him, not because you’re afraid—though you’d be a fool not to be cautious—but because he notices everything. The faintest uptick in your pulse, the slightest catch in your breath. He’s like a shark in the water, circling for blood.

He crosses the room in three long strides, his boots silent on the marble, and drops onto the couch beside you. Too close. His thigh brushes yours, the heat of him seeping through the fabric of your lounge pants. You don’t move away. You’ve learned that, too. He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck. It’s deliberate, that touch, a reminder of his presence, his power. His head lolls slightly, and he’s looking at you now, really looking, his gaze heavy, almost suffocating.

"You look tired," he says, but it’s not concern in his voice. It’s observation like he’s cataloging you. His eyes flick over your face—your slightly chapped lips, the faint shadows under your eyes, the way your hair falls messily over one shoulder. You feel exposed, like a specimen under a microscope, but you don’t flinch. You meet his gaze, noticing the way his pupils dilate just a fraction, the blue of his irises almost swallowed by the black.

He’s intrigued, maybe even pleased, that you’re not cowering.

"Long day," you reply, keeping your voice soft but steady. You tilt your head, mirroring his posture, and let your eyes drift over him in return. The faint crease in his suit at the shoulder, where it’s been stretched just a little too tight. The way his chest rises and falls, slower than a normal man’s like he’s consciously controlling his breathing. The tiniest nick on his chin, barely visible, a remnant of some fight or stunt or god-knows-what. It’s gone by morning, always is, but right now, it’s there, a crack in the facade.

He hums, a low sound in his throat, and his fingers at the back of your neck start to move, tracing lazy circles. It’s not affectionate, not really, but it’s not threatening either. It’s possessive.

"You know, I’ve been thinking." He says, his voice dropping, softer now, almost intimate. He pauses, and you notice the way his lips twitch. But it’s not quite a smile. It’s more like he’s testing the waters. "Maybe living blissfully isn’t such a bad thing."

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning you’re not sure you want to unpack. You study him, searching for the tell. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s a glint in his eyes, a hunger that’s always there, just beneath the surface. He’s not talking about peace or contentment, not the way normal people would. He’s talking about control. He’s talking about a world where he doesn’t have to fight for it, where he can just be, and everyone—everything—falls in line, including you.

You swallow, and his eyes track the movement of your throat, a predator’s instinct.

"Blissfully?" You echo, letting the word roll off your tongue, testing it. "Like… what? No more cameras? No more Vought breathing down your neck?"

His lips curl into a smile now, sharp and a little too perfect, like a magazine cover come to life.

"Something like that," he says, but there’s a darkness in his tone, a weight. He leans closer, and you catch the faintest whiff of something metallic on him—blood, maybe, or the residue of whatever he’s been doing tonight. His gloved hand moves to your knee, and he squeezes just enough to make you aware of his strength. "You ever think about it? A life where none of this—" he gestures vaguely, the motion encompassing the penthouse, the city, the world "—matters?"

You hesitate because you know he’s not asking. He’s probing, searching for weakness, for loyalty. You notice how his shoulders are just a little too stiff, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s not sure of you, not entirely, and that’s dangerous. But it’s also an opportunity.

You lean forward, closing the distance between you, and his breath hitches—just for a fraction of a second, but you catch it.

"Maybe," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You let your hand rest on his chest, feeling the hard plane of muscle beneath the suit, the steady thrum of his heart. It’s slower than yours, unnaturally so, and it reminds you of what he is. Not human, not really, but close enough to fool you if you let him. "But you’d get bored, wouldn’t you? Without the chaos?"

His laugh is sudden and sharp, and it startles you. It’s not the warm, rehearsed chuckle he gives on talk shows. It’s raw, almost unhinged, and it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

"Bored?" he repeats like the word is absurd. His hand moves from your knee to your face, cupping your chin, with his thumb brushing your lower lip. His grip is firm, not painful, but there’s no mistaking the strength behind it. "Oh, sweetheart, I’d find ways to keep busy."

The pet name is new, and it sends a shiver down your spine—not entirely unpleasant, but you’re not naive enough to think it’s genuine. You study his face, the way his eyes are locked on yours, unblinking, like he’s trying to see into your soul. The faint scar above his eyebrow is almost invisible unless you’re this close. The way his blonde lashes catch the light, too perfect. It makes you wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

A toy? A puzzle? A threat?

You tilt your head into his touch, just enough to make him think you’re leaning into it, and his grip softens, his thumb lingering on your lip. "Bliss sounds nice," you say, keeping your voice low, almost seductive. "But you’re not the type to settle, are you?"

His smile fades, just for a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something real, something vulnerable. It’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that mask of confidence, but you’ve seen it now, and you file it away.

He leans back, releasing your chin, but his hand stays close, resting on your thigh, a silent tether. "Maybe I could be," he says, and it’s almost convincing, the way his voice softens, the way his eyes search yours. Almost.

You don’t push him. You’ve learned that, too. Instead, you lean back, mirroring his posture again, and let the silence stretch. The city hums below, a reminder of the world outside this bubble, but here, in this moment, it’s just you and him. His fingers tap idly on your thigh, a restless rhythm, and you notice the way his shoulders have relaxed just a fraction. He’s comfortable, or as close to it as he gets.

Maybe living blissfully isn’t such a bad thing, you think, but not in the way he means it. For you, it’s about survival, about navigating this man who could crush you without a second thought. It’s about noticing the little things—the tension in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, the way his hands betray his restraint—and using them to stay one step ahead. Bliss, for you, is keeping him close without letting him consume you.

"You’re staring," he says suddenly, his voice teasing, but there’s an edge to it like he’s daring you to admit something. His lips quirk, and you notice the faintest dimple in his cheek, another imperfection he’d never let the cameras see.

You smile, small and careful, and shrug. "You’re worth staring at," you say, and it’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth he thinks it is.

His laugh is quieter this time, almost genuine, and he pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. You let him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the unnatural warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart.

For now, you’re safe. For now, you’re his. And maybe, if you play this right, you can stay that way.

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swiftiethatlovesf1 · 5 months ago

Text

The assistant

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this one shot of Lewis x assistant, ngl I was blushing so hard writing the last part. If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

The moment I stepped into Ferrari’s Maranello headquarters, I knew my life was about to change. The air buzzed with a mixture of history and ambition, the scent of oil and polished metal filling my lungs as I hurried down the halls, clutching my tablet and notepad close to my chest. Today was my first official day as Lewis Hamilton’s new assistant, and I was determined to make a good impression.

It still felt unreal. Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion, the man whose posters had covered my childhood bedroom, was now my boss. I had been warned—he was meticulous, demanding, and didn’t suffer fools lightly. The fact that I was young, inexperienced, and admittedly not the brightest when it came to all things technical probably didn’t help my case. But I was dedicated, eager to learn, and I refused to let anyone down, least of all him.

I reached his office and knocked twice, heart hammering in my chest.

“Come in,” came his deep, smooth voice.

I stepped inside, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process. “Good morning, Mr. Hamilton!” I chirped, a bright smile plastered on my face.

His eyes flicked up from his laptop, sharp and assessing. Even seated, he radiated effortless charisma. The Ferrari red suited him, adding a new edge to his presence that was almost overwhelming.

“It’s just Lewis,” he corrected, leaning back in his chair. “And you are?”

“Oh! Right. I’m Y/N. Your new assistant.” I held out a hand, which he shook briefly, his grip warm and firm.

His lips twitched. “You seem… enthusiastic.”

“I am!” I nodded eagerly. “I won’t let you down. I have your schedule ready, your coffee order memorized, and I even took the liberty of organizing your inbox.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. “Organized my inbox? That’s ambitious.”

“I color-coded it,” I said proudly.

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Alright, Y/N. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The weeks passed in a blur of early mornings, frantic note-taking, and adjusting to the fast-paced world of Ferrari. Lewis was… intense. Every meeting, every training session, every interview had to be managed with absolute precision. But he was also patient in his own way, never raising his voice even when I fumbled through things or had to ask the same question twice.

What I hadn’t expected was how easy it was to be around him. Beneath his disciplined exterior, there was a warmth, a dry sense of humor that surfaced when we were alone. I found myself looking forward to our moments between obligations—the brief exchanges of banter, the way his lips curled when I made a silly mistake, his teasing remarks about my tendency to trip over my own feet.

And then there were the looks.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. The way his gaze lingered a second too long when I handed him his morning coffee. How his eyes darkened when I absentmindedly chewed on my pen during meetings. The barely-there smirk whenever he caught me flustered, which, unfortunately, was often.

I told myself it was nothing. He was Lewis Hamilton—he could have any woman he wanted. Why would he be interested in his clueless, bumbling assistant?

But then, one evening, he shattered all my illusions.

It was late. The Ferrari offices were nearly empty, the only sounds coming from the hum of overhead lights and the occasional rustle of papers as I went through the last of Lewis’s schedule for the following day.

He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher.

“You don’t have to stay this late, you know,” he murmured.

I glanced up, blinking. “Oh, I don’t mind! I just wanted to make sure everything is perfect for tomorrow.”

He exhaled, a hint of exasperation in his gaze. “You work too hard.”

I grinned. “So do you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. The silence stretched between us, thick with something unspoken. Then, in a move that sent my pulse skyrocketing, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered, tracing lightly along my jaw.

My breath caught. “L-Lewis?”

He let out a quiet chuckle, his eyes dark, unreadable. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?”

I swallowed hard, my thoughts a jumbled mess. “I—um—I don’t—”

His fingers ghosted down my arm, slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Every time you walk into a room, all sweet and eager to please, I have to remind myself you’re off-limits.”

A shiver ran down my spine. My mouth was dry. “Am I?”

His jaw clenched, his grip tightening just slightly. “I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.”

“But?” I whispered, emboldened by the way his breath hitched at my voice.

His eyes flicked to my lips, then back up. “You make it very hard to be good.”

A flush spread down my neck. My heart pounded against my ribs as he took a step closer, the air between us crackling with tension. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of his cologne mixed with something unmistakably male.

He sighed, raking a hand through his curls before stepping back. “Go home, Y/N. Before I do something we both regret.”

I bit my lip, nodding as I gathered my things, but as I walked out, I knew one thing for certain: resisting this temptation was only getting harder for both of us.

Next part

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x you

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narxcisse · 7 months ago

Text

★ — The Line Between Us

Pairing: MH!Viktor x Jayce's partner!Reader

CW: infidelity, Viktor seems more obsessed than in love with reader, Jayce is kinda dumb

English isn't my native language

The cool, metallic tang of Zaun’s air clung to your lungs as you descended into the undercity. Every step felt heavier, your heart pounding with anticipation. You had told Jayce you were meeting a contact regarding a Hextech project, but here, beneath the gleaming spires of Piltover, that alibi felt hollow.

You weren’t here for progress. You weren’t here for Jayce.

You were here for him.

Viktor awaited you in his laboratory, surrounded by glowing machinery and the rhythmic hum of gears in motion. His mechanical frame caught the dim light, polished steel gleaming where flesh had long been forsaken. He looked up as you entered, his eyes locking onto yours, piercing through the guilt you carried.

“You’re late,” Viktor said, his voice calm but edged with an electric intensity that made your stomach twist. Today was one of those strange days where you saw him without his characteristic mask. (AN: Actually in my six years of playing LoL I never understood if it's his face or a mask, I would prefer it to be the second. 😭)

“I had to cover my tracks,” you murmured, stepping closer. “Jayce is… perceptive.”

“Jayce is a fool.” Viktor’s tone was sharp, almost dismissive. “He sees only what he wants to see. Progress is his blindfold.”

The words stung because they were true. Jayce, for all his brilliance, lived in a world of ideals. He didn’t notice how often you slipped away, didn’t question the late nights or the distant looks. He trusted you, and you were betraying him.

Viktor reached out with his augmented arm, the cold metal brushing against your skin. “And you? Do you share his blind optimism?”

You shook your head, your breath catching. “I’m not sure what I believe anymore.”

“Good,” Viktor said, stepping closer. “Doubt is the foundation of true innovation.”

Your lips met before you could think to stop yourself, the cold press of his against yours a stark contrast to the heat pooling in your chest. Viktor’s hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer. Every touch was calculated, precise, like he was dissecting you in the same way he dismantled machines. Yet there was an undeniable hunger, an almost desperate need in the way he held you.

“Do you think he suspects?” Viktor asked against your lips, his voice a mix of curiosity and possessiveness.

You hesitated. “I don’t know. But if he finds out…”

Viktor pulled back slightly, his eyes narrowing. “If he finds out, he will learn that perfection is inevitable—no matter the cost. You are no longer his. You are mine.”

The possessive claim sent a shiver down your spine. Was it love, or was it obsession? Did it matter?

“I don’t belong to anyone,” you whispered, though your words lacked conviction.

Viktor chuckled darkly. “Don’t you? You return to him out of guilt, but you come to me out of desire. Tell me, which is stronger?"

Your silence answered him.

---

The next morning, you stood beside Jayce in Piltover’s gleaming council chamber, his arm draped around your shoulders. He spoke animatedly about Hextech’s future, about the bright path forward. You smiled and nodded at the right moments, but your mind was miles away—in a shadowed lab in Zaun, where progress came at a price you weren’t sure you were willing to pay.

Jayce glanced at you, his warm smile full of trust. “You’ve been quiet. Everything okay?”

You forced a smile. “Just tired.”

He kissed your temple, his affection like a dagger in your heart. You wondered how much longer you could keep this up, how much longer you could walk the line between light and shadow.

But as Viktor had told you once, progress was inevitable. And so was the truth.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #machine herald x reader #arcane #league of legends #arcane x reader #lol x reader #league of legends x reader #jayce talis #jayce talis x reader #viktor league of legends #machine herald #x reader #idk how tumblr works #narxcisse

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itsnesss · 5 months ago

Text

𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | kang dae-ho ( player 388) × fem!reader

summary | you form an unexpected bond with daeho. amid growing danger, his quiet strength and subtle affection offer a fleeting sense of safety

warnings | violence, death, survival themes, psychological tension

word count | 2.0 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The sound of the guards' boots echoing against the polished floor fills the enormous dormitory. It’s a constant reminder of where you are, of what’s at stake. You try to ignore it as you settle against the wall, arms crossed over your chest, eyes fixed on the floor.

Tonight’s dinner was scarce. A piece of hard bread and a bottle of water. You know what that means: another long and dangerous night.

The air is heavy with anxiety, hunger, and fear. You can feel it in every breath, in every movement of the players around you. Some have learned to move silently, like shadows between the rows of beds. Others, too exhausted or desperate, have stopped caring about noise.

In the distance, a tense murmur fills the room. You can’t make out the words, but the tone is clear—whispers of discussions, improvised strategies, veiled threats. Some players have already realized that this place is not just a test of physical endurance but also a psychological battle.

Poor fools.

"Don't fall asleep too early."

Dae-ho’s deep voice pulls you from your thoughts.

You lift your gaze and see him sitting in front of you, one arm resting on his bent knee. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes never stop scanning the room. You don’t know him well, but you’ve noticed he moves as if he’s always on alert, measuring everyone around him.

"I wasn’t planning to," you murmur.

He nods, as if he already knew the answer.

From the first night here, you've learned that alliances form quickly, and those without one become easy targets. Not that you and Dae-ho are officially allies, but something about his presence makes you feel a little less vulnerable.

"How long do you think this will last?" you ask.

Dae-ho runs a hand through his dark hair before answering.

"I don’t know. But the food is running low, and the nights are getting more violent. I wouldn’t be surprised if they try to reduce our numbers before the next announcement."

You press your lips together. It’s what you feared.

It’s only been three days since you arrived, and you’ve already seen more deaths than you can count. Most not even in the games, but here, in this dormitory, where the lights never fully go out, and improvised knives slip through the shadows.

You're not sure what terrifies you more—the games or the people you share this room with.

A dense silence settles between you two. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not comforting either.

"Were you always this pessimistic?" you joke, trying to lighten the mood.

Dae-ho lets out a short laugh, void of humor.

"I'm not pessimistic. I just like to be prepared."

"For what?"

"For the worst."

You can’t help but notice that his answer isn’t just about this game.

In the distance, a group of players is arguing in hushed voices. You recognize a few: Kang, a burly man who has already proven he has no qualms about killing; Jisoo, a sharp-featured woman who is always watching, waiting for the right moment.

You feel Jisoo’s gaze on you for a moment before she looks away.

"They’re going to do something tonight," you say, not taking your eyes off the group.

Dae-ho follows your gaze and nods.

"I know."

"Are we going to do something about it?"

"No."

You frown.

"Why not?"

"Because it’s not our problem yet."

His tone is calm, but something about his words irritates you.

"And when will it be? When it’s too late?"

Dae-ho turns his head and studies you carefully.

"Listen," he says quietly. "We can’t save everyone. We can’t stop what’s going to happen here. We can only make sure it doesn’t happen to us."

Your instinct tells you that you should agree with him. Empathy is a luxury you can’t afford.

But you haven’t learned to turn it off completely.

The night drags on. A constant murmur fills the room, along with the occasional sound of someone moving between beds. You know violence could erupt at any moment.

Dae-ho remains by your side, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the crowd. He hasn’t said anything in a while.

"Are you forcing yourself to stay awake for me?" you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

"Maybe."

You frown.

"You don’t have to."

"I know."

But he doesn’t move.

You don’t know what to think of him. From the start, he’s kept his distance from everyone, but there are moments when you feel like he lowers his guard with you, even if only for a few seconds.

You’d like to ask him more about himself, why he’s here, what he thinks about all this. But in this place, talking too much can be dangerous.

So you stay silent.

Hours later, the neon light flickers above, casting shadows on the walls. Most players are lying down, though no one is truly asleep.

Dae-ho and you are still in the same spot.

"Were you always this quiet?" you ask suddenly.

He shrugs.

"Only when there’s not much to say."

"There has to be something." You look at him with curiosity. "What did you do before this?"

Dae-ho shoots you a warning look but then sighs.

"I was a marine."

Your eyebrow arches.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"And what happened?"

"Life happened."

That answer could mean many things, but you don’t press him.

However, he continues on his own.

"I thought I could handle everything. That I had control." He runs a hand over his face. "But the truth is, I never did."

His confession catches you off guard. It’s not something you expected to hear from him.

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask.

Dae-ho remains silent for a moment.

"Because you’re the first person here who doesn’t ask expecting a lie."

You don’t know what to say.

In this place, people only care about others when they can gain something in return.

But you don’t want anything from him.

And maybe that’s why he feels comfortable talking.

Before you can say anything else, a scream cuts through the air.

Both of you turn your heads in the same direction.

The fight has begun.

Dae-ho grabs your arm and pulls you against him, shielding you with his body when someone stumbles too close.

His breath is warm against your ear as he whispers,

"Stay with me."

His closeness makes your heart pound faster, not just from the danger but from something else.

Before you can think too much about it, he tilts his head toward you and brushes his lips against your forehead.

It’s a brief gesture, almost imperceptible, but you feel it in every part of your body.

After that, there’s no time to think.

#squid game #squid game 2 #squid game x reader #dae ho x reader #dae ho squid game #dae ho #kang daeho #dae ho x you #daeho x reader #🖇️ dae ho

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thewritetofreespeech · 7 months ago

Note

hello, hope you are having a good day! could i get some platonic bg3 headcanons about a tav that puts up a front of "witty, kind, confident leader!", but is secretly very depressed and hides their own traumas. one day, tav, having gone off alone to cry, gets caught with the "mask" off by a companion and hurriedly tries to keep up the act, but the jig is up. when asked why they didn't tell anyone, they say something along the lines of "...please, don't think it was because of something you did. i place no blame on you, any of you. just...what all of you have gone through is so, so much worse compared to my problems. why put more on your plates?"

Astarion

They never fooled Astarion. He knows the acts in this little play well, and has been exploiting Tav this whole time. Confronted with it, he doesn’t know what to do. Genuine care is not something he is familiar with and it makes him uncomfortable. Like all his other parts, however, he can play this one too. “Darling, we’re a team. Partners in…whatever you need. Let me be your shoulder to cry on. Just not on this shirt. It’ll stain.”

Gale

Even though they say it’s not his fault, Gale can’t help but feel like it is. If he only took on more for them. If only he hadn’t told them of his condition to burden Tav further. If only he had done more. Gale feels guilty and selfish for not seeing it. “A wise poet once said comparing problems is like comparing sands on a beach. They are vast, infinite, and each unique. Sharing your burdens isn’t to compare. You have been so kind to me, let me return the favor for you.”

Halsin

Halsin feels gutted that they couldn’t trust him with their burdens, when he himself has added so much to them. He had sought so little from people for so long, then just thrust all his problems onto Tav at the first shine of hope. What a selfish, blundering fool he has been, even after all these years. “I spent so much time focused on my own problems. The Shadow Curse. The Grove. It consumed me to the point that I thought I would never find a path out, so I know what you are going through. And like you, I want to offer whatever support I can. Let me help you, as you have helped me.”

Karlach

It hurts Karlach’s heart, more than her engine, to see them like this. They are always so good, so open, that Karlach didn’t think that they had any problems. Still the gullible fool she guesses. Just believing what people say or show on the outside without looking past for the problems. “Hey, what do you think these big shoulders are for soldier? My good looks? You cry as much as you need. Let Mama K do the heavy lifting for a while. You’ll be alright. I promise you.”

Lae'zel

What trivium. Is the moisture on your face solving the problem? Is the burden of leadership too much to bare? tsk'va! “What burden is too great for a warrior such as yourself? I did not put my faith, my survival, in lott of one such as this. But…if you must lay your burdens down to wield your sword, I shall carry them for you. My strength is mighty enough for the both of us ra'stil .”

Minthara

Minthara is…surprised. Displays of emotion like this are not shown in the Underdark. But, she does realize that they were doing this in private; which is something done in the Underdark. She thought Tav had no burdens. Beloved and adored by their peers, and feared by their enemies, what more could they want? “Do you think I am immune to the burdens you speak of? Far from it. Since I was a babe at my mother’s breast I was subjected to incredible pressures. As that is how one makes diamonds. You will learn. You will adjust. These cracks will harden and strength as your stone polishes into precious stones. Trust me. This will pass, and you will be grateful for it’s challenges.”

Shadowheart

It is not in her teaching, from what she can remember, to be open with their emotions like this. The ‘mask’ is the norm. All who worship Shar must be a blank slate for her will. But…Tav does not worship Shar. She was not taught the same way. And Shadowheart feels like a horrible friend for not even being a little supportive in a way that could help them with this. “You…take all the time you need. I’ll keep watch. Keep the others away. Unless…you would like company. I am a poor measure when it comes to sharing feelings but…I have two good ears. And I’ll probably just forget anything you’ve told me in the future anyway.”

Wyll

Wyll didn’t think he was to blame, but hearing them specifically say that he wasn’t makes him think that perhaps he is. He knows he hasn’t made it the easiest on them. His secrets. His changes. His stowaway. Wyll also feels dejected that they didn’t trust him enough to be honest with him. He is more than a blade at their side arm. He considered them a friend. “We all have our crosses, eh? But you needn’t hide it from me. I know how hard it can be to somedays tack on a smile. Just lean on me. I’ll be your shield if you need to unscrew it for a while.”

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eclipixels · 2 months ago

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Hello! Can I request for Reo Mikage from Blue Lock? One where his parents always disagreed with his decision to marry the reader, but years later Reo and reader already have a daughter and she met her grandparents and they absolutely LOVE her but they're still not that nice to reader. But they learned to accept her. Thank you 🩷

Acceptance

Reo Mikage x Reader

[1,580 words]

You’re not from a powerful family.

You don't own a company, you don’t wear tailored suits, and you don’t know the first thing about mergers or acquisitions. The first time you stepped into the Mikage estate, you could practically feel the centuries of wealth in the marble under your feet and the judgment in his parents' eyes.

They never said it outright. But you heard it in the way his mother spoke your name, like it tasted sour. And you saw it in the way his father avoided your gaze every time Reo mentioned Blue Lock or soccer. They had plans for their only son. The Mikage Corp needed a successor. A businessman. A polished heir, not a boy with cleats and bruised shins. And certainly not someone like you at his side, the one who told him to chase the ball, not the boardroom.

“You encouraged him,” his mother said, quiet but sharp, like a knife against glass. “You could have stopped him.”

You could’ve. But you didn’t. Instead, you stood by him on late nights when training broke his body down. You whispered encouragement when headlines called him a fool for leaving his legacy behind. You were the first person he called after every win and the only one he held onto after every loss.

“I love him,” you replied simply. “Enough to let him be who he really is. You don’t restrict the people you love.”

The silence after that said everything. They didn’t want love. They wanted legacy. But Reo chose you. You remember the way his fingers trembled slightly as he slid the ring onto your hand. The way his voice cracked when he said, “I want a future that’s mine, not theirs.”

The wedding was small. No lavish ballroom, no press release. Just close friends, a few Blue Lock teammates, and a promise whispered under a sky blooming with stars.

“I don’t care if they never accept it,” he said that night, lying beside you, hair still wet from the rain. “You’re the one who saw me. Really saw me. When I play, it’s for me… but also for us.”

And so you carry the weight of disapproval with quiet pride. Because you know the truth. Reo Mikage may have turned his back on an empire but he gained freedom, passion, and a life built on something far more meaningful than profit.

He gained you. And he never looked back. With the money he generated from going pro, it was enough to support both of you as you furthered your education and started a family together.

Today was the day you were finally done with grad school, and you were nervous as ever but you had your family by your side.

The baby’s been fussy all morning, tiny fists curled against your chest as you bounce her gently, whispering reassurances into the crown of her head. You’re running on three hours of sleep and a cold protein bar but somehow, it doesn’t matter. Today, you’re graduating. You did it.

Reo couldn’t stop smiling all morning, despite the dark circles under his eyes too. He kissed your cheek before you left the house and promised he’d be there in the crowd, holding your daughter proudly while you walked the stage.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered, brushing hair from your face.

You didn’t expect anything more than that. That moment alone was enough. Until it wasn’t. Because the person giving your commencement speech was a familiar face. Your father-in-law stood front and center of the stage talking about risks, entrepreneurship, and business. It felt strange seeing him in person, last time you had was when he scolded you for supporting his son’s dreams. Halfway through the ceremony, as you’re seated near the front of the auditorium, you hear a voice behind you.

“Oh my goodness,” the woman gasps softly. “She’s beautiful! Is she yours?”

You turn only to lock eyes with someone who feels both foreign and familiar. Reo’s mother. Her expression mirrors yours, stunned. You don’t speak. Neither does she. She looks down again at your baby, who’s half-asleep in your arms, her dark lashes fluttering against soft cheeks. There’s a pause, heavy, loaded, before your name is suddenly announced.

“And now,” the dean says from the stage, “we’d like to welcome an exceptional graduate, Y/N L/N — founding chair of the Access for All Initiative, which raised over $2.3 million in support of first-generation law students and legal aid services on campus. A passionate advocate, full-time mother, and one of our most driven scholars.”

You rise, every step up to the stage weighted with emotion. You don’t look back. You can’t. But your hands don’t shake. As the applause echoes, you take the mic a brief moment to say a few words.

“Today marks the end of a long, beautiful journey. I owe thanks to my husband Reo, who believed in me every step of the way and to our daughter, for being my why.”

You glance toward the crowd, locking eyes with Reo, who has your daughter now, his smile stretched from ear to ear. A few rows back, his parents sit frozen.

“I’m proud to announce that leadership of Access for All will be handed over to Dr. Mahira Patel, whose work in public interest law and financial equity is unmatched. The mission is in good hands.”

Applause again. Some people stand.

When you step off the stage, diploma in hand and heart still thundering, Reo is already there, pressing a kiss to your temple. You barely register the soft voice behind you.

You turn. Reo’s parents are standing closer now, hesitant. You nod slowly. “Your granddaughter.”

Your mother-in-law looks like she might cry, whether from guilt, regret, or something else entirely, you don’t know.

“I didn’t know,” she says quietly, eyes flickering to Reo. “You… You’ve built something incredible.”

You exchange a glance with your husband, whose jaw is tense but calm.

“She did,” Reo says simply, proud and unwavering. “With or without your approval.”

In that moment, there’s no need for more words. Let the silence say what years of tension could not. You hold your daughter close, your future, your fire, and walk past the people who once said no. You didn’t just walk across a stage today. You walked through a door they tried to close and left it wide open behind you.

They wanted to meet your daughter, officially. They asked permission to throw her grand birthday parties and give her little family heirlooms. They treated her like a Mikage. You let them. Even if they rejected you, that was still your baby’s family and she deserved to know them. They loved her, it was a bit shocking at times how much they spoiled her just like her dad.

Then one night, on your birthday, you came home to a surprise birthday party thrown for you by none other than the Mikages. It was large, it was great, it was luxurious. It was for you. In the middle of it, while you were still in shock, Reo’s father took you aside to talk.

He watches you for a long moment before finally speaking.

“I was scared,” he says plainly. “Not of you, not really. But of what you represented.”

You raise a brow, letting him continue.

“You supported Reo’s dreams and I saw that as a threat to mine. I thought… if he left the business, that would be the end of our legacy. No heir. No one to carry on the Mikage name with purpose.”

You say nothing. You’ve learned how to hold silence like a blade, sharp, patient, waiting.

“But I was wrong,” he says finally. “A Mikage doesn’t need to wear a tie or sit behind a boardroom desk to build something lasting. Reo is building a name in his own way. And so are you.”

He exhales like it physically hurts to say it.

“You turned your degree into something with reach. That nonprofit of yours did what our PR team couldn’t do in five years. You understand people, power, systems. You create impact, not just dents.”

You’re not sure where this is going until he adds, slowly, “When I step down, I want you to take over Mikage Corp.”

The words hang between you like a loaded contract.

“I want the business in the hands of someone who doesn’t see it as inheritance,” he says. “But as responsibility. Reo, he’s carving his own legacy in soccer. But you? You see the long game. The systems. The influence.”

You blink, stunned.

“I thought legacy was about blood,” he says, more to himself. “But maybe it’s about vision. And if our grandchildren grow up watching you lead, maybe they’ll know they can write their own stories too, in law, in sport, in business… wherever.”

Your throat is tight. For once, you can’t find the right words. So you settle for the truth.

“You never had to choose between legacy and love,” you say softly. “You just had to make room for both.”

He gives you a rare smile. Almost apologetic.

“I see that now.”

“Are you sure about this?” You tilt your head, heart still pounding from the surrealness.

“I always wanted it to go into the hands of a Mikage. Are you not one, Y/n Mikage? I can’t think of anyone more deserving.” He smiled. Your mouth parted a little. He acknowledged you as a part of the family.

“I’d be honored.”

#reo x reader #reo mikage x reader #blue lock reo #bllk #blue lock #mikage reo #reo mikage #bllk reo #reo mikage x you #x reader

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reallyromealone · 2 years ago

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Okay so hear me out.

Sanzu x reader but it's an arranged marriage for connections between Bonten and another Yakuza. But the entire time reader is just kinda forced to dress as a girl because his dad didn't have a daughter to shuffle off to Bonten, so when Sanzu gets time alone with reader and actually gets to talk to him and hug him - he finds out reader is a guy and is just like "WTF- Wait I actually like this better" or something.

Absolutely uwu

🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐

(name) was uncomfortable as he was dressed and polished, makeup making his face look more feminine than it was.

He hated that he looked like this.

He was going to his "engagement party" with Bonten higher ups, he was being married off to bontens second, he didn't even know who he was. He just hoped it wouldn't go south.

He didnt know who he was, what to do as he walked into the venue, both Bonten and (Yakuza) were guarding the grounds as (name)s father left him by the arm as if he were a daughter and (name) wanted to claw his eyes out with his manicured nails "behave, fail and I will /kill/ you" (name) wasn't even a spare, third born and just a chip for his father so he knew he was serious. The venue was impressive, many people from various organizations there along with political leaders, it was quite the event.

He was never celebrated this much.

Cremes and pinks, gold silverware and expensive plates along the white tables and the marble reflected the expensive chandeliers.

It was all too much.

"Your fiance saved no expense for you" his father said and practically threw him to the wolves to get a drink.

He just wanted to scream.

He was greeted and congratulated by everyone before he even got to meet his future husband, everyone commenting about how lucky Sanzu was to get with such a beautiful girl, all of them pretending like it was love at first sight, not knowing (name)s secret. He didn't even know who this "Sanzu" was, the entire time being chatted up by others and talks about future children being wed for stronger bonds, (name) wanted to puke.

"So you're the little bird our Sanzu is marrying" a white haired man with a tattoo on the side of his head commented and glanced at "her" up and down almost judgingly but made a sound of approval "he wouldn't shut up about you, he's absolutely smitten from a photo" he said passively before smirking if you grow bored of him let me know"

Gross.

(Name) concluded he did not like the one he learned was named Koko who mentioned Sanzu was off assisting their boss with something of importance, (name) wasn't sure what and he didn't know if he wanted to know.

He stood at the window, the venue being at the top floor of a luxury hotel, the city looking tiny from this high and the lights of Tokyo lit up (name) in a way that made him look ethereal, the city reflecting off his eyes.

"I was looking for you" a voice said calmly and a man walked beside him and stared at the city below with his fiance "beautiful" he said no longer looking at the city lights but at the painting of a "woman" before him, never let it be said that Sanzu wasn't romantic, he only was when he chose to be.

Like now, the man pulling (name) close from behind to look at the city and kissing his hand gently "you truly are a sight" he whispered in his ear and kissed gently and (name) yelped at the sound and Sanzu halted, he wasn't as easily fooled "are...are.. you a man?" He asked pinning (name) to the glass and looking at him fully, taking in the features.

"M-my father... He didn't have a daughter so he used me instead... I'm sorry for lying to you but I wasn't exactly given choice... I understand if you want to leave" Sanzu was pissed yes, he was lied to and given a man instead of a woman...but he was still that beauty he fell hopelessly in love with.

His pretty little doll.

"I'll keep you, it's better honestly that youre a man" Sanzu looked critical as he looked over at (name) "everyone will be looking for a helpless bride when in reality it's a pretty little husband" he pulled (name) close and his lips ghosted the poorly huffed Adams apple "I mean how could one miss this?" He huffed out a laugh as his piercing eyes stared into (name)s entire being "letting go of such a beauty would be fucking stupid after all"

(Name) let Sanzu kiss him as they hid from their own party "you're coming back with me, I'll have people collect your shit" he said simply and bit into (name)s shoulder possessively "get used to me baby, because you're /never/ getting rid of me"

And (name) in his heart of hearts... Didn't want to get rid of him, the man who despite it all looked at him like he hung the moon.

#tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x male reader #tokyo revengers fluff #male reader #bonten x reader #haruchiyo sanzu x reader #sanzu haruchiyo #sanzu x male reader #anime x male reader #anime x reader

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slowd1ving · 8 months ago

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Hi! If you're not taking reqs then feel free to ignore this but could you write Kim dokja angst? Maybe we're switching the roles and the reader is dying instead of dokja for once lmao

HOUSE OF CARDS ゜・KIM DOKJA

"A house made of cards, like the fools we are." In which a gambler finally pays the price for his bet. never actually written angst so I hope this is good enough anon art creds to kim28_dokja on twt! pairings: kim dokja + gn reader warnings: blood, injury, death, references to child abuse/dokja's past wc: 2.4k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Dokja is shit at games.

It’s clear to the dealer. Even on the best day, those omnipotent palms that allocate fate will grow clammy (which they never do) and that ever-present smile slowly turns into a profound grimace. They know. They feel it instinctually, on a cellular level: that hand was terrible.

It’s clear to the people around him. The salaryman stumbles into the building as though he’s just learned to walk: in never-polished shoes, slacks that perpetually crease further with each nervous wipe of his hands, and the clinging scent of smoke that preludes his entrance. He’s not got his life together, they observe, behind stony poker faces he can never quite master. That’s why he’s here.

Most of all, it’s clear to Kim Dokja himself. Every irregular heartbeat pulses in his throat as he gazes at his cards—two seven offsuit. In his sweat-streaked fingers is the short straw urging him to enlist. On the table before him are all his chess pieces, lined up neatly: spectators to the constant check, his inevitable downfall.

Despite his atrocious luck, the thin red string binding him to this world never quite severs. A fire befalls the casino. A bullet embeds itself in the shell of his helmet and not a hair further. The chess game is postponed by a phone call and the poignant sound of shattering glass—and Dokja is left to shoulder the limbo of an unfinished game.

He’s shit at games, but never truly loses.

Is it simply up to chance? A coin is tossed into the air: another foolish plan devised, another chip placed that equates to one of his lives. Crisis after crisis—Dokja, that harbinger of misfortune—yet each time, he resurrects. He bets on it, in fact: quite literally gambling away everything.

It is just how things are. He cuts corners. He smooth-talks the fates into letting his transgressions slide just a little longer. For once, he’s winning, and the grand prize is something beyond his wildest dreams—an ending, to mark the indefinite uncertainty of chapters that seem to grow like nebulae.

“Dokja.” It’s a sigh each time when he defies the end. Anyone else would interpret it as exasperation, but he likes to think he knows you better than that; it’s relief you greet him with, no matter how many times he sacrifices himself. “You idiot.”

It’s nice to know his long-time friend cares about him.

No matter how many times he places his bets, the value of his life never seems to deprecate for you. Sacrifice is something you’d rather avoid (so does he, but it cannot always be helped, right?). If Dokja’s life can be used to save more of the people he cares about, all the better.

In fact, he’d rather keep you away from any front line.

There’s a story of its own between the two of you: years of scraped knees and violence, of gazing up at your shoulders while you bruise your knuckles with whoever bruised his eye, of friendship pacts forged with spat-on palms and corded bracelets.

Your very soul is entwined with his scrawny one from years past, and it’s always been the case that yours has fought the battles in his stead. ‘Why?’ he’d once asked, and he still vividly remembers the cool response you attempted to give, only to end up fumbling the words.

Because I can. Because I want to. Because you deserve it.

It’s his turn to repay his debts. These fights are no longer about a bloodied mouth and spitting red onto the asphalt. They don’t end with bruised ribs and broken noses.

You sit out. This one, he thinks grimly, is his fight—one that will guarantee both you and him turning the page on ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼. Every factor has been considered. Each risk is carefully mitigated at the expense of himself. None of the contingencies fail to prioritise his oldest friend.

These are chips he cannot afford to bet on.

Naturally, he keeps them close to his chest.

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games.

His friends know it all too well. Those disbelieving laughs they let out, their fists clenching and unclenching as they debate whether to hit him across the head—Dokja, the herald of despair, he is—and finally the rush of words leaving their mouths like air deflating from a balloon: “Never do that again.”

All in, his chips go—each and every time. There is no other way about it: not unless you shackled Dokja to you in vain to make him listen—to stop the endless deaths he goes through. Over and over, until you feel his mind wear into recklessness, until you see the emptiness that taints his eyes as he slips into quiet contemplation.

How will Dokja die this time?

You’d rather erode into nothingness than clip his wings, though. That book he gushed about to you (syllables rushing over themselves in his excitement each update) gave him back his life—if you ruin his painstaking ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼, you don’t think you could forgive yourself.

Even if he’s ratcheting to Icarian heights. Those feathers of his are beginning to streak wax-hot down man-made frames, made of pages upon pages of a book obsolete to all but one dedicated reader.

You think he can see the pain in your eyes, before he turns away with lips pressed together tightly. You’ll be safe, he reassured you. You’ve got me. I’ll create an epilogue for you to witness.

Dokja’s changed.

Those scrawny shoulders have become something that the very sky settles on: ones that no longer shake behind your own arms. The world has bruised you, and Dokja shall bruise it back. Every favour, repaid tenfold.

Dokja’s changed.

He’s still got the same facade of the boy you’ve called your oldest friend. If it weren’t for that, you’d think the man who coldly settles his death were a stranger. Someone you never shook hands with, childishly grimacing at the remains of a spat-upon pact rubbing into small palms.

Dokja’s changed.

He thinks he no longer causes misfortune with each risk he takes—as if his life were a mere trifle, as if each shred of news about him doesn’t shatter your heart over and over.

When will it end?

You haven’t seen him for months.

Is it finally time to grieve?

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games.

It seems you are too. He turns the page of his book, and beside him the house of cards is carefully stacked on the glass table. It’s a precarious matter: high stakes against yourself, an unsafe tightrope that threatens to give way any moment now.

Your eyes meet his.

Like magic, the house collapses.

゜゜・

You are shit at games.

You take a deep breath, and begin organising what could be the final legacy of Dokja. It’s something he treasured even over his life, evidently: the ending, which you allow into your soul in the Kim Dokja-shaped hole left behind.

It’s the first time you take a gamble: carefully picking up the shards of his ideas while rivulets of blood run down your fingers. It’s your turn.

The battlefield in the scenarios is a sanctuary: white noise washing out Dokja’s ever-persistent voice in your head. There’s a perpetual, acrid smell of ash and smoke—a reek that is far better than the dust of buildings Dokja leaves you behind in.

It’s hard.

Gambling is not for you; in the sense that it sickens you, rather than just invoking disaster like it does for Dokja. The only good thing about it is that Dokja’s dream is finally being realised—a tribute to your oldest, dearest friend. Like funerary wine, metallic iron fills your mouth (a once-familiar taste) with each battle, every step closer to the story Dokja wove for you. A fabric so salient you couldn’t help but be entangled in it.

I can do it. That is your gamble.

You do it.

You cut down monsters the size of buildings. You cling to life with bleeding fingernails, scraped raw with tenacity. Tentatively, you begin fleshing in the husk of yourself: talking with the friends you made in the apocalypse once more.

And like Dokja, you begin defying death.

It starts off small—an arrow that you saw coming but didn’t feel like dodging. Jung Heewon almost blew a gasket when she took a glimpse, but then her eyes met yours—filled with the same distance that Dokja’s were, as though you too were peering through an impersonal screen—and she looked away for a brief moment.

“Idiot,” she whispers. “Don’t treat yourself like Dokja.”

Your chips pile up.

Except, you don’t quite have the same privilege that your dearest friend has.

You will incur the cost, rather than somebody else. There is a reason Dokja is called a harbinger of ill fortune to others, and you are not. In the end, your downfall will be at your own hand.

“Fool,” Yoo Joonghyuk grimaces as he cuts down a wolf you let claw your arm. The coppery stench is thick in the air, but there seems to be a manic grin on your face as you slice and chop and stab: a madness that slowly spreads like illness through your body. “There is nothing more worthless than sacrifice without cause.”

The debt accrues.

Kim Dokja dreams of your knuckles, bloodied once more as you stand to face the world. But, it’s just a dream.

He bets on it.

゜゜・

You are shit at games.

Bitter, arterial blood congeals on your hands as you try in vain to staunch the flow. There is nothing quite as caustic as the realisation that you fucked up, because now all the signs of your hamartia are clear.

The house has long collapsed—it’s that final card that still hasn’t hit that glass table yet.

Is this what Dokja feels? The thought runs wonderingly through your sluggish mind. Is it what he felt, you mean to say, but your throat grows thick whenever you speak about him in the past tense. You can’t quite accept the reality that he’s gone. The shock anaesthetises your mind: cradling your neurons with such gentleness that it’s hard to conceptualise you’re about to follow him to wherever he’s gone.

Will I see him again?

Everything reeks of iron: from the massive corpse on the ground, to the claw impaled through your abdomen. It was inevitable. You’ve grown tired of the endless fight, and it’s cost you dearly.

Your chest heaves desperately.

Dokja.

“Dokja,” you croak, collapsing onto the rubble freshly decimated. Despite the rough surface, your blood-slicked hands scrabble for purchase on the concrete—something that doesn’t quite feel like you’re the one puppeteering your strings.

Deliriously, you watch as the same hand urgently attempts to apply pressure to your wound; it goes against rationality, but then again you’re not really yourself anymore.

“Dokja?” you try again. Perhaps if you speak loudly enough—syllables soaked with sanguine that dribbles from your lips—you’ll be able to reach your dead best friend.

There is a pressure behind your eyes.

It may be tears; it may be an unwelcome guest in your head.

It’s too late, you think. He’s dead, and soon I will be too.

“Dokja,” you whisper, and there is salt on your tongue as you feel your limbs grow colder. Everything hurts—your pounding head, the thrum of your pulse as you marr the asphalt with crimson, and finally that stupid bleeding heart of yours that swears you can hear the spirit of your oldest friend.

You can’t die, you think he says—a quiet scream drowned out by the static of your mind.

“I’ll see you soon, though,” you slur, and the weight in your mind lifts—blurring and coalescing into a mirage you could recognise blind.

Frigid fingers pass through the hologram, and you smile, bittersweet.

“Dokja,” you breathe. “It’s been almost a year since I last saw you.”

His hands grasp your shoulders desperately, though his frantic mouth goes unheard upon your ears. You… can’t… die, his lips read—but that’s silly, you think. Doesn’t he want you to meet him again?

Horns curve out of his head, while his wings fluff out—shoulders shaking, with an expression you’ve only seen once on his face before. Utmost grief, when he came soaked in congealed blood and a haunted look in his eyes: murmuring she killed him, over and over.

He’s your best friend. He was your best friend.

Kim Dokja has lost his final gamble, and the bullet in the chamber has finally been spun into place for you too.

“I can see you soon, right?” you murmur—there are cold fingers brushing against your forehead, and you think death is unexpectedly gentle.

His lips wobble.

Incorporeal fingers trace the tear tracks on your face—ones that mirror the slow stream of salt from his own eyes. You didn’t even notice—too caught up in the gradual greyness that spreads through each vessel, weaving through sinew and bone and brain.

“I did a good job, right?” Your sword rests across the ground, heavy after almost a year of fighting. “Maybe it’ll help with the ending that you wanted.”

Dokja’s face crumples, and you can feel your own throat growing thick. Dokja, I’m scared, you want to admit. For the first time in your life, there’s a choking fear that grips you as the red surrounding you blooms into a field.

Your own wings are rapidly coming apart.

“Dokja, I don’t want to die,” you mumble. Struggling, you curl and uncurl your hands into fists, but you can no longer feel them.

“Dokja,” you try again. You can no longer see him, but whether it’s from the salt clouding your vision, or the haze of limbo, you cannot tell.

There is a phantom pressure that lingers on your face.

“Dokja,” you gurgle, mouth iron-hot with arterial blood. “Don’t leave me alone—please.”

No response is given, but that sepulchral presence seems to remain—this time, those hands brush and cradle your face.

You cannot tell if it’s him or death itself, but you don’t think death would kiss you like that.

As if he could possibly breathe life back into you, his ghostly lips move against yours. Desperately, so urgently you half-wonder at his panic.

Dokja, you want to ask. You’re already dead, right?

Right?

With the final scraps of your vision, you watch as he pulls back—his tears pattering across your face—watch as his mouth moves for a final time.

I can’t live without you.

But by then, it is too late.

The words go unheard, and Dokja is alone once again.

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