#nobody ethereals the way he's etherealing

[demonwebs-a]

he thinks mystra is so pretty fascinating though

[sunboki]

⎯ caught in the webs. ⟡ featuring han jisung

🕷️ : Spider-Man! Han Jisung x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. Spider-Man! au, nerd Jisung! au, high school! au, pining, confessions (somewhat), slight self-doubt, a little angst, nervous sungie :(

WORD COUNT. 7.4k words ⭑ 35min read

WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of an existential crisis, (not actually) ghosting, insecurity, slight anxiety/degradation of oneself, dubcon(??) kiss

AUG'S NOTES. although i initially planned for this to be a mere 4-5k word fic… yeah. got a little carried away, oops. funny enough i’ve been seeing so much spider-man merch everywhere—got me thinking this fic was meant to be :) please enjoy and feel free to leave your thoughts in a reblog!! have a lovely day everyone <3

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. To everyone else in high school, Han Jisung is just a nervous, somehow ingenious chemistry nerd. And yet, beneath the glasses and long hours studying, a secret lies. Because Han Jisung isn’t just a nerd, but Seoul’s one and only, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But what happens when he finds himself head over heels for no one but you? No less scrambling for the courage to ask you out before the Valentine’s Dance? Between the fine-line of his secret identity and the more he falls for you each day, he finds himself hoping you feel the same way.

or alternatively :

In which the tangle of webs makes for complications, and love.

“And- I mean, it’s not like she knows I’m Spider-Man so,” Han rationalizes, hands flailing about in an awkward manner of both panic and hope, currently spilling his worries out to a luckily, ever patient Chan.

That is, opposed to Minho (Han’s official roommate) whom the two both know would nod his head and eventually (bluntly) tell Han he’s thinking far too hard before going back to studying. 

And yet, at this very moment, Minho might be the sole reprieve in calming said boy’s nerves with his no-nonsense attitude.

Because in less than three weeks their high school’s annual Valentine’s dance will be here, and if anyone knows something about Han Jisung, it’s the borderline pitiful way he pines over you like some neglected puppy, a factor it seems only you don’t notice.

As for the thing nobody knows of apart from some greatly trusted compadre’s, Han Jisung isn’t simply a dorky high schooler, but Seoul’s one and only, (trying-to-be) friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. 

Who.. is having a heart attack merely thinking of your face, your laughter, your smile, your— ugh.

Three weeks to gain as much style and confidence as he can muster and, first and foremost, the balls to even ask you out when the time comes. 

To put it simply, he’s fucked.

Completely, utterly, fucked.

Biochemistry with Mr. Jang is the pits when it comes down to his hour-long lectures, but it isn’t the boredom itself grasping his attention so deliberately, it’s you.

Two seats ahead, one seat to the right. 

And oh, if Han isn’t smitten.

You’re smart, stupidly smart. With your pretty hair and pretty face and crinkling eyes when you smile, where your lips curl in delight. You seem to glow, as if an ethereal fae he’d learn of in childish folklore, come alive amid his wildest daydreams.

So it’s the shrill ring of the dismissal bell that has him jumping from his seat, palms slapping against the wood of his desk with a stinging force effectively gaining the attention of most everyone in the class.

And the harrowing silence.

Trust, his face goes beet red, and Jisung had never choked on an apology faster in his life beneath Mr. Jang’s scrutinizing stare.

Though, from the corner of his eye, he can see it: that breathtaking smile of yours hidden behind a hand as you laugh. 

Jackpot.

Han Jisung has just hit the lottery.

Even if it was his scolding earning your laughter. But he’d brush off the matter a thousand times over to see that smile again. And again and again, like a selfish itch incapable of being satiated.

He really is hopeless.

.

.

.

“No you don’t get it! She smiled at me and—“

The rest is a series of groans and oddly unintelligible sounds, ones the partner of his decides not to inquire about.

Now squirming around the hallways, Jisung buries his face into his hands, whining loudly. Third period leads both him and Minho to Physics together, the decently spaced walk across campus to the classroom allowing leeway for (currently-kept-secret) Spider-Man’s groveling. 

Funny story, actually.

The way Minho found out, that is.

Having grown used to his webs over the few months of adjusting, he’d been ignorant in forgetting his roommate would be home as well.

Which.. ensued the piece of bread he used his webs to beckon over���while making the glorious concoction donned as a grilled cheese—met with Minho’s furrowed, evidently confused brows and an equally, albeit slow, acceptance whilst continuing on to the fridge.

A predictable reaction, Jisung would’ve supposed.

If not for the fact he downright begged the boy to not tell, dread forming in his stomach merely watching that sly, mischief-filled sneer curl at his roommate’s lips. 

Laundry and dish-duty for a week.

Thanks, Minho.

As for Chan’s introduction to Seoul’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, the two had been approaching each other after Chan’s football practice when the older of the two tossed a football at the younger counterpart, under the (accurate) impression Jisung couldn’t catch to save his life.

That was correct.

The unable-to-catch part, yeah.

But of course, per his luck, if Han couldn’t catch it, that damned radioactive spider would help him catch it.

And he did. Both hands, firm and fast.

Quick enough to freak the quarterback out and, given a few weeks time, unveil his secret after one too many tests on his reflexes and a downright scary amount of footballs thrown at his head.

“So you’re diseased.”

“I am not, we’ve been over this.”

“You’re walking on the ceiling.”

Fair enough, he’d admit if not for the cereal (that he currently figures out how to hold upside down- or right side up? It’s hard to tell) stuffed in his cheeks, feigning a glare matching Minho’s where his roommate pokes his nose indignantly prior to beginning off towards the bathroom.

Nearly 8am, and he’s aiming to keep comfy pajamas on as long as possible before having to exchange for school clothes.

Curious, observant umber irises waste time peering at the expanse of his torso visible where he hangs upside down, lips forming into an ‘o’ of awe seeing the defined lines descending down his belly flex with every move.

Those are new.

Perks of a spider bite, huh. 

Of the few.

Eventually resorting to doing forgotten dishes, he patiently waits for the grumpy roommate of his to finish in the bathroom, rumbling echo of the hairdryer synthesizing with the morning news’ daily report.

Weather, local updates. But the portion gathering his attention comes in the form of the headline: Creeping villain, Lizard, once again detained by Seoul’s mysterious vigilante, Spider-Man.

And simultaneously, listening in on the story, he finds a glow of pride settling in his chest.

He did that. With a few bruises and scrapes sufficing as evidence but, overall, his doing.

Nevertheless, with the rising pride comes the rising stupidity.

Apparently. 

Resulting in, while lost in the throes of his inflating ego, the reckless unleash of webs upon random surfaces as fast as he can manage, failing to notice the risky positioning of a web by his foot until—as if from a cartoon—he trips over it. 

“Ow! My foot- and my coffee..”

The shatter of his mug and Minho’s exasperated sigh seem to speak for themselves.

Most days it’s simply him and his thoughts in classes, and he enjoys that. Sometimes. 

The serenity, the ability to focus with ease, his headphones as his only companion—in which he tries pinpointing a suitable theme song for himself with. 

Embarrassing, he knows, but the aspect is exciting, having his own theme song.

He is a hero, after all.

Or.. one in training, after all.

A thumb and index tap along the surface of his desk, scribbling into his notebook. 

Web Fluid, consists of the topic at hand, scrawled on the top of the page.

A matter he knows he can create easily per his spider-like abilities, but finds himself pouring over regardless, curiosity gnawing at him with each formula jotted down on the lined paper.

Until you come along, and every sensible ounce of brain power goes aloof.

“Hey, what would you think about tutoring— web fluid?”

Your initial offer, from what he could tell, is swift to change, and Jisung feels his ears burn.

“Oh, yeah- I was just- web fluid, y’know? ‘Cause I, like everyone else, hate spiders (sorry radioactive spider) so I just-“

“That’s interesting, actually. You’ve got a real good grasp on chemistry.. huh.”

Lips puckered into a puff of contemplation, you’re slow to nod, gaze scanning over the wild bullet points, numbers too overwhelming to even consider.

So easy, he makes it all: the calculations, the math.

So easy, you make it all: the interactions, the conversation. 

Envy strikes him like a lightning bolt.

Why can’t he just calm down? Behave as he would if he were Spider-Man? 

Capable, assured.

“Think you could tutor me? I can pay you?”

This was not what he expected. 

“Tutor?” Han repeats, as if to clarify whether he’s hearing things. Not a belittling sort of echo, but one to console his inner panic, hope, bewilderment.

Emphasis on the bewilderment.

The nod of your head affirms all he needs to know, and, while suppressing the urge to shout with joy, he offers a small smile, waving a hand synonymously.

“Sure, yeah. Tutoring would be great. I think I’d have time between my internship with Stark Industries- not that I’m like- bragging or anything- just Mr. Stark can be kinda pushy and—“

He takes a moment to calm down before continuing to ramble on.

“We can work in your dorm? Or- if that makes you uncomfortable I totally get it-“

A big breath, flushing further beneath you patient smile.

“And you don’t have to pay me,” These words are quieter, his eyes flitting over the web fluid formulas below. “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Jisung.”

Jisung.

He has to cough into his hand to keep from choking, screaming, leaping like a rabbit and shrieking with accomplishment. Mainly because you called him Jisung, and secondly due to the number in his phone, your number in his phone a few minutes afterward.

This is Jisung, hi. Comes out as the most suitable first text after around twenty minutes of hesitation.

Yet, despite his exhaustion that following morning from swinging around the majority of the night in some way of expressing his happiness, he still glows.

And.. freaks out Minho in the process. 

That isn’t new. 

“Ugh…”

The ring of his alarm earns a low moan of irritation, slinging an arm over his face in feeble avoidance. His muscles ache, head thrumming frustratingly hard. 

Then again, he still gets up, still makes breakfast and dresses—however long that took between trudging steps and obnoxiously long yawns.

Though, there’s a minuscule facet of motivation keeping his eyes bright, his actions swift and steady.

You. 

Tonight, you’ll tutor at the library. Chemical equations, something he luckily excels at.

Together.

Cupid’s bow had long-since struck, leaving Han Jisung to drift away into a love-stricken labyrinth he had no chance of escaping from. 

And gosh are you pretty, the boy swearing he ends up lost gazing at you too many times to count.

There are days he can tell you’re tired, days you drag yourself to tutoring amid a likely hectic schedule where he simply wants to give you the biggest hug possible.

He can’t say his schedule looks any better, but will admit making time to both tutor and hang out sits at the top of an endlessly accumulating list.

In which beckons small notes scribbled between the margins of your textbook, sticky-notes attached to your folder for the next day.

A little extra motivation within the: “You can do it!!” or the silly messages like: “Imagine Mr. Jang as a giraffe!” that he pumps his fist seeing you laugh at that following day.

From then, a routine starts. 

Someone bringing coffee one week, the next the other’s job. Studying that turns into conversation, turns into him relaxing around you, able to communicate without slipping over his words, where you pitch in and he does too. 

Jokes, idiotic ones, he adds in just to watch you smile. Silly remarks you both laugh over until your stomachs hurt.

Even if this labyrinth isn’t one he can escape from, he finds himself not minding.

“And it’s not like she knows I’m Spider-Man.”

“Are you Spider-Man?”

Those words echo in his head, practically a wicked enchantment on replay.

Fu—ck.

Of plenty tutoring sessions, it had to be now that things suddenly went to shit, huh?

With his head running a mile a minute and the sensible words leaving every ounce of headspace, the genius of a boy manages one sentence.

One. Stupid. Sentence.

“Spider-Man? Who’s that?”

Great going, jackass.

Your awkward chuckle makes him want to crawl into his own skin, makes him wish so terribly the library would eat him up, that he could dissipate out of sight.   

“I’m kidding, you know that, right?”

Oh. He’s saved. 

“I mean,” A pause, and for a split second Jisung’s heart plummets once more, feeling as if he’s trapped on a nonstop roller coaster and not a decrepit library chair instead.

Do you know? Did his roomie snitch?

No. Remember the dishes-for-a-week deal, he mentally reassures.

“Everybody wants to know, yeah? I think he’s pretty cool, actually,” Eyes flickering back to your book, his face pales.

A good kind of pale, if that exists.

Ah. 

A light at the end of the tunnel.

It must be some sort of miracle, because Han Jisung hasn’t felt this elated since being presented with a new bicycle for his birthday when he was seven.  

“Thank y— Oh! Yeah. He’s.. yep, cool. Really cool.”

Stammering. Han Jisung, the boy who made a pact to end each night with beer pong come his college days (something that likely won’t happen), who makes dirty jokes bad enough Minho snorts at them, stammering. 

It’s beyond embarrassing, but he’s never felt so alive. 

Nonetheless, his tutoring voyage continues (although almost painful with how often he savors watching your face light up upon getting a question right), compiled in chatter he somehow gets through and small jokes here and there you exchange as if you’d known each other forever. 

And somewhere in between the lines of Stats and multiple-choice-answer hell, he thinks about it. About asking you out, about the dance, about spilling it all right here and there—with your two coffee cups steaming warm tendrils and the quietness of surrounding bookshelves making everything feel safe, comfortable.

“Hey, would you,” He finds himself hesitating, finds your kind gaze flickering to him from the review paper in clutch.

Baby steps. 

“Would you want to do this again? Tomorrow? Like, maybe at a café? The one by campus? Or not, if you’re busy or, don’t want to or whatever-“

“Sure.”

Sure.

He wants to resent you for the relaxed nature you adjust to an atmosphere with, your natural ability to pull him closer and closer, to make his heart thump hard enough in his chest he fears it might burst.

Because you’re far too much for his heart, and he’s giving you a run for your money with those wide globes for eyes and round cheeks bunching up in focus when explaining a concept.

But that’s a secret that’ll remain untold.

For the most part.

“Okay.”

He tried replying with the same fashion of nonchalance, but the words come out shaky and nervous and he nearly winces.

Although, come the finale of this almost-disaster, you still said yes. And to his knowledge—however meager when it came to the matter of love—tomorrow you’d be going on a date. Technically a study-date. Even still, a date.

So predictably, as the semi-idiot he is, he spends his night swinging through Seoul once more and swimming in consequential drowsiness the following day.

Worth it.

Under-eye bags be damned, it seems the way Jisung nearly radiates energy so early in the morning unsettles more than motivates for a second time these past few weeks, understood in the grunted: “turn it down!” received from Minho in response to his music.

..In which he currently serenades an invisible audience using a spoon as a microphone in the kitchen.

A date a date a date a date. 

He keeps the anxiety from settling in for the time being, knowing his kryptonite would take domain the moment he allowed himself in his mind.

What should he wear? Should he style his hair differently? It’s Saturday, maybe he should wear something less school-oriented?

No. 

Enough. 

More serenading, more bad-singing mutes the chaos bouncing around his skull.

He’ll take what he can get.

.

.

.

Each passing minute edges closer to noon, his bag hauled over a shoulder and a mumbled pep-talk recited where he paces his room—the fretful introductions he goes over in the mirror falling short upon his overthinking becoming all too much, prompting him from the dorms for fresh air.

Just be natural.

He scoffs at the thought.

Yeah right. 

The flutter of birds soaring from overhanging trees captures his attention, then the rustle of leaves, then the distant shout of children squabbling over a ball. Peaceful, if only temporarily. 

Eventually, the quiet provokes a hand to reach for his phone, clicking on your number with a ruminative hum, head bobbing to the melody in his eardrums.

The Cure plays, Friday I’m in Love’s familiar beat soothing his indecisiveness while walking.

Tongue pressing to his cheek does the feeling grasp him almost instantly. Tight and inexorable, noise in his eardrum numbing to a buzz. 

The Jisung Tingle.

Chan’s words, not his. 

Too far for a regular person to hear, he discerns the shout of a woman, and Han’s already finding his trusty alley to both dump his bag and simultaneously change into his suit in before scaling the wall.

“Shoot, shoot, shoot!” Comes his hurried babbling, technologically adept sensors in the costume’s eye-divots adjusting to better locate the source of commotion, danger.

A bank robber about a hundred feet away catches his attention first, the idiot scrambling for as much cash as he can muster into an already pitifully minuscule bag.

This guy’s gonna ruin my date!

Ah yes Jisung, ever the optimist.

Skillful deployment of his webs sends him straight to the problem, checking his phone for half a second.

Eleven fifty-two, and eight minutes doesn’t sound like nearly enough time right about now to both apprehend a criminal and turn into an unsuspecting Jisung attending his first date with the girl he really, really likes.

“Y’know,” He shouts, a sharp kick to the back of the leg forcing the perpetrator on ground so harshly he even winces at it, muttering a “sorry!” he scolds himself over after restraining the man.

Reminder: don’t apologize to criminals.

“I’d give you the credit for trying this in broad daylight, but this bag man.. it’s tiny!” He can’t help but chuckle, placing his hands on his hips matter-of-a-fact-ly.

“Lemme guess, it’s your mom’s bag,” Leaning forward, he grants some leeway to crack funny comments.

Deadpool’s funny, right? Can’t he be like Deadpool? That’s okay, yeah? People like funny Superheroes.

The unimpressed scowl from the robber earns a sheepish, squeaky giggle, waving his hands frantically.

Gotcha. No funny Superheroes.

“Not that your mom’s bag’s ugly! I mean it’s just, kinda small. Wouldn’t you wanna use a big bag, like in the movies?”

Alright. No humor, period. Got it.

“Yeah Spider-Man!” Suddenly, a person’s voice resounds from the onlookers, eliciting following cheers he can’t help but preen at, mouth agape beneath his mask.

“I have fans! Oh my gosh I fa—“

Han Jisung has one minute until his perfect, amazing date.

The memorandum is abruptly voiced from his suit’s inner audio system, and he both thanks Mr. Stark for the high-tech features and curses his ability to get distracted. 

Additionally cursing the beyond-cheesy way he typed in that reminder, by the way.

What’s up with the “perfect, amazing date” part?

Moving on.

Unfortunately, the time crunch calls for his equally time-crunched behavior, calling out a: “call the police please!” to the amassing crowd and using his webs to keep the robber’s hands behind his back moments after propelling himself upwards.

You.

He can’t afford to be late, witness your disappointed face.

Han would rather take off the suit for good than have you think he stood you up.

Unbeknownst to the awkwardly redressing hero in his beloved alley, you’re also running late, a factor he remains oblivious to.

Until he doesn’t. 

It’s true, time and time again, that a person’s instinctively compelled in locating the person they favor in a crowd. That even when hundreds of bodies surround, one’s eyes travel solely to their special person.

His special person, whom he involuntarily lands in front of without a single thought in mind. 

Great job, dude.

“Hey, um-“

No wait, he can’t just start a conversation like this. You don’t know he’s Spider-Man.

Right.

Deepening his voice (rather horribly), he waves a hand about, summoning this painfully fake, certainly-not-teenage impression. 

“You seem lost, ma’am. I could, y’know, give you a ride? I’m a very classical gentleman-“

Yikes, the voice crack. 

“..Alright?”

The way you tilt your head, the way your hair cascades around your face like a perfect frame.

Oh my gosh you’re pretty.

How many times has he thought that now? 

Heck, not just Jisung, but Spider-Man has to take a deep breath, more so when you loop an arm around his shoulders and he both struggles (and excels) at avoiding touching your bum, simultaneously pretending to be oblivious about your destination in mind.

As if he wasn’t just rushing there moments prior. 

Although it’s easy grinning at the mixture of screams and laughter bubbling from your lips with each practiced extension of his webs, savoring the manner you cling close while he bounds overtop Seoul’s cityscape, expression transforming into that of excitement after the first few nerve-wracking seconds. 

Alive.

He knows the feeling, the freedom coming with being above the crowd. 

The other thing he’s come to know the feeling of? The panic upon arriving at the café, followed by another bout of panic trying to subtly change in the tiny bathroom without making a racket.

Slightly sweaty, but durable. 

No less, crazily enough, the date goes well. You continue to look darling from your spot across from him, he rushes to behave the most manly he can, and the both of you merely.. talk.

About anything, everything. Plans for tomorrow, for next year. Family, friends, pets. Bbama (his dog) and how much he misses him, and quips he prides himself in earning your laugh at, progressively mellowing out.

Understandably, you’ve both long since abandoned the aim of “studying” in this excused study-date.

Then again, there are the moments. The brief notions where you're both out of breath, whether it be from laughter or hurried conversation altogether that he swears if he asked that perilous question you’d say yes. 

Want to go to the dance with me?

Or maybe that’s too laxed.

Gone just as fast as the chance arrives, he’s alternatively left trying to play off spacing out, flushing in response to bemused laughter.

Easy.

You’ve always made it easy.

This time, it’s his turn to level out the playing ground.

And while you’re effectively charmed by his antics, a little boy a few tables over wonders why he’s catching glimpses of Spider-Man’s suit beneath a high-school boy’s pants leg.

In all the years of Han Jisung’s life, he never pictured himself as a taxi service.

And no, not working for a taxi service, but being a taxi service.

You heard that right, yes.

So it’s a “new kind of whipped” (according to Chan) that more often than not he’s slinging himself over to your dorm after some not-so “coincidences” in which he ran into you on the street, eventually pretending to learn the whereabouts of your dorm.

“Sour gummy worms orrr— Sour Patch Kids?” 

Which leads to very intelligent conversations.

Obviously.

The Jisung less than a month ago would’ve screamed himself silly if he saw him now, currently combing his fingers through your hair where you sit leant against the side of the bed, popping a gummy worm in your mouth before lifting the bag to share.

Recently, most of his nights have been spent lingering around here after tutoring, the matter ignorant to you that the same boy in his glasses and flannel shirt minutes earlier now stood as Spider-Man.

Expectedly, you talk. And talk and talk and talk until he knows a curfew officer would knock him out cold if he was found sneaking from your dorm, till you forget about time altogether.

Of your many conversations, the ones where you end up crying are his least favorite. 

To say it broke his heart the first time he watched you break down in front of him was a severe understatement, thanking the courage his hero-identity provided him with to usher you into a hug he never wished to let go of.

And he didn’t, not until those sniffles subsided, those glossy eyes lost their heart-wrenching factor.

A week from the dance, you fell asleep in his arms for the first time since these meet-ups, the boy barely sneaking through the window before you came barreling him over in a hug.

He had an inkling you weren’t feeling up to tutoring that night from the start, the failure to focus not going unnoticed.

Of course, with being able to provide you security as Spider-Man, so came the insecurity as Han Jisung.

Was it this version of him you wanted? The strong, capable soon-to-be-eighteen-year-old known as Seoul’s helpful vigilante? A hero?

Was Han Jisung not enough?

However much the doubt struck him electrified, for now he’d savor being able to be your consolation, your confidant. To hold you close when you needed to feel something, someone, for his head to rest in your lap when his own day sucked.

Someone to rely on, so this world wouldn’t seem so lonely. If only for a little while.

.

.

.

Still, the downsides had to persevere.

That night’s headline was definitely a downside, more humiliating than anything.

Spider-Man’s clumsy apprehension of Chang-dong bank robber.

The knowing snicker he can practically hear from Minho’s dorm followed by an assumed-to-be equally smug text from Chan lighting up his phone is returned by a childish whine.

Yeah. Not proud of that.

“I’m going to file a stalker report, y’know.”

Four days from the dance, he decides his nightly escapades could use a bump up, lowering himself upside down with his webs where you passed by a crevice of two buildings.

A little scare wouldn’t hurt, right?

…Right?

Number one? Don’t do that, he learned. Number two? Your smacks really hurt.

“Jerk!” Irritated in manner, it’s the small grin tugging at the corner of your lips giving away your true feelings, a matter Han can’t help but giggle cheerily at despite the stinging of his cheek.

Ouch.

It has his head going for a loop both hanging upside down generally and acknowledging the fact you still look good from this odd angle altogether, head tilting quizzically.

“Actually, I think I deserve a thank you,” His haughty reply, channeling your earlier accusatory energy, beckons a laugh.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous out late? Gotta have Spidey here to keep the creeps away.”

“My hero,” Comes your own haughty reply, placing a dramatic hand to your chest before dissolving into shared smiles.

A pause interrupting the flow of speech, he fills in the blanks searching your face for any indication of the thoughts swirling in that head of yours to no avail.

“Well I’ve got to reward you in some way, yeah? You’ve given me free rides,” Arrives your too-sweet of a response, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

That perfect knit between your brows.

Cute.

“Say, ‘been thinking you sound similar to somebody I know. We study together.”

Oh. 

Whoops.

If his eyes were visible, you’d watch them grow the size of saucers, his mouth gaping.

“Ah, just a thought.” 

And with a wave of your hand do you dismiss an upcoming heart attack, only to stir up yet another upon reaching for his mask, earning what meager observation would conclude as a squeal.

“Wait- wait! Wait!” 

Thankfully, you do in fact wait, and Han Jisung, with only his mouth bared, breathes a sigh of relief.

“Please don’t take it off.”

For a moment, the man sounds remarkably like Han Jisung, but you shake the thought as soon as it passes. 

“Okay,” It’s a whisper, but heard nonetheless, the appearance of storm clouds bathing the alleyway an even darker shade, clouding your vision to the mere white of his teeth, the parting of soft lips when he speaks, breathes. 

“I dunno I just- I thought between you in my dorm and the way we- I thought it’d be-“

This time you’re stammering, something he’d initially be starstruck regarding if not for the guilt gnawing at his chest. 

Understandable.

Friends don’t just cuddle at night, visit each other just to be held.

Not the way you two do.

“Would a kiss work? For a ‘thank you’, I mean.”

Somewhere in between, you saw Han Jisung in this stranger, this hero.

Whether it turned out as him or not, a part of you wished when you closed your eyes, that sweet, studious boy would be there when you opened them. 

A little inkling in your gut tells you more than you catch onto.

The bob of his throat beckons a small snort of sheepish, pained laugh on your end, the boy fearing he may suffer a head rush the longer he dangles upside down.

“I’m sorry— that was too forward, right?”

A beat of silence ensues. More stifling than ever.

Though it’s the precious manner your lips wind tight, expression filling with hesitation compared to a previous playfulness that has him speaking before you say something along the lines of “forget it” and leave the seemingly invincible Spider-Man to cry in this horrific-smelling alleyway like a child.

“No! No. That’s- yeah. That would be okay.”

Again, he scolds the wobbliness of his tone, schooling it into that playful cadence his identity as a hero calls for instead.

Because he’d be a liar first off saying he didn’t ache for more, and an ever bigger liar denying himself from your kiss after such arduous pining. 

“Just one though, can’t have too many, alright?”

Liar, for a second time. 

You could kiss him till he passed out and he’d wake up grateful. 

But the ego’s got to be kept up, right?

Yet, before another sly quip can fall from his tongue he’s nearly spellbound, your lips finding his shutting off both all brainpower and erasing the retort he’d planned to fill the quietness. 

And oh if Jisung doesn’t just melt, chasing after your lips instinctively, savoring the silly bump of your nose against his chin from upside down. The laughter between too-short of contact, the warm touch of your fingers against his cheeks as cold rain pelts the city from above, droplets tickling his skin.

Pulling away, he finds his hands instinctively reaching out, tenderly smoothing away strands of hair stubbornly sticking to your forehead just like what he’d do to soothe when you’d cry—giggling at the messy mascara tracks scoring your cheeks upon detaching his webs, suit-clad feet thumping on the sidewalk below.

Alas, right side up.

“Hey, don’t make the people think I made you cry, hm?” He cracks a smile, adjusting his mask back over his face. 

Well, that’s seconds from coming to understand the price of the rain, the effect of the rain in drenching your t-shirt see-through.

Oh how fast that smug facade vanishes, Han’s palm jutting out to shield both you and his eyes. 

“Your- I’ll be right back- I’m not looking!”

Because beneath the hero-suit, he’s only a teenager. 

And a gentleman, he prides himself in believing himself to be.

Luckily, this just so happened to be the alley he’d ditched his initial clothing in, exchanging for his suit moments prior. 

Gotta love his trusty alley.

Thanking whomever above, an extra “Stark Industries” t-shirt of his suffices in calming the situation at hand.

Trust, Jisung wants to groan with the sight of you in his t-shirt, one he assures you can keep for as long as you need on the ride back.

Ride, as in, web-slinging, an occasion definitely not as fun beneath the downpour of thunder and rain.

Ensuring you get back safely, he practically catapults himself into his own dorm, running to the shower like a wet rat seeking shelter.

Yep. It’s a great look.

But gosh does that shower feel like a slice of heaven.

Though not as heavenly as your kiss.

From inside the shower, a loud scream of realization rings out, previous events raining down on him like the warm water sifting through his hair.

Seems it sunk in.

.

.

.

“So.. what should I do if I see a girl's bra?”

Fairly normal conversation between him and Minho, per usual.

“..Did you sleep with someone?”

“Wha- no! It was an accident!”

“An accident that you slept with someone?”

This is going nowhere.

“No! An accident where I saw her b-“

“Then congrats.”

Congrats.

“What am I supposed to do, celebrate?” Han demands incredulously, giving his roommate a nonsensical stare.

“.. Butter chicken?”

Unfortunately, his stomach argues against any more squabbling, voice like that of a mouse.

“Yes, please.”

And the two enjoy their butter chicken in relatively harmless terms, The Bachelor playing on the TV, Minho taking the floor with his sparkling cider while Jisung occupies the couch above, notebook in hand.

In less than three day, I went on my first date and kissed the girl I’m in love with. Except, she doesn’t know who I am, he writes, hand stopping after that final period before closing the forbidden contents away with a loud exhale, head tipping back to rest against the couch.

One thought failed to be written down? A little extra something, bouncing around in his skull.

I want to tell her the truth.

This is met with another sigh.

What a day.

“Who knew I’d be hanging around thee Spider-Man. Or that he kissed me.”

The last sentence is barely audible, but Jisung catches it all the same, a lopsided grin nudging at his cheeks. 

From your view on the rooftop, the sunset illuminates her waning rays, painting the sky an effortless canvas of crimson and amber hues. Your feet dangle aimlessly from the edge, an action you would be horrified of if not for the man’s presence beside you.

Han’s presence, though you didn’t know that just yet.

All you’ve gathered of his identity were the momentary occasions he’d roll up his mask, like now, where the superhero gnaws at a granola bar, seated beside you. 

“I’m pretty normal though,” Comes his reply, a lilt in the last word hinting at his confusion. 

“Pfft- normal? You’re Spider-Man! Everyone in a quarter radius of Seoul City wants to know your identity. Either that or they run some secret fan account for you.”

A pause before his masked-face slowly swivels to you.

“..Do you run a fan acco—“

Jisung’s pondering was quick to be choked upon (literally) when you smack his back, provoking a chaste gagging fit on his granola bar. 

Yeesh your smacks hurt.

“No! I was just giving an example!”

He finds himself laughing anyway despite the dull throb of his shoulder, feigning a pout whilst rubbing over the skin in feigned hurt. 

It’s nice, he thinks. To be sharing this little corner of the world with you. Away from the hustle and bustle of life. 

Most days he’d swing his way here for a late dinner, peeling layers of tin-foil from his wrapped burrito, legs swinging over the edge, headphones blaring some slow tune while watching the moon make its entrance past a setting sun.

For once, his world as Spider-Man isn’t so.. isolated. 

Dangerous, risky with the prospect of you discovering his identity, but for now he’ll embrace the possibility, embrace your presence beside him.

He doesn’t care if it’s momentary, fleeting. 

Being a Spider-Man, having these abilities, this random probability in a billion of becoming a hero, has taught him to hold onto each opportunity with both hands.

Without a chance of letting go.

And somewhere during those consistent weeks of tutoring, you join each other on the dorms’ rooftop on random occasions when he can’t slip into your dorm undetected. 

Him under the ecstatic impression he gets to see you again outside of the library, you believing the boy from tutoring had gone back to his dorm, now meeting a totally-separate, definitely-not-Han-Jisung Spider-Man.

Or so he thought.

Frequency, predictably, beckons familiarity. Opening leeway to deeper, more meaningful conversations within those nights more than ever before, the uncovering of sensitive, intimate layers that almost provoke Han to speak, to reveal himself.

Guilt, ever so slightly, in regards to your obliviousness to the truth.

A guilt unnecessary, he had yet to know of. Because you’ve come to notice that, when rolling his mask up just enough whenever eating, a chocolate-chip looking mole rests on his cheek, one oh so signature to yet another person.

Two strangers, turned friends, turned kiss-don’t-tell, turned foolish secret-keepers chasing each other’s tails after a love requited all along.

As for tonight, his hands brace himself upon rigid brick, the month and a half span of adapting to your companionship enabling him to not freak out (unlike the first time it happened) when you rest your head against his shoulder. 

One earbud in his ear, the other in yours.

DEAN plays, the title “Half Moon” quite befitting for that same moon rising above two high schoolers. One hopelessly having fallen first, the other finding themself falling harder.

“Can this be our song?” His whisper’s barely divisible against a gust of wind, but you hear it anyway.

“Mhm.”

The nod against his shoulder is enough.

.

.

.

“Alright, it’s about time I head out, hm? Got homework to do.”

It’s a small peck, one placed chaste and tidy against his cheek. However, no matter the size, Han transforms into a tomato beneath his mask, ever so grateful for the coverage provided.

“Just one, you said. Wouldn’t want it to be too much.”

Cruel, he thinks, watching you go, watching that teasing smile on your face.

Using my words against me.

“If a weird guy shows up, tell them Spider-Man will hunt them down!”

Per a greater confidence beneath the mask, he felt obligated in getting the last laugh, chuckling at the dismissive wave of your hand before you disappear down the stairs, the roof’s access hatch clunking closed behind you.

Following your absence, a glance at the sky and its brilliant stars elicit a weighted breath in response. 

Two days from the dance, proposals having started up left and right in the halls, the classrooms.

Ah, this is getting bad.

Who knew love could be so troublesome?

But then again, the intervention of hesitation snakes its way between the lines, and Han Jisung finds himself cast-away to a deserted island within his head during the one class he’s usually most attentive in, Biophysics. Too busy thinking of you, of the “something more”.

Because what if who you kissed that night, Spider-Man, was who you were into? What if the Han Jisung beneath the suit wasn’t what you wanted, but the hero, with his brave facade and unbreakable spirit?

And Han Jisung was just a nerdy high schooler. 

A hard shake of his head futilely tries discarding the gray clouds of worry, appearing incessantly come this past week. 

Foot tapping against the tile floor, he jams the endlessly clicking tip of his pen against an unfitting, empty notebook.

You deserve the hero.

The thought, somehow, makes his heart break a bit. Sends his mind into a frenzy of existential questioning.

Was Han Jisung Spider-Man? Or simply the man behind the suit? Two lives, completely different and yet all the same coming down to the person responsible.  

Is he that hero? 

That night, he lets people down.

He doesn’t respond to his call from Mr. Stark (and the following one from Happy), disappears from his dorm, and fails to show up for tutoring and his daily drop-in to your dorm.

Han Jisung can’t be perfect, can’t live up to every expectation, every stereotype a hero is portrayed as.

There are lives that’re going to be lost with or without his interference, people he can’t save, circumstances he can’t change no matter how hard he tries.

But today is now. Nothing will change unless he changes it.

Spider-Man can’t be without Jisung, yet, Jisung needs to be able to be without Spider-Man. 

There is no sacrifice if it all relies on the suit, no heroics. 

Just a scared little boy hiding behind fancy technology, behind a confident facade unable to be replicated without a media-ridden title attached to it, a suit to cover himself with.

The boy that kissed you? That was Jisung. Jisung’s voice, lips, laugh. His nervousness, his cockiness. 

It’s always been him.

Just Han Jisung.

And he’s okay with that.

Because if he can’t be without the suit, what is there to be?

Texts left unread, it’s one pebble knocking, then another against your window at 6am the day of the dance that alerts you from your sleep, cursing under your breath as you make for the window—left without a trace of the sender other than a sticky note smack-dab in the middle of the panel.

No other could’ve left that than him.

The reasoning earns your sigh of disbelief.

Climb to the rooftop, please.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he prays you’ll comply.

It’d make plenty of sense, your pensiveness. He let you down, held you to a predictable standard left unpredictable after oh so long.

However, feelings always have a way of choosing things before the mind can, and even your spitefulness works futile against the two feet guiding you up the stairwell.

What awaits you leaves every ounce of anger simmering into nothingness, because the familiar sight of Mapo Bridge miles off says something.

A sharp inhale.

Intertwined across the arch and guardrails, webs spell out such a peculiar assortment of words.

I love you.

A smaller writing off to the side.

I’m sorry.

Oh he makes you angry.

Angry thanks to this boy throwing your life for a loop, angry thanks to the foolishness this love seems to have infected the both of you with.

The ignorance, the insecurity, the childishness. All so messy.

What a fool you were to stay quiet about the truth, to pretend these feelings weren’t to be acted upon.

And from his place seated atop the bridge’s arc, the shout of yours faintly reaches his ears, the words sounding remarkably like “I love you.”

He doesn’t return until later that night, watching parents drop off their kids, couples gliding up the stairs in throes of laughter, hand in hand.

Suit-adorned legs dangle from the streetlight a block or so away, chewing at his lip in thought.

Until his thought is abruptly interrupted by the clearing of a throat, your throat, he verifies upon turning around to look, significantly paling.

“Fess up, loser.”

Oh you’re mad.

Dressed up all pretty for the dance and yet fuming.

…Why is it hot?

Quit that, he internally berates, slow to hop down to ground level.

“Look, I can-“

“No you can’t! You- you what, randomly decide “oh I’m just gonna go off the grid for two days, let’s not notify anybody and everything will be alright”? Huh? You don’t respond to anyone’s texts, calls, the school couldn’t even find you!”

Furious steps stomp forward, feebly pounding your fists against his chest.

Shaky hands find your wrists to hold, his breathing nearly painful to listen to within his mask. Stifled, shuddering. 

And he can tell, oh he can tell. You’re going to cry.

He’s just made you cry.

There’s never been a moment Jisung hated himself more.

“Hey hey hey- no no don’t- don’t cry-“

Another scream of yours makes him wince, makes his hands originally reaching for your face to cradle flinch back.

“I hate- I hate this! I hate that I’ve let you worm your way into my heart and- and that you tell me you loved me and-“

A sputtering breath before his mask is not-so gently hoisted up to catch onto the hook of his nose and he’s dragged into your kiss by the collar, dissolving into mumbled “I’m sorry”’s repeated into your lips before you pull away, out of breath.

“You scared me half to death,” Scolding, one hand comes to brush off your clothing after letting go, impressively calmed after such a whirlwind of emotions, or maybe he’s simply reading it wrong.

“I forgive you.”

This mumble is much softer, muttered beneath your breath. 

Sometimes you truly do behave like a child.

A tiny quirk of his lips betrays his fondness.

“Just.. don’t ever do that again, okay? Or I’m breaking up with you.”

The threat is feeble and certainly not sounding sure enough to believe, your brows furrowed in conviction the only remnant of insistence he’d chuckle at if not for the lingering fear of being yelled at again.

A fair yelling, he’d admit.

“Wait.”

On his part, a delay.

“We were dating? I thought we..”

“I mean we kissed but would you count that as…?”

High schoolers, to the core.

Sort of funny, actually, trying to uncover a label.

For a moment your attention flickers to the dance-attending students, retreating back to Jisung in response to his heavy sigh, the seriousness returning.

Merciless, it is.

The truth.

“I can’t be there for you how I want to be, you know that. My life.. as Spider-Man, I mean, it’s too unpredictable. Risky. I can’t make promises. A life at risk isn’t scheduled, arranged. I’d put you in danger and let you down and—“

“I know what I’m getting myself into, okay?”

Easy, you always make it.

This time, he’s grateful.

“I love you, and I think you heard it.”

Synonymously, he scorns the gradual wobbliness of his lip, the tremble in his hands returning full-force, breaking any earlier pretense of strength put up.

No barriers, you both know this.

Not anymore.

“I’ll um,” His voice cracks, but he doesn’t wince, turning his back to you as if to slip away. “I’ll come by your dorm tonight. Dance your heart out, okay?”

He nods to the auditorium, flashing lights and blaring music echoing from the closed doors.

Shifting from foot to foot, it takes every ounce of willpower to speak, to keep him from drifting off once more.

“Well if Spider-Man can’t go to the dance.. Can Jisung?”

To say his jaw dropped would be an understatement, each muscle in his body turning into stone, as if having gazed at Medusa herself.

“I knew you were.. you for a while now.”

Your voice, awkwardly explaining, aids in the wild gesturing of hands, admiring his messy hair where the mask is pulled off the entire way, unveiling a rather shell-shocked Han Jisung underneath. 

“It’s your mole um, right here?” Pointing to his left cheek, a small smile tugs at your lips. “I saw it one time when you were eating that granola bar on the roof. Kinda just.. put two and two together-“

“Why didn’t you say something!”

Now it’s Han’s turn to sound like a petulant child, causing you to bite back with the same kind of vigor.

“I was nervous, idiot!”

Hurried gasps for air fill the empty street, catching your breath after screaming at each other from mere feet apart.

Couldn’t get more mature than that. 

Observing his face, you find it only a matter of time before whatever frothing idea brewing past curly hair becomes audible.

“C’mon.”

“Wha- WHAT?!”

Swept off your feet where Han runs to scoop you up, it’s oddly difficult in whacking his shoulder from so much laughing, whisked away to somewhere you couldn’t name.

Fools.

And now, having understood this idea of his to be on your ordinated rooftop, you simply take to watching from afar as he flits around, having disappeared for a few minutes before returning back with what eerily appeared to be a speaker hidden behind an arm.

Before you can inquire, the melody of a song begins to strum.

Your song, together.

Half Moon, by DEAN.

Han pretends to know how to dance and you pretend to take him seriously, extending a hand your way where he waltzes over with clumsy steps.

The silliness earns a giggle, hand reaching for his hand anyway.

And beneath the stars, your own Valentines dance comes alive.

This stage is made for two.

Fools.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[studioeisa]

the final defense of the dying 🥀 jeonghan x reader.

jeonghan has escorted twelve tributes to their deaths. he will do everything in his power to make sure you don’t face the same fate.

🥀 pairing. hunger games mentor!jeonghan x tribute!reader. 🥀 word count. 13.1k. 🥀 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: hunger games. heavy angst, action, friendship, romance. 🥀 includes. minors do not interact. minor character deaths; hunger games-typical depictions of blood, gore, violence; themes of ptsd, sex work; sexual content; mentions of food, alcohol. childhood best friends, jeonghan yearns :(, cameos of svt members. 🥀 footnotes. this is part of the angst olympics collaboration. i did say this would be above 5k. a direct hit for @diamonddaze01, and for everyone who soldiered through sunrise on the reaping. my masterlist 🎵 doomsday, lizzy mcalpine. meet me in the woods, lord huron. growing sideways, noah kahan. we hug now, sydney rose. no light, no light, florence + the machine. without you without them, boygenius. the prophecy, taylor swift.

I. YOON JEONGHAN, THE FRIEND. 

Jeonghan’s nightmares always start the same. 

The middles and the endings vary. If he’s lucky, he doesn’t have to suffer through an entire run of his Games. If he’s unlucky, he wakes up gasping for breath like he had his head dunked underwater the entire evening. 

It always opens with the sprawling fields of District 11.

The very lands he had once thought to be so commanding. On his first train ride to the Capitol—when he was being sent out like a pig for slaughter—he knew, even then, that the sight was one to behold. Bountiful orchards, fruit trees in full bloom, tilled land as far as the eye could see.

When he sees them in his nightmares, there is always something wrong. An infestation. A wildfire. His loved ones, spilling blood all over the hay. 

Tonight, it’s you.

Jeonghan’s subconscious is caught off-guard. It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of you, after all. And so he thinks it’s going to be pleasant, thinks he’s going to enjoy some ethereal adventure. 

But then you open your mouth and nothing comes out. Not your sweet voice. Not your call of Hannie. Your face contorts, twists, like you’re in pain. It’s the very last expression Jeonghan would ever want to see on your face. 

He tries to reach you. He takes a couple of paces forward. He breaks out into a run. But the fields stretch, and stretch, and stretch, and all the while, you stare straight at him with that soundless look of terror. 

Jeonghan wakes with his chest heaving. 

It takes him thirty seconds to realize he had been dreaming. It takes him another five minutes to clamber out of bed, unsteady on his feet as he makes his way to the en suite bathroom. 

Here, in the Victor’s Village, it’s only him. And he doesn’t mean that in the sense that he has no living relatives to stay in this big, empty house with him. He means it in the sense that he’s the only district’s Victor, the only one to have come back alive after 73 iterations of the Games. It had its advantages.

Being all alone means nobody can hear Jeonghan when he screams. When he sits in the tub, head between his knees, and screams until his voice is hoarse. 

He chalks up the eerie dream to what awaits him later in the day. The reaping looms over him like a storm cloud, but there’s also a silver lining he holds on to as he goes through his morning routine. It’s morbid. It’s cruel. He would never admit it to anyone. 

For once, Jeonghan is looking forward to the reaping. 

On average, the reaping was considered the worst day for any district. An annual lottery that decided who would be sent off to participate in that year’s Games. Behind New Year’s, Reaping Day was the second-most likely day for people to get drunk. 

Today was your last. 

The last day you had to have your name in the bowl. The last reaping you would have to endure. 

You and Jeonghan were twelve when your names first got added into the mix. When he came back from his Games, he made sure you would never have to apply for tesserae—a year’s worth of grain and oil. He was richer than the gods, anyway, with all his winnings. And who else would he share it with but you? 

So, in your final year, there are still only seven slips of paper with your name on it. 

Jeonghan likes your chances. 

The reaping kicks off at around three in the afternoon. Obligations keep Jeonghan away from sneaking out to find you, but he knows where to look once the ceremony begins. You’re in the roped-off area of the town square, towards the front where all the older eligibles await their fate.

Jeonghan doesn’t bother to hide the fact he’s staring, that he’s waiting for you to look his way. Almost willing it, even, and he can sense your vexation from the stage where he’s forced to stand. 

You finally look up at him. For a moment, he sees the face in his dream. The one screaming.

It passes like a mirage, leaving your familiar expression of exasperation. 

Stop, you mouth, trying to look somewhat stern. Failing. (A corner of your lip has twitched upward.) 

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. Can’t help it, he mouths back, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly.

For the first time that day, he feels like he can breathe. 

The mayor steps forward to recite the history of the founding of Panem. The Dark Days brought upon by the uprising, the Treaty of Treason that institutionalized the Games. There’s a measly attempt to discuss the spoils and riches that come with winning, but nobody is convinced. Not when there’s still only a solitary victor on stage. 

“District 11’s victors,” the mayor rasps. This part is required reading, has been included in the program for the past six years. “Yoon Jeonghan, the 66th Hunger Games.” 

There’s a smatter of polite applause. Jeonghan offers the gathered crowd a small nod in acknowledgement, but nothing more. 

The list ends there. 

The district’s escort since gods-knows-when moves up to the microphone. Bauble lived up to her name; she was a stout, shimmery thing embellished in absurd shades of gold and glitter. You once told Jeonghan that her voice was like a coin in a tin can, and he’s been unable to unhear it ever since. 

She waxes poetics about the honor of being a tribute. Jeonghan tunes it out, focuses on staring straight ahead. He wonders, briefly, what he should have for dinner. 

Bauble steps towards the glass bowl containing hundreds of folded pieces of paper. Hundreds. Some have their names in there on twenty-something slips. 

Not you. You only have seven. Seven, because Jeonghan had made sure to keep the odds as low as possible.

“Ladies first,” Bauble warbles. 

And perhaps that’s Jeonghan’s first mistake—that he does not worry. 

He’s so sure, so certain, riding on the high of this reaping being your final one. His mind is already halfway into next week, into the special brand of kindness you afford him in the aftermath of the Games.

You were always a little softer to him whenever he came home from the bloodbath. A consolation, he had thought during his first year as a mentor. Perverse as it is, he soaked it all up. 

The nights you’d spend at his home in the Victor’s Village. The cooked meals and the reassuring touches. The words you’d murmur whenever he woke up from his nightmares; your sweet nothings of you did what you could and no one blames you and it was just a dream, Hannie, you’re safe here. 

He’s thinking of those, of you.

And so he nearly misses the way Bauble calls out your name. 

The very name he had shrieked as a child when the two of you played games in the corn fields and rice paddies. The very name he had murmured soundlessly while he was delirious and sick in his own arena. (The thought of you, the only thing that kept him alive.) 

It’s your name, but everybody in the crowd—from the farmers to the ranchers to the Peacekeepers, even—know you as something else. 

Jeonghan’s darling. Jeonghan’s sweetheart. 

The love of his life, now sentenced to die. 

He can feel it. The tangible shift in the air. 

The camera trying to get a tight shot of his face. The probing eyes, all flickering between you and Jeonghan like the district doesn’t know who to focus on.

You may be the reaped, but the slip of paper in Bauble’s hand has condemned you both. 

Jeonghan doesn’t give anyone the satisfaction of a reaction

He watches, tight-lipped and steely-eyed, as you move through the crowd like a summer breeze. You don’t look towards him. A small grace. 

You take your place on the stage. Bauble—ignorant as ever of the tension that has rippled through the district—flashes you a toothy smile. 

“Lovely,” she sing-songs. Jeonghan barely resists the urge to tear the escort’s wig off. 

She moves over to the boys’ fishing bowl and pulls out a name. It’s some rancher’s son, someone who got a little cocky about the amount of tesserae they thought they could get. He stumbles forward from the back row of eligibles, which means he’s young. Probably only thirteen or so. 

Jeonghan doesn’t dwell on it it. He’s too busy holding his hands behind his back, his nails digging into his palms in a way that will leave crescent-shaped marks. 

“Ladies and gentleman, join me in welcoming the District 11 tributes of the 73rd Hunger Games!” Bauble trills.

During Reaping Day, there is already barely any applause or cheers. Why would anyone celebrate when Jeonghan was still the only one to have come back after all these decades? 

Today, though, it’s silent as a tomb. 

Bauble looks like she’s at a loss. A quiet district doesn’t make for good television. “And may the odds be ever in their favor,” she’s saying hastily, but her words patter off when it begins. 

A low hum. Somebody from the back of the crowd starts it up, and then the rows follow suit one after the other.

People are always angry in District 11.

The days are long and the work is hard. The sun is unforgiving; the labor, unjustified. And so the people have learned to sing, have taken to music so they could bear the strife. The two of you grew up to hymns in the fields, ballads on birthdays— 

Songs at funerals. Grief shared in rumbling baritones, in lyrics passed down from one generation to another. 

The weeping women begin to croon.

The fields whisper low where the tall corn sways, Calling your name in the hush of the days. Summer was golden, but frost’s moving in, Taking the bright ones again and again.

It’s a song as old as time, an honor as recognizable as the three-fingered salute. Jeonghan dares to steal a glance at you. You’re clutching the male tribute to your side, and your jaw is set with defiance. 

The sun kissed your brow as you worked through the rows, Hands stained with labor, a heart no one knows. Now they have sent you where none should be sent, Leaving us hollow, our backs tired and bent.

Your parents. Gods, your parents. Jeonghan’s gaze skips over the crowd as he tries to find them. There’s so many, too many people. He’s a little grateful he can’t locate them. He wouldn’t know what to do if he saw the looks on their faces. 

Back when the two of you had been playmates, your father had always teased Jeonghan about bringing you home before the sun set. Jeonghan had been so diligent, had never failed your father once, but now. 

But now. 

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in.

The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name, But nothing will ever grow quite the same.

Bauble is getting restless. The mayor keeps throwing helpless glances at Jeonghan. He stares straight ahead. He has no plans of interrupting. Not this. Not when it’s for you.   

In the corner of his eye, he can see you mouthing along to the words. In his honest, unbiased opinion, you were one of the district’s best singers. It kills him that no one will hear you, no one can hear you, as you give what may be your last performance for the people that have raised you. 

The song crescendos. Dozens of voices, furious as the storms that rampaged through Panem and left the district on its knees. 

Let the wheat bow, let the vines grieve, Let the rain fall for all we believe. If we had a choice, if we had a say, Not one of our own would be taken away.

Jeonghan hopes the Capitol cameramen are getting this, even though they’ll probably cut the broadcast. A district united in its sorrow is a dangerous one, and Jeonghan will pay a small price for letting it happen. 

He will pay an even heftier price for singing along. 

His tone has always been a bit on the nasally side, but the years have made it sweeter, sharper. He doesn’t have to pitch his voice particularly loud. The people see his mouth forming the words, see the way he joins in on the last chorus.

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in. The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name—

But nothing will ever grow quite the same, he finishes, and then he finally looks towards you. 

II. YOON JEONGHAN, THE VICTOR. 

It had been his first reaping. 

His name, in the bowl only once. His cousins had told him it was unlikely. You had reassured him it would not be him, although his concern, even then, had been that it might be you. 

He had been basking in the relief of the female tribute not being you—instead being a wine-maker’s daughter—that he didn’t immediately register the fact his name had come out of Bauble’s gold-painted lips. 

Twelve-year-old Yoon Jeonghan. District 11’s male tribute for the 66th Hunger Games. 

You had screamed bloody murder. He remembers that. He remembers you running forward; you had always been quick on your feet. 

You reached Jeonghan just in time to give him a bone-crushing hug, to babble something helpless like Come back, swear it, before you were shoved down into the asphalt by the nearest Peacekeeper. 

Jeonghan had felt rage, then. Felt like he could win the Games solely based on the fact the violence had chipped one of your teeth and bruised your cheek. 

He had to be dragged kicking and screaming onto stage, had to be placed next to the female tribute who looked sick at the thought of heading into the bloodbath with a literal child. 

Cherry. That had been her name. Jeonghan remembers finding it ironic, because she smelled more like grapes. 

He had tucked away most of his memories of the pre-Games activities, or maybe the trauma had them blurring all together. The lack of victors for District 11 meant that his mentors had been pooled from other districts.

There was District 3’s Beetee, who won the 34th Hunger Games after electrocuting the Career pack. There was District 6’s Maeve, who accidentally won the 44th Hunger Games despite being high on morphling the entire time. 

Maeve trained Cherry. It didn’t do Cherry much good. 

Beetee trained Jeonghan. The man had been critical, clinical. He pitied Jeonghan, though. Any time Beetee seemed to remember Jeonghan was only twelve, the victor would stutter and wince. 

Jeonghan had hated that the most. That he was the youngest in the pool of tributes. That the Capitol citizens looked at him like he already had one foot in the grave. 

A part of him wants to say spite got him to win. A desire to prove himself, to break the record previously held by fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair. 

Jeonghan put on a good show. He charmed interviewers. He got a six as his training score after depicting particular adeptness at knife-throwing. 

It didn’t matter. None of it did. 

Going into the Games, Jeonghan’s morning long odds had been 60-1.

His arena had smelled of petrichor and blood.

Jeonghan blinked against the sudden glare of daylight as the plate elevated him into a clearing wreathed by towering trees. A canopy loomed above like a watchful eye, dappling the forest floor with fractured sunlight. The Cornucopia gleamed gold and monstrous at the center of the glade, its curved mouth yawning open with the promise of tools and terror. 

Around him, the other tributes emerged, silhouettes sharpening into figures with each second. They looked older. Meaner.

Cherry had been across from him, eyes wide and frantic. Her hands trembled at her sides. She wasn’t looking at the weapons. She was looking at him.

Jeonghan shook his head once. A warning.

The gong sounded, and he sprinted. 

The chaos unfurled behind him like a wave of shrieking metal. The sound of a throat being opened. Of someone crying for their mother. 

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

His legs were short, but fear lent him speed. He vaulted a moss-slicked log, ducked beneath hanging vines, tore through underbrush until his lungs burned.

He only collapsed hours later, curled beneath the roots of a colossal tree, his palms raw, his clothes stained with dirt and sweat. He couldn’t stop shaking. Not from cold but from the weight of it all.

Cherry hadn’t made it. 

He had heard her scream. High and shrill, cut short in the way all Capitol broadcasts made sure to capture. He had paused only briefly—just enough to register the voice—before running again.

It wasn’t supposed to be her. She was older, stronger.

Maeve had spent hours coaching her on traps and close combat. Cherry had taken to it well. 

Jeonghan was the joke. The child. The one who should have been first to go.

He curled tighter under the roots, pulling fallen leaves around his body like armor. Beetee’s voice floated back to him: Observe. Hide. Let the others thin themselves out. You are not stronger. You must be smarter. Use their confidence against them.

Jeonghan’s fingers had closed around a flat, smooth rock. He didn’t throw it, just held it, letting the weight steady him. 

That first night, the sky lit up with eight sepia faces. Cherry’s was among them. 

Jeonghan didn’t cry. He thought he might never stop if he started.

Instead, he thought of you. 

He told himself he wouldn’t die. Not until he saw you again. Not until he returned what the Peacekeepers took from your smile.

He slept with his back to the tree, one hand on the rock. Waiting. Listening.

Still alive.

Jeonghan stayed alive for 17 more days.

The arena was built to punish the reckless. A tropical forest that seemed quiet until it wasn't. The humidity sapped your strength. The mutant insects bit through your resolve. The rains flooded low ground without warning. Those who didn't know how to climb or swim were the first to go.

Jeonghan didn’t fight. Not at first.

He moved at night, listened more than he spoke, and memorized the rhythms of the forest. He watched the Careers from a distance as they slaughtered each other over dwindling supplies. He learned to tell which fruits made your stomach turn and which bark bled drinkable water.

He clung to Beetee’s instructions like a lifeline. 

Lay traps when you can. Scavenge. Never sleep in the same place twice.

And always—always—keep your district token close.

His token had been something from you. A woven bracelet you’d made him one summer, years ago. Red thread with a tiny, smooth seed sewn into the knot.

You had called it lucky. He had scoffed. 

In the arena, he held it every night like it might bring him back.

On day five, a small package drifted from the sky. Inside: a single strip of dried meat, a roll of gauze, and a note.

Keep going, little ghost.

He never did find out who sent it. Maybe someone who liked the way he vanished into the trees. Maybe someone who liked the tears he didn’t shed when Cherry’s face lit up the sky. He wasn’t sure it mattered. 

What mattered was that someone out there believed he might make it.

The days had bled together. He trapped a squirrel on day six. Found a dead tribute’s knife on day nine. Avoided a firestorm on day 11 by diving into a mudflat. He never got cocky. Never came close to the Cornucopia again. When the number of faces diminished in the sky—ten, then seven, then five—he started to dream of home.

When there were three left, he knew he would have to kill.

He hated himself for what he planned. Hated the way he sharpened his knife in the moonlight and hummed your favorite songs like it might somehow remind him of his innocence. 

That very innocence, shattered the moment he found himself face to face with the last of the Games. 

The forest burned on the morning of the final day.

The Gamemakers had set it ablaze from all corners. No more hiding. No more waiting. They were starving for a finale. The audience wanted blood.

Jeonghan emerged coughing, soot streaked on his cheeks. His hair, once so pale and soft, clung to his forehead, sweat-slicked and singed. He stumbled out into a clearing he had once used as a water source, now parched and cracked from the heat.

Two others waited.

Cassian, District 2. Large, broad-shouldered, trained from the cradle.

Rueya, District 5. Slender, fast, clever. She had a twitch in her jaw when she was calculating.

They turned to look at him like he was a hallucination. A demon from the woods.

“You made it?” Rueya asked, her voice hoarse.

Cassian just laughed. “Twelve-year-old freak.”

Jeonghan said nothing. He adjusted his grip on the knife. His fingers trembled, but not from fear.

He was remembering.

You, shouting at him for winning hide-and-seek again. Your face scrunched in disbelief when you couldn’t find him for an hour. How the others accused him of cheating.

He hadn’t cheated. He had just watched. Paid attention. Remembered where shadows fell and what cracked underfoot.

He remembered you throwing stones at him one summer afternoon, not out of hate but frustration, yelling, You ruin every game, Yoon Jeonghan!

Maybe he did.

Rueya had struck first.

Her blade aimed for his neck. He ducked. Rolled. Kicked dust in her eyes and used the moment to run. Not far. Just enough to get them to follow.

He was small. Quick. He led them where he needed them to go. Past the tree with the false trunk. Past the buried snare he had laid on day fourteen.

Cassian tripped it. Went down hard. 

A branch spiked through his thigh.

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

Rueya was faster.

She caught up by the riverbed, cornered him. Her knife was longer. Her reach, better. He bled from a shallow cut on his cheek and another on his shoulder.

Rueya lunged. Jeonghan pivoted, let her momentum carry her too far. 

She stumbled. He didn’t. 

Without a moment of hesitation, he slammed the heel of his hand into her nose. The crunch was sickening. She dropped her remaining blade to instinctively hold her nose, howling, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Those would be her last words.

When Jeonghan had staggered back into the clearing, Cassian was still alive, but barely. He had been dragging himself forward, face pale with pain. He looked up, eyes glassy. 

"You—cheating little shit—"

Jeonghan’s knife sliced through the air and landed squarely over Cassian’s left breast. Where his heart might have been, if he had one. 

The bracelet, your bracelet, blood-soaked and fraying, glinted when Jeonghan was lifted into the hovercraft. 

He had been shaking, his left ear ringing from the blow he hadn’t seen coming. His knee was swelling. Both injuries never quite recovered; later in life, Jeonghan would still hear best on his right side and always walk with a slight limp. 

But then, in that moment, Jeonghan had been alive. In the arena where smoke was curling up in the sky. In the hovercraft where he was deemed dehydrated, underweight, and on the brink of death himself. 

You always win, you had once tearfully seethed when he kicked your ass in Duck, Duck, Goose. You always win these stupid games!

III. YOON JEONGHAN, THE LOVER. 

He hears your footsteps before he sees you.

They echo down the corridor of the train like they always have, steady and sure and just a touch impatient. Jeonghan already knows it’s you; he doesn’t look up. 

He keeps his gaze fixed on the swirling ice in his untouched glass of Capitol liquor, something pale and sharp that burns in his nose more than it ever will in his throat. A good number of victors had succumbed to alcoholism, but he always had you to talk him away from the bottle. 

Today was no exception. 

The door creaks open.

“Bauble sent me,” you say, even as Jeonghan focuses on the drink in front of him. Your voice is clipped, professional. Not unkind. “She said you need to prep us.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He swirls his drink, then sets it down with a dull clink. The ice has barely melted. “Prep yourselves. I’m not your babysitter.”

There’s a beat. “You are, actually,” you say matter-of-factly. “That’s literally your job.”

“Then I’m off-duty,” he snips.  

The car smells like expensive polish and expensive drink and Jeonghan’s expensive silence. You don’t move. He can feel you watching him.

“Are you going to be like this the entire time?”

“Like what.”

“Like a jackass.”

That finally earns you a glance. He turns to look at you, and gods, it nearly kills him.

Your arms are crossed, shoulders squared, mouth set in that stubborn little line he knows by heart. You’re trying not to tremble. 

He forces himself to look away.

“You’re angry,” you say, quieter now.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“I’m the one who got reaped.”

“Exactly.”

It shuts you up. For a second. Just a second.

Then you walk forward and sit beside him. Not across from him. Beside him. So close he can smell the faint traces of that soap you always used, the one that reminds him of lemon trees, wet earth, and the sun. 

“You’re not mad at me,” you say delicately. “You’re scared.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“You’re terrified, Hannie. You think you’re going to lose me.”

His grip tightens around the glass until the ice shifts, clinks.

“You think you already have,” you murmur.

Something crumbles in him then. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, doesn’t shatter. He just sighs again—longer this time—and sets the glass down gently. It’s an acquiescence, an acknowledgement. 

“Come on,” you say, standing. You offer a hand. “Let’s go. My partner’s probably trying to figure out how to hold a fork.”

Jeonghan only stares at your hand for a moment. He doesn’t want to fall victim to preemptive nostalgia, but he does anyway. His gaze traces over the lines on your palm, the dirt underneath your fingernails, and he thinks of all the things you’ve done. All the things you have yet to do. 

You flex your fingers wordlessly, urging him. He lets you tug him up, almost all the way to the door—

—and then his hand pulls you back.

Not roughly. Not urgently.

But when his arms circle your waist, he leans forward like a man caving to gravity. He presses his forehead to your shoulder. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

You let him hold you.

Because this is Jeonghan, and this might be the last time he ever gets to.

You card your fingers through his hair. He stays absolutely still, as if he can keep the two of you in this snow globe of a movement if he doesn’t move an inch. The seconds stretch into minutes, and he pulls away only when there’s a knock on the car door. Bauble, this time, eyeing the two of you like she knows something. 

She doesn’t know a thing, obviously. 

Back in the dining car, Jeonghan leans against the polished wood paneling, arms crossed. The smell of Capitol-grade roast duck and syrupy wine thickens in the air. He watches the way Barley picks at his food like it might bite back, eyes darting from plate to window to the unfamiliar silverware. 

You’re sitting straighter, trying to model bravery, but Jeonghan’s known you too long. He sees the tremors in your hands and fights the urge to reach for you. 

“So,” Jeonghan says, and the word is brittle, sharp. “You both get one question each. Make it count.”

Barley frowns. He’s all knees and elbows, a thirteen-year-old with a summer tan and a coffin waiting for him at home. “How long do you think I’ll last?”

Jeonghan doesn’t sugarcoat. “Depends. You follow instructions, you might last longer than an hour,” he says. 

Barley blanches. You shoot Jeonghan a look.

“He’s scared,” you say pointedly. 

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “He should be.”

Your voice is steady, though your eyes aren’t. “Then tell us what to expect,” you say.

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head like he’s heard this request a thousand times—and he has. But not from you. Not like this.

The annoyance coating your words isn’t amiss to him, either. It brings him a perverse sense of comfort. 

“You’ll be hungry. You’ll be hunted,” he says slowly. “And you’ll be alone, even when you’re not. Trust no one. Run the second the gong sounds. Don’t stop until your legs give out. And for the love of all things holy, don’t look back."

Barley is pale now, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Did it hurt? When they—when they came for you?”

For a second, Jeonghan sees it all again. Cherry’s panicked expression, the glint of Rueya’s blade, the snarl on Cassian’s face. He has to blink the memories away, has to focus on the fact you’re watching like you already know he’s going under. 

Jeonghan clears his throat. “All of it hurt.”

Bauble waltzes in, then. “There you all are!” she chirps. “Oh, Jeonghan, you simply mustn’t hide my victors-to-be away like this. What if someone needs a morale boost?”

Jeonghan deadpans, “Morale died when you called her name.”

Bauble clicks her tongue, unfazed. While Jeonghan wouldn’t necessarily call the escort his friend, they did have a certain rapport built over years of sanctioned bonding. “Still so dramatic,” she tuts. “You’ve always had such flair.”

“You mean trauma.”

“You say tomato—” she flutters her fingers.

You smile faintly. Jeonghan sees it, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite everything. It’s too soft. Too real. It guts him.

When Bauble finally prances away to inspect dinner settings, when Barley decides he might as well spend his last few hours enjoying the pleasantries of the Capitol, Jeonghan shifts closer to you.

“You’ve always listened too well,” he says. “Even when I didn’t want you to.”

You look up. “I thought that was the point. To listen when no one else does.”

He tries to scoff, but it comes out too fond. He remembers every time you sat beside him in the fields, every time your hands were gentle when he woke screaming, every time you pretended he was still human.

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “You’re smart.”

“I learned from the best.” 

Jeonghan watches you, the defiance in your posture warring with the fear you don’t want him to see. He can’t fix any of it. He knows that. But he can give you this—this small, ridiculous moment.

“You know,” he says slowly, “Barley’s too small for the Capitol tuxedos. You’re gonna have to teach him how to fake confidence. Smile like you’re selling poison as perfume.”

You laugh, short and tired. “And what about me?”

Jeonghan’s smile falters. Softens.

“You… just be you. That’ll be enough.” He pushes off the wall, straightens up. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the train.”

You start to move past him, but his hand finds your wrist, halting you. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs gently until you step into his arms.

He holds you like it’s the last thing tethering him to earth. Like letting go means losing everything.

“Just… hold on,” he says quietly as he slots his fingers through the spaces of yours. Usually, you told him off when he got too clingy or touchy. You weren’t together or anything, after all, and so you demanded that he be more conservative. That he reel himself in. 

For once, you let him.

For once, he lets himself.

He holds your hand the entire way to the Capitol, where it’s a blur of color and shine. 

For a moment, even with the dread curling tight in his stomach, Jeonghan finds himself admiring the splendor. He isn’t surprised to see you and Barley equally speechless, craning your necks as the train pulls into the station; your faces, framed in the tall, sterile windows mirroring your awe back at you.

Barley presses his hand against the glass, wide-eyed. “Is that... a moving sidewalk?” he breathes. 

Jeonghan doesn’t answer. He’s too busy cataloging every flinch, every blink, every breath the two of you take. Watching the way you stand slightly in front of Barley, like you’re already trying to shield him from whatever came next.

Jeonghan loves you so much at that moment. 

Bauble is chattering beside you, of course, gesturing wildly with one hand. She barely notices when Jeonghan steps between you and a Capitol attendant, his hand curling lightly around your arm.

“Stay close,” he says below his breath.

You look up at him and nod. The ease of which you trust him, the lack of questions you have, nearly bowls him over. He sticks by your side the entire way to the Tribute Tower, where the apartment is all sleek marble and warm gold accents. Impossibly high ceilings and digital fireplaces that don’t throw any heat. There’s fresh fruit on the tables and beds the size of entire haylofts. It looks more like a presidential suite than a prison.

“Holy shit,” you whisper under your breath, fingers grazing the frame of an oil painting taller than you. Barley finds the snack cart and marvels over a slice of something custard-filled.

Jeonghan hovers. He can’t stop himself. Not when you were somewhere the Capitol could get its claws in you.

When the time comes for the Tribute Parade, he’s still on edge. Still worried the stylist team will do their jobs too well, while also simultaneously dreading them not doing enough. 

District 11 had always had a reputation for agricultural simplicity, which the Capitol liked to glamorize with varying degrees of taste. This year, apparently, they’d gone for mythical harvest gods. You’re draped in molten gold and deep, forest green, your arms dusted with shimmer like pollen. A long cloak of woven vines trails behind you, the ends studded with jewels shaped like pomegranate seeds and tiny bushels of wheat.

Barley dons something similar; a shorter tunic with a circlet of laurel around his head, a wooden staff in his grip that sparks gently with gold.

Jeonghan doesn’t know what to say when you step out from the dressing area.

He swallows hard. He had seen every horror the Games had to offer. But this—seeing you, radiant and ready for slaughter—is the cruelest thing.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

He shakes his head. Tries to say something. Fails. It’s a far cry from the practical, utilitarian clothing the two of you have grown up with. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you wear something so glamorous, and the thought of it only makes him want to run and hide. 

“Hannie?” you prod. 

He gets it together. 

“You look—” He clears his throat. His voice goes imperceptibly softer. “You look like something no one should be allowed to destroy.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Maybe you don’t have to. After a quick glance around the backstage—to ensure nobody is looking—you reach out, give his arm a comforting squeeze. 

He knows he’s doing everything wrong. It’s your Parade, your Games. He’s supposed to be holding himself better, supposed to be the one offering you reassurance and solace. Instead, you’ve taken up your typical caretaker role, and he falls apart at the mere sight of you. 

When the chariots roll out and the cameras turn, Jeonghan has to stand just out of frame, mouth tight, hands clenched. The crowds react to you and Barley. Jeonghan hears none of it. 

Instead, he keeps his head slightly bowed; his gaze, away from all the other tributes who will all have a kill-or-be-killed mentality. 

Maybe if he wishes hard enough, Jeonghan thinks, he can stop the Games before they even begin.

IV. YOON JEONGHAN, THE MENTOR. 

Jeonghan stands at the head of the training room, arms crossed, jaw tight. From this angle, he can see both you and Barley moving between stations. You’re focused, determined, adjusting the way you grip the rope at the knot-tying corner. Barley, less so. He keeps fumbling, looking over his shoulder for approval.

It should’ve been easy, this mentorship. He’d won. He knew what it took. He could recite Beetee’s advice in his sleep, every trick he’d used in his own Games carved into his memory like tally marks. 

And yet, his throat burns and his hands won’t stop shaking.

He’s going to lose you.

The thought returns like a hammer strike. Over and over. No matter how hard he tries to bury it. Jeonghan drags his fingernails down the length of his arm as if pain might chase it away. He’s fairly sure he’ll have gashes by the time this week is over. 

You approach without warning, your face sweaty from training, your eyes sharp.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that,” you tell him. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’ve already got a gravestone for me in some plot back home.” 

Jeonghan barks out a laugh—a surprised, hollow one. Your dry humor always did know how to cut through him. “I’m not doing that,” he snipes. 

“You are. You haven’t looked at Barley once without wincing. You flinch every time I handle a knife. You’re not helping. You’re scaring us.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” you say simply. “You’re Yoon Jeonghan. You survived at twelve. You have to be stronger than this.”

He turns away from you. You didn’t know—couldn’t know—what it’s been like. Watching years of reapings, standing on the same stage, seeing child after child go off to die while he stood there, the only victor District 11 had to offer. 

Every year, he makes himself hope. Every year, he trains them, watches the light in their eyes go dim as they were outmatched, outarmed, outplayed.

Every year, he fails.

He had never cried for them. Not once. Had never allowed himself to grieve. It was easier that way. To believe he’d done all he could. That they were always going to die, with or without him.

But not you.

You, who used to sneak into his house when he came home, just to leave honey cakes on the windowsill. You, who sang lullabies to him when the nightmares got so bad he couldn’t sleep. You, who had always seen him not as a victor, not as a killer, but just—

Jeonghan.

He turns back around and finds you still standing there, stubborn and unflinching. He lets out a breath.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders relax slightly.

“I won’t flinch anymore,” he promises. “I won’t wince. I won’t look away. I’ll train you.” 

“Good,” you say, “because you’re our final defense, and you’ve been a pretty shitty defense so far.” 

He laughs. For once, it’s not forced. 

You, of all people, know just how much Jeonghan’s word means. He drums up support with prospective sponsors. He talks with the victors and tries to find alliances. 

He teaches Barley how to hold an arrow. He watches you throw knives and shouts out instructions. 

By the time your private training sessions come around, Jeonghan is fairly sure he’s never done this much work as a mentor in the past couple of years. As you and Barley get ready to face the Gamemakers, there is only one thing left for him to do: trust that everything you’ve learned will not fail you. 

The scores come in just after dinner, during a quiet lull where the four of you—Jeonghan, you, Barley, and Bauble—sit in the quarters, feigning calm over cups of Capitol-brewed tea. The screen crackles to life, and the room stills.

There’s an introduction. A reminder of why this is all done. Capitol citizens are given an idea of who to bet on based on the scores ascribed to each tribute. The private training sessions were a matter of who could put on the best show, but not too good. 

Score low, you would lose out on sponsors. Score high, you would be deemed a threat by other tributes. 

Scores range from one to twelve. The Careers, unsurprisingly, get nines and tens. The girl from Four gets a ten. The boy from Nine gets a four. 

And then it’s District 11. Your face flashes first. A moment’s silence. Then: eight.

Barley is the first to react. “An eight?” he breathes, nearly sloshing his tea. “That’s... that’s good, right? That’s really good, isn’t it?”

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He’s staring at the number, willing it to hold still, like it might evaporate if he looks away.

Then Barley’s face appears on the screen. Six.

“Hey!” Barley exclaims, grinning at you. “We didn’t do half-bad!”

You laugh quietly, nerves still wound tight beneath your skin. “Guess not.” You glance at Jeonghan, whose brow is furrowed as if the numbers have personally offended him.

“Not half-bad?” you repeat to Jeonghan, as if urging him to confirm or deny your odds. 

He snaps out of his haze. “It’s good,” he says, but his voice is tight. “It’s good. You both did well.”

Barley’s too thrilled to notice the tension. He retreats into a quiet hum of excitement, and Jeonghan watches him go to his room, heart aching at how young he still is.

You stay behind. You know better.

“He’s proud of his six,” you say softly. “You should be proud of us, too.”

Jeonghan finally meets your gaze. “What did you do?”

You shrug, but your eyes are shining. “Used a sickle. Told them I’d only ever used it on weeds, not people. Then showed them I could take the heads off three practice dummies in under ten seconds.”

He stares.

“Okay, maybe eight seconds,” you admit with a sheepish grin. “But still.”

“Gods,” he mutters. “Why would you tell me that?”

You tilt your head. “Because I need you to believe I have a shot.”

Jeonghan presses his fingers against his eyelids. Eight. A real shot. That’s what it means. But the Capitol loves nothing more than raising hope just to snuff it out.

And so he tries not to feel hopeful. He tries.

“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice pure as the driven snow. “You made sure of that.”

He exhales slowly. He has to believe it. For your sake. And Barley’s. And for the twelve other faces in his head, the ones he couldn’t save. He opens his eyes and looks straight at you. 

“Just keep doing what you did today,” he says. “And I’ll do the rest.”

He does what he can, but there is only so much he can do. 

By the time the pre-Games interviews come around, he knows you will have to write your own ending. Even in the viewing room where Jeonghan sits with Bauble and a glass of untouched wine, it feels like every bulb is trained on the screen, on you.

He hasn’t breathed since your name was announced. He probably won’t breathe until your interview is over.

Barley’s had gone well. Nothing to call home about. He had been your typical young tribute, showing off boyish charm and vouchsafed innocence. 

You, on the other hand, look devastating.

The prep team had broken their backs to make it work. Your outfit—woven in silks dyed the color of ripening wheat, dotted with reddish sequins like the leaves from trees—catches the light with every small movement. Your hair is twisted back in a braid like the reapers wear during harvest. And your smile, shy but steady, is enough to hush even Caesar Flickerman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he croons, gesturing with flair, “from District 11, please welcome our stunning tribute!”

You walk forward, gracious and poised. Jeonghan clenches his fists in his lap. It feels like every step you take toward that stage is a step further away from him.

“Good evening,” Caesar says. “You’re quite the sight tonight. The Capitol is enraptured already!”

You laugh lightly. “It’s not every day someone from my district gets to wear something this fine. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”

Jeonghan flinches. He knows that tone—modest, self-deprecating, practiced. You’re playing your part. He just wishes you didn’t have to.

Caesar chuckles, his teeth gleaming. A shark, ready to draw blood.  “Now, I’ve heard you’re quite the singer. Is that true?”

“Depends on who you ask,” you reply, to the laughter of the crowd.

Jeonghan stares. He knows how nervous you are. He knows how tightly you were wound in your quarters, how your hands shook as you ate. But here, under the scrutiny of all of Panem, you are luminous. You can joke around with Caesar; you hum a little tune when asked.

You are everything they want you to be.

He hates it. He loves it. He doesn’t know what to feel.

Caesar leans forward after your little song. His eyes glitter. “And tell me—I think everyone wants to know,” he says conspiratorially. “Our only Victor from District 11. Jeonghan. The youngest ever to have ever won the Games. A little birdy has told me the two of you are… close.”

Jeonghan goes rigid.

Bauble mutters something under her breath; Jeonghan thinks it might be a cuss. On screen, Caesar keeps his smile, but the question lands with precision.

You tilt your head, feigning thoguthfulness. “Jeonghan is my mentor,” you say. “But more than that, he’s my best friend.”

The audience lets out a collective murmur.

Jeonghan grips the arms of his chair.

“He’s the strongest person I know,” you say. “And I’m lucky he never gave up on me. I’m going into these Games with more than most. I have his faith.”

The crowd bursts into applause.

Caesar touches his chest theatrically. “Well, if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

You smile. It’s a momentary slip in your carefully curated image, as if the thought of love and Jeonghan brings you a genuine sort of joy. The audience catch that, too, and the applause only gets louder. 

Jeonghan lets out a breath. Not quite a sob. Not quite relief. But it’s something. 

Because if he can’t protect you with his own hands, then he’ll let the Capitol fall in love with you. Let them send gifts, parachutes, lifelines.

Let them see what he’s always seen.

Later that night, Jeonghan finds himself staring at the ceiling.

The lights are off, the room mostly dark save for the faint Capitol glow filtering through the windows of his bedroom. It bleeds silver against the walls, but Jeonghan’s eyes are trained on the shadows. 

He’s been lying here for over an hour now, still in his clothes, hair unwashed and face unshaven, unable to summon the will to move. The interview replays in his head, your dress still shimmering in his memory, your voice steady and luminous beneath Caesar's showmanship.

You’d been a star. You—his star. And tomorrow, you will be in the arena.

He breathes out, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes until colors burst behind his lids. The pressure does nothing to stop the ache in his chest. Jeonghan sits up.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. 

He should stay put and not make this harder, but his body moves before his mind can catch up, and he’s halfway to your door when he finds you already there.

You’re barefoot. Wrapped in a soft Capitol robe. Your hair is tousled from tossing and turning, and your arms are folded tightly around yourself.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur.

His breath catches. “Me neither.”

For a long second, the two of you stand like that, inches apart, both unsure of what to say. Then Jeonghan steps back and pushes the door open wider.

“Come in.”

You don’t hesitate. You pass him with a soft rustle of fabric. He closes the door behind you and watches as you climb onto his bed without a word. 

You’ve done something like this before. Too many times to count. But tonight, there’s no laughter. No quiet jokes. Just the hum of something deep and heavy.

You lay down on your side. Jeonghan crawls in after and faces you.

Usually, you’re the one who pulls him close when he startles awake from a nightmare. Usually, you’re the one whispering him back to sleep, pressing your fingers to his hairline and reminding him that he’s safe, he’s here. There’s no fire, no forest, no bloody bracelet. 

Tonight, he wraps an arm around you instead.

Your nose brushes his collarbone. He feels your breath, warm and steady, and he shuts his eyes.

He wants to say it.

That he loves you. 

That he has loved you from the moment you first yelled at him in the fields for cheating. That he has spent years loving you in silence, nursing the shape of your name in his chest like a prayer.

But the words rise to his throat and die there. They taste too much like a goodbye.

So instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead. This one, he thinks, is for the notes you two passed each other back in school. 

Then one to your temple. For your parents, who he will now never be able to look at. 

Then your cheek. For the time you threw out all the alcohol in his home and yelled at him until he agreed to only drink on special occasions. 

A soft one to your eyelid. For your singing—the best in the goddamn district. 

He kisses every part of your face except your lips. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stop, if he ever started there. 

When you whisper his name, when you tuck yourself tighter into his arms like you mean to mold yourself into his very body, Jeonghan only holds you closer.

In a few hours, he will have to let you go.

But not yet.

Not yet.

V. YOON JEONGHAN, THE SINNER. 

The arena comes into view and Jeonghan feels his stomach turn.

It’s a swamp.

Endless, waterlogged land choked with moss and trees heavy with rot. Mud so thick it might as well be quicksand. A heat haze distorts the sky in a way that makes it seem closer, like the clouds might melt onto the kids below. 

The air looks like it stinks. Jeonghan knows it does. He’s smelled swamp before in the southern end of District 11, in the marshlands after the harvest. Stagnant water swallowing the weeds whole. 

But the Capitol has made it worse. Of course they have.

The swamp is dotted with platforms. On screen, the tributes rise, one by one, as the countdown begins. All of them retch. A few are already shaking. One kid—the boy from 10, maybe—looks like he’s crying. Good. He won’t last an hour.

Jeonghan doesn’t look for Barley. He looks for you.

Your vitals blink steady on his monitor: elevated heart rate, but within reason. No signs of panic. Your face is unreadable on the screen, jaw set, eyes cutting ahead toward the Cornucopia or what passes for one in this muck. 

It’s a wrecked fishing trawler, run aground in the center of the swamp, half-covered in algae and rust. Supplies are lashed to the deck with ropes, weapons tucked into fishing nets. Booby-trapped. Jeonghan knows it. The Gamemakers always hide teeth under the sugar.

“Swamp,” Seungcheol says, appearing beside him. The District 4 mentor. Tall, sun-weathered, wearing that half-smile Jeonghan used to think was charm and now knows is armor. “Our kids might actually stand a chance this year.”

“Let’s hope so,” Jeonghan replies without looking up.

He stares at your vitals. At your small figure on the screen. Still not moving, not even a twitch of hesitation. Just watching, waiting. The same way he’s seen you watch the sky from the train window, like you’re searching for something worth staying for.

The countdown hits zero. The gong sounds.

The Games begin.

The cameras flicker between chaos and slaughter. Screams crack the air, tinny and sharp over the Control Center’s monitors. Blood is spilled in less than five seconds—twin blades from District 1 find the neck of a smaller boy, and the Career pack forms with terrifying speed. 

Jeonghan’s eyes scan screen after screen until he finds you.

You’re running—not to the Cornucopia, thank the gods—but to the left, where a pile of knapsacks and canteens are scattered among debris. You duck, swipe two, and pivot just as another tribute lurches at you. 

Jeonghan’s heart stutters. You use the knapsack like a flail, slam it into their face, and bolt toward the trees. 

Fast. Smart. Alive.

Barley is slower. He lingers too long, fumbling with a coil of rope. He nearly loses it when someone charges at him, but a girl from Six takes the hit instead. Her scream rises—then cuts off abruptly. 

Barley scrambles, barely escaping with a dented pot and a bottle of water. He doesn’t make it far, but he’s alive. For now.

A cannon fires. The first.

The room of victors stills as the screen flashes the casualty to them.

District 12’s girl. 

Jeonghan glances to his right, where Hansol is already on his feet. The victor doesn’t say a word. He just unplugs his data pad and walks out, the steel door hissing shut behind him. Jeonghan watches him go. 

No one says anything. They rarely do.

District 12’s boy goes down not long after. Another cannon. Another name. Hansol won’t be back.

The bloodbath drags on. It’s brutal, but not long. Six tributes die before the hour is up. Jeonghan leans forward, tracking the green blip that marks you on his pad. You’re tucked in the trees, breathing hard. You’ve stopped to bury yourself beneath leaves and branches, taking a note straight out of Jeonghan’s playbook. 

Next to Jeonghan, Seungcheol lets out a breath and mutters, “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” Jeonghan replies, voice hoarse. “I need a miracle.”

Your green blip continues to blink.

Please stay that way, Jeonghan thinks. 

You eventually make your slow, measured way through the muck of the arena. The swamp is vast, ringed with spiny trees, their roots like skeletal hands clawing out of the fetid water. Fog coils through the underbrush. Every few hours, something hisses or howls from the shadows. It's hell in technicolor, broadcast to every screen in Panem.

You move with caution, dragging your left leg slightly—favoring the ankle you twisted on the first day, slipping on moss-covered stone. He winces every time he sees you falter.

Capitol patrons have been generous. 

You’re pretty, and that counts for something. The dress they stuffed you into during the Tribute Parade did what it was meant to do. More importantly, you spoke like someone worth listening to during the interview. You’ve earned your sponsors. Jeonghan watches the pledge count climb.

But the funds dwindle faster than he likes. Bandages, food, painkillers—they cost more than you’d think. The sponsors pay for entertainment, not mercy. And half the job of being a mentor is making the calls no one else wants to make.

Barley hasn’t eaten in two days.

Jeonghan sees the boy stumbling along the banks of the stagnant pond, mouth cracked dry, trying desperately to chew a reed that isn’t remotely edible. His heart twists. Barley’s vitals flicker. Pulse dropping, dehydration setting in. 

Jeonghan’s finger hovers over the interface. He has enough to send a protein bar. It’s not much, but it’ll get the kid through another day.

Then, you scream.

It’s sharp, sudden, a sound that guts him. On-screen, you go down hard, hand clutching your side. Blood blooms at your waist, seeping into the saturated soil. A mutt. Something you had gotten away from through the skin of your teeth. 

A silver parachute of life-saving supplies cuts through the arena. It is not for Barley. 

The cannon fires that night. A low, guttural boom. It is not for you. 

Jeonghan closes his eyes. He can imagine it already. The projected photo of Barley, lighting up the night sky. Announcing his death. Broadcasting Jeonghan’s failure. 

He exhales slowly, jaw clenched. It should never have come down to a choice.

But it always does.

He doesn’t check your reaction. He doesn’t think he’d survive it, anyhow. 

Hours later, the camera feed switches to your sector. For the first time since the Games have started, you’re not alone.

District 7’s boy—the one with the heavy shoulders and steady hands—and District 9’s wiry, sharp-eyed tribute fall into step beside you. Glances are exchanged. Supplies are shared. It’s enough. For now.

Jeonghan doesn’t like it.

“She always this trusting?” Jihoon asks from where he’s perched near one of the monitors, arms crossed tightly.

“Not usually,” Jeonghan replies, cool. “Must be desperation.”

Seokmin leans against the paneling, softer, more optimistic. “They seem like they’re good kids. Maybe it helps her chances.”

“Or maybe they’ll gut her in her sleep.”

Jihoon frowns. “They’re not like that.”

Jeonghan doesn't respond. He watches you divvy up some dried fruit, offering the larger portion to the boy from Nine, who grins and says something the cameras don’t pick up. You smile back, faint. Tired.

A part of Jeonghan wants to tell you to run, but he also knows you won’t get too far. 

The tentative truce lasts for three nights.

On the fourth, you’re the one on watch. Jeonghan knows you haven’t slept more than a couple hours at a time. You’re running on adrenaline and stubbornness.

At midnight, the boy from Nine rolls over. Pretends to murmur in his sleep. You lean in to listen, and Jeonghan nearly screams at his screen.

The boy from Nine pounces. 

The boy from Seven follows a second later. They work in tandem, practiced. 

They hold you down, your legs thrashing against the swampy ground. You’re muffled by the palm of a hand over your mouth. 

These things happened. Jeonghan watched it year in, year out. But never to one of his, never to—

The cameras zoom in just in time to catch the glint of your blade as it drives upward into the shoulder of District 9’s boy. Always keep your weapon within reach, Jeonghan had advised you. Even when you’re half-awake. I had a rock. Have—anything. 

Seokmin’s tribute howls. You break free.

Jeonghan’s fists are clenched. He doesn’t breathe until you’re sprinting through the trees again, bleeding but alive.

A couple of seats away—Jihoon and Seokmin share twin looks of horror. 

“I didn’t know,” Jihoon croaks. 

“Neither did I,” Seokmin murmurs, paling. “Jeonghan, I’m—”

But Jeonghan rounds on them like a storm breaking over the Control Center. He’s up on his feet in the next moment, angry in a way that nobody has ever seen. It confirms the rumors that had been swirling, puts down the cards that he’s held so close to his chest. 

“Didn’t know? That’s all you’ve got?” Jeonghan snarls as he yanks Seokmin away from the panel, nearly sending the victor to the ground. “You raised these motherfuckers!”

“They’re tributes, Jeonghan,” Jihoon snaps back, maneuvering so he can also face Jeonghan’s rage. “They’re just trying to survive.” 

“So is she!”

Bauble grabs Jeonghan by the elbow before he can do any more damage. “Enough,” she commands. “Outside. Now.” 

Jeonghan shakes her off but lets himself be steered out of the room. The door shuts behind them with a heavy click. He presses his back against the cold wall, jaw clenched.

Bauble doesn't say anything. Just waits. Escorts typically didn’t interfere at this point in the Games, but Bauble had taken it upon herself when she seemed to realize how much of a hold you had on the man that was supposed to be keeping you alive. 

Jeonghan covers his face with his hands. He doesn’t cry. He just breathes like he might come apart.

Inside the Control Center, the screens roll on. You’re alone again.

When Jeonghan returns, nobody talks about his outburst. There have been worse. Actual physical alterations. Victors spewing cusses, calling each other monsters. Forgiveness always came after the fact, but Jeonghan chooses peace and refuses to look at anyone else for the next hour. 

The swamp only grows crueler. 

There’s a haze that clings low to the ground, thick with spores and heat, and it makes the cameras flicker with static. 

The Gamemakers let it linger. They always do when the numbers dwindle. Suffering looks better through distortion.

Jeonghan leans forward in his seat, eyes locked to the primary monitor. Your figure stumbles into frame—mud-caked, limping, one arm clutched uselessly to your ribs. The blood there isn’t fresh. He knows what that means.

The camera’s too far to see your expression, but he doesn’t need to. You’ve gone quiet. No more traps, no more clever distractions. No more running. You’re just trying to stay upright.

Something shifts in the mist behind you. Fast. Deliberate. Another tribute.

Jeonghan’s fists slam into the console.

He doesn’t hear the rest. The monitor blares as the tribute from Two emerges—a heavyset girl with a jagged blade and fury behind her eyes. You try to run, but your body gives out two steps in. Your knees hit the water first.

It’s not a fight. It’s a beating.

Jeonghan’s knuckles go white. He watches you crawl, desperate and drowning, as the girl drags the blade across your calf to slow you further. The water goes dark. You barely scream.

The camera cuts to a tight shot. Your face, smeared in blood and mud. Mouth slack. Eyes unfocused.

Then—

Your lips move.

Tiny. Cracked. Fragile.

But he sees it. He swears he does.

His name.

Hannie, you’re mouthing, pleading, praying. 

Bauble says something behind him. A warning. A reminder. Jeonghan doesn’t hear it.

Jeonghan stands too fast. The chair clatters to the floor behind him. His hands press to the screen like he could reach through it, like if he could just touch you, anchor you, you’d remember how to live.

But the screen stays cold, and you go still.

Jeonghan’s breath shudders in his chest. He turns wildly like he might find something in the corners of the room to fix this. 

The remaining victors pointedly ignore his panic. They can’t do anything, either. They’re not about to waste their few resources on a tribute that isn’t theirs, even if Jeonghan begged and bled himself dry at their feet. 

There’s nothing. Jeonghan has given you everything he has, and it wasn’t enough.

Until the vitals blink. 

Once. Twice. Slow, but there.

A faint pulse.

You’re alive.

Jeonghan stares, disbelieving. The tribute has already vanished into the haze, too bloodied to check if you’re breathing, or cruel enough not to care. Either way, it’s a mistake. One Jeonghan won’t let stand.

He reels back from the screen. “Stay with her,” he tells Bauble, voice rough. “Monitor everything.”

Bauble looks up. “What are you—”

But he’s already moving. Out the door, down the corridor. The Peacekeepers outside the Control Center don’t stop him. 

There had always been whispers. 

That Jeonghan was the victor they couldn’t market. The one with the too-sharp tongue and eyes that didn’t flinch when Capitol cameras pressed too close. 

He smiled wrong. Loved wrong. Didn’t cry when his family died in that fire. 

Too clean. Too convenient.

It had given him nothing to lose.

But now—

Now he has you.

He finds her at the champagne bar just off the Viewing Floor. Gilded, powdered, draped in silk. The richest woman in the Capitol within arm’s reach. Her name doesn’t matter.

Jeonghan takes a breath. Thinks of you.

Then he smiles.

The kind of smile they remember. The kind that sells promises he’ll never keep. His voice is velvet when he approaches, belying the desperation thrumming through his veins. 

“You wanted to know what it was like to be wanted by a victor,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. “How lucky. I’ve just remembered how to want.”

The socialite laughs. Bright, predatory.

He keeps smiling, even as his stomach turns. Even as the shame claws at the inside of his throat.

Her room reeks of expensive perfume and debauchery.

It’s in a suite at the top of one of the Capitol towers, walls made of glass and floors of velvet. It's the kind of place meant to make you feel small, make you grateful. Jeonghan doesn’t feel anything at all.

She kisses like she wants to devour him—painted nails digging into his back, her breath warm with wine and old longing. He lets her.

He performs.

Every soft sound, every graze of his lips, every practiced flick of his tongue—he gives it like it means something. He moans where she wants him to, touches her the way she’s probably imagined in her loneliest hours. He thinks of your face, dirt-smudged and bloodied, of the shape your mouth made when you whispered his name.

It’s not her he’s kissing. Not really.

He imagines it’s you beneath him. Imagines you needing him like this, touching him like this, loving him like this.

It doesn’t help.

She arches beneath him and calls him beautiful. He’s a bit clumsy, having never done any of this before, but it only serves to make him more endearing. A gorgeous thing that had to be broken in. 

He had wanted it so badly to be you. He can almost picture it, can almost taste it. How you’d laugh in between kisses. How you’d moan as his hands roamed. How you’d be everything and more.

When the woman cries out, Jeonghan doesn’t answer. His eyes are already on the ceiling.

It’s over in minutes. A quick, efficient transaction wrapped in silk sheets and false gasps.

She sprawls beside him, sated, smug. Jeonghan slips from the bed before she can say anything else. She doesn’t ask him to stay. She already knows how these things go, having sampled her fair share of male victors who were just as desperate. 

Jeonghan doesn’t shower. Doesn’t have the time for it. 

He just dresses in silence, pocketing the cred-chip she leaves on the table beside a crystal flute of champagne. He doesn’t drink it.

The elevator ride back down is quiet. His hands tremble.

By the time he returns to the Control Center, his mask is back in place. Bauble doesn’t say anything, just glances at the chip he slides across the desk.

“Enough for a full care package,” she confirms. “Weapon, medicine, some soup. We’ll drop it.”

Jeonghan nods and looks back to the monitor.

You’re still breathing. 

He presses his palm to the screen again and thinks of the myth you had loved so much as a child. The one with the fool—Orpheus, his name might have been—trying to lead his lover out of hell. 

“Wait for me,” Jeonghan croaks to no one in particular. To you. Always to you. “I’m coming.” 

The silver parachute lands. You reach for it with quivering fingers. 

You live for two more days. 

In those days, the swamp falls quiet. 

No more cannon fire. No more mutts. Just you and the girl from District 4, standing ankle-deep in water that smells like rot and victory.

Your blade is slick in your grip, hands trembling. You don’t even know where you’re bleeding from anymore. Every inch of you aches. Your body doesn’t feel like your own. 

The girl sways on her feet. She’s young. Too young. Her cheeks are streaked with mud and old blood, her breathing ragged. Her eyes are empty.

You both know it ends here.

“Please,” you choke out. It takes a moment to register that you’re not begging to survive. 

The words come with tears, with all the wreckage of what’s been done to you. “Finish it,” you rasp, your fingers tight around your scythe not with the intent to strike. Just to have something to steady you. 

Your opponent doesn’t move.

Up in the Control Center, it’s just Jeonghan and Seungcheol. 

Everyone else has gone. The other victors. The escorts. This is between two districts, two tributes, two victors. 

Jeonghan doesn’t look at Seungcheol. He can’t.

Back in the arena, you crumple to your knees, exhausted beyond belief. The swamp laps at your legs.

“Please,” you whisper again. “Please.”

The girl’s hands tremble. She looks at you like she’s seeing something else—someone else. She takes one step forward, then stops. Her fingers close around the handle of her knife.

You don’t flinch.

Then she speaks.

“You know Seungcheol, right?” 

You blink, confused.

She forces a smile, small and broken. “My mentor,” Seungcheol’s tribute offers. “Tell him—tell him I’m going to miss him the most.” 

Manipulated footage makes it look like you pushed her backward.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol see it as it happens. How the girl takes an intentional step back. How you reach for her, trying to stop her, only to watch her sink in quicksand that has been exacerbated by the Gamemakers. 

The arena swallows her up. 

The cannon doesn’t fire for several long seconds. 

The sound, when it comes, is muffled. Like the swamp itself is mourning her.

You scream. You scream until your throat gives out. You’re still screaming as you’re declared the victor, as you sob into the wetlands, as you’re lifted out. 

In the Control Center, Seungcheol’s hands curl into fists in his lap. 

His eyes fixed on the screen. Dry.

Jeonghan finally turns to him. “Cheol—” he starts, but Seungcheol shakes his head. 

“She’s coming home,” Seungcheol says, flat. “There’s your miracle, Yoon.”

And Jeonghan is sorry for it, sure, but he’s still much more grateful. 

V. YOON JEONGHAN, YOURS. 

Jeonghan doesn’t remember the walk to the Capitol hospital. He remembers leaving the Control Center. He remembers running.

The hallway is sterile and humming when he gets there. He knows where they’ve taken you. Of course he knows. He’s watched every moment of your suffering. He could trace the outline of your wounds with his eyes closed.

The nurse outside your room says something—protocol, maybe. He doesn’t hear her.

He shoulders his way in.

The lights are dimmed, the machines are quiet, but the sight of you lands like a gut punch. Jeonghan falters in the doorway.

You look like you’ve been hollowed out. 

There’s barely anything left of the tribute he watched fight through blood and betrayal. Bandages snake around your limbs and torso. Your face is pale beneath layers of grime they haven’t scrubbed away yet. Your lips are split. Your eyes—

You don’t even blink.

He takes a step closer, slow, careful, like approaching a wild animal. His hand lifts, fingers reaching for your cheek, like he might cradle it the way he used to in the dark of the Control Center, whispering to your image like you could hear him.

But the second he touches you—

You flinch.

Hard.

Jeonghan’s heart stops. His hand drops back to his side like it’s been burned.

You don’t look at him. You just tremble, shoulders curling in, your breathing shallow, your eyes still fixed on something beyond him. Beyond the room. Beyond now.

It’s the first time you’ve ever pulled away from him.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Part of him wants to fall to his knees. To apologize. For what, he couldn’t name. For not stopping the Games? For not being able to keep you from breaking? For still being here when so much of you has been scraped raw?

The silence presses in like swampwater, like a forest fire. Suffocating, unforgiving.

Jeonghan turns and lowers himself into the corner of the room. The floor is cold. The chair is too far. He needs to be here, close, even if you can’t stand his touch.

He wraps his arms around his knees and stares at you.

Your stare doesn’t move. Not to him. Not to anything.

He’s seen this look before. He wore it once, too.

Jeonghan swallows past the ache in his throat and speaks, barely audible. “I’m here. I’ll stay here. As long as you need.”

You don’t respond.

He doesn’t expect you to.

He settles into the silence like a penance and waits.

He waits for you to go through all the medical procedures. He waits for you to get an entire day's worth of sleep. He waits, even as the stylists dress you up like a doll.

Gossamer fabric, soft pastels to soften your image. Something that whispers vulnerability, not violence. They work in silence, careful around the raw edges of your skin, the lingering bruises. 

You don’t wince anymore. You just endure.

Jeonghan watches from the wings of the stage, heart in his throat.

The stage lights bloom too bright. Caesar’s teeth gleam under them like weapons. The audience cheers. Applause swells. 

And you? You walk out on trembling legs.

There was a time your smile could light up a room. Now it flickers, half-formed, and dies before it reaches your eyes.

Caesar catches your hand, holds it up for the crowd. You don’t pull away, but Jeonghan sees it—the way your fingers twitch, like they remember what it’s like to hold a weapon.

“Our newest victor!” Caesar announces. The crowd roars. 

Jeonghan leans forward in the shadows. He wants to run to you. To shield you from the cameras, the crowd, Caesar’s well-meaning questions that twist into knives.

“How are you feeling?” Caesar asks.

Your voice is soft. Hoarse. “I’m alive.”

A ripple of awkward laughter. Caesar tries to coax something out of you, a joke, a quip, the spark you once had. But it’s gone. Buried so deep, not even you know where to look.

Your fingers keep trembling. You tuck your hands in your lap to hide it.

Jeonghan watches every second.

They want a victor. A hero. A darling. But all they get is a shell.

And Jeonghan can’t do anything but watch.

They crown you in front of Panem.

Golden laurels rest atop your bowed head, catching the light like a final joke. President Snow stands behind you, hand heavy on your shoulder. 

You don’t shirk. You don’t cry. You barely breathe.

Jeonghan stands at the lower steps of the stage, jaw clenched tight.

The crowd is euphoric. Flashbulbs pop. Your name chants through the air like a war cry, over and over, and all Jeonghan can think is how hungry they look. Like they want to eat you alive.

You rise slowly when Snow lifts your chin. He presents you as the Capitol’s newest sweetheart—shattered and bloodstained and beautiful.

Jeonghan’s stomach twists. He hates it. The theatrics. The flowers. The falseness. The way they cheer for your trauma.

Later, at the afterparty, the music swells and champagne flows. You sit somewhere under a too-bright chandelier, being toasted by strangers with leering eyes.

Jeonghan tries to keep to the fringes, but he doesn’t escape for long.

The President finds him near the garden terrace, glass of something untouched in Jeonghan’s hand. The air stills around them like the world knows something dangerous is coming.

“Quite the victor,” Snow says mildly. “She’s memorable. Fragile in a way that sells well.”

Jeonghan says nothing.

Snow steps closer. His smile is polite. Tight. “You should be proud. The Capitol hasn’t felt this invested in years.”

A beat.

“Of course,” Snow adds, sipping from his flute, “such devotion comes at a price.”

Jeonghan’s throat tightens. 

Snow glances at him, all cool amusement. “Do thank that patron of yours again. Very generous. Desperation makes strange bedfellows, doesn’t it?”

Jeonghan goes cold. His skin prickles. He can’t move.

“She’s lovely, your girl,” Snow goes on, seeming unconcerned by the conversation that has been one-sided insofar. “I do hope she doesn’t become... inconvenient.”

And with that, the devil leaves.

Jeonghan stumbles through the crowd, past gilded dancers and glass towers of champagne. He finds a bathroom, locks the door behind him, and falls to his knees.

He vomits until there’s nothing left.

Even then, he doesn’t stop heaving.

He empties himself out and drinks some more until he’s sick again. He thinks of what it means to be a victor—what you stand to lose if you don’t bend to the Capitol’s will. 

Will you blame him for doing his job as a mentor? Will you wish you could’ve been like Seungcheol’s tribute, could’ve ended things clean and quiet like Barley? 

On the way back to District 11, the train hums softly beneath the two of you. A lullaby for no one.

You sit by the window, forehead pressed to the glass, eyes on the blur of passing scenery. Home. Whatever that means now.

Jeonghan sits across from you. Not too close. Not too far. Just... there.

It’s been hours since either of you spoke. Days, really, because the most you’ve given Jeonghan are pleasantries and nods and thousand-yard stares. 

Sometimes, a cruel part of him thinks it’s a fate worse than death. 

Your voice breaks the silence like a match in the dark.

“I’m sorry.”

Jeonghan blinks himself out of his hungover stupor. His fingers tighten around the edge of his seat as he looks towards you, searching. “Why?”

“For flinching.”

His chest caves around the answer. “No,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Gods, no. I should be the one apologizing.”

You turn to him. Just barely. But he sees it in your eyes. You know.

He swallows. Tries to laugh, like it might smooth the sharp edges.

You don’t smile in return. 

Jeonghan’s heart beats like a war drum. He wants to say something that makes it okay. That makes any of it okay.

But there’s nothing. Just the soft hum of the train. The ghost of everything that can never be undone.

“You saved my life,” you whisper.

He looks at you, really looks at you this time, and it almost ruins him.

Because he did. And he didn’t. Not really. 

He pulled you out of the arena, but the arena never left. It will never leave. It lives in your eyes now. In your silence. In the way your shoulders curl inward like you’re still waiting to be hurt.

This is it.

Your lives now.

This train. This distance. Mentorship, and memory, and never quite touching because love is too heavy a thing to carry on top of nightmares and broken backs.

Jeonghan turns his gaze back to the window. He tucks his love for you deep, where it can’t rot anything else. It won’t do you any good now. 

You may warm up to him one day, may come to forgive all he did to keep you around for longer. But as the song once did go—

Nothing will ever grow quite the same. 

The train speeds on.

Outside, the sprawling fields of District 11 come into sight. 

[paetalks]

tw: smoking!

imagine being a cute girl in her twenties, living in a big city while finishing up your degree, and getting introduced to ryomen sukuna by one of your friends. you are on a night out at your usual bar downtown and you do vaguely remember your friend telling you something along the lines of “i’m bringing my coworker with us tonight”, but remember also shrugging it off with very little interest. and now there is this guy in front of you, tattooed and and big shoulders, with an annoyed face as if he didn’t really wanted to be there.

“when you said something about bringing a colleague i thought you meant a fun one” you tease your friend, brushing you hand on his shoulder and giggling. sukuna’s eyes dart up as you introduce yourself, smelling the alcol on your breath from the drinks you already had. you look hot, with a low cut top and hair up in a messy bun, pointing at all your friends and introducing them to him as well. there’s about a dozen of y’all, it looks like a big but close friend group, but he really could not care less.

while seating down and shaking a couple of hands here and there, his eyes are only fixated on you, sitting on the other side of the table. the light is dim and your laugh is loud, capturing him even from afar. next to him, his colleague is saying something to another guy with black hair about work, so he could chime in the conversation, but his attention is onto you.

and you can feel him staring, your skin burning under his gaze, as if watching your every moves. your stomach feels weird about it and nobody else seems to notice how his eyes are carving holes in your face, your chest and your hands. you wonder if maybe there is something wrong with what you’re saying, or maybe wearing, but the more you think about it the more your stomach entangles. “i’m going outside for a smoke” you quickly blurt out, getting up and grabbing your jacket in a hurry. it’s like his staring has knocked air out of your lungs.

while you march towards the door, leaving your wondering friends behind, you feel footsteps following you. reaching the handles, you quickly open it and look back. he has followed you out there.

“oh my god.” you whisper, while the tattooed man pulls out a cigarette pack and calmly hands it to you, while grabbing one for himself. looking at his offer and even considering it, you shake your head and take out your own. while lighting his one up, he gestures to yours, but you quickly and almost comically show him the pink lighter in your hand. he nods, but doesn’t say anything.

it’s just when his eyes finally look away, glaring at the starless sky, that you finally blurt out “why are you staring at me?”. he laughs again. “why not?” he asks back “you’re nice to look at”.

“wow”, your words let smoke out of your mouth “that’s the compliment, i guess”. looking at the people walking by, you wonder who this guy is and why does everything he say makes your inside feel like jelly.

his voice is deep and slow, his eyes have something about them that you cannot quite pinpoint and his body looks sculpted. you realize, at this point, that he is a very good looking guy and your cheeks flush involuntarily.

“are you embarrassed by it?” he asks, noticing your redness, a cloud of smoke coming out his nostrils. “no”, you say, standing straight. a faint smile forms on his lips when looking at you again, and there is something in the way you move closer to him, throwing away your cigarette meanwhile, that lights a fire in his chest. your skin looks ethereal in the street light and your plump lips are slightly open. he finds himself wondering how they would feel on his body.

“move” you command, since he is in your way to the door, just standing there, dozed off. he is not, actually, dozed off, just thinking about how to subtly ask his coworker and friend for your number without sounding like a total jerk. you are standing so close now and he hasn’t even finished his smoke, so he nudges at the cig and smirks “at least let me finish properly.”

but when your cold fingers reach for his hand, grab the cigarette and put it in your own mouth, his heart starts beating too loud for his liking. you inhale slowly, letting it be consumed slowly by your lungs, and he watches you the whole time, not daring to blink once. when you reach the filter of the cigarette, you toss it on the side, smirking as well and saying “now you are all done. let me get inside”.

he moves out of the way in a second just to watch you walk by and he’s able to inhale of your perfume. it’s intoxicating, all flowery and sweet he could feel his head spin - but maybe it was just you, your presence, making him feel like that.

walking back in after another five minutes of thinking, he catches immediately a glimpse of you laughing at your friend, sitting at his seat at the table. he rolls his eyes, smiling and thinking something along the line of this is going to be fun.

[hyunebunx]

˖˙ ᰋ ── you, clouds and rain (and the wine on your lips)

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff, slightly suggestive

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: my mindy requested something soft and domestic with a slice of spicy tension with hyun and who am i to say no? enjoyyy <33 and let me know your thoughts <3 part two right here

When shooting your tired boyfriend a message this morning, inviting him over for lunch and a cuddle sesh by the television, the last thing you expected was a power outage. Even though it was still light outside, the sun and its bright rays were obscured by dark and angry clouds that could only mean one thing: rain.

Hyunjin was a fan of rain, loving the silence and how the whole world seemed to slow down and hurry home. He could be as silly as he wanted and nobody would judge him, too busy to remain dry to care about anything else. You, on the other hand, hated rain. It usually ruined all of your plans and kept you stuck inside, depriving you of sunlight and everything you loved. Including seeing your beloved and going on cute dates, holding hands throughout the day while exploring new and exciting places neither has seen before.

And now it ruined another one of your plans because things could never go your way, now, could they?

“I’m so sorry, Hyun.” You sigh, playing around with the food on your plate, absolutely dejected.

Hyunjin shakes his head and tries to hide the smile threatening to stretch across his features, freshly dried hair bouncing with his every move. “You’re sorry for what exactly?”

Thunder interrupts before you can even begin, souring your mood further as Hyunjin reaches for your fork, twirls it around expertly and brings it to your mouth to eat before it gets cold. You’ve worked hard on this pasta, letting it go to waste would be a shame.

“The rain.” You mumble before chewing, pouting. He waits patiently for you to finish before leaning over the table to wipe some sauce that has somehow landed on your chin.

“You can’t control the weather, baby.” He smiles, fondness spilling from his eyes as he watches you reach for your drink. Your apartment was no longer bright, engulfed in this darkness that would fool anyone into believing night was about to set at any moment. Fortunately, you managed to prepare everything before the power went out so at least your lunch date wasn’t completely ruined.

To set the mood and try to lift your spirits, Hyunjin has lit a lone candle between you on the table – a romantic till the end, you’re convinced your boyfriend would shrivel up and die if he couldn’t spoil you somehow.

“Well, I want to control it all to make you happy!” The statement is a bit childish but not far from the truth. For Hyunjin, you would do anything to see that beautiful smile of his lighten up every room. Control the weather, move mountains and even give him the moon which he embodied without even realizing. As bright as he was, Hyunjin was the moon in your eyes, illuminating every dark corner of your world with his ethereal glow that left every passerby in awe.

Breathtakingly beautiful, both from the exterior and from within. There was no other person like him in this universe.

This time, he laughs, eyes turning into two crescent moons as if to prove your previous point. “I’m the happiest as long as I’m with you, no matter the weather, time or place. I thought you knew that?”

You’re aware yet your heart still skips a beat, as it always does whenever he opens his mouth and hits you with such a line. Hyunjin wasn’t shy in the slightest when it came to you and the love that was overflowing out of him. All of it was yours, of course. He could never love another in the way he loved you for as long as he lived.

“Doesn’t matter.” You still shake your head, deciding to be stubborn. “It still ruined our plans. I was looking forward to finishing that show together and now we can’t.”

He takes a sip of his wine, the condensation on the glass proof of the warmth in the apartment. “It’s not like we can’t watch it another time, baby.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t pout.” His bigger hand settles on top of yours on the table, bringing it to his plump lips to plant a lingering kiss on the smooth skin. “I came over to see your beautiful smile and talk each other’s ears off. Don’t make me sad.”

Hyunjin makes a face, dramatizing his sadness and you finally laugh, returning to your meal with newfound vigour. He always managed to make even the gloomiest days happier, and you suspected your boyfriend might actually be an angel in disguise, sent from above to watch over you.

“So,” he starts, happiness radiating off of him at the delicious food, his hand still holding onto yours, “did you finish that new book you were telling me about the other day, yet?”

The rain was hitting your windows heavily, creating a curtain of sorts that kept you and Hyunjin separated from the outside world, protected from all evil in your little love bubble that continued to grow with every moment spent together. Excited, with your whole face lighting up, you stand abruptly and make your way over to plop yourself onto his lap without shame, just so you can snuggle while granting his wish. You were about to talk both of his ears off until he begged you to stop. And knowing Hyunjin, he might actually like that.

Time flies as you’re having fun with your other half, while he listens attentively to your every word, so drawn to you and the way your mouth moves that he can barely look away as he remembers to keep feeding you and himself until both of your plates are empty. If it were up to him, Hyunjin would glue your hands together so you’d never have to be more than a foot apart at all times. But reality is cruel, and spending all your time with your beloved was not socially acceptable – for some reason, you couldn’t make money this way. He really hated capitalism for keeping you away from him.

After a while, you both stand to wash the dishes, with him on your trail and being assigned to drying duty.

You’re laughing together as Hyunjin tells you more stories from work, something that happened the other day at the company, not leaving anything out. He was so honest and open about his feelings that nothing he said surprised you anymore.

Your back is to him as you wash the last glass when you feel strong arms pulling you to a sturdy chest, wrapping around your middle to ground the man as he leans over to hug you with all his might. You smile, genuinely, and rest your head on his shoulder just to plant multiple kisses on his cheek. He giggles, and you quickly shake the water and bubbles off your hands to turn around in his embrace and face him.

“Hi.” You smile, briefly kissing his nose. Thanks to the smaller windows, the kitchen was even darker than your dining room, creating a cosier, more intimate atmosphere one could only dream of basking in. Romantic with a pinch of tension neither could shake off - the pleasant kind.

The rain showed no sign of stopping any time soon so for the time being, you were the only two people in the world.

“Your smile is my favorite.” He’s staring deeply into your eyes, strong hands following the outline of your body downwards to rest on your hips and bring you closer, wanting to make you one. The butterflies start going crazy, flapping their colorful wings against your ribcage in a desperate attempt at being let out, longing to be touched by him just like you were.

Your arms come around his neck, and you’re nose to nose now. “You’re my favorite.”

Hyunjin breaks into a grin, one he can’t contain before closing his eyes and burying his face in the crock of your neck, hugging you close.

“You know what I really want right now?” His voice is low, the vibration against your skin sending a shiver down your spine as his hold on you tightens.

You shake your head, one of your hands moving to tangle into his hair and massage his scalp. “Tell me, so I can make it happen.”

He chuckles, thumbs drawing random shapes on your sides you could make out if concentrating on anything else other than his voice was possible. “You don’t even know what I want to ask for yet.”

“It doesn’t matter.” You respond a little too quickly, tenderly coaxing his head out of hiding just so you could see his eyes again and marvel at their beauty. “I’ll do anything for you.”

“Anything?” Hyunjin leans closer, trapping your body between him and the sink as he towers over you, few strands of his hair tickling your forehead. Your breath catches in your throat and you try shallowing, anything to get rid of this sudden lump that’s preventing the oxygen from reaching your brain.

When you nod, his eyes soften, warm hand sneaking beneath your shirt to feel skin, needing this contact to remind himself you are real and the possibility of you disappearing right before his very eyes were slim.

Then, without waiting for his next line, your hand grasps at his fluffy sweater and yanks him forward to connect your lips in a sweet kiss, one that has you both releasing a relieved breath, that acts like the lifeline you need to cling to, to survive.

His lips are soft and warm, and you can faintly taste the wine he indulged in, lingering on his skin. The hand that isn’t under your shirt finds solace at the back of your neck, gingerly deepening the kiss as thunder strikes once again. Not like you care anymore; not when he’s kissing you like he’s trying to burn to memory every nook and cranny of your physical existence.

Heads tilted, his tongue sneaks in to greet yours for the briefest moment before Hyunjin pulls away with great difficulty, chest heaving as he struggles to regain his composure.

“A blanket fort.” He almost croaks out, voice raspy and heart very much disappointed when he tears himself away from you to make some room.

You blink, confused and a little dazed, hands darting to latch themselves onto his sweatshirt so he won’t go too far. “What?”

With a laugh, he throws his head back for a moment, calming down before clarifying. “I want to build a blanket fort. Since the power isn’t back yet, I thought we could have some fun doing that.”

You’re bamboozled, almost spinning around in search of the hidden camera that will confirm this is all a prank.

“But I thought…” You trail off, arms falling to your sides as you look down in embarrassment.

Hyunjin is quick to raise your head, with a finger under your chin and another dazzling smile. “Didn’t you just say you’d do anything for me?”

What a fucking tease. How were you ever supposed to say no to that smile?

[byhees]

cupid must’ve struck twice . . . 형선

heeseung

would turn his head whenever he hears your name being mentioned, as though heart yearning to get just a second-long glimpse of your face; “hey look, isn’t that yn’s?” and in an instant, his head would snap towards said direction, doed eyes glittering with pretty anticipation.

silent eye contact from across the room, his gaze begging to linger and fixate on your features for a little longer— and when nobody’s looking, he’d flash a quick wink, finding the way you’d shyly turn away, lightly coughing in surprise, adorable.

jongseong

would, somehow, always turn a conversation topic into you; if someone were to even make the slightest of mentions of your interests, he’d naturally slip in your name, rambling on and on about just how unbelievably surreal you are— “right, sorry.. what were we talking about again?” he’d say rather bashfully, a hand awkwardly by the nape of his neck.

the kind to immediately look for your reactions after telling a joke; it may be the worst one of all time, the funniest of all time, his eyes would always, without fail, flicker to you, pupils twinkling with anticipation; and if you were to crack even the smallest of smiles, he’d find himself beaming on his own accord.

jaeyun

would notice the subtle things about you; even the most minute of details, like the stunningly pretty way your eyes light up whenever you smile— and that’s precisely the reason why he makes an effort to lighten up your mood every passing day, wanting to see that breathtaking grin on your face once again.

would be the type to accidentally stare a teeny bit too long at your lips, awkwardly malfunctioning when you point out just how blatant he’s being; “i don’t know what you’re talking about”, he’d murmur, eyes shifting to everything but your face.

sunghoon

would be more shy, especially around you; every time you both have the slightest of eye contact, he’d find himself averting his gaze to the object behind, or adjacent to, you, cheeks heating up as they’re dusted a light pink hue.

and although somewhat paradoxical, he would yearn to be constantly in your presence, heart feeling so comforted whenever he hears your pretty laughter, when he catches a glance of your ethereal smile.

[jakesimlover444]

pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader

synopsis: as long as i exist, someone loves you.

warnings/genre: bsfs to lovers, hyunjin is pining, insecure yn, heavy ass make out between reader and hyunjin

wc: 1373

based on this req

another saturday night.

another failed date.

yn laid on her bed, eyes filled to the brim with tears, texting her best friend about her terrible night.

yn: he was such a fucking asshole.

hyunjin: the guy who went on the date with?? what‘d he to do you??

yn: god, where do i even start 💀

hyunjin: hold on. i‘m coming over

yn was smiling on the inside at her best friend’s concern, but her grin couldn’t be brought to her exterior, as her feelings of greif far overpowered any joy she could fathom.

tossing her phone on her pillow with a heavy sigh, yn turned onto her back to face her ceiling, eyes locked on her fan spinning above her. she still wore her cute little sweater and skirt that gave the classiest old-money heiress vibe she picked out for her date with alejandro tonight.

yn finally sat up and made her way out to her kitchen and living room area the moment hyunjin arrived, letting himself in using the copy of yn‘s apartment key she gave him.

"yn.." hyunjin quietly spoke, his gaze softening at the sight of his distraught best friend. her mascara stained her plump, reddened cheeks and her once neat, perfectly blown out hair was disheveled in the back from laying down on it. those same eyes he loved so much were no longer filled with the same happy anticipation he saw this evening. they were filled with a hurting frustration. one he yearned to put an end to.

"oh yn.." hyunjin‘s voice was as gentle as his touch when he pulled yn in for a hug, not holding her too tight in fear she would break. his large, veiny hand combed the back of yn‘s hair, tenderly fixing the little knots and tangles that formed. he softly shushed her, rocking her delicate body side to side with his as dejected sobs escaped yn‘s lips, mumbling incoherent nonsense about her despondent date with alejandro.

"oh, yn…a few bad dates don‘t mean anything. the right one is waiting there for you." hyunjin comforted the crying girl, pulling back just enough to cup her reddened face. "you‘re just one step closer to finding him." hyunjin shot yn a reassuring smile, his gaze never leaving her face.

"how…how am i ever going to find the one for me if there is nobody out there who wants me?" yn spoke through her sobs, her tone coming out frustrated as she gripped hyunjin‘s t-shirt, exerting some of her pent up anger at the world and towards men into her firm grasp.

hyunjin‘s hold on yn‘s face tightened ever so subtly—not enough to hurt yn, but to implicate the irritation building in him at yn‘s self-deprecating remark.

"you think nobody out there wants you? you really think you’re not worth loving or fighting for?" hyunjin loosened his hands on yn‘s cheeks, sliding down to her narrow shoulders, giving them light squeezes.

"do you know how lucky any man would be to call you his own?" hyunjin quickly adverted his gaze before locking those dark, passionate eyes back on yn. "to have a woman like you…to have the very definition of ethereal by their side would make any man the most envied creature this world has seen. you are worth more than all the diamonds on earth, more than any artifact in these deep oceans, and more valuable than time itself. never forget that, yn."

god, if yn wasn‘t already crying because of her horrible time tonight she most definitely would have started bawling her eyes out then and there at her best friend’s words. she knew hyunjin was fond of her—obviously. they‘ve been inseparable since fifth grade. but this made her question his feelings for her a bit more. yn never got the impression hyunjin had feelings for her beyond platonic, despite everyone else attempting to convince her hyunjin was in love with her. but this passionate statement that fell from hyunjin‘s mouth almost did the job of convincing her.

almost.

but yn simply kept quiet for a moment, searching those eyes for any lies but only finding a genuine, burning ferventness.

"you give me too much credit. i‘m not that special—"

"not that special?" hyunjin cut yn off, running his hands down her arms to hold her hands, his grip as firm as his voice like he was scolding her. "yn i am so sick of you feeling like shit about yourself! god, you are the most perfect girl i have ever seen, you know that? if you could see yourself through my eyes you would see just how god took his time crafting you by hand, each detail with the utmost care. your hair as soft as the finest silk…" hyunjin‘s hand ran through yn‘s hair. "your face that remains the most beautiful i‘ve ever seen no matter what expression crosses your path.." hyunjin’s hand cupped her jaw. "you have an intelligence and stubbornness that lights a fire inside of you impossible to smother. you have a kindness that is unmatched and a drive that challenges me and dozens of others. this ambition i have seen in no one else. and the love inside of you i see you giving everywhere…makes me want to be a better man. someone worthy of you." hyunjin sighed, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment. "it kills me when you say nobody loves you yn, because i love you!" he spoke passionately, his eyes opening, hands coming up to let his thumbs wipe away some of yn‘s new tears at hyunjin‘s unbridled love.

"i have loved you every day since i met you. and i plan to love you every day more, if you will so let me." hyunjin‘s voice softened as he pressed his forehead against yn‘s.

"you…you love me?" yn sniffled, a flicker of hope awakening inside of her.

hyunjin nodded against yn.

"then prove it," yn teased, wanting to see just how far this love of hyunjin‘s went.

with a lick of his lips and a clear understanding of his best friend‘s message, hyunjin leaned in, staying still for a sliver of a moment just in case yn wanted to pull away. when her eyes fluttered shut and her hands rested on his forearms, hyunjin finally closed the gap between the pair, capturing yn‘s plump lips in a searing, love-filled kiss. as their lips danced together, hyunjin poured every ounce of longing and pure infatuation he‘s felt for yn since they were little. seeking entrance, hyunjin‘s tongue licked along yn‘s full bottom lip, granting him the access he so needed to fully prove to yn he means every word he‘s said.

his large hand trailed up yn‘s body, coming to rest on the small of her back to pull the girl flush against him. her soft curves and supple skin contradicted the hard planes of hyunjin‘s body so so well as she pressed up against him, allowing her hands to travel from his forearms to his buzzcut, allowing her fingers to splay across the floor of blonde hair atop his head.

their tongues melted together in a rhythm crafted by pent up feelings and unspoken words that no longer needed to escape their lips, because this kiss spoke all.

reluctantly pulling away, hyunjin ran his thick thumb over yn‘s wet bottom lip, reveling in the way their heavy breaths synced.

"do you need more proof, love?" hyunjin breathily spoke, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. with a nod, yn crashed her lips against hyunjin’s once more, this kiss much more demanding and lustful in nature.

finally moving, hyunjin backed yn against the couch, his hands coming up to the tantalizing curves of her ass to lay her down in contrast to his aggressive mouth work.

hovering over yn without breaking the soul tying kiss between them both, hyunjin‘s calloused hands roamed every curve and valley of yn‘s frame, feeling every inch of her soft skin both covered by the barrier of clothing and exposed.

when time came to finally pull away, hyunjin planted small kisses all over yn‘s blushing face, his lust falling back into his state of affection.

"believe me now, baby?" hyunjin playfully asked.

yn smiled bashfully. "yeah…"

[jillianallen14]

Dear Baby Bats - Goth Band Recommendations

As a middle sibling goth (I’ve been in the subculture for 10 years now, so not a baby bat but not an elder goth either), let me turn you on to some bands because we do not gatekeep in this house!! Also, if you want consistently good lesser-known & brand new goth band recs, go follow Awfully Sinister on TikTok and Instagram. He’s a DJ & has great recs. I've found so much music through him because it's really hard to keep up with all the new bands cropping up every year. You want to avoid the goth subreddit because they are extremely gatekeeper-y and argue over labels constantly. It’ll just confuse you, and they are not nice over there.

If you’re very new to the subculture, and you haven’t yet listened to all of Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, Sisters of Mercy, Christian Death, Cocteau Twins, Clan of Xymox, Joy Division, and Depeche Mode, go do so now. You'll want to know which of them you really enjoy the most because it will help you know which sub-subgenre(s) of goth you want to watch out for, and it'll tell you what to look for to find it. For example, Sisters of Mercy is the gothic rock subgenre, Christian Death is deathrock, Cocteau Twins is ethereal wave, Clan of Xymox is like the original darkwave, Joy Division is classic post-punk, etc. I haven’t included industrial, despite its proximity to the goth subculture, just because I actually don’t really know that many industrial bands beyond Skippy Puppy, Ministry, and Throbbing Gristle. Some other goth/goth-adjacent staple bands (that are very popular and very influential) that you should listen to if you haven’t already are The Damned, Killing Joke, The Cult, and Adam and the Ants/Adam Ant). I didn't know where to put She Wants Revenge or London After Midnight either, but they're also great.

I’ve bolded some of my absolute must-listen to goth bands, and I've put monthly Spotify listeners for each band so you know which ones deserve WAY more love. And in my pre-list ramblings for each OG band, I've given you some key terms to look up so you can more easily find music that's similar to what you enjoy. Okay, here we go:

If you like Bauhaus:

Bauhaus is a hard one because honestly, nobody really sounds like them, and they aren't really that closely associated with a specific sub-subgenre of goth. They were post-punk, they were art rock, they were experimental, they were sometimes very punk and at other times very gothic rock. They liked to call themselves “dark glam rock” (all four members are massive Bowie, T-Rex, and Iggy Pop fans), but you’re gonna have a hard time finding bands that sound like them if you look that term up. They probably have one of the most unique sounds of all-time. They’re my favorite band (I even have a tattoo for them, like I am devoted lol), but even I have a difficult time finding other bands that scratch their particular itch for me. These bands I’ve listed are as close as you’re gonna get to Bauhaus’ general vibe imo.

Virgin Prunes (80’s band that is technically deathrock but has the same absolutely unhinged, danceable sound that Bauhaus has, so they’re going here; one of my favorites; no one else does it like them and no one else ever will; I would actually give my left foot to see them live); 13.2k monthly listeners (this is actually physically painful to me, how is it this low!!! don't walk, RUN to go listen to them)

Alien Sex Fiend (80’s classic unhinged goth); 77k monthly listeners

Sextile (modern band that has some very Bauhaus-sounding guitar work at times but with heavy industrial influences); 147k listeners

The Danse Society (80’s unhinged goth; has similar experimental vibes to Bauhaus imo; one of my fave goth groups); 36k listeners

Sex Beat (80’s); not even really on Spotify

Ritual Howls (modern band; I don’t know why it gives Bauhaus, but it does; one of the few modern bands that scratches that particular itch for me); 45k listeners

The Agnes Circle (modern band; one of my favorites; they have the right Bauhaus-like atmosphere for me); 52k listeners

Traitrs (I can’t explain why they remind me of Bauhaus, but they do; another one of my fave modern bands; they make me want to start levitating and doing the Ian Curtis dance in the same way Bauhaus does lol); 239k listeners

Paralisis Permanente (underrated 80’s; they have a lot in common with Bauhaus’s sound actually, def give them a try!); 54k monthly listeners

The Birthday Party (80s band, totally unhinged; they’re less dark and atmospheric than Bauhaus, but if you take one listen to their album Junkyard, you’ll know exactly why I put them under this category haha; Nick Cave is the vocalist, which is amazing); 54k listeners

Tones on Tail (80s; Daniel Ash & Kevin Haskins of Bauhaus formed this group; I’d put Love and Rockets as well, which is all of Bauhaus’s members except Peter Murphy, but Love and Rockets weirdly bears little resemblance to Bauhaus’s music; but if you just generally want more of Bauhaus members' work, Love and Rockets is great, too); 81k listeners

Dalis Car (80s; collaboration between Peter Murphy and Japan's bassist; their music is extremely weird, so only listen if you really love the batshit insane Bauhaus songs or if you really live and breathe Peter Murphy like I do lol; their description on Spotify is so fucking funny); 7k listeners

I'd also recommend listening to Daniel Ash, David J, and Peter Murphy's solo work. They're all great!! Peter also did some amazing collaborations with Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails); the version of Reptile that they did together is better than Nine Inch Nail's original version imo, and you can find that entire session on Youtube!

If you like Siouxsie and the Banshees:

Siouxsie is another one that's hard to pin down sound-wise because again, they don't really fit into one specific sub-subgenre, so all of these recs are just goth bands with female vocalists who have the same kind of powerful vocals that Siouxsie does.

Second Still (modern band, one of my faves; singer sounds a lot like Siouxsie to me at times); 69k listeners

Skeletal Family (80’s band; has the same “women in punk” vibes that Siouxsie has); 55k listeners

Xmal Deutschland (80’s band; has the same powerful vocals that Siouxsie has; makes you wanna go stupid go crazy the way the Banshees do); 73k listeners

Secret Shame (modern band w/ woman singer; has the same rage that Siouxsie songs have to me, especially early Siouxsie); 6k listeners (let's get those numbers up, folks!!!)

Rosegarden Funeral Party (modern band w/ a woman vocalist); 57k listeners

Mephisto Walz (90s & 2000s; sounds so much like the Banshees at times); 56k listeners

The Creatures (80s; a Siouxsie Sioux & Budgie side project); 34k listeners

Madhouse (listen to Repulsion! 80s group that’s technically deathrock, but I put them under this category because the singer has Siouxsie-like qualities); not really on Spotify

Strange Boutique (90s; vocalist is Monica Richards of Faith and the Muse & Madhouse; this is probably my favorite project of hers); 112k listeners

If you like Depeche Mode:

For Depeche Mode enjoyers (which DM is kind of on the fringes of what’s considered “goth,” but they’re so entrenched in the subculture that I included them anyway), you’re gonna want to delve into goth playlists and modern goth that leans towards synthpop/synthwave. So those are the kinds of playlists you’ll want to search up for similar sounds to DM.

Nuovo Testamento (modern band; combines post-punk and pop elements in a way that’s very similar to Depeche Mode; lots of fun live, and they have a good sound); 25k listeners

Boy Harsher (modern band; relies heavily on synth; feels like it should be playing at every goth club); 558k listeners

ULTRA SUNN (modern band; singer sounds like Dave Gahan); 217k listeners (they just blew up on tiktok recently, which explains why this just skyrocketed since the last time I was on their Spotify page lol; good for them, good for them, they deserve it)

Ministry's first album (called With Sympathy), which was synthwave/synthpop before they went industrial (this is one of my all-time favorite albums)

French Police (modern band); 252k listeners

Closed Tear (modern band); 152k listeners

Night Sins (modern band); 33k listeners

Panic Priest (modern band; vocals sound decently similar to Dave Gahan & there is a lot of reliance on synth; In All Severity is a gorgeous song); 5k listeners

Fad Gadget (underrated 80’s; I just feel like if you like DM, you’re also gonna like Fad Gadget); 58k listeners

Martin Dupont (underrated 80s cold wave/synth pop; Inside Out is one of my favorite 80s songs); 26k listeners

If you like The Cure:

You'll be hard-pressed to find a goth band that wasn't influenced by The Cure, so I really can't give you any key terms for what to look up lol. They also changed their sound so frequently that it entirely depends on what era of The Cure's music you're looking to find similar music for.

Vision Video (modern band; combines post-punk and pop elements like The Cure does; one of my fave modern goth bands; they are INCREDIBLE live); 52k listeners (I'm gonna need y'all to get a song or two of theirs to blow up on tiktok expeditiously lol)

Urban Heat (modern band; great live); 36k listeners

The Chameleons (80’s band; very underrated; they are also very good live); 167k listeners

House of Harm (modern band, very new; also very good live; has pop elements); 44k listeners

Deceits (modern band, another very new one); 28k listeners (it's crazy how much this number has grown the past two months because it was in the single thousands not that long ago; everyone say thank you, tiktok)

Drab Majesty (modern band; their instrumentals remind me of The Cure); 172k listeners

Double Echo (modern band, one of my faves; their instrumentals also remind me of The Cure); 15k listeners (let's get these numbers up!!!)

The Bolshoi (underrated 80’s band that combines new wave and goth elements in a similar way to The Cure); 114k listeners

The Essence (underrated 80s band that sounds so much like The Cure it’s actually insane, but they’ve got their own sound too; they’re like a perfect blend of all of The Cure’s different sounds); 25k monthly listeners

The Glove (80s; a Robert Smith side project with Steven Severin from Siouxsie and the Banshees); 25k listeners

Crimson Ivy (80s band; singer sounds so a lot like a more yelly version of Robert Smith sometimes); not on Spotify

Miss Teen America (brand new band from NYC! They only have one single out right now, and it’s well worth listening to); 940 monthly listeners (y’all know what to do!!! Let’s get those numbers up, up, up!) link to their single: https://open.spotify.com/album/4nvdZeUVLLrMv3tEziCqm7?si=2WVS7-eYQLGR7Id3wLiKhg

If you like Clan of Xymox:

Most of these bands will be modern ones because Clan of Xymox was honestly way ahead of their time. (They are also amazing live, so go see them before they eventually call it quits!) For playlists that are full of their vibe, you’re gonna want to look up “darkwave” playlists. Clan of Xymox pioneered darkwave, so any darkwave band you listen to is gonna be influenced by their sound in some way or another.

Harsh Symmetry (modern, very new; very heavily relies on synth); 29k listeners

Ssleeping Desiress (modern band; instrumentals similar to Xymox); 55k listeners

Twin Tribes (probably my favorite modern goth band; they are fucking incredible and so good live!); 276k listeners

ACTORS (modern band; heavily relies on synth); 86k listeners

Mareux (modern; heavily relies on synth); 4.8 million listeners (this is wild!!!! everyone say thank you, tiktok)

Sixth June (modern); 23k listeners

Plastique Noir (modern); 40k listeners

Rendez Vous (modern); 160k listeners

Minuit Machine (modern); 97k listeners

The Frozen Autumn (90s & 2000s); 31k listeners

If you like Christian Death:

All of these recs will be deathrock recs or goth bands that heavily leaned on punk sounds. So if CD is the OG goth band you’re most fond of, you’re gonna want to delve into deathrock playlists for similar sounds.

Asylum Party (80’s band); not on spotify

45 Grave (80’s band); 47k listeners

Voodoo Church (80’s band; probably my favorite out of this bunch; I actually like them more than Christian Death); 7k listeners (let's get these numbers up immediately!!!!)

Ausgang (80’s band); 2k listeners (WHAT; they deserve so much more, damn)

Corpus Delicti (90’s band; they are very good; they sound the least like Christian Death on this list imo); 26k listeners

13th Chime (80’s band; very underrated); 6k listeners

UK Decay (you know, I actually don’t know what era they’re from; unhinged sound); 1k listeners (omg)

Super Heroines (underrated 80’s band; Eva O formed it); 2k listeners (you see what I meant about underrated?)

Specimen (80s band; this one could have just as easily gone under Bauhaus tbh, but the vocals are generally higher pitched than Peter Murphy’s, so I put them under this category); 102k listeners

Sex Gang Children (80’s band; just so unhinged & I love them for it); 27k listeners

Suspiria (90s, I think? I don’t actually know); barely on Spotify but 27k listeners

Theatre of Hate (80s); 7k listeners

Bloody Dead and Sexy (2000s, I think); 44k listeners

Mescaline Babies (2000s); 3k listeners

Acid Bats (2000s; Mexican band with Spanish lyrics); 2k listeners

Altar de Fey (80s band; formed in San Francisco!!); 23k listeners

Twisted Nerve (80s band; classified as “gothic punk,” so I felt this was the best category for them; they’re great; their sound also reminds me of early Siouxsie and the Banshees and Killing Joke); 2.5k listeners

Play Dead (80s); 8k listeners

Limbo (underrated 80s; if you like Bauhaus & Virgin Prunes as well, you’re gonna like this band); 413 listeners

If you like Cocteau Twins:

Cocteau Twins’ early sound is usually categorized as “ethereal wave” goth, so those are the playlists you’ll want to look up if you enjoy their early sound. If you like their later sound, you’re gonna want to lean more towards shoegaze for similar vibes. Admittedly, ethereal wave is one of the goth subgenres that I know the least about, so I’m not gonna be much help here.

Dead Can Dance (80’s band; NO one, and I mean NO ONE, was doing it like Dead Can Dance; so fun to dance to in the goth club); 332k listeners

Lycia (90’s band; their music is very transcendent); 20k listeners

Linea Aspera (modern band; gorgeous woman vocals; honestly, their music is just very beautiful); 67k listeners

This Mortal Coil (formed in the 80s; some songs feature Elizabeth Fraser & Robin Guthrie from Cocteau Twins, but even the ones that don’t still have an ethereal vibe similar to CT; Sixteen Days/Gathering Dust is just like the best song ever); 310k listeners

Autumn's Grey Solace (2000s); 62k listeners

Faith and the Muse; (90s); 22k listeners

This Ascension (90s); 4k listeners

Strawberry Switchblade (80s); 400k listeners

If you like Joy Division:

All of these bands will be ones that sound very classically post-punk, so those are the playlists to search out; emphasis on "classic" because post-punk is a very broad term that gets applied to a lot of music. I would argue that Joy Division has had the most influence out of all the OG goth bands on the current goth sound/goth renaissance we're going through right now, so there are a LOT of bands out there for you if you’re a JD fan.

Molchat Doma (modern band); 2.5 million listeners (wow lol, they've grown so much over the past two years, it's actually insane; good for them)

Soviet Soviet (modern band); 152k listeners

Fearing (modern band; very good live); 30k listeners

Ploho (modern band); 146k listeners

Pink Turns Blue (criminally underrated 80’s band; they are SO good live); 98k listeners (this is an actual travesty, this band is way too good to not even be in the hundred thousands)

The Sound (another incredibly underrated 80’s band); 119k listeners

This Cold Night (modern; has the deep vocals of Joy Division and the driving bass but more stripped back than JD); 150k listeners

Bleib Modern (modern; has very similar vocals to Red Lorry Yellow Lorry, which is a band listed under the Sisters of Mercy section of this post, so if you end up liking this band, you should also listen to Red Lorry Yellow Lorry & vice versa); 36k listeners

Lebanon Hanover (modern; has the existential angst that Joy Division always ignites in me but more stripped back); 936k listeners (this is crazy, holy shit!!!!!! go, Lebanon Hanover, go!!)

She Past Away (modern; deep vocals); 226k listeners

Belgrado (modern; woman vocals!); 18k listeners (they deserve better than this!!)

Leonora Post Punk (modern; Mexican goth band w/ Spanish vocals! They’re amazing! They have those deep vocals you want when you’re looking for a similar sound to Joy Division); 56k listeners

O. Children (modern; has the deep vocals & interesting bass lines that Joy Division was known for; great band); 29k listeners

If you like Sisters of Mercy:

This is one of my least favorite goth subcategories, which is odd because I actually love Sisters. But if you’re looking for a lot of music that sounds like SoM, I’d suggest delving into the 90’s and early 2000’s goth music scene. Search out those playlists. A lot of the 90s and 2000s goth bands were very derivative of Sisters of Mercy.

Rosetta Stone (90’s band); 54k listeners

Miazma (modern); 10k listeners

Red Lorry Yellow Lorry (another criminally underrated 80’s band; one of my fave goth bands); 40k listeners (THEY!! DESERVE!! BETTER!!)

Dreamtime (modern); 65 listeners (ouch lol, please go show them some love)

Fields of the Nephilim (80’s, I think; if you’re a metalhead, you’ll probably appreciate this band); 95k listeners

The Merry Thoughts (80s); 19k listeners

The March Violets (underrated 80s; might be a controversial opinion to put them under SoM, but I’m standing by it); 69k listeners

Horror Vacui (modern; it’s kind of a stretch putting them here tbh, but I couldn’t figure out what other category to put them under); 44k listeners

The Sisterhood (spin-off Sisters of Mercy group that was formed by goth king Andrew Eldritch himself); 3k listeners

The Mission (formed by former Sisters of Mercy members; Wasteland by them was actually one of the first songs to get me into goth music); 180k listeners

Eyes of the Nightmare Jungle (late 80s & 90s; every time a song by them comes on, I’m convinced it’s a Sisters song until the singer starts singing lol); 13k listeners

Ex-Voto (formed in 1982, but most of their albums on Spotify came out in the 2000s; this band is like if Fields of Nephilim had a baby with Clan of Xymox & then sprinkled some industrial techniques in); 6k listeners

Also, if you want a 1500-song, 105-hour goth playlist that’s constantly growing, here you go. The name of it is a dig at my ex lol: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6jCV530pMmOEmDHj4CLNka?si=cEVKiyAwQpaieGiV2pMyqw

[twistedwonderlandshenanigans]

Hi, I was wondering if you could do an NRC Students (Except Ortho) x Reader, Where Reader and they are having a Romantic moment/Date, but it gets interrupted by Someone or Something?

Yeah of course!! Thank you for the req and for your patience, I know it's been FIVEEVER. My concrete sequential brain can't omit characters though, so Ortho is on here in a platonic like. babysitting/sibling outing way :D

I hope you enjoy <3

MC! GN! Reader - SOME ARE FLIRTY OKAY I'M FLIRTY IN THEORY AND NEED TO LET IT OUT

Ruining The Moment

**Every single one is different/written as it's own drabble. Apologies if some cut off abruptly, I struggle with knowing where to end things.

Heartslaybul

Riddle:

You and Riddle were studying together on one of the upper floors of the library. While quiet remarks had been made back and forth, more than anything, you both just enjoyed each other's company.

Neither of you had really noticed just how much time had passed since class had been out. Now, with the library being bathed in the warmth of the sunset, Riddle was about ready to pack up to ensure he made it back to his dorm in time for tea time. However, as he looked up from his work, he found himself pausing to study your visage.

The sunlight pouring in from the windows behind you made you look like you were glowing; ethereal. His eyes lingered on you, studying every inch of your expression, focused on the task at hand, which happened to be your history homework. The slight furrow of your brow, the sharpness in your eyes, determined to finish your work, the slight pout of your lips...

He found himself feeling shy all of a sudden, without much of an explanation. He wanted to compliment you - at least...to tell you how lovely you looked, his hand reaching gingerly across the table to try and hold your free one, but just as you noticed, he startled as a very distinctive voice cut through the other hushed chatter around the library.

"Eheee~ goldfishie!! And lil shrimpy, aww I get a two for one deal!! Whatchya guys doin'?"

Floyd came over, picking up one of Riddle's book and flicking through it, feigning interest, before looking bored and setting it aside.

"Blegh, have you guys seriously been here all d- eh?? Goldfishie, you're all red~ you're not mad though, are ya? Usually it takes more than that t'push your buttons."

Riddle seemed to be at a loss for words, opening his mouth as if to say something, then snapping it shut, just making Floyd giggle as he sat on the table and leaned backwards to talk to you.

"Ahhhha I see what's goin' on. You should ask goldfishie out, shrimpy, he ain't gonna do it himself otherwise."

Riddle somehow managed to flush even more, his cheeks nearly matching his face in colour.

"Yes I would! I just- I- If you hadn't so RUDELY interrupted our-"

Riddle's rambling was cut short by a soft peck on his cheek, causing him to sputter and look at you in disbelief. The rather smug look on your face combined with Floyd's rambunctious laughter was enough to render the redhead completely speechless, contemplating now, how the future would play out.

Trey:

He would never admit it, but these late night rendezvous in the kitchen were some of his favourite moments. He was always concerned about your journey from Ramshackle to Heartslaybul, but you always stayed on the phone with him while he prepped everything and you walked over.

Being the voice of reason in the dorm, as well as Riddle's handler often left him drained, but your presence and an empty, quiet kitchen were more than enough to make him feel better. There was also a bit of a thrill to it, as nobody knew the two of you were dating yet. He loved knowing that the two of you would be left to your own devices...that he would have your full, undivided attention.

You let him know you were getting to the front door, so he made sure to go unlock it for you, before heading back to the kitchen.

You walked in on him measuring a tablespoon of vinegar into a cup of milk.

"Won't that curdle it?"

Trey hummed in amusement, pulling you in gently against him.

"Yeah, that's the point. Buttermilk in red velvet cake is a must."

He leaned down to kiss you softly. Admittedly, it likely lasted longer than it felt, but he pulled away rather quickly, pulling you to his chest and turning you away from the sudden flash of light from the hallway. Hushed giggles and whispers were heard afterwards, rather panicked sounding as Trey's glare penetrated through the darkness.

He was about to pull out his pen to stop the footsteps that were clearly booking it down the hallway, but you gently lowered his hand. Though embarrassed, it was nothing worth expending magic on.

"People were gonna find out one way or another..."

Trey sighed softly, his face softening as he turned back towards you.

"True, I just wish it could have waited a little longer."

You smiled a bit mischievously.

"Well they're gone now, and it's not like anything we do at this point will change what they do with the photos. Want to continue where we left off?~"

Cater:

"Don't let me go."

"I'm not going to let you go."

"Don't let me go."

Cater laughed softly. "I couldn't let you go if I tried, you've got a vice grip on me right now."

He walked beside you slowly, letting you try and get used to the feeling of being on his skateboard, your forearms locked together to help you keep your balance, but you were still wearing a helmet as an added safety measure.

"Do you want to try giving yourself a little push? I'll still-"

"No, no thank you, this is still fine."

He couldn't help but chuckle again, finding you rather cute. He enjoyed being the person you were relying on for safety right now, and your focused face and determination to not fall were just too adorable to ignore! He tried to lean in to kiss your cheek, but you weren't expecting it, so you leaned away, tilting you backwards on the skateboard. Cater tripped over the skateboard as you tumbled backwards, but at the last moment, he managed to pull you on top of him and took the brunt of the fall instead, grunting a bit before laughing softly.

"Sevens, I'm sorry-"

"Are you okay??" You cut off his apology, more concerned about the fact he not only fell on the pavement, but that he had taken your weight along with it.

"Hm? Oh of course I am, Cay-Cay's taken MUCH rougher falls in a far less prepared manner. You can't get into skateboarding if you don't become an expert in how to fall properly." He hummed, rather satisfied with himself that you hadn't gotten hurt, sitting up and helping you sit up in the process.

You gave him a small, faux pout.

"Well, I'm afraid the only falling I'm an expert in, is head over heels for you."

You couldn't help but grin and wink as the ginger's face flushed a bit, a bashful smile a mile wide being hidden behind his hand.

Deuce:

"WOOOOOOOOOOOO DEUCE!!!!! GO DEUCE!! N-R-C, N-R-C!!!!!"

He could hear you cheering him on from the stands as he crossed the finish line, coming in first place. Pure elation coursed through him; not only had his training paid off and he had beaten RSA's competitors, but he had done it in front of you.

As soon as he got the go-ahead from coach Vargas, he was jogging off to come meet you at the bottom of the bleachers, a little out of sight of all the hubbub. He was absolutely beaming as he approached you. You had a small hand towel in one hand, and his water in the other. Despite this, and the fact Deuce had just run a race, you wrapped your arms around his neck as he wrapped his arms around you, laughing.

"I did it!!!"

"You did!! And I got it all on video for your mom too!"

He laughed again softly, hugging you a little tighter before letting you go.

"You're the best, you know that right? I really appreciate you coming here."

He averted his eyes for a moment, before leaning in to try and place a kiss on your cheek.

"Thank you for-"

"Deuce? Coach is looking for- ah-"

Jack averted his eyes awkwardly, his ears flattening, his tail tucking slightly, and rubbed the back of his neck a bit.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting something, but coach said he needs everyone...uh...back, I'll give you two a minute though...sorry-...sorry."

Even though you couldn't see Jack's face, you could hear the embarrassment in his voice as he slinked back from whence he came. Not to mention, Deuce's cheeks were flushed from both being "caught" and from the race.

Deuce stuttered a bit, trying to recover, but failed as you placed a soft kiss on his cheek instead.

"You should get back to your coach before he sends someone a little less considerate than Jack to come find you. You can return the kiss later, okay?"

You giggled softly, gently pushing him to go join his team lest he get into trouble with Vargas.

Ace: (OTL this is a little different sorry)

"You know you could have just done this right the first time and we wouldn't be stuck redoing this assignment for Crewel."

Ace mocked you through facial expression before responding.

"Yeah well if you had shown up at lunch like you were supposed to, we wouldn't be stuck here after school."

You rolled your eyes.

"You knew I had to talk to Crowley at lunch, your poor planning and listening skills are not my issue. I know I told you that the recipe only called for mustard seed and bat fur, not snake tongue. How do you even confuse that??"

You searched his face for answers, but he just turned his face away from you, a light blush on his face as he mumbled something under his breath. You huffed and rolled your eyes.

"Oh come on, I deserve an explanation as to why you did it. There's no way it wasn't on purpose."

He sighed, puffing his cheeks just slightly and restating what he said.

"Maybe I just wanted to spend time with you"

With the cauldron bubbling, it was rather difficult to hear him, so you just shot him a confused look.

"Dude, speak u-"

"I wanted to hang out, okay?! Like. One on one. You're always so busy with your...rEspOnsiBilItiEs and...taking care of everyone and babysitting Grim, I feel bad trying to ask for some of your time when I know it's a precious commodity and this was the only way I could think of doing it, okay?! Just....we'll get this over with and then you can go."

His face stayed flushed, his safety googles too fogged up to see his eyes. You were stunned into silence for a moment, before you tried to reach for his hand. You startled away however, as Crewel's crop hit the edge of the cauldron.

"I take it you two pups are staying on task?"

You gave him a strained smile. "Of course Professor."

Ace silently added the last of the ingredients before using a funnel and ladle to help him add the brew into an Erlynmeyer flask, leaving it open to cool and nodding slightly at it as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"That should be it, it just needs to cool and then put a stopper on it."

Crewel grabbed the neck of the flask, his gloves thick enough to withstand the heat as he swirled the contents gently and studied the fluid. He nodded slightly.

"Get some tape, label it properly, then you'll be dismissed. I'll take care of clean up and storage. Well done."

The professor cracked a smile at the two of you as you nodded to acknowledge him, thanking him before moving to join Ace at the desk. He was writing your names, the date, the class - all as expected for the label, but now that you were a little bit away from the professor, you waited for him to put the tape down before holding his hand gently, speaking quietly.

"Ace, time might be a precious commodity, but you're precious to me too, okay? Grim should still be with Deuce and Epel for a little while. Once we get out of here let's go get slurpees or something, okay?"

It took Ace a moment to buffer, his hand coming up to cover his face in an attempt to hide just how flustered being called 'precious' got him. Near immediately, the crack of Crewel's crop was heard, making both of you startle.

"Gloves do not go near your face Trappola. That's a health hazard."

He gave the two of you a bit of a knowing smile as Ace nodded meekly at the reprimand, still reeling from the fact you had just asked him out.

You slid your gloves off and lifted your safety googles, grinning.

"Sound like a deal?"

Ace smiled shyly but tried to play it off as he followed suite.

"You sound like Azul. Yeah, sure, I GUESS we can go get slurpees."

Savanaclaw

Leona:

"You really think you're hot shit, don't you?"

You couldn't help but laugh softly at the lion beastman. This man really tried to kabedon you and expected you to take him seriously. Yeah right. Amusement was written all over your face, which on one hand was a little unexpected, but on the other, just made it all the more entertaining for him too - he didn't mind a challenge if the prize was you.

"I might think something like that, yeah. You got an issue with that herbivore?" His voice carried a bit of a playful growl to it as he leaned in closer, going so far as to nip at your ear lightly.

His ear flicked slightly in annoyance as he backed up just a tiny bit; a group of panicked first years came barreling down the otherwise empty hallway.

"THERE'S TWO MINUTES BEFORE CREWEL SAID IT'S DUE"

"YEAH NO SHIT, BUT HE WASN'T IN HIS CLASS HE BETTER BE IN HIS OFFICE"

"DUDE YOUR SHOELACES-"

"WATCH OUT!!!"

Leona grumbled something about them being a nuisance, but you watched in horror as the poor boy holding the potion he was so urgently trying to get to Crewel tripped over his friends shoelaces. For everyone save for Leona, you're sure time slowed right down as the potion flew out of the boys hand, the stopper flew out of the bottle, and the potion landing all over Kingscholar.

At the very least, the boy who tripped didn't hit the floor as Leona yanked him up by the back of his shirt, growling.

"What the FUCK did you just spill on me?"

The boy was winded and whiplashed, but his friends seemed to be a mix of distraught and trying not to laugh. Leona growled, tossing the boy to the side gently to let him get on his feet, before nodding and growling at the group of bystanders.

"WHAT WAS IT?"

You had to suppress your own laughter as Leona started to shrink in front of you.

One of the boys laughed nervously.

"It's a shrinking potion, it's really nothing dangerous!! And ah- we really really need the mark for Crewel's class so...we're really sorry but we're gonna have to take you in as proof we completed it!!"

Leona looked bewildered, his ears flattened against his head as he growled, though it sounded rather...cute as he continued to shrink.

"No! You touch me I'll turn you to sand!! You're going to regret this!!"

You couldn't help but join in on the giggle fit in the hallway, the once tall and mighty Leona reduced to mere inches. Despite his protesting, you lifted him by the back of his shirt like it was his scruff, poking his chest gently with your other hand.

"Mm, well, I think it's bad enough they'll be getting a 20% dock on their mark, so we're going to help them out and submit you as proof."

Leona growled, his hands holding your finger tightly as if it could do anything to stop you.

"....I'll make it up to you later, or you can choose to refuse but I'm going to tell Malleus about this."

Even at his minuscule size, you could see the flash of anger in his eyes at the mention of Malleus.

"Don't you dare bring this up to the lizard...fine. We'll....we'll go to Crewel's...but if ANY of you breathe a word of this to ANYONE else, turning you to sand will be a show of MERCY."

Ruggie:

"And the crowd goes wild as Ruggie Bucci scores one more goal for Savanaclaw right before half time! He couldn't have cut it closer if he'd tried!"

The announcer kept rambling about one thing or another, but your eyes were on your boyfriend as he, (rightfully), showboated a little on his broom, working the crowd a bit. His smile was downright adorable as he did so, before he finally made eye contact with you and it got a lot more devious.

He shot up on his broom into direct sunlight, so when you tried to follow him with your eyes, it took a few seconds of blinking before you saw him hanging upside down by his knees on his broom in front of you. His tail had to be wagging a mile a minute as he giggled a bit.

"Shyeeheehee heya sweetheart~ you're a real pretty face to be showin' up around here. Y'got a boyfriend?"

This little shit

He knew he was just out of reach for a kiss, and while amused, you tried to conceal it under a mask of being jokingly mad.

"You know, if you had a significant other, they might not be too impressed with these shenanigans."

Ruggie stuck his tongue out a bit.

"I'm pretty confident I'm cute enough to get out of any sort of trouble with them."

Your expression was pretty telling that that was exactly what the case was. He snickered and came close enough to hold your face, teasing you with the possibility of a kiss before he just shed his jacket and tossed it at you instead. The whistle blew, and Ruggie sat back upright on his broom despite the indignant sound you made.

"I'LL KISS YOU AFTER I WIN IT FOR SAVANACLAW!!"

Jack:

Even though the first time you had attended Magift practice at Savanaclaw you had been...given a concussion by Grim via magift disc to the head, it wasn't enough to keep you away for good.

Jack had invited you, (and reluctantly allowed Grim), to come watch morning practice. (But only if you wanted to.)

Before he had even seen you, his ear flicked and his tail started wagging just from recognizing your footsteps. He had to keep his attention on Leona during the brief as a sign of respect, but as soon as Leona dismissed the debrief, he flashed you a bright smile and waved at your spot on the bleachers.

It was clear to everyone playing, Jack was distracted, as he kept glancing over at you after every play, to the point where Leona had to stop the disc from hitting Jack square in the jaw and call a recess.

Jack didn't seem to realize the break was done because of him. You couldn't hear from where you were, but whatever Leona said to Jack made the freshman's ears flatten and tail tuck a bit. Leona shook his head a bit before gently shoving Jack in your general direction, Ruggie looking rather amused at the entire interaction.

Jack approached you, a little bashful and ashamed as he rubbed the back of his neck, averting his eyes.

"Ah...uhm...for some reason...Leona thinks you being around is a distraction to me...which is NOT true, but he doesn't think it's safe for me to play as long as you're here...which is dumb, because...I wasn't distracted."

You couldn't help but grin a little, using your height on the bleachers to meet him right at eye level. You didn't make him look at you, but you knew he certainly felt like he should.

"Wanna look at me and try saying that again?~"

Jack sputtered a bit, his cheeks feeling warm and feeling as if he needed to take a step back as you just gave him a bigger shit eating smile, stepping down from the bleachers until you were right in front of him, trying to get him to look at you, though he covered his face partially with his hand.

"Okay, that's enough, if you keep teasing him he's not gonna be able to focus for the entire day."

Leona sighed, shaking his head and holding his head with three of his fingers.

"I'm surprised his tail isn't sprained from how fast it's been wagging shyeheehee" Ruggie snickered, and you stepped back, shrugging innocently.

"I wasn't teasing, I was just-"

"That's enough I said. You can go wait by the mirror entrance or go back to Ramshackle. Somebodies puppy crush is a hazard to himself, so if he's still acting a fool he'll come meet you soon."

Octavinelle

Azul: (extremely Flirty MC SORRY LKSJHFLKSDJF)

"It's good isn't it?"

As much as he detested that smug tone, there was no way he could deny just how much he had enjoyed the meal you had prepared, ready to offer a trade.

He sighed.

"You're obviously skilled. I would be willing to pay for the recipe in exchange for giving you free food at the end of the night."

The less food waste recorded the better, and you needed to save every cent you could...not to mention, just giving you the trash food at the end of the night would save him the trouble of hiring you, going through the onboarding process, and having to pay you. Hopefully you would go for the free food, considering it enough compensation for the rest of the time you were here.

What he didn't expect, was for you to laugh, taking a seat on his desk and serving another forkful of food, holding it up to his lips.

"Oh come on now Azul. Do you really think I can't provide for myself? I didn't come here for that type of trade~"

Azul felt his cheeks flush, gently pushing the fork aside as he averted his eyes, his mind deciding to entertain a train of thought that was more emotional than logical...surely you weren't implying what he thought you were.

He chanced a glance back at you, only to be met with that...infuriatingly conniving smile he found aggravatingly stunning.

Your smile only widened. "What's wrong Azul? Not in the market for a kiss or two?~" You leaned closer to him, a pathetic squeak leaving him before you heard a very polite clearing of the throat from near the entrance of Azul's office.

"I'm so very sorry if I'm interrupting something, but your next clients are here Azul. It would be rude to keep them waiting." Jade flashed a polite, but strained smile at you, hoping you would get the message.

You sighed softly, blowing a kiss over your shoulder as you left the room.

"Enjoy the rest of your meal Azul~ You've got my number if you want it again!"

Jade: (sorry this doesn't quite fit the bill but I think it's cute)

"It's not much further. Please, be cautious of where you step, the moss can be quite slippery."

You fought to not pant trying to follow Jade. You had only agreed to this hike because he said it was beginner-friendly, and he had seemed SO excited when he had told you about a mushroom species he was eager to find.

Yet here you were, scaling a small waterfall, watching Jade's every step to try and follow for the sake of not DYING.

Maybe that was a bit dramatic, but the point was, whether it was due to embarrassment, or not wanting to get hurt, you didn't plan on falling in front of Jade.

Jade made it up first, offering you a smile and his hand to help pull you up.

Part of you thought about how he might pull you close once you got up, but that was quickly dashed as he kept you nearly an arms length away. A small pout threatened to form on your lips, but you just smiled and thanked him for his assistance. He nodded slightly, before venturing forward.

"The mushrooms I thought I saw shouldn't be much farther. Do make sure you stay cl-"

A yelp left Jade as he slipped on the very moss he had warned you about. You weren't entirely sure what made you think you could catch him, but your body acted before your mind. It must have been the adrenaline, or maybe a desperate need to impress him, because somehow you managed to catch and support the merman before he hit the ground so you could gently place him down, you staring down at him in confusion, and him looking up at you in absolute bewilderment. You weren't exactly what took over, but before Jade could say anything, you could feel a shit eating grin grow on your face as your heart felt as though it was pounding out of your chest.

"Falling for me hard and fast, huh?"

Jade looked shocked, but amused, picking himself off the ground, before matching your height with a small smile as he spoke softly in your ear.

"Did it take you this long to notice?~"

Floyd:

It was 3am.

It was 3 in the fucking morning when you heard a crack from your front door.

And yet, your sense of self-preservation went completely out of the window as the smell of your favourite meal started to fill Ramshackle. Making sure you didn't wake Grim, you gingerly left your bed, curiousity getting the better of you as you made your way down the stairs.

You took a peek at the front door as you came down, expecting splinters, but from what you could see, it was completely fine. You could hear soft humming and scatting coming from the kitchen, giving you a pretty good idea of who was in there. You couldn't help the smile that played over your lips as you watched Floyd use your kitchen utensils as drumsticks, making sure to stop right before they made contact with anything while he vocalized the drumline instead. You assumed it was an attempt to be quiet, but as soon as he heard the floorboards creak, his attention locked onto you and he pushed his headphones back as he beamed.

"Floyd wh-"

"Shrimpyy!!! I got bored and Azul took my key for the Mostro Lounge so I came here. Gotta few recipes I felt like makin', 'nd I know you ain't comin' by food easily. Figured you could be my taste tester in exchange for me usin' your kitchen. Also I broke the lock on your door cuz I lost the key ya gave me, but I fixed it too so don't get mad about it."

If it were anyone else, you may have gotten a little pissy, maybe asked for more of an explanation, but Floyd's animated nature and excitement as he continued his little drumming session had you smiling fondly. You sat at one of the stools on the far side of the island in comparison to Floyd, watching him work.

"I'm fine by that." You couldn't help but wonder a little bit, what had kept Floyd up this late, but you knew asking would likely only kill his mood, and that was the last thing you wanted. Not just because he was cooking FOR you, but he seemed so happy doing so...it wasn't worth it, he was clearly distracting himself with whatever kept him up with this.

By serving you.

Your mind wandered to a few other times Floyd had looked out for you in his...unique way. You must have zoned out for longer than you thought, as you were brought back to the present as Floyd waved a piece of food in front of you. He looked at you expectantly.

"Well are ya gonna have a taste?"

Your eyes flicked up to his mismatched ones as you offered a mischievous smile.

"Of the food or your lips?"

His eyes widened slightly, before he started giggling, then leaned over the island.

"Well I wouldn't be opposed t'ya tryin' both~"

You were so close to him, your stomach and heart doing flips just as you leaned in and-

"MRAH?! FLOYD???! GET AWAY FROM MY HENCH HUMAN!!"

Possibly the fastest you'd ever witnessed Grim move, he launched himself at Floyd's face, managing to land a kick and effectively move you and Floyd apart.

The food he had offered you plopped unceremoniously onto the counter as Floyd made a spitting noise, and Grim stood protectively, panting, staring Floyd down.

"That's right! Ya better not be scarin' my hench human! You're lucky all you got was a mouthful of fur, I'll light you up next time!!"

After a beat of silence, Floyd started to giggle.

"Ehee~ Seaaaalie, ya sure got some nerve interrupti-"

"Aha, you were hidin' food!! I can't believe you did this, I thought you loved me prefect." Grim's ears folded down, the pout audible in his voice as he scooped up the food that had landed on the counter, oblivious to the now murderous glare Floyd was giving him.

You couldn't help but chuckle, getting up just enough to move closer to Floyd. With the cat distracted and fanboying over the food, it was easier to relinquish Floyd's anger without another interruption. You grabbed his shirt and tugged him to you, grinning.

"I missed out on tasting that bite, but I won't miss out on enjoying you~"

Scarabia

Kalim:

You were just sitting on the front steps of Ramshackle, watching as the sunset painted the sky in beautiful red, orange, pink and purple hues. A slight breeze kept the lingering heat of the day at bay, the only sound you could hear being the slight chirping of birds. Grim was currently, at least supposedly, with Ace and Deuce at Heartslaybul, meaning all three thirds of the braincell were not your responsibility.

God was life always this boring without them around?? Yeah, sure, the peace and quiet could be nice but it felt weird now, where was the drama, the tension, the shenanigans, the tomfoolery?? You rubbed your face with your hands, groaning a bit out loud. Were you seriously so wired to this world's madness now that a moment of peace felt like you were just waiting for something to go wrong?

".....MC?"

Your head shot up, to the voice that was coming from above you.

"Kalim?? What are you doing here?" You smiled, moving to stand up as he descended slightly on his carpet, somewhat dismissing his concerned expression.

"Ah- well um, I was gonna come and ask if you wanted to come to Scarabia tonight for a party! But then I got in trouble with Jamil and he didn't know the party was gonna happen so I didn't want to throw it anymore, but I still wanted to hang out with you! If you're not busy that is. I can take you on a magic carpet ride!"

Oh thank the sevens, someone was going to relieve you of your weird, anxious boredom.

"Scooch over, I'm getting on." There was a lilt of amusement to your voice as you clambered on behind Kalim, wrapping your arms around him, gently resting your cheek against his shoulder. He giggled softly in response, making sure that the two of you rose slowly away from the ground.

"Where'd you wanna go? I can take you over the school, we could go to the field and cheer on the track team, we could even go to the beach! Ah, but if Jamil caught us he might get grumpy, so maybe we should stay on campus."

You hummed softly. "Honestly, I just want company right now. If you just take us to the top of NRC and let us watch the sunset together, that'll be more than enough for me right now."

"I can do that!! Hold on to me, okay??" You nodded a bit against his shoulder, and he took off.

Though he had to speak a bit louder over the rush of wind in your ears, you could hear him perfectly well as he spoke.

"You know, back home, there's a story about this sort of thing, there's even a song! I'll sing it to you if you want!"

"It might be better if you wait until we stop flying-"

"Nonono, part of the whole appeal is singing WHILE flying." He glanced back at you, his puppy dog eyes working their own kind of magic before you silently agreed. His expression lit up immediately as he began to sing.

"I can show you the woAGHOU"

Kalim's hand went to beat on his chest, causing you to yelp as the two of you started to careen forward. You reached forward and tugged up on the magic carpet, narrowly avoiding running into the school and sent the two of you sprawling into the grass instead.

You were glad your hands made contact with the ground first; it made it somewhat easier to help roll Kalim away from eating dirt, and to stop yourself from colliding into his back.

It took a moment for both of you to collect yourselves after you hit the ground, but in less than thirty seconds you were both on your knees, looking at each other. Somehow you managed to ask at the exact same time, "are you okay??!", followed by a beat of silence, and then laughter.

Jamil: (this killed me to write so I'm sorry it's not as good as the other ones/not quite the same)

Jamil had invited you to the Scalding Sands. Rather, Kalim had beat him to the punch, as there was an event going on he wanted you to attend. Jamil had offered to let you come with him a day or two before, seeing as he was supposed to be there early to assist his parents with preparations. As if he needed to entice you further, (and convince Kalim it was a good idea), he offered to give you a tour of the palace.... nobody wanted you to be victim to the expansive maze that the Al-Asim's property was after all.

Well, that was the excuse you both rolled with.

The streets were buzzing with energy, vendors calling out everywhere, sights and smells and sounds of the market filling your senses, but your focus was on something else entirely.

Jamil wasn't a touchy person, but he had been the one to take your hand. His hand held onto yours firmly, leading you with confidence through the bustling streets of Silk City. Despite the errands you were running with him, he insisted on being the one to hold everything. He was also incredibly patient as he stopped anytime you inquired about something.

However, it was him who slowed down upon seeing a small crowd congregate around what you could only assume was some sort of street performer, music playing. He had brushed past most others, but he worked his way through the crowd, seemingly curious to see who was at the center of attention. No sooner had you made it to the front of the crowd that one of the dancers lit up and called out to Jamil, greeting him as if they were old friends.

"Do you know them?"

Jamil had a bit of a mischievous smile on his face. "You could say that."

You quirked your brow as his 'friend(?)' came over, the two of them speaking rapidly in Arabic as they shared a quick hug. Jamil switched back into English, introducing you to his friend.

His friend wore a bit of shit eating smile. "You know Jamil dances, right? Did you ever wonder how he learned?"

"Now hold on, don't go crediting yourself for that, I taught myself."

"If you count flailing like a monkey as dancing, then yes, you did, but as an art? You only got to where you're at because of me."

Jamil tsked and rolled his eyes, waving his friend off, though it was clear it was light hearted.

"You haven't seen me dance in ages."

"Right, I'm sure you've had pleeeenty of time to practice at that fancy college of yours."

You couldn't help but interrupt their bickering by taking everything from Jamil's hands and shoving him forward a bit.

"Just let him show you what he's got."

Both of them looked at you in slight disbelief, but amused.

"MC we really don't have the ti-"

"Are you scared of embarrassing yourself Viper? Come on, if your date says you're as good as you claim you still are, you should have no issue joining us for one song. Just like old times."

His friend could see the gears in both of your heads come to a screeching halt, even if for just a moment. Sure, you had wanted it to be something like that, but hearing it put so bluntly...

You wrapped your arm around Jamil's waist with a shit-eating grin, ignoring the rising heat to your own cheeks.

"My boyfriend plays down his abilities all the time. I hope you're ready to be humbled." Before pushing him into the middle of the ring.

Despite his slightly flustered state, you could have sworn you heard him whisper about how he would get you back for that, a promise you could only hope he would keep.

Pomefiore

Vil:

"I told you to stop moving." His voice, though slightly irritated was just as amused as you struggled to stop laughing.

"But it tickles. Can't I just put it on with my hands?"

An offended gasp left Vil as he tilted your face slightly, brushing on more of the facemask. "No you heathen, we can't just apply it with our hands."

"What if. I washed my hands super super well." His expression left you giggling again as he sighed and pulled the brush away, his faux frustration melting away to a soft smile, shaking his head.

"Sometimes even I struggle to tell when you're just teasing or when you're serious." He chuckled softly, reapplying a bit of product to the brush to continue putting it on your face. You tried not to scrunch your nose, but sevens, he was applying it so lightly it felt weird!

As absorbed as you were in the feeling of the brush, he considered what your reaction might be if he were to kiss you this very moment. He knew that of all the people in the school, he was the only one who had achieved this level of casual intimacy. As good as he was at reading other people's emotions, the nagging anxiety of reading you, specifically, wrong could be the end of the friendship he held so dear. Of course, even if you were to reject him, you were both old enough to be mature about it, but rejection was not something Vil handled well.

He was pulled from his thoughts as he realized just how close he had gotten. Hell, your breathing had hitched at his closeness, eyes wide as your mind raced with possibilities. Vil SO wanted to kiss you in that moment, but his door flung open with a bang, startling the two of you apart. Vil shot the intruder a dirty look.

Epel was out of breath, bent over, pale and wincing as he looked to his housewarden in his P.E uniform, not noticing you there.

"I SHOT ROOK."

Vil's face went from mildly frustrated to near fear for his vice housewarden, until the mans laugh from down the hall echoed into the room.

"Oui. I believe it's nothing major, but you are more versed in healing magic than I am Vil."

Rook came into view, holding an arrow that was firmly lodged into his shoulder, his smile subdued from pain, but genuine.

Vil immediately came over, getting over his initial shock and ire in favour of helping Rook.

You got up from the bed, mostly with the intention of teasing Epel, but he took one glance at you and couldn't help but laugh breathlessly.

"You look like y'got mayo on your face."

"You're about to have disappointment on yours."

"Huh?"

You nodded towards Vil , who evidently didn't feel confident in removing the arrow at the dorm, chiding Rook for coming to him instead of going to the infirmary.

"If that's the talking to Rook's getting, I can only imagine yours."

"....aw shit."

Rook: (insert distressed Sebek emoji I've become far too reliant on on Discord to convey my Feelings because I'm Just Hoping this suffices for the Rook Fans.)

You could hear knocking at the door, light, but insistent. You were slightly annoyed - Grim could open the door by himself...at least he could if he were home. You forgot that you had given him "permission", (AKA, you had begged Vil to let Epel keep him around for a night to give yourself a night to relax), to go to a "sleepover".

So who was knocking at your bedroom door?

You felt a wave of anxiety wash over you, until a soft voice came from beyond the door.

"Mon trickster, I know you are awake. May I come in?"

Your brain needed a moment to buffer before you responded.

"Rook?"

As if there was any question about it, you chided yourself a tiny bit, but Rook took it as an invitation to come in, smiling warmly and waving a bit as he entered the room.

"Bonjour. I was hoping to whisk you away for a mome-"

"What are you doing here??"

Your question was as amused as it was...a little concerned.

"Why didn't you knock at the front door?"

Rook tilted his head a bit, as if he were surprised you were questioning him.

"Ah, I did, but upon not getting a response and knowing you were up, I let myself in. Do not fret, nothing is broken. I wouldn't want to leave you without a reliable lock on your door. However, I do respect your privacy, so I knocked before coming into your bedroom."

He smiled softly as you wondered just how reliable that lock was, before Rook continued.

"As for my presence in our home, I was hoping to treat you to a relaxing night. I know Monsieur Fuzzball is currently occupied."

He fully stepped into the room, and only then did you note the picnic basket in his hand, complete with a blanket on top. The flash of interest didn't go unnoticed by Rook - why would it? He smiled and held it up a little bit.

"These are the leftovers of the food I helped some of the dorm members make, undetected by Vil. I thought we could have a few snacks while we stargaze...then again, I could gaze at the most lovely star I know if we were to stay inside."

A sly smile grew as he winked at you playfully, causing you to look away a little bit.

"So? What do you say my dear?"

Somehow, when you lifted your head again to look at him, he was next to your bed and awaiting your answer with a fond expression.

You couldn't help but push his face away a bit, laughing a little flustered as you got out of bed, causing him to giggle a bit too.

"We can go up. I would love to stargaze with you."

At least, you would have.

Rook had shown you how to get up there, your common sense returning as you remembered just how dilapidated Ramshackle was when you showed up- you hadn't spent nearly as much time fixing up the outside of Ramshackle as you had on the inside. You scooted yourself nervously onto the ledge, just enough to be secure, though Rook reassured you he had done this dozens of times, (he had?), and there was no reason to worry.

Despite his reassurance, he let you stay where you were so he could set up the blanket, walking confidently and lightly across Ramshackle's roof. There was a comfortable silence between the two of you, crickets chirping and the buzz of other insects filling the air, as well as the now familiar creaks and groans of the old house settling beneath you two.

Rook hummed softly, satisfied with the set up and came back to get you, his hand outstretched. He smiled warmly, the moonlight only serving to make his already attractive features more stunning.

"Will you join me for our date, mon tri-"

Just as you reached out for his hand, both of you heard a loud creak. Despite his best efforts, Rook let out a soft, but discernable "Merde" as he fell through Ramshackles roof, laying winded in the attic on his back trying to gather his thoughts.

Obviously concerned, you peeked into the sizeable hole in your roof, peering down at the blond.

"....Are you okay????"

You tried to suppress your laughter, but at his slightly bewildered look, followed by a grin and thumbs up, both of you bubbled into giggles.

He stood up, then reached out towards you.

"I'll catch you. We can continue down here instead my dear."

You smiled and slid your legs over the hole, letting it be future you's problem as you hummed, giving him a cheeky grin.

"Promise? Because I've already fallen for you a hundred times before."

His eyes widened slightly, before smiling a little bit more.

"Then this time, I promise to catch you and never let you fall again, mon amour."

Epel: (this one is different sorry)

You could see him, just barely, peeking through the classroom doors narrow window. The tell tale purple poof of hair was hard to miss.

Evidently, Crewel's class had gotten out a little early, and here you were between Ace and Deuce, listening to Trein drone on about something he already covered. With Passion. You held in a ragged sigh, glancing at the clock on the wall, willing for the seconds to tick by faster.

Finally, the bell rang, Trein's voice being drowned out by the shuffling of bags and students making their way to the door.

In all the hubbub, you had managed to get squished in an Adeuce sandwich as they walked you out the door, Ace's teasing voice lilting in amusement.

"Where ya runnin' off to so fast preeeeefect? Got a special someone waitin' for you?"

Deuce chimed in, though gentler in his tone.

"I saw a certain someone looking at you through the window....mostly 'cus Lucius meowed at him peeking, but-"

You groaned, elbowing them both in the ribs as you saw fit, shaking them off your shoulders. Gods you hated to love them and loved to hate them the little shits. You and Epel were just friends. That was all there was to it. Grumbles and giggles followed behind you from the two of them as you managed to make it out of the classroom.

You were just friends.

....then why did your stomach do a flip when you looked at Epel and he greeted you with that boyish grin of his?

Ignihyde

Idia: (also don't come after me for nobody recognizing Lilia's voice assume he has a voice changer or something idk)

"Brb, my brother needs me for something."

You and Muscle Red responded softly, hearing as "Gloomurai" AKA "Gloomy" AKA Idia Shroud got up from his desk, leaving you and his friend alone.

Now, you only knew it was Idia because you usually would game together in his room, so it wasn't like he didn't know it was you on the other side either, you just had finally had the means to get your own set up and wanted to test it out. Idia and Muscle Red had plans already, but neither of them minded you joining them as you had a couple times before.

But you and Red had never been left together before. And just like IRL, being left with a friends friend left some amount of awkwardness to be had.

You held in a breath of relief as Red spoke up.

"So, how long have you and Gloomy known each other?"

"Just under a year. We go to the same school together."

"Oho? You've met in person then? Forgive me if I'm being invasive, but please do tell, what's he like? We've been online friends for years, I can't help but be a teensy bit curious about the man behind the screen."

You waited a beat. You knew part of the reason that Idia didn't share much about his personal life was because of his reasoning behind not wanting to ever feel too close to the people he connecting with online...yet Red was one of his best friends. And you wouldn't overshare, you could just share your thoughts on him. Besiiiides it wasn't like Idia would hear you gushing about him to his friend, he had left his desk to go help Ortho with something.

"....well...Gloomy is a pretty introverted guy but...as I've gotten to know him better? He can be really sweet, and passionate about the things he loves. He's a little shy and awkward, but I think it's part of his charm. He's also, just. Gorgeous. But don't tell him I said that."

Mischievous laughter came from Red as an audible "Idia dying" sound came through your headphones.

"You know, after being able to know our dear friend, I would have thought you'd have known Gloomurai wears Bluetooth headphones." You felt a little embarrassed as Red chuckled again.

"I told you Gloomy, that they liked you back. You've got no doubt about it now. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone~"

The telltale blip of him disconnecting left the two of you in incredibly awkward silence, until Idia had the guts to ask.

"D...d-do you really think all that?"

Ortho: (platonic, obviously)

"Ah, there you are Prefect, I tried to call and text, I even dropped by Ramshackle to see if you were there, how courteous am I to have sought you out to hand deliver your tasks for the week, aren't I just the best?"

Ortho could all but see the light drain from not only your eyes, but your expression as a whole as Crowley continued to ramble on about his generous nature.

How dare he? This was supposed to be you and him time. You had even less time than Idia to dedicate to hanging out together, because of how hard you worked for the headmage.

Before you really had a chance to acknowledge the headmage, Ortho got in between the two of you, getting in Crowley's face a little bit, floating to ensure the man would see him eye to eye.

"You're interrupting my time with the prefect sir. This is my one and only warning for you to stop."

Crowley took a slight step back, flabbergasted at the boys behaviour before he brushed his outfit down as if he was calming ruffled feathers.

"Well...I really must speak to the prefect Ortho, it's no small matter and you're far too young to underst-"

"I gave you a warning Sir. If it's no small matter, then it's probably your responsibility anyways. Instead of pawning off your less than desirable tasks to the prefect, why don't you think a little harder about what sort of stress that puts them under when they've already dealt with overblots completely unassisted. They've done more than enough for you and the school, and will no longer be at your beck and call, mkay? My brother and I can make sure they get the money they need so they don't have to work for you at all anymore. So now, you know that they won't be doing your dirty work anymore, you and your shadow can go back to your office and be the pathetic mess of a man you are on your own because you've got no friends, no family, and no significant relationships in your life to ease the ache of loneliness. Goodbye."

Without waiting for a response, Ortho grabbed the headmage by the shoulders and turned him away from you, giving him a light push towards the school before returning to your side.

"I know where we can find some really cool rocks, follow me!!"

DIASOMNIA (RIP my braincells, sorry guys)

Malleus: I'm so sorry this man. It's more platonic than anything.

"See that one? It's modeled after Corvus corax, the Common raven. And that gargoyle is similar, though the subtle differences imply it's modeled after Corvus corone, the Carrion crow."

He smiled rather proudly at you, glad to share and show off his knowledge to someone he cared for so deeply.

"What do you think?"

"I think I like the fox grotesque more."

A small 'hm?' left Draconia, a bit of a look of shock on his face until he registered that you were teasing, a playful smile playing over his lips.

"Only you would jest with me so casually Child of Man." He chuckled softly, patting your head. "Thank you for accompanying me today for club hours. I've rather enjoyed having someone else to speak to."

He turned towards you more, gently taking your face in his hand, rubbing your cheek gently with his thumb.

"It's not often I feel as appreciated as I do with you. Thank you, for everything you've do-"

"WAKASAMAAAAA"

Sebek's pathetic bleating drew both of your attention, an almost annoyed sounding huff leaving Malleus as he let go of your face, though stepped closer to you as Silver and Sebek ran up to the both of you.

"Wakasama, we've been looking for you everywhere! We were so worried-"

"We were not..."

"That we may never find you again!!"

"You're so dramatic..." Silver shook his head a bit, sighing.

"Apologies Malleus. Fa- Lilia sent for you. He went to your meeting for you and wants to fill you in."

He wore a slight pout on his lips, but nodded.

"I understand. Thank you Silver." He turned towards you, offering a slight bow. "I'll see you in due time, child of man. Until next time."

Lilia: (a little different, sorry)

"Kehehehe, are you excited prefect?"

You had to refrain from rolling your eyes. Of course of all the people you could have been paired with for home ec. you got Lilia Vanrouge....not that you minded entirely, he was pretty cute.

But being cute didn't get you good grades, and it certainly didn't improve your cooking ability.

You tapped the end of your wooden spoon against his nose.

"I'll be excited if you and I can pull this off successfully. No experimenting with the recipe, okay?"

Lilia sighed dramatically, sticking out his tongue.

"Fine. Ruin my fun. That's fine." He giggled a bit afterwards, scooping the recipe card up just as Crewel placed it down, not giving you so much as a glance at it.

"Alright, you ready? Let me read the ingredients to you."

You gave him a bit of a dirty look, only to be greeted with a wide grin. He took the spoon from your hand, gently booping your nose back.

"Aw come on~ you trust me, don't you? And you already took away my other fun, let me have this!"

Despite your better judgement, you relented.

He kept his promise- everything seemed reasonable as he read it out to you.

"Whisk two cups of AP flour, two and a half teaspoons of baking powder and a pinch of salt in a large bowl."

"Got it."

"Then beat the eggs until aerated, and slowly add the sugar. While you add sugar to the eggs, give me a kiss to give me some sugar too. By the time we're done, the eggs should be triple their size."

"Got- huh"

You turned around, bewildered at what you had heard, to see Lilia's cheeky grin.

"Well prefect, are you gonna follow the recipe card?"

You gave him a playful smile, gently pushing his face away from yours, leaving you both in giggles.

"I'll follow what the card actually says....and if this turns out, maybe I'll give you that kiss."

Silver:

"This is my favourite place to feed the wild rabbits....I know it's not great for them, but they deserve a little treat every once in a while just like everyone else."

Silver's voice was soft as a small group of wild rabbits hopped around the two of you, as if they were pets. The two of you sat under the shade of one of the many apple trees of Night Raven College. Silver used a dagger to expertly cut into the ripe, unbruised apples he had picked out for the rabbits, claiming they deserved better than the fallen fruit.

You watched him, how focused he was, yet how soft he looked under the dappled shadows casted on him from the leaves above. He caught you watching, glancing at you and cracking just the slightest smile as he cut a piece of the apple and handed it to you,

"The grey one is super friendly. You can try feeding it. You'll probably be allowed to pet her too."

You thanked him softly, so as not to startle your furry friends and heeded his advice. You weren't exactly surprised when his advice paid off, though you still let out a soft sound of content as the bunny hopped into your lap, allowing you to pet it gently.

You heard Silver hum softly. "She really likes you. You should come here with me more often."

You couldn't help but smile a little shyly at that. "I would lo-"

"HEY WHAT ARE YOU GUYS DOING??!!!"

Kalim's piercing voice cut through the quiet, peaceful environment the two of you had, startling all of you, but most of all the rabbits as they scattered and disappeared into the bushes, making Silver sigh softly in disappointment before offering you a small smile.

"We can get them back after. Let me talk to Kalim. I'll be right back." His gaze lingered a moment longer than it should have before he got up. You felt a bit of a funny feeling in your chest as you entertained the thought of him kissing you, trying to erase the thought before he would be able to tell.

Sebek:

"How did you even manage this human?"

Sebek had to bite his tongue, trying to keep his voice down so as to not spook your horse.

Somehow, your boot had slipped all the way through the stirrup, but nothing you or he did got your foot or boot loose enough to pull it back through. He tried to pull your boot off too, but that had just hurt.

You were trying really hard to not laugh. Yes it was inconvenient and uncomfortable, but how you managed to get yourself in this position was as funny to you as it was frustrating to Sebek.

You had asked Riddle for assistance at first, but Silver had called his attention over for something more pressing, so he had appointed Sebek to help you.

Sebek let out a frustrated bellow as yet another attempt was met with no progress, your horse side stepping away from him anxiously. You patted your horse gently and just looked at Sebek apologetically.

"You can just wait til Riddle or Silver can help with magic. It's not like the pain is unbearable."

"No. I was tasked with releasing you from your saddle. I will complete what has been required of me. Excuse me."

He knelt down to undo the saddle from beneath, and you got the hint, trying to move your foot out of the way best you could to let him do so.

He stood back up, and gestured to get you to get your horse to lay down so he could be taller. He offered his arms to you.

"Hold onto me. I'll make sure the saddle comes with you so it doesn't tug on your ankle."

Of course, it was just as your arms wrapped around Sebeks neck that Riddle came back, making a bit of a flustered noise at the sight of the two of you so close to each other.

"What is going on here?!!"

Sebek reeled, ducking his head out from your hands, flushed.

"NOTHING."

You looked rather unamused between the two biggest sticks in the mud you knew and gestured at your foot, still firmly stuck in the stirrups of your saddle.

"I'm still just trying to be granted sweet release."

--------------------------------------- RAHHHHH GOOD GOD I FINALLY FINISHED IT

I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG OTL

Hopefully it lives up to expectation <3

----------------------------- Tag list:

@fluffle-writes @my-cursed-brain

@nyx-of-night @sickle-stick @distant-velleity @nemisisnemi @amatsuchan-eiliniel @random-twst-and-oc-stuff

I'm so tired BYE I love you guys

[will-0-w]

mdni

dbf!toji being invited to your dad’s annual new year’s eve party, and of course you couldn’t miss the opportunity to also tag along as well. your father’s house was soon bustling with people, mainly close friends or family.

dbf!toji spotting you from across the living room and walking over to greet you, telling you how much you’ve changed since the last time he saw you. he also noted how pretty you looked in your little dress, how your eyes sparkled or they way you licked your lips subconsciously, but those thoughts were never voiced out loud

dbf!toji and you sneaking away into the spare guest room a couple hours later, making sure nobody saw either of you before shutting the door behind himself. as soon as the door shut his hands were all over you, lips interlocked and tongues entwined, dancing a dangerous dance

dbf!toji stripping you out of your dress, eyes widening as he sees nothing underneath it. he smiles slyly, “no panties or bra? you’re bold.” he licks his lips as you lay back on the bed and spread your legs, giving him a perfect view of your soaked folds glistening under the moonlight that shone into the room directly on your naked figure making you look absolutely ethereal

dbf!toji, already half hard just from your previous encounter earlier, feeling himself grow achingly harder when you spread your folds with nimble fingers and watches as your wet juices trickle down and onto the sheets. palming his bulge over his white sweatpants, “dirty slut, you see what you do t’me?” with deft fingers he quickly strips his own clothes until he’s only standing in his boxers, finger hooking into the waistband and slowly pulling them down as his fat, aching cock slaps against his toned abdomen. he groans as the air in the bedroom hits his bare body, a small bit of pre making his angry, red tip glisten

dbf!toji walking over to the edge of the bed, leaning forward and running a thick finger over your wet slit, feeling your slick coat his finger making you shiver in delight. “shit.. you already this wet, doll?” he grins as you nod shyly, “dirty, dirty girl.” his words are so crude yet they seem to make you even wetter and you whine as he removes his finger until, slap! his palm delivers a harsh slap to your pussy making you almost whine out too loudly, “she’s so fucking wet.”

dbf!toji teasingly sliding his hard cock over your soaked cunt, the feeling alone making you bite back your moans. he slowly slides himself into your wet, gummy walls feeling them grip him as he slides out momentarily before plunging back in harshly, groaning loudly above you. as he leans over you to grip your wrists in one large hand above your head, whispering the most dirtiest obscenities into your ear, “fuuuck y’hear her, baby? so fucking wet, fuuuck.” he’s loosing his mind at how good you feel, wrapped so snugly around his fat cock, heavy balls slapping roughly against your ass with every thrust

dbf!toji is sloppily fucking you into the mattress of the bed, both of his large hands holding the underside of your thighs now, folding you into a mean mating press and grunting out stuff like, “look at you, going dumb on my cock” and “dirty fucking girl, what would your daddy think? his perfect little girl getting fucked by his best friend.” but you both are way past the point of caring as to what would happen

dbf!toji rolls his hips up into you and from this angle his leaky tip is repeatedly kissing your g spot making your eyes roll back in white hot pleasure, him then placing the rough pad of his thumb into your mouth, making you look directly into his eyes

dbf!toji finally spilling his warm seed into your cunt after a few more rough and sloppy thrusts of his hips, you cry out soon after as you gush all over his cock. he rubs your sensitive clit to prolong your feeling of pleasure a little more. chuckling above you at your fucked out expression he softly coos at you, “we should probably head back down ‘for your dad notices we aren’t there.” as you both cleaned up and dressed quickly, managing to sneak back into the living room just in time. throughout the night you both shared subtle glances and winks keeping out of the watchful eye of your unsuspecting father.

[its-avalon-08]

🏎️ｂａｃｋ　ｔｏ　ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ🏎️

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9

🏁 pairing : Oscar Piastri x Female!Reporter!Reader

🏎️ summary : one night. one mistake. and now oscar piastri acts like y/n doesn’t exist. in the paddock, under flashing cameras and whispered headlines, they navigate the wreckage—cold shoulders, stolen glances, and tension sharp enough to cut. but resentment is a funny thing. so is regret. because no matter how hard they try to pretend… neither of them can forget.

themes : angst, regret, anger, slight smut (not a lot most of it is implied)

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

chapter 2 : don't be a stranger

The paddock is alive with the usual chaos—team radios crackling, mechanics rushing, tyres rolling, media personnel weaving through the crowds, and the constant hum of engines in the background. It’s just another race weekend. Business as usual.

Except it isn’t.

Oscar moves through the paddock like a man on a mission, head down, jaw set, laser-focused on anything except the one person he can’t stop thinking about.

Y/N.

It’s been a week. A week of silence. A week of pretending she doesn’t exist.

They’ve unfollowed each other. No texts. No calls. Nothing. He pretended like it didn't impact him but it did, so much more than he could verbalise.

And yet, his eyes betray him at every turn.

There she is, standing near the garage, clipboard in hand, deep in conversation with someone from Red Bull. Oscar’s grip tightens around the water bottle in his hand, his jaw clenching as he watches her laugh at something, her head tilting slightly, her hair catching in the sunlight. She looked.. ethereal. Her skin was glowing as if the gods were shining a light on her.

Fuck.

He looks away, forcing himself to keep walking.

"Oscar, mate, you good?" Lando’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

"Yeah," he lies, pushing a hand through his hair. "Just tired."

Lando side-eyes him but doesn’t press. Oscar was a private person and he wasn't going to pry.

They continue walking, weaving through the paddock, and that’s when it happens.

Y/N is walking in the opposite direction, her heels clicking against the pavement, sunglasses perched on her nose, exuding an air of effortless professionalism. Her smart business suit made her seem like an unstoppable force. She’s flanked by a couple of media personnel, talking into her phone, completely unbothered. Oscar could have sworn people were attracted to her like she was a magnet.

Oscar swallows hard.

She doesn’t even look at him.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of recognition. Nothing.

It’s like he’s just another rando. Another nobody.

He walks past her, side by side with Lando, and it takes everything in him to keep his expression neutral. To act like the mere sight of her doesn’t send his heart into a tailspin.

But fuck, does it sting.

He catches the way Lando looks between them, eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn’t say a word. Lando was so confused but he chooses not to comment.

Oscar doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t let himself.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t hyper-aware of her presence.

Every time she speaks to someone, his ears seem to pick up her voice over the noise of the paddock. Every time she laughs, it grates against his nerves like static. Every time she brushes past a driver—Carlos, Charles, Daniel—his fists curl at his sides.

But she doesn’t spare him a single second of her time.

It’s terrifying how good she is at this.

How she acts like he never touched her. Never kissed her. Never fucked her like he couldn’t get enough.

And worst of all?

She’s better at pretending than he is.

-

Y/N doesn’t even bother sighing when her producer tells her the next segment is with McLaren. Complaining won’t change anything. So she plasters on a professional smile, squares her shoulders, and walks onto the set where two familiar figures are already waiting.

Lando grins the second he sees her. “Oh, look who it is! I thought you forgot about us.”

Y/N matches his energy effortlessly. “Never, Norris. You lot just aren’t important enough to be my first priority.”

Lando gasps, clutching his chest. “That actually hurt Y/N.”

“It was meant to Lan.” They laugh and hug as Lando twirls her around for a second.

And then—her eyes flicker to the other person standing beside him.

Oscar.

His arms are crossed over his chest, face unreadable, but she sees the way his shoulders tense slightly at the sight of her. Like he wasn’t expecting to actually have to interact with her today.

She tilts her head slightly. “Hey Piastri.”

His jaw ticks. “Y/N.”

That’s it. No warmth, no playfulness. Just an acknowledgement.

And honestly? That’s fine. That’s perfect.

The cameras start rolling.

“Welcome back to another paddock challenge!” Y/N says, voice smooth, bright—but not for him. “Today, we’ve got the McLaren boys with us for a little game of ‘Who’s More Likely?’”

Lando instantly starts rubbing his hands together. “Oh, this is about to get dangerous.”

Y/N chuckles. “I expect full honesty here. No dodging questions, no diplomatic answers.”

Lando nods seriously. “So you’re asking the two most sarcastic drivers on the grid to be honest?”

“Yep.” She smirks. “Let’s see how that goes.”

Oscar hasn’t spoken yet, but Y/N can feel him watching her. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

She picks up the cue cards. “Alright, first one—Who’s more likely to forget their own race strategy?”

Lando points at himself instantly. “Me. Absolutely me.”

Y/N laughs, actually laughs. “At least you’re self-aware but you'll make up with your driving even though you're a scatterbrain.”

Oscar finally speaks, his tone dry. “I think he forgets before the race even starts.”

It’s actually kind of funny. A classic Piastri deadpan one-liner.

And Y/N—Y/N, who used to laugh at everything he said, who used to love his dry humor—just gives him a small, unimpressed chuckle. Barely even a real reaction.

Lando, on the other hand, leans into the bit. “Okay, rude! I try to remember.”

“Do you, though?” she teases.

Lando groans. “You’re ganging up on me. This is unfair.”

She laughs again, properly this time, shaking her head as she flips to the next card. “Alright, next question—Who’s more likely to sleep through an alarm on race day?”

Lando doesn’t hesitate. “Oscar.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Oscar, who has been mostly quiet, finally cracks a smirk. “That’s actually a lie. I’ve never missed a race in my life.”

Y/N hums, flipping her pen between her fingers. “Cool. I mean it seems like very Oscar.”

Lando bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, she’s so right.”

Oscar opens his mouth, but before he can defend himself, Y/N has already moved on.

“Next—Who’s more likely to crash a golf cart?”

Lando snorts. “Again, me.”

Y/N doesn’t even need to think. “Yeah, no arguments there.”

Oscar finally gets his moment of revenge. “Have you seen her driving skills? She’s probably a bigger threat on a golf cart than you are.”

Y/N—who, normally, would’ve playfully argued back—just hums. “Haha.”

No laugh. No witty retort.

Just a flat, indifferent response before she flips to the next card.

Oscar shifts beside her, jaw tightening, but she doesn’t give him anything more.

The rest of the video goes on like this—her being warm and natural with Lando, quick-witted and playful, but with Oscar? She keeps it strictly professional. Cool. Unbothered.

By the time they finish filming, Lando stretches his arms over his head. “Well, that was fun. I feel like I got bullied a little, but it’s fine.”

Y/N grins at him. “You deserved it.”

He gasps, nudging her shoulder. “Wow. Unbelievable.”

Oscar, meanwhile, stands stiffly beside them, watching the way she and Lando interact. The effortless banter. The way she actually smiles at him. The way she laughs without hesitation.

It’s painfully obvious.

She’s herself with Lando.

With him?

She’s a stranger. And he was the only one to blame.

taglist - @morganalatina21 @armystay89 @aizen-lover @sh1nedreamsm1le7 @taliya8346282844eliviahdgdajs @bbreezyxoxo @downsideup1989

[sunboki]

⎯ caught in the webs. ( teaser ) ⟡ featuring han jisung

🕷️ : Spider-Man! Han Jisung x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. Spider-Man! au, nerd Jisung! au, high school! au, pining, confessions (somewhat), slight self-doubt, a little angst, nervous sungie :(

WORD COUNT. estimated to be around 4k-7k words

WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of an existential crisis, slight anxiety/degradation of oneself

AUG'S NOTES. hi hi—! although my initial plan was to produce some cute, enemies to lovers teachers! au with our beloved seungmin (which will eventually come to be, don’t worry), a bit of dialogue came to me one night for a spider-man au with hannie. ….i wrote nearly 3k in a day. as for now, however, tell me your thoughts and please enjoy this snippet!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. To everyone else in high school, Han Jisung is just a nervous, somehow ingenious chemistry nerd. And yet, beneath the glasses and long hours studying, a secret lies. Because Han Jisung isn’t just a nerd, but Seoul’s one and only, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But what happens when he finds himself head over heels for no one but you? No less scrambling for the courage to ask you out before the Valentine’s Dance? Between the fine-line of his secret identity and the more he falls for you each day, he finds himself hoping you feel the same way.

or alternatively :

In which the tangle of webs makes for complications, and love.

“And- I mean, it’s not like she knows I’m Spider-Man so,” Han rationalizes, hands flailing about in an awkward manner of both panic and hope, currently spilling his worries out to a luckily, ever patient Chan.

That is, opposed to Minho (Han’s official roommate) whom the two both know would nod his head and eventually (bluntly) tell Han he’s thinking far too hard before going back to studying. 

And yet, at this very moment, Minho might be the sole reprieve in calming said boy’s nerves with his no-nonsense attitude.

Because in less than three weeks their high school’s annual Valentine’s dance will be here, and if anyone knows something about Han Jisung, it’s the borderline pitiful way he pines over you like some neglected puppy, a factor it seems only you don’t notice.

As for the thing nobody knows of apart from some greatly trusted compadre’s, Han Jisung isn’t simply a dorky high schooler, but Seoul’s one and only, (trying-to-be) friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. 

Who.. is having a heart attack merely thinking of your face, your laughter, your smile, your— ugh.

Three weeks to gain as much style and confidence as he can muster and, first and foremost, the balls to even ask you out when the time comes. 

To put it simply, he’s fucked.

Completely, utterly, fucked.

Biochemistry with Mr. Jang is the pits when it comes down to his hour-long lectures, but it isn’t the boredom itself grasping his attention so deliberately, it’s you.

Two seats ahead, one seat to the right. 

And oh, if Han isn’t smitten.

You’re smart, stupidly smart. With your pretty hair and pretty face and crinkling eyes when you smile, where your lips curl in delight. You seem to glow, as if an ethereal fae he’d learn of in childish folklore, come alive amid his wildest daydreams.

So it’s the shrill ring of the dismissal bell that has him jumping from his seat, palms slapping against the wood of his desk with a stinging force effectively gaining the attention of most everyone in the class.

And the harrowing silence.

Trust, his face goes beet red, and Jisung had never choked on an apology faster in his life beneath Mr. Jang’s scrutinizing stare.

Though, from the corner of his eye, he can see it: that breathtaking smile of yours hidden behind a hand as you laugh. 

Jackpot.

Han Jisung has just hit the lottery.

Even if it was his scolding earning your laughter. But he’d brush off the matter a thousand times over to see that smile again. And again and again, like a selfish itch incapable of being satiated.

He really is hopeless.

.

.

.

“No you don’t get it! She smiled at me and—“

The rest is a series of groans and oddly unintelligible sounds, ones the partner of his decides not to inquire about.

Now squirming around the hallways, Jisung buries his face into his hands, whining loudly. Third period leads both him and Minho to Physics together, the decently spaced walk across campus to the classroom allowing leeway for (currently-kept-secret) Spider-Man’s groveling. 

Funny story, actually.

The way Minho found out, that is.

Having grown used to his webs over the few months of adjusting, he’d been ignorant in forgetting his roommate would be home as well.

Which.. ensued the piece of bread he used his webs to beckon over—while making the glorious concoction donned as a grilled cheese—met with Minho’s furrowed, evidently confused brows and an equally, albeit slow, acceptance whilst continuing on to the fridge.

A predictable reaction, Jisung would’ve supposed.

If not for the fact he downright begged the boy to not tell, dread forming in his stomach merely watching that sly, mischief-filled sneer curl at his roommate’s lips. 

Laundry and dish-duty for a week.

Thanks, Minho.

As for Chan’s introduction to Seoul’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, the two had been approaching each other after Chan’s football practice when the older of the two tossed a football at the younger counterpart, under the (accurate) impression Jisung couldn’t catch to save his life.

That was correct.

The unable-to-catch part, yeah.

But of course, per his luck, if Han couldn’t catch it, that damned radioactive spider would help him catch it.

And he did. Both hands, firm and fast.

Quick enough to freak the quarterback out and, given a few weeks time, unveil his secret after one too many tests on his reflexes and a downright scary amount of footballs thrown at his head.

“So you’re diseased.”

“I am not, we’ve been over this.”

“You’re walking on the ceiling.”

Fair enough, he’d admit if not for the cereal (that he currently figures out how to hold upside down- or right side up? It’s hard to tell) stuffed in his cheeks, feigning a glare matching Minho’s where his roommate pokes his nose indignantly prior to beginning off towards the bathroom.

Nearly 8am, and he’s aiming to keep comfy pajamas on as long as possible before having to exchange for school clothes.

Curious, observant umber irises waste time peering at the expanse of his torso visible where he hangs upside down, lips forming into an ‘o’ of awe seeing the defined lines descending down his belly flex with every move.

Those are new.

Perks of a spider bite, huh. 

Of the few.

Eventually resorting to doing forgotten dishes, he patiently waits for the grumpy roommate of his to finish in the bathroom, rumbling echo of the hairdryer synthesizing with the morning news’ daily report.

Weather, local updates. But the portion gathering his attention comes in the form of the headline: Creeping villain, Lizard, once again detained by Seoul’s mysterious vigilante, Spider-Man.

And simultaneously, listening in on the story, he finds a glow of pride settling in his chest.

He did that. With a few bruises and scrapes sufficing as evidence but, overall, his doing.

Nevertheless, with the rising pride comes the rising stupidity.

Apparently. 

Resulting in, while lost in the throes of his inflating ego, the reckless unleash of webs upon random surfaces as fast as he can manage, failing to notice the risky positioning of a web by his foot until—as if from a cartoon—he trips over it. 

“Ow! My foot- and my coffee..”

The shatter of his mug and Minho’s exasperated sigh seem to speak for themselves.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[godmadeaterribleerror]

And You Were Brighter Than The Light Pt. 1

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist - Pt. 2

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, fluff, angst, no use of y/n, mental health issues, canon-divergent au

Summary/Warnings: There are a lot of Avenger's at the compound. And you never leave your room. It's a good thing you did, though. Just once. Otherwise you never would've met Bucky

Author's Note: I love sad men more than I love myself. Enjoy!

Word Count: 7.6k

Bucky saw an angel.

He was almost certain he saw a real, moving, glowing angel. Hovering over him as the world shifted and blended around him, and She became sharp and clear and the only thing he’d ever need to see again. 

Beautiful. She was beautiful.

He had really missed looking at beautiful things. 

And She had to be an angel. There was no other explanation beside Bucky was watching an angel, perfect and ethereal above him, because everything had been a lot of pain and stained red vision, but She’d placed a soft hand on his brow and he’d been so warm. It had been like summer, the world in a full bloom of color and the air in his lungs impossibly clear. As if She’d injected him with a drug, and his heart was no longer lead but gold, and his every organ and muscle were soothed to relaxed.

Only an angel could make him relax. Go all loose and floppy like a damn rag doll, wipe his every instinct of fight and scrape like an animal when he knew he was vulnerable. 

Bucky was vulnerable here. On his back, with the angel over him and his whole body exposed to the world. But there was no fight in him. No urge to flee or guard anything, though there had been no order to be at ease, no paralytic injected into his blood stream. 

The angel started to hum, and his body relaxed even further. He was sleepy. Not tired or exhausted, with itching eyes and the world blurred in odd shapes as he fought his brain to stay awake, but sleepy. 

Like he was safe. 

And everything would be okay, if he just let the darkness wrap over him as the angel continue to hum.

The last thing Bucky saw before he gave in was Her. The angel. Still beautiful in ways he didn’t have words for, still touching him, still watching him like he was being studied. Like there was a test or trial he needed to pass, but She didn’t expect him to fail in the slightest. No fear on Her features, no caution or tension. Only curiosity and care because She was an angel, so She could look right into him and find all She desired without ever needing to ask. 

The only thing that reminded him that he hadn’t seen an angel was the fact that if death was coming—it didn’t feel like it was, not as the angel kept Her hand on his skin and sleep closed faster in—Bucky would not be headed to whatever paradise had sent Her to his side.

He’d rot away under the ground, and—as the peaceful, purple and blue and green darkness moved over his vision and the angel faded into only a song—pray that Hell truly was a place of fire, because he’d spent long enough in the cold.

———

Bucky was not dead.

A lot of things hurt, but he wasn’t dead.

It was unfortunate.

Now he’d have to write on of Starks dumb fucking mission reports. 

His eyes stayed closed as he grabbed his every, slightly dulled sense and pulled them back into his body, sharpening them by brute force and keeping his breathing steady and measured. Nobody needed to know he was awake yet. And as long as he remained asleep, he’d have an advantage.

There was a steady beep on a machine, and a little clamp latched onto one of his fingers. A human one. The metals ones were relaxed in thin but soft sheets, and the mattress under Bucky’s bed was stiff and filled with odd bumps. 

He was in the infirmary. He’d gotten shot with a dart on a mission, and the dart had been filled with a poison strong enough to knock him down, and he was in the infirmary. His heartbeat was normal, the air was about two degrees below the normal temperature, and his IV-

There was no IV. There was an aching pain and a heavy weight over his every nerve, but there was no IV. 

They’d need an IV to combat the poison. Bucky wasn’t dead—he didn’t even feel like he was dying—but there was no IV. It didn’t track. There were many, many things about this world he didn’t understand, but medical things were often straight forward and simple. You get shot, you needed stitches. Your arm gets ripped off, you need a new arm. You got brainwashed, you need a psychiatrist. 

You get your veins pumped with a white-hot poison that brings you to your knees and makes the world spin, you need an IV. 

He kept himself together. He wasn’t dying, so there was no need to burst up and demand answers, but someone had meddled with his body and now he’d need to be careful. He’d been certain Steve had been the one who grabbed him after his knees gave out, but Bucky knew far better than to trust his own memory, so now all he had to do was ensure that he kept the upper hand. He’d figure out what these people—whoever had him, whoever had tried to warp something in him that he still couldn’t identify—had done to him when he got back to the compound, and he’d make sure the world was safe from whatever new weapon he’d become, but he had to keep the upper hand-

“I know you’re awake, Sargent Barnes.” 

Bucky heard the skip in his heart through the monitor. 

Fuck.

He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. He couldn’t identify that voice—it was a lovely voice, musical and almost heavenly, honey without being too sweet, a little bit of a rasp or drawl or rough edge around the words—so he’d been right. Someone he didn’t know had touched him, and now he had to think fast-

“I know you’re playing dead, as well.” The woman—Bucky was pretty sure it was a woman—said, and she sounded a little bored. Or annoyed. Her tone was really hard to read. “Steve told me he’d be back in a few hours, so you can keep pretending you can’t hear me until then.”

Steve.

He wasn’t in a strange bunker or lab, because Steve wouldn’t have just left him somewhere unsafe—Steve didn’t even like letting Bucky use a damn can opener in case it somehow triggered him—so it was alright.

Bucky opened his eyes slowly, and god, why was is so fucking bright-

“FRIDAY, can you please lower the lights?”

“Of course, doctor.” It wasn’t bright anymore. Bucky’s brain felt a little fuzzy. “I have also alerted Captain Rogers that Sargent Barnes is awake. He is running a little behind from the city, and would like to know if Mr. Wilson would be welcome to observe in his place.”

Bucky’s jaw grit, because he was getting on better with Wilson, but he didn’t need the asshole watching him like he was a dog who would bite someone or piss on the floor if left unattended-

“I think I’ve got it, Friday. Thank you.”

Bucky frowned, glaring at the ceiling as his eyes continued to open at a horribly slow rate. When he managed to find his voice, it was hoarse.

“Are you a mind-reader?”

She gave a soft laugh. “No.

“You my doctor?”

 “No.”

“Nurse?” “No.”

Bucky felt his hand twitch slightly. “Guard?”

“No.”

He turned his head, ready to raise his brow and figure out who the hell Steve had left him with, and the world stuttered. Rewound just a pace before rushing forward, as the beeping of the machine sped up, and Bucky gaped at Her. 

It was the angel. She was real. 

Bucky hadn’t dreamt of or hallucinated Her, she was right here and somehow more beautiful when his mind wasn’t melting into his skull and his blood wasn’t trying to rip out of his body. 

He’d seen an angel. 

Twice.

“Know any words besides no?” He whispered—god, he sounded weird, and weak, and a little pathetic—and She smiled at him. 

It was the prettiest smile he’s ever. He’d start wars for that smile. He’d end wars for it. He’d reverse the orbit of the earth and rewrite everything that was determined, just to see that fucking smile on the face of a woman he didn’t even know. 

“You know,” She tilted Her head slightly, and Bucky felt himself mimic the movement. Like already, he was bending for whatever will She had. “I think I might.”

———

Stark’s compound was too big. There were too many rooms, and things, and people. So many damn people, that Bucky had somehow been living in the same house as this woman for almost a year and he’d never even seen Her.

She’d told him that She was—technically—an Avenger, but She didn’t like to fight or participate in things, so she spent most of her time in her private lab, and kept good company outside of the other Avengers. She said they were better than the people, softer too, and Bucky didn’t know what the hell that meant but he liked how She’d said it, so he’d nodded and asked Her name.

It was a perfect name. Bucky hadn’t known there could be perfect names, but this was one of them. He’d repeated it to memorize it—it felt impossibly critical that Bucky memorize Her name—and it had tasted good on his tongue, and felt right to pass through his lips. A little like oxygen. 

She’d explained her powers as well, but with very big words Bucky didn’t think were real. He’d said at much, and She’d simplified with a bright look in Her eyes that reminded Bucky of the moon. Shining and soft and easy to look at and wonder if he could touch it, if he just reached out to try.

He’d had to ask Steve, very casually a few days later so as not to be suspicious, what Biology manipulation could do.

The casual approach had not worked.

“Oh, right.” Steve had said Her name with raised brows. “You finally met her. Not getting her powers?”

“Guess not,” Bucky had muttered “You going to explain them?“

Steve had just shrugged. “Wish I could. Only ones who seem to really understand them are her, Stark, and Vision. Even Banner gets confused. Far as I’ve got, she’s got some sort of harmony with things. I mostly see her when we get a really bad injury on a mission, there’s not enough time for the usual fixes, and she works a miracle.”

Bucky had frowned. “Like the poison.”

Steve had nodded, and Bucky hadn’t pushed further. He didn’t need to give away how he hadn’t stopped thinking about Her—Her smile or voice or face or how She’d sat with Her legs had been crossed like some sort of princess, but She’d looked like far more than just royalty under the harsh fluorescent lights—and he spent a lot of time wondering how he’d somehow missed her, when they’d been under the same roof for months.

She’d told him She was never out much. But this didn’t seem to be true, because suddenly Bucky was seeing Her everywhere.

First it was in the kitchen. Sitting across the counter in the morning, giving Bucky a small, world-ending smiles over breakfast. She never bothered with small talk, only giving him a soft Hi and wave when she walked into the room, and a nod and bye when she walked away. Her presence was always more than enough, though, because suddenly eating didn’t feel like a chore he allegedly had to complete to keep living. 

It was period of time he got to see Her. See how She moved through the world, see how She’d take her eggs and what drink she’d have and which mug was Her’s, because then he’d place his right next to it like a fucking creep. 

But he liked it. He liked how their handles would bump against each other, and how when Bucky would leave his mug in the cabinet first—leaving the kitchen before She did—he’d still find them in their right place. 

Besides each other.

He liked how She’d chase the last three soggy cheerios around the milk with an adorable, focused frown. He liked how She’d run her hand through her hair like it soothed her, and it would always make his fingers flex to mimic that movement as well. She seemed to tilt Her head whenever she was thinking, and She sat with her legs crossed, and sometimes—when She’d wear headphones—she’d tap her nails in perfect rhythm with the song.

Bucky really liked how She held her spoon. It was an odd thing to like, but that didn’t stop Bucky from being entranced every time She moved. She’d spin and flip it in Her fingers, and set it down very carefully when she was done.

And Bucky liked it. He liked Her.

He liked Her so much he couldn’t stop looking at Her. She looked like an angel in every light, but the breaking colors of the sunrise made Her look like art. Bucky wished he could paint, or sculpt, or do something besides grip his fork like a weapon—it was—and stare at Her-

“You have hot sauce on your face.”

Bucky blinked at Her. She hadn’t looked up at him. If they weren’t alone, he wouldn’t be sure she was speaking to him.

“Wha-“

“Hot sauce.” She repeated, raising a finger to point at Her cheek. “Here.”

She was right. Bucky mirrored Her movement, and his fingers came away red and sticky.

There was a moment where his heart fractured and stumbled against his will. He knew it wasn’t blood. He knew he hadn’t hurt anyone. But his body was quicker and played dirtier than his mind, and it went into overdrive. 

Blood. Horrible and tainted on his hands, and it was choking him but he’s breathing just fine, and his skin is burning and wrong on his body but there’s nowhere else for it to go-

A foot bumped against his under the table, a soft song filled his ears, and the world became light and easy. 

Bucky breathed, and Her foot stayed pressed against his. 

She’d never once looked up from Her cereal, and when he walked into the kitchen the next day, there were napkins on the counter.

———

After that, She was at the stupid, mandatory team-bonding meetings. Steve and Stark’s well-meaning—at least in Steve’s case—late night movies, games, or required two hours sitting in the common room and not fighting with each other.

He’d never seen Her at one before. They were mandatory, and not in a flexible, do your best to come kind of way. Bucky knew that, because he’d tried to skip them, and Steve had dragged him by almost the nape of his neck. 

But She’d missed all of them. And suddenly She was sitting silently in the corner, and Bucky knew it wasn’t just he who noticed. Bruce offered Her a drink with wide eyes, Sam cleared his throat in the middle of a conversation, and nodded to where She was sat with a questioning expression that no one had been able to offer an answer to, and Stark had been staring at Her all night. 

But it wasn’t the way Bucky stared—where he was trapped staring at all the stars condensed before him, and he never wanted to look away—but like a bomb, set to go off any second. 

“Dr. Dolittle’s out of her cave,” Stark muttered to Steve at the bar, and Bucky didn’t think he was supposed to be listening, but he didn’t really care. “You call her?”

Steve shook his head. “She told me she’d be here. And it’s not exactly a bad thing, Tony. We’ve been trying to get her to come to one of these for almost two years-“

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m just-“ Tony glanced over to where She was sitting on the floor playing solitaire with a deck of beaten cards, a weary expression on his face. “Heads up would’ve been nice. Good. For all of us, not just me and my paranoia.”

“She’s not going to do anything-“

“But she could.” Stark shrugged, giving Steve a pointed look Bucky didn’t understand. “Half a thought and all of us are dead, Cap.”

Steve sighed, but didn’t push back, and Bucky frowned. She was an angel. She wouldn’t kill anyone. Bucky didn’t really know Her, but Steve said she didn’t like doing missions, and she didn’t really seem like the killing type.

But Tony spoke of Her like she was dangerous. Unpredictable.

It was just another thing to be added to the list of things Bucky didn’t understand. 

And She was there the next week. And the next. Over and over until people weren’t acting like She was a shocking presence, but rather a phantom. Visible, but not real. She always played solitaire. She always sat in the same corner, and she never participated in the actual team building.

Bucky realized She only ever really spoke to four people. Steve and Tony when they spoke to Her, Wanda when she’d drop at Her side and they look anywhere but each other as they had a quiet conversation, and Natasha when she brought Her food. 

Bucky wanted to talk to Her. More than just quick words exchanged in the kitchen. A real, normal conversation to learn how She said different words, and what She thought of things, and if when She smiled with full light in his direction it would be as powerful as he thought. 

“I can play solitaire.”

She looked up at him with a completely neutral expression, and tilted Her head to the side. “Congratulations.” 

Bucky stared at Her, and she just stared right back. It was unsettling, and his heart was going to pound of his chest, and it had taken twenty minutes to walk over here but he was ready to damn it and flee like a coward-

“Can you play war?”

“I-“ Bucky swallowed, and he probably looked like an idiot, but She was looking at him so nothing else really mattered. “War?”

She nodded. “The card game.”

He shook his head, and She shrugged.

“You’ll learn.”

He did. It was boring and simple and repetitive, and he liked it, too. He liked that he didn’t have to think, and that he could never be doing anything wrong, and that She was talking to him the whole time. She asked him questions, and he answered, then She’d hum and offer him Her own answer like a reward.

“Do you have a favorite animal?”

He nodded, flipping his top card over and watching Her carefully. There wasn’t a wrong thing to say here, it was a personal preference.

Bucky was almost certain he’d be able to create an incorrect answer, without even trying.

“I like cats.”

She hummed. “Me too. I know a few, if you want to meet them.”

It had been an odd way to phrase that, but She seemed odd. And She kept talking, so Bucky hadn’t pushed it.

“Are you drinking?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t work on me.”

“Super Soldier?”

He nodded, and She hummed. 

“I don’t drink unless Natasha makes it.” She told him, folding Her cards back into a neat little stack, shuffling them without ever breaking Her gaze. “All the other ones are dogshit at it.”

Bucky had to swallow his snort. “I’d believe that.”

“Do you watch movies?”

“Not really, no.”

She tilted Her head at him. “Have you tried to?”

Bucky raised his brows. “Tried to watch movies?”

She nodded, and he shrugged.

“They all seem to be the same these days. Not that interested.”

She made a face at that. “They weren’t all that different in the 40s, Bucky. I’d argue they were worse.”

She’d said his name. She’d said Bucky, and he’d never loved his name more than when it was spoken by Her.

And he’d agree to anything She told him, so he nodded. 

“You, uh-“ He paused, watching Her carefully. “You got any recommendations?”

She had hundreds. She had more opinions on what Bucky and Steve had missed than Sam did, but She was cute and bright-eyed as She said them, and Sam was just annoying.

Bucky wouldn’t remember everything She told him.

But that gave him an excuse to talk to Her later.

She looked around the common area, scanning over the crowd of slowly dwindling avengers. “Do you guys really do these every week?”

“We’re supposed to.” Bucky shrugged. “If we don’t, Tony revokes our FRIDAY privileges.”

She frowned. “That’s dumb.”

Buck couldn’t stop this snort, and it didn’t hurt when it broke out of his chest. “You’re telling me.” He muttered. “How come you haven’t been dragged into one before?”

He didn’t expect the full answer. He didn’t get the full answer. But She did run a hand through her hair as she flipped another card, and he got an answer, which was more than enough.

“Because I didn’t want to.” She said. “And Tony’s scared of me. Most of them are.”

“They’re scared of me, too. I still end up here.”

She shook Her head. “You’re unstable, but not dangerous. It’s different.”

Bucky stared at Her, unable to hide the expression of pure, numbing and dizzying shock on his face. “I’m unstable, huh?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “But it’s not loud. It’s colorful. And don’t worry. All of you are unstable. Except him.” She pointed to Vision, standing silent behind Wanda with a small smile on his face. “I don’t know about him.”

She was really pretty. And She’d just called him unstable, but She’d also called him colorful, so Bucky wasn’t really all that offended.

And he still liked Her.

He couldn’t find a part of Her he didn’t like. He needed to, but he couldn’t.

There had to be one part. Just one thing about Her that could be a flaw, that Bucky could cling to and force Her to seem more human.

Because from the start, the sight of Her made his heart skip a beat before falling into a strange time, and his brain would feel less like a burden, and his whole body would turn warm. It was strange, and dangerous, and distracting. It grabbed his attention and demanded his devotion without Her ever speaking a word, and since Bucky started talking to Her, he failed to find something to kill that odd reaction. It could prove deadly. 

It felt deadly. It felt like a sickness that he didn’t want to be cured of. And every time he’d go to another mandatory meeting She’d be in the same corner, and they’d play war and talk, and Bucky knew so much about Her and he liked all of it. 

“What would you add to the compound?” Bucky had started to ask the questions. He still always answered first. “I want a computer.”

She gave him a strange look. “You don’t… Have a computer?”

He shook his head. “Nah, I don’t know where to find one-“

“You buy one.” She said, a small frown on Her face. “Just like a phone.”

“I didn’t buy my phone.” Bucky shrugged. “And I don’t like it. Only use it cause Stark makes me.”

She raised her brows. “So why do you want a computer?”

“I’m trying to catch up with the times.” He drawled. “Sam says everything’s on computers. Answer my question.”

“Your-“

“What would you add to the compound?”

“We need more water.” Her answer was almost immediate, and She was still looking at him. “You know a computer isn’t an addition, right, Bucky? A hedge maze would be an addition.”

Bucky frowned. “Why would we need a hedge maze.”

“We wouldn’t. But don’t waste your wish on something I can bully Tony into buying you-“

“You’d bully Stark for me?” Bucky stared at Her—She might be better than an angel—and She shrugged.

“I’d bully Tony for a pack of stale gum.”

He snorted. “Well then, don’t let me stop you. Bully away, doll.”

The word slipped out, and even in the low light of the common room, Bucky could see Her flush. 

It was beautiful. It made Her look more like at least something heavenly, but more tangible as well. Like he could reach out and hold Her cheek, and it could, maybe, be warm. 

“I will,” She mumbled, Her fingers stuttering for the first time as she flipped a card, and Bucky liked Her more.

This was cancerous. It only spread, and he lost a little sleep because he couldn’t stop picturing her, and he kept turning around to look for Her in places he knew she wouldn’t be, and all his dreams were plagued by Her smile.

Because She’d smiled. At Bucky.

He’d been training in the compound gym, and She’d been there, and the world had done its little skip as Bucky just watched Her.

She wasn’t alone. She and Natasha had been sparring on a mat—almost dancing around each other with unwavering focus—and She moved with an unsurprising grace that drew Bucky in like a moth to a flame.

He’d heard Sam say Her name from somewhere behind him. “She’s out early.”

“Nat said she asked to move their training,” Steve had said, and when Bucky glanced over his shoulder, Steve had been watching Her and Natasha with a curious expression. “Didn’t mention why.”

Bucky had frowned, and forced his voice to remain casual. “When did she train before?”

“Midnight.” Steve had shrugged, then Sam had said something about not wanting Bucky and Steve to forget he wasn’t a super soldier and could be crushed under weights, and the conversation had moved on.

But She and Natasha had stopped for only a minute. And She looked over from the mat, spotted Bucky, and smiled.

Just for him. Just from the sight of him. Just as blinding and critical as he’d thought it would be.

Then She’d mouthed Hi.

He’d mouthed Hi in return, and She’d smiled again. 

Are you training with them? She’d pointed to Sam and Steve, Bucky had nodded, and She’d shaken her head. Don’t. Steve is going to fart soon, and it’s going to smell.

Bucky had blinked at Her. How do you know that?

She’d shrugged, and ignored the question. Can you tell Sam to stop using Redwing around the Compound, please.

Why don’t you tell him. He’d pointed at Her, and She’d given him a flat look.

I don’t want to. And you’re friends with him.

I am not.

You are.

Bucky rolled his eyes, a smirk pulling at his lips. He’s not supposed to be using it at all, doll. Tony yelled at him already. Are you sure?

She’d nodded, and Bucky could’ve sworn She was flushing. Positive.

He raised his brows. How?

The birds told me. 

Natasha had said Her name, their silent conversation of gestures and exaggerated movements ended, and Bucky had been left staring at Her.

She was odd. Incredibly odd, in a way that only seemed to feed into Her beauty. He couldn’t stop staring, and he knew that was a general problem, but it was amplified with Her. Sam had to hit him on the shoulder to get his attention, and would only stop wiggling his brows and making kissing noises when Bucky told him to stop using Redwing around the compound, and he froze. 

“How’d you know I’m-“

“A bird told me.” Bucky had repeated Her reason. From Her it had sounded mysterious and elusive and ethereal.

From him it just sounded insane. 

But it worked, and Sam called off Redwing with a grumbled threat at Bucky not to snitch to Stark.

Ten minutes later, Steve farted so loud it shook the earth, and they had to clear the training room due to the toxin-like smell.

As they walked out the door, She gave him another smile, and mouthed, told you.

You did. He mouthed back, and prayed no one was looking. He was grinning like an idiot. Are you hungry?

No. 

Bucky’s heart shifted back to lead and dropped to his stomach, but there was a shimmer in Her eyes, and she wasn’t done.

But I’ll go with you.

He blinked, but nodded. She would go with him. He’d go with Her. He’d go almost anywhere with Her.

And there wasn’t a single thing about Her Bucky didn’t like. 

———

“You don’t have to do this for me,” Bucky said Her name, trying and failing not to stare at where Her hand was wrapped around his wrist. The metal wrist. She was touching the metal wrists and wasn’t recoiling, even though there was no heartbeat to feel under her fingers. “I said I was curious, not about to die if I didn’t see-“

“I’ll die if you don’t see.” She shot him a small, soft smile over Her shoulder again, and there he went. 

She’d die. Bucky couldn’t allow that. 

He was a goner. 

“Alright,” he muttered, although nothing changed. It hadn’t been as if he’d been fighting Her all that hard before. “You gonna tell me what to expect?”

“No. It will ruin the surprise.”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but She wasn’t done. 

“And I know you hate surprises. You’ll like this one.”

He paused, and nodded. He trusted Her. More than he trusted himself.

“If you’re wrong, we’re skipping the next meeting together and you’re taking the heat for it.”

“Deal.” He could hear the smile in Her voice. He’d taught himself to identify the sound under a million feet of water and over the loudest ringing in his ears. “You know we can do that anyways, right?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m not trying to force you fight with Steve, doll-“

“Why?” She shot him an amused look over his shoulder, and it struck him like lightning. “I’d win.”

She’d fallen back a pace, until Bucky wasn’t being dragged behind Her, and—if he grew a new pair of balls and damned all the possible consequences—he could tug Her to rest under his arm.

“I’m not doubting that.” He said, hoping his voice was a little steadier than his heart. “I’m tryin’ to save my friends’ honor. You’d destroy him, and then you’d need to do the paperwork for it. There’s a lot of paperwork involved in this shit. You’d hate it.”

“I know.” She ran a hand through Her hair, giving him a small smile. “But it would be worth it. If I don’t have to go to all of them, you shouldn’t either.”

Bucky grinned. 

He’d been doing that a lot lately.

She stopped outside a large, metal door, and this was it.

This was Her room.

“Are you-“

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure, Bucky.” She gave him another smile, and he folded once more. “I don’t do things I don’t want to.”

He frowned at that—suddenly, many, many doors of what She wanted to do were open, and he both wanted to explore all of them and stay comfortably in the dark where that statement could mean what he wanted it to mean—but She was moving, and he had to follow Her.

He’d asked what was in Her lab. She’d said everything.

He’d shaken his head and said everything couldn’t be in Her lab, because that didn’t make any sense. 

She’d said She’d show him and prove it.

And now they were here. 

She paused with Her hand over the scanner. “You’re not allergic to anything, right?”

“No-“

“Good.”

She pressed Her hand down, the door opened, and Bucky’s jaw dropped.

It was everything. Open grass and trees and so many animals he was almost certain he had to be seeing things. Maybe he’d hit his head, and this was a dream. Maybe this whole thing had been a dream, and he really had died that first time he saw Her. There was no other explanation for how Her palm was still resting on his chest, or how there were an impossible amount of real animals looking at him with possibly more judgment than people did.

He said Her name as the door closed behind them, unable to look away from where a moose was staring at him. “What the hell is this.”

“My lab.” She said, and when he shot Her a glare, she was smiling.

It melted most of the barbed wire that had formed over his skin. He was still really fucking confused.

“Why is your lab a zoo-“

“It’s not a zoo. And they don’t like that word, don’t use it.” She nodded to the animals, who were all still staring at Bucky. “Tell them who you are.”

He blinked at Her. “Will they, uh, they going to understand me-“

“No. But I’ll translate.” She shrugged. “They’ll trust you more if you do the introduction yourself.”

Bucky nodded slowly, and he wasn’t sure how the hell his life had led him here. Telling a room full of horses and dogs and birds—a lot of things were starting to make sense very quickly—that his name was James Buchanan Barnes, and he was a super solider, and he was Her friend. 

She repeated his words in English, and when he frowned at Her, she gave him a small smile.

“They understand when I say it.”

“Oh.” This had to be a dream. “What.”

She tilted Her head at him. “You know how my powers work, right?”

“No-“

“No?” Her eyes widened. “Why don’t you-“

“You never told me, doll.” He gave Her a pointed look, and realized they were walking further into the strange room. The animals weren’t really looking at them anymore. This was still insane. “I had guesses, but none of them were this.”

He gestured to the room, and She sighed.

“That’s… yeah, that fair.” She ran a hand through Her hair, nodding to a bobcat as they passed it. “Do you want to know?”

“I think I need to.”

She smiled again, and nothing could be that bad. Bucky was still making Her smile.

“I’m in perfect harmony with all living things. So I can sense anything within anyone’s body like it’s- kind of like it’s sixth sense? And I can speak to animals, obviously, and I can manipulate bodies to a limited extent-“

Bucky frowned. “Like healing things?”

She nodded. “Yeah, but it takes a lot more focus and energy. And it kind of hurts. I get a tension headache. I usually hum to focus properly, otherwise I get dizzy.”

He felt his jaw tick. She’d healed him. When he’d first met Her, she’d healed him.

He didn’t know how to reckon with that. He’d caused Her pain. Just to save something already damned like Bucky was, She’d hurt herself-

“Was I right?”

He stared at Her. “What?”

“The surprise. Was I right?” She was watching him carefully, something delicate behind Her eyes Bucky might rather die than break. “Did you like it?”

He gave Her a soft grin, and she was already standing taller before he even answered. “Yeah. Fine. You were right.”

She looked back to the path ahead of them—there was a path, a real dirt path, and they were somehow still walking, and science really could do weird fucking things—and hummed. “I know.” He chuckled, falling into perfect pace beside Her, and Her voice was softer when she broke the easy silence.

“They like you.”

“Them.” She said, nodding to a passing fox, and made a loose gesture to the madness around them. “They like you. They don’t like anyone but me.” She paused, tilting Her head the air. “Except the ants. The ants like Scott.”

“Why do you think they like me-“

“Because they told me.” She shrugged. “Do you want to meet the cats?”

All Bucky could do was nod, and follow Her deeper into the lab. She was explaining a lot of things about how Stark had designed the lab specially for Her, and made artificial sunlight for the animals, and they could all come and go as they pleased but most of them—Her included—preferred to stay. 

“And you’re a doctor, right?”

She let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. Of Zoology. For obvious reasons. But they do most of the work in here. I just transcribe it.”

“Oh.” Bucky frowned, Stark’s voice tugging at the back of his skull. “Can you kill people?

“Yes.”

She didn’t flinch at the question. Or sound offended. And She was showing him all of this when nobody else had gotten to see it, so Bucky pushed a little further.

“How?”

“Just like I can heal things, I can hurt them.” Her voice was incredibly causal. The fake sunlight made Her hair fill with colors Bucky had never seen before. 

He’d never seen Her in full sunlight before.

It made Her skin glow and Her hair look like a halo and Her eyes somehow brighter. It made Her look more like an angel.

He never wanted to leave this place.

“I could stop a heart or shut down a brain, if I wanted.” She was still talking. Her voice was like a hymn. “But I don’t.”

“That’s why Stark is so afraid of you?”

She nodded. “That, and I have an army.” 

Bucky raised his brows. “The animals?”

“Yep.” She gave him another smile. “You have them too, now. They really like you.”

He chuckled. “You know, you’ve said that already-“

“I’ll say it again, Buck.” She waved him off. “You need to hear it.”

———

She slept in Her lab. She had a little, undisturbed hut in the back, and it had a kitchen. Bucky tried not to think about that too much. How She’d never need to leave, if she didn’t want to, yet She had.

And She was spending more and more time there again.

But Bucky was too.

He’d never found something not to like about Her. It was a little too late to turn back now. He liked it here, because he liked—more than liked, loved, but that was a terrifying word that felt like too much and not enough all at once—Her. Being near Her. Watching Her be somewhere She liked, where she was comfortable, and where they were both wanted.

She hadn’t lied. The animals did like Bucky. Sometimes they’d greet him, when he was in Her lab. He was friends with all the cats, and a few of the varying canines, and a lot of the birds. After they moved breakfast from the kitchen into Her little sanctuary, he’d started to bring them things from the kitchen, and they liked him all the more. She’d told him She tended to like animals more than people, and he understood that. They seemed nice, and he’d seen them all care for each other and Her—he liked that there were living things that seemed to care for Her as much as Bucky did— and sometimes an animal would walk up, She’d start talking to them, and Bucky would just watch Her until he was invited into the conversation.

“Josie wants to know if you’ve ever had fish.” 

Josie was a wolf. The small one, who had a large scar through her ear. Bucky was still trying to learn all their names, but he was getting better at it. 

“I have.” He told Josie, looking her right in the eyes. According to Her, it was better if he addressed them directly, even if She still had to translate. “A lot of it.”

She repeated the words, Josie made a noise, and She turned back to Bucky.

“Did you like it?”

He shrugged. “It was fine.”

She smiled at him. “Just fine?”

“I’ve had better.”

“Like what?”

Bucky paused, watching Her carefully. “I like stir fry.”

She nodded, and the conversation moved on.

Three days later, dinner was stir fry.

———

Sometimes, if Bucky was having a shit night, he’d knock on Her door and it would open for him. She’d asked FRIDAY to let him him whenever he asked.

He was almost certain even Stark didn’t have that privilege.

Tonight was worse than normal. Tonight had been suffocating. Not like air was stolen from him, but like there was too much. Like his lungs were being stuffed and he couldn’t find a way to dig the oxygen from his lungs, because he’d demanded more than he deserved, and a bill always came due. The other shoe would always drop. Everything had been good lately—and it was because of Her, but he didn’t know how to say that yet—but that just meant the crash would be worse, and the fall would knock his heart right out of his chest. 

It wasn’t really in his chest anymore, though. It was in Her hands, and she didn’t even know. 

And when he found Her tonight, something felt different. She didn’t ask questions, when he stopped at the edge of Her bed with hair stuck to his brow, shifting on his feet as he waited for permission.

She just stared at him, and something frightening and hot rushed through Bucky’s body when he realized he’d forgotten a shirt. He’d woken up in a cold sweat with an image of a metal hand around Her throat, imprinted on his vision, and his own screams echoing in his head as his body pressed on no matter how hard he fought to stop, stop hurting Her, Bucky loved Her so why wouldn’t he stop hurting Her-

And he’d rushed to Her room.

And he hadn’t put on a shirt.

She could see all of him. It was too much. All his scars on full display, and She could see where his skin became cold metal, and She loved living things so how could She love him-

But She didn’t ask questions.

She just scooted to the side, gave him an expectant look, and followed his movements with shining eyes as he moved to sit on Her mattress.

When he dropped at Her side, he felt like he should say something. They’d done this before, but there had never been this easy, warm hum in the air, and he’d always had a shirt on.

Then She twisted in the sheets to cross Her legs under her body, and started to scan over him. Over his skin and metal and scars and hunched position on Her bed, Her expression unreadable in the artificial moonlight.

Bucky had been judged before, in a court, where they decided if he was worth anything more than a cell deep underground or adrift on the ocean.

This felt more important.

“Can I touch you?” Her voice was soft, and suddenly there wasn’t enough oxygen. 

He nodded, and She reached out with careful fingers, slowing tracing over every scar on his chest with that same unreadable expression. It was an effort not to shiver under Her touch, not to lean forward and try to take more when he was owed nothing. 

But there was something strangely calming about it. There was nothing hateful in Her eyes, and she wasn’t recoiling, and everything felt blurred and soft around the edges, and his head was lighter on his head than it had been in eighty years, and She was humming-

Bucky grabbed Her hand, narrowing his eyes. 

“You don’t have to do that.” He muttered, squeezing Her hand in his. “I’m not worth hurting yourself-“

“Don’t be an idiot.” She tilted Her head at him, slowly prying Her hand from his grip. “Of course you are.”

Bucky stared at Her, She started to hum again, and this time he didn’t try to fight it. 

He’d been sure She looked most like an angel in the sunlight.

He’d been wrong. 

In the moonlight She looked like heaven. Every shadow seemed to be designed to cast over Her features just right, and the glow on Her skin was softer, but seemed to be coming from inside of Her, and Her hair was floating slightly around Her head as an artificial summer breeze picked up.

But nothing about Her was artificial. She was the realest thing Bucky had ever known. 

And he was almost certain he loved Her. Really, fully loved Her, the way they wrote songs and stories and waged wars for. That he’d loved Her all along, and he just didn’t know how to be positive of it. Maybe he just liked Her, and She was so beautiful he was confusing it for love. 

But he was certain he wanted to be real with Her.

That he wanted to be half as beautiful as She was, to see if he could learn how to find a proper name for the sickness She’d planted in him, and how he gladly rot away from it if it meant She’d be at his side.

“Could you,” he cleared his throat, waiting for Her to look back to him before he continued. “You’d be able to heal them?”

He didn’t have to elaborate on what he was referring to. And Her gaze darted back to his chest for only a second, Her fingers resuming their path—like She was trying to map him, memorize him the same way he’d memorized Her—as She looked back to Bucky.

“I could.” Her voice was soft, and Her smile was softer. “But I won’t.”

He swallowed, his voice almost a croak. “Why?”

“Because I like them.”

Bucky felt real. She was still touching him, and She looked like an angel but She was watching him like he was holy, so he felt human.

And, for once in his life, he was sure.

End Note: Have any of you seen the Avenger's episode of Phineas and Ferb?? That's what we're channeling with Her lab.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[boldegoist]

Day one: Betrayal // “I can’t believe I met Batman first.” // An Open Door

Danny was supposed to meet Batman today through his contact, Nightwing, in order to broach discussions between the Infinite Realms and the Justice League on repealing the Ecto Acts - and explain that technically, he wasn't a meta, so he wasn't breaking the Big Bad Bat's "No Metas" rule by seeking refuge in Gotham - but apparently his presence was enough to agitate the Bat-clan's liminals into attacking. Which was fine, Danny didn't mind a friendly hello! But are the weapons really necessary? -----

Red Hood wasn't interested in being a part of this meet and greet per se, but he was invested in familiarizing himself with the spectre that had occasionally been glimpsed through Crime Alley. Phantom's presence was something that had been innocuous - it wasn't til months later that Jason realized there even was a presence, as Phantom's creed sat so cleanly in line with his own that there hadn't been much as far as reports from his informants went. Only after piecing together several stories of small miracles did Jason realize that there was a new player in his court. He sat on a roof next to the Bat's - far enough to be perceived as a neutral party if Bruce fumbled this the way he did every other relationship, Jason thought unkindly, and settled in for a proper lurk. Phantom didn't keep them waiting long, the spectral form of a Hazmat suit moving by Lazarus-flavored whiffs of power strong enough to distort the air around it. It set Hood's teeth on edge, leather creaking as he shifted with tension. Obviously, Phantom was an alright sort - or, at least, was rather dedicated to the actions of the 'alright sort.' Jason had spent too much time with Talia to know how good deeds didn't make for good intentions. Phantom closed the distance to the Batman, standing a few feet away and gesturing as he spoke. Bruce responded, and after a moment of tension, Phantom slowly pulled off the helmet of his suit. His hair was ethereal white, moved by currents nobody else could see, and his face was far more full and healthy than one might expect from a dead man - less haggard, anyway, than it appeared through the visor of his helmet at this distance. But set into that face were bright, wide eyes that were Lazarus green, and even as the spectral man turned and locked eyes in a state of alarm, Jason's heart was in his throat and his hand was on his gun, he needed to- he didn't know what he needed, but this creature's head, might satisfy it- Jason's cognition was lost to a haze of acid green.

[lolita-lollipop]

Iron

YANDERE BARBARIAN BAKUGO X READER

The king of the most violent and powerful tribe in the eastern world is captured during battle by a small farmers village. What does a violent man like katsuki bakugo do upon meeting a kind servant girl like you?

WARNINGS: reader gets hurt by villagers (bakugo saves her)

He couldn't remember how long he had been here, he just knew it was cold, dark, unsanitary, and painful. He remembered the battle that put him here, getting shot with a poison-laced arrow, feinting on the field. Heh. imagine it, the great barbarian Bakugo, the children's slayer, the village burner, the soldier slaughterer falling because of one puny arrow from one puny kingdom. When he first had woken up he could feel the slick of his blood under him mixed with the dirt and grime of the cell, he had giant iron cuffs wrapping his wrists and legs, binding him to the floor. He couldn't blame these people, truly, they knew that once he woke up if he were to get out they were all as good as slaughtered.

It was a small stone dungeon, with only a couple of stalls, he occupying one of them. There was a small barred window, along with a wall of iron bars serving as protection from him and the rest of the world. Iron, he hated the stuff, and banned it from his country, it burned him, burned his people. There was a thick, damp smell of blood and rust, a musty smell he could easily recognize as death. He would carve every person in this building up, then burn every building in the village, and he would let the fire spread to their fields and watch as their lives work shrivels up into ash. But for now, He would wait for the perfect time to strike, all he could do was wait really, watch the guard rotation, see which ones were talkative, and which ones were cruel.

Many of the guards would beat him, carve his skin, and watch him bleed, they know of all the gruesome things he has done to so very many people, and supposedly the bastards feel some kind of idiotic vengeance or justice for those people. They would pay in the long run, who exactly do they think they are? he is a king, royalty, the highest of the highest, the strongest too. If he doesn't kill them his people will, they'll see. All the king could do was watch, wait, and plot the splattering of this village.

That was, until you came along.

Little you, in your flowy little skirt that was all torn up, with no shoes and a dirt-covered face. Little you with your oh-so-innocent smile, and your callused hands. Little you with your malnourished body, frail and sickly. Little you, who had no idea who he was. Little you who snuck in when no guard was on duty, a small bowl of soup in your hands, and a cup of water.

“I-im sorry that this is all I have, I know you haven't eaten in a long time I just- I’ll have more tomorrow” you whispered, and he swore he fell in love right then and there, you were too frail, too weak to be giving out food that you surely needed. Yet here you were, shakily handing him the bowl and the cup. He stared at you for a solid second, not even his own mother was this selfless, and you don't even know him. Who were you? You did not seem like aristocracy, too kind, maybe a farmer? Maybe a maid, a servant even.

He hadn't realized how hungry he was, not until the entire bowl and cup were gone, and he was left to stare at you. You were ethereal, dirt-covered and all, your eyes, your hair, your hands, everything, absolutely stunning. You had a look in your eyes. Something hungry and fearful told him that you were not happy, not safe and sound, not as you should be.

“I don't have anything to treat your wound, but- I'm sorry. Nobody should be treated this way, not even prisoners. I'll be back tomorrow, please don't tell the guards that I've done this. They will kill me.” you whispered, cautiously reaching to grab the glassware from his grip, waiting to see if he would snap at you. He didn't, only stared, grunting in response to your plea. You stared back with those sympathetic globes of yours, as if you could see the anger in his soul. Before turning on your heel, and quietly sneaking out of the dungeon room, you gave him one last glance before disappearing.

He was left in the quiet, in the cold, falling head over heels in love with you, a mere human. A peasant at that. Strange. You were too sweet, too kind, you clearly needed the food, clearly were starving and malnourished, yet you still stood here and offered your only food to him, a prisoner of war, you were so sweet. So kind. His people were not like you, they were not soft or sweet, he loved them for it, but you, oh you. You were soft and supple and sweet andso sickeningly kind. He would protect you, he has too.

The next couple of nights went similarly, you sneaking in during the dead hours following midnight with varying foods, sometimes a stale loaf of bread with milk, sometimes some leafy soup and water. He was grateful every time, thankful that he wasn't starving, still burning with absolute rage towards the mere peasants who believed that they could contain him. But you, in the very few days that he had known you, had wormed your way into his heart with your soft hands and pretty smile.

He can just imagine you adorned in stolen jewels and furs, dressed in the finest silk, or better, the clothes of his people. something soft like you, something pretty and supple and shiny and light. Something that reflects you, he would take you out of those rags, clean you up, teach you what luxury truly is. and you wouldnt have to lift a finger. he dreamed about your future everyday that you would visit, asking your favorite color or season or jewel.

That was, until you stopped showing up. No more quiet hours gazing at each other, no more shared food and drink, no more listening to you quietly talk about your life, no more sympathetic glances, no more questions about him from you, no more answers from him. It was like you had disappeared entirely, and back to his old routine of watching and observing the guards had begun once more. He had to admit it kind of hurt, having the only good thing here disappear entirely, he resented this place more, resented you.

He hated you, how could you leave him? You, a servant girl abandoning a king. Funny, hilarious, he sat in a pool of blood and hatred thinking about you, about this town, about the people who put him here, who chained him to the floor and watched him bleed out, this city will burn. And burn and burn and burn and burn and burn, his people would tear it apart until it was nothing but ash and blood-

What tore him out of his internal monologue was a pained scream, but not just anybody, he didn't know anybody in the town, it was yours. With that whispery rasp that you had from overexertion, and that neverending fear that dripped from your tone. He stood up to stare through the small window, only to see you on the ground, surrounded by many people, all bigger and stronger than you, yelling and screaming.

“It's her, the traitor!”

“She has been feeding the enemy, treason, treason I say!”

“She should be beheaded, the traitor.”

You let another scream ring out through the town center as one of the men brought their boot down on your bare foot, he could hear the crunch followed by another scream. The first kick sparked more from other men as they brought their feet down on frail little ou, you slowly reverted into a fetal position, lying in the dirt as they beat you relentlessly. He saw red, crimson blinding him and overflowing all of his senses. How could they? You did nothing, you knew nothing. You were just a sweet, innocent little human who knew no better, who were they to punish you, to beat you so cruelly? You were thin and frail and he could hear each one of your bones cracking and breaking into pieces.

He saw bright ruby red, anger wasn’t the word, absolute rage is a better way to put it.

Red red red red red red red red red

He didn't even realize he had broken from his chains till his legs were moving,

Red

He didn’t even feel the burn of the iron till the bars holding him were bent out of shape and twisted

Red

He didn’t realize they were all dead till his hands were stained with that bright crimson color he loved so much- you guessed it, red

He killed them all, so painfully, knuckles crunching skulls and tearing off limbs, pulling people apart faster than any wolf or bear could even try to. The thrill of freedom mixed with rage and pure anger let him revert to the ways of his homeland, back to the thrilling violence and electrifying feeling of tearing another apart. He enjoyed it, enjoyed tearing them limb from limb and watching them bleed as they had done to him. He cackled as they screamed in terror, relishing in their fear.

You watched deliriously, you had lost too much blood in too short of a time, and you were positive that you had many many broken bones, pain overcame you as you watched the bloodshed in front of you, your vision was blurry and shaking but you could tell that somebody was strong, and enjoying violence. Fear budded in the back of your brain, he was enjoying this, enjoying their pain, he would hurt you just the same, kill you, and relish in it.

You hadn’t known who he was, you swore to the village leaders, swore that you just felt bad for the poor starving man in the dungeons who seemed to gentle and sweet, they hadn’t cared. You were to be burned or drowned or noosed they said. But a death like this, at the hand of a man you had been fooled to be sweet? That was worse. Oh god, oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god you were going to die

Your breath became shallow, both because of what was surely a punctured lung, but also because of the slowly approaching footsteps crunching on the dirt. A small whimper escaped you as the figure towered over you, and your hands came up to shield your face from the blow that was surely to come.

But Instead of a painful ending blow, arms wrapped under you and hoisted you up, you never realized how tall this man was. Naturally, you curled into his warmth and tried not to think about how sticky his hands were with blood. your breath hitched as he squeezed you closer with calloused rough hands. Tears washed down your face, you were quivering, shaking in fear.

“P-please-“ you quivered out. Hand moving up to push him away, your statement had many meanings, to beg for your life, to beg him to put you down, to beg him to leave you and your village alone, to beg him to forgive you. He stared down at you with crimson eyes, a sudden softness overcoming them, more than he thought he could have.

“Don’t you worry baby,

I’ll take good care of ya”

———————————————————————

Cute

Anyway enjoy, I noticed a lack of barbarian bakugo content on here so I figured I would add some fuel to the fire.

Love you all, make sure to have a great day!

[gojossocks]

Heaven knows

Gojo x Reader Genre: fluff, angst Summary: A glimpse of you and Satoru's relationship before you finally get married. wc: 5.3k a/n: this is set after they defeated Sukuna! so 2018. Nobody died <3

The grand doors swung open, and there you were, framed by the soft glow of sunlight streaming in behind you. In that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, and so did he. You were radiant, ethereal in the way only you could be, adorned in your wedding dress that seemed to shimmer with its own light. 

You look exactly like an angel.

It was like heaven had come down in the form of you— a miracle that Satoru Gojo is privileged enough to see. 

1999

You had marched up right up to him on the first day of school, unimpressed by the murmurs of your classmates around you. 

“Satoru, right?” You asked, giving him a warm smile despite the dismissive look he gave you. 

“I am Y/N!” You announced excitedly as you extended a tiny hand toward him.

He didn’t shake your hand, just stared at it with a displeased look. 

It was the first time someone called him by his first name who isn’t a part of his clan.

But before he could even respond or point out your audacity to call him by his first name, you proceeded into a rambling monologue about the first time you two had met. 

He blinked at you, his blue eyes narrowing in slight suspicion as he debated whether to bully you or ignore you. The memory you described was extremely vague to him—something about your clan visiting his, something that he doesn’t even think worth remembering. 

“You don’t remember, do you?” you teased, tilting your head with a grin, completely ignoring his lack of response. “Your clan was so serious when my family visited. And you just sat there! All boring and serious too, like the world was ending.”

His brows furrowed and he crossed his arms, “I wasn’t boring!” 

“You were! You were talking about tech a nick or something and responsibilities, you didn’t want to play.”

“I did have responsibilities,” he muttered defensively, his chest puffing out slightly. “And it’s technique, you weirdo.” 

“Sure,” you replied with a shrug, your grin never fading. “Wanna prove you’re not boring by watching Digimon with me?” 

That seemed to catch his interest. Hesitantly, he lets you take his hand to lead him where you want to go. 

From that day on, it felt like his life truly had begun when you granted him with your sunshine. For the first time in his life, Satoru wasn’t pressured to be anything he needed to be. You made him feel normal, something he didn’t even know he wanted until then.

You were his first best friend. You were the first person who saw him for who he truly was, not what he represented or what he’s destined to be. 

The world had never quite felt right anymore unless you were in it. 

2007

Satoru has changed over the years. The roles between you had reversed; you were the calm and steady one now.  Gone was the stiff, overly serious boy you met when you were kids.  Now, he was obnoxious and loud, and painfully obsessed with you.

But despite all this, he was still your Satoru.

Satoru always knew that he felt strongly about you, he just wasn’t sure what it was exactly. All he knew was that he likes it when you look at him, the way your voice softens when you speak to him, and how your touch—even the slighted brush of your fingers, is something that he desperately craves. 

He never passes up an opportunity to pull out lame excuses just to touch you, which earns several eye rolls from your circle of friends. 

“Your hair’s messy,” he’d say, brushing an imaginary strand from your forehead and then putting an arm around your shoulders to ‘keep your hair in place.’  Or dramatically say (with an arm around your waist)  ‘come hold my hand, what if an ugly scary curse comes over to kill me?’ just so he could imagine (and plot) so many more moments where he can hold you. 

Everyone knew about it too. It was impossible not to notice. Satoru wasn’t exactly subtle about the way he looked at you, like you were the only person in the room. It was an open secret that you’d eventually get married anyway. You were practically glued to his side—at lunch, in class, during missions. Even Suguru would tease him mercilessly about it.

“Insufferable. You two are insufferable.” Suguru said one afternoon, groaning at the sight of you and Satoru feeding each other mochi during lunch break. 

Satoru just fluttered his eyes mockingly at him before he pulled you closer to him, practically hugging you. You didn’t pull away, like always. It never occurred to him that you might just like him back because of how much you don’t mind it when he’s hogging your personal space. 

Eventually, all those constant ‘we’re just friends’ seem to wear on Satoru.

He felt ridiculous. Satoru Gojo, bearer of the six eyes, rendered weak by your touch. 

Friends didn’t make his chest tighten every time they smiled, didn’t make his stomach flip with a single laugh. Friends didn’t leave him awake at night, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way your head rested on his shoulder or how your hand lingered just a second too long on his arm.  Friends certainly didn’t steal the air from his lungs the way you did every time you walked into a room. No, it was only you. 

And then there was the kiss.

It happened during one of your movie nights. 

It started as a joke—when you asked him about his worst kiss so far. 

Poor Satoru was blushing profusely when you asked him that question. At the back of his mind, he wanted his first kiss to be you. 

But he couldn’t say that, of course. So instead, he shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I don’t kiss and tell,” 

You raised an eyebrow, your grin widening as you saw right through him. “Oh my god,” you gasped, sitting up straighter. “You’ve never kissed anyone, have you?”

“What?” Satoru scoffed, but his voice cracked slightly, betraying him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I’ve kissed someone.”

Your eyes narrowed, sparkling with amusement. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying!” he protested, his blush deepening.

“Uh-huh,” you said, unconvinced. “If you’re not lying, then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing!”

“You’re totally blushing.”

He groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of course I’ve kissed someone!”

“Prove it, then.”

The challenge hung in the air between you, crackling like electricity.

“Prove it?” he echoed, his voice faltering for the first time. “Maybe I should show you to shut you up.” 

You rolled your eyes but there’s something about the way you looked at him that caught him off guard, “You’re so full of yourself, Satoru.”

There was a pause, the teasing atmosphere suddenly shifting into something heavier, quieter.

“...We could try it,” You said, your voice a bit nervous. He gulped when he noticed the seriousness in your voice. 

After a moment, your eyes met his.

“For practice,” you added quickly, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

And he just nodded at your dumb excuse. “For practice,” he repeated, nodding as if  he’s convincing himself.

Neither of you moved at first. The air between you seemed to thicken, the rooftop suddenly too quiet except for the distant hum of the city below.

“Okay,” you murmured, leaning in slightly.

“Okay,” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your faces were close now, close enough that you could see the nervous flicker in his usually confident blue eyes. You felt the warmth of his breath against your skin, the faint scent of mint and whatever candy he’d been eating earlier.

Then, your lips met.

It was soft—tentative at first, like you were both afraid to mess it up. His hand hovered awkwardly near your jaw, unsure whether to touch you or not. You leaned into him just a little, testing the waters, and he followed your lead.

Your lips are soft, too soft. In fact, he wants to keep practicing with you just so he could feel your lips on his again. 

It lasted only a few seconds before you both pulled away, blinking at each other like you’d just crossed some invisible line neither of you could unsee. He tried to play it cool by shoving his feelings down after, giving you a shit-eating grin you love to roll your eyes at. 

It was extremely hard for him to get his shit together when all that he could think about was that moment. He looked like a fool when he kept stealing glances at you every chance he got. 

but what is this feeling exactly? 

He just wanted to be by your side all the time, to go where you want to go as long as he can have you near. 

And it wasn’t until Shoko mentioned that you were going on a date that Satoru finally admitted to himself that it was not platonic— the feelings he had been bubbling up inside him since he was nine. 

“She’s what?” he asked, nearly choking on his drink.

“Going on a date,” Shoko repeated, her tone maddeningly nonchalant as she exhaled a stream of smoke. “Some non-sorcerer asked her out.”

Satoru froze, the glass in his hand halfway to his lips. A sharp, unfamiliar knot twisted in his chest.

“No way.” he said, though the doubt and the pitch in his voice betrayed him. “No fucking way. You’re joking, right?”

“She already said yes,” Shoko added, the corner of her lips quirking into a smirk. “Maybe you should stop being an idiot and do something about it.”

The words hit him like a sucker punch, and he hated how his brain instantly imagined you with someone else—laughing, smiling, being exactly the way you were with him, but for someone else.

Satoru didn’t even think—his body moved before his mind caught up, and before he knew it, he teleported directly to your room for the first time, barely managing to stick the landing.

The soft hum of music filled the air, and you were perched in front of your mirror, carefully applying your makeup. You didn’t notice him at first because you were too focused on lining your lips (and staring directly into the abyss). 

He leaned against your doorframe, his heart pounding harder than any fight he’d been in.

“Cancel your date,” he blurted out.

You jolted, spinning around so fast you almost knocked over a perfume bottle. “What the hell, Satoru?! What are you doing here? And how did you even get in?”

He ignored your questions, stepping closer to you. “I mean it—don’t go. Please?” 

You blinked at him, your expression shifting from surprise to confusion. “What are you talking about? Why do you care?”

“Because it’s a waste of time,” 

Your arms crossed defensively, your gaze hardening as you tilted your head, demanding answers. “And why’s that? 

“Because... because…” he began, his voice trailing off as frustration bubbled to the surface. His icy blue eyes locked with yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. 

“Because I like you, alright?” he finally confessed. His voice was raw, unguarded, and louder than he intended, but he couldn’t stop now. “There. I said it.”

The confession hung in the air between you, the weight of it pressing down on his chest. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched your reaction, searching for any sign of how you felt.

Your gaze softened, and to his surprise, a small, amused smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

“You’re such an idiot,” you said, shaking your head.

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, shoulders slumping as he braced himself for rejection.

But then you stepped closer, the teasing edge in your voice replaced by something gentler. “No, Satoru. I mean, it took you long enough.”

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, wide with disbelief. “Wait... what?”

The way you smiled at him then—soft, genuine, and a little exasperated—sent a rush of warmth through him. “I thought it was obvious,” you teased, laughing softly.

For a moment, he just stared at you, as if trying to process what you’d just said. A grin broke across his face, wide and boyish. “So... you like me too?” he asked excitedly. 

Your laughter deepened, the sound soft and melodic. “How could you not notice?”

Before you could say anything more, he reached for you, his fingers curling gently around your wrist as he pulled you into him. You yelped, startled by the sudden closeness, but the protest never left your lips. His arms encircled you, holding you tightly, finally after waiting years to do this. Your hands hesitated for a moment before finding their place around his waist, your touch tentative but grounding.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice low and trembling slightly with emotion. His breath was warm against your hair as he buried his face in it, letting his eyes close. “Does that mean you’re dumping the loser who asked you out and you’re gonna spend the afternoon kissing me?” 

“Satoru.”

As Satoru stands near the altar, his usual confidence falters as his heart skips a beat—then stops entirely.

He swears that he had never been more in love with you, if that’s even possible. 

This feeling, an ache that stretched from his chest to his fingertips, leaves him trembling with an emotion he couldn’t put into words. He had never imagined it was possible to love someone this deeply, to feel his heart swell and his stomach churn with nervous exhilaration just from the mere sight of you.

And everything that he has ever done right, everything he had lost, was all worth it because it led to this moment. 

It led him back to you.

2008

It happened after a mission. The two of you had just finished taking down a particularly troublesome curse, your energy spent and your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.  

Satoru, for once, was exhausted. But you, for once, were weirdly energetic— skipping ahead of him on the rain-soaked streets, your laughter carrying through the quiet night. 

Despite this, he insisted on walking you back to campus, even if his legs felt like lead. He just wanted to be around you a little longer. 

The night was heavy with the smell of rain-soaked pavement, the kind of scent that lingered and wrapped around you, making everything feel muted. 

You stopped suddenly in the empty area, just before you reached the school gates. 

“Are you even listening to me?” he asked, tilting his head toward you.  

You didn’t say anything more, just pulled out your newest ipod out of your pocket, fumbling with the earbuds tangled in the cords. Satoru leaned against a lamppost nearby, watching you with an amused tilt to his head.

“What’re you doing?”  He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched into a smile.  

You brought a finger up to his lips and looked at him mischievously. “Shh.” 

“Music helps me relax,” you said, plugging one earbud into your ear and offering him the other. “Here. Try it.” 

Satoru hesitated, then shrugged, taking the tiny speaker and popping it into his ear. Almost immediately, the familiar opening notes of Every Breath You Take by The Police filtered through, slow and haunting.

“This?” He scrunched up his nose. “Really? The Police? That’s so lame.” 

You looked at him, a tired but content smile tugging at your lips. “This song’s a classic,” you said softly, “It’s my favorite song!” 

He opened his mouth to retort, but you surprised him by stepping closer, your eyes sparkling with a mix of playfulness and something else—something he couldn’t quite name. Without warning, you stepped closer, extending a hand toward him. 

“Dance with me,” you said, your voice barely louder than the melody playing between you. 

“What? Here?” Satoru raised a brow, glancing around at the deserted street.

“Yes, here.” You laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward you. “Come on, Satoru. Don’t tell me you’ve never danced before.”

Of course he didn’t. 

He spent most of his life training to be the strongest and loving you and only you. 

He let you guide him, his free hand hovering awkwardly until you placed it firmly on your waist. You placed one hand on his shoulder and the other intertwined with his. 

The song continued to play, the melody wrapping around you both as you swayed. 

Satoru stood stiffly for a moment, his brain short-circuiting as he tried to process what was happening.

“Relax,” you teased, giving his shoulder a gentle shove.

It was awkward at first but eventually, you fell into a rhythm.  

“You do realize this song’s about obsession and borderline stalking, right?” he said, a smirk adorning his lips. 

“It’s a love song.” You corrected him, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer to you.  “I think it’s kinda depressing, in a way. To be able to love someone from afar but not being able to actually love them. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but it’s devotion nonetheless. 

“You’re insane,” he replied, but there was a fondness in his tone that made your grin widen.

Like in the movies, it suddenly started to rain.  The rain was coming down soft at first, then it became heavier as the droplets started to soak through your uniforms and plastered your hair to your faces. 

But neither of you really cared.  Not when you were so close, your warmth cutting through the chill of the night. 

The rain soaked through his hair and trickled down his neck, and Satoru couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when you were looking at him like that, your eyes sparkling with mischief and something softer. Something about the way you looked at him, your face soft and serene under the rain’s glow, made him feel... grounded.

“You’re terrible at this,” you teased, your voice light despite the exhaustion in your body.

“Hey, I’m great at this,” he shot back, spinning you suddenly and making you laugh. The sound echoed through the empty street, warm and full of life, and Satoru realized he’d do anything to hear it again and again. 

When the chorus hit, you rested your head against his chest, your movements slowing. He felt your breathing even out, your exhaustion catching up to you, but you didn’t pull away. His arms tightened around you instinctively, holding you as if you might slip away if he didn’t.

“I want to be yours.” He murmured through your hair, hiding his face from you out of nervousness. “Can I be yours, Y/N?” 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.   

“I love you, Satoru.” 

He blinked, his heart stumbling in his chest. “Really?” A slow grin spread across his face. “You beat me to it.”

You giggled, the sound melting whatever nervousness was left in him. 

“I love you, Y/N. Can I be yours then?” He asked, his voice dropping slightly. “Can I be your boyfriend?” 

“I think my answer is pretty clear, you idiot.” 

And with that, you pulled him down into a kiss, the rain pouring around you like something out of a movie.  Satoru just held you tighter, thinking that he didn’t need anything else. 

He just needed to be yours.

As you walk down the aisle, closer and closer to him, his breath hitched when finally— fucking finally, your eyes met his. 

You smiled at him with lachrymose eyes. Satoru smiles back, wide and unrestrained, so much so that his cheeks are starting to hurt. His heart is pounding loudly in his chest that he’s afraid that everyone else in the church would hear how much his heart beats just for you. 

You were ethereal.

A dream, really. 

A dream he doesn’t ever want to wake up from. 

Satoru had prepared himself for this moment—or at least he thought he had.

He told himself he needed to be strong for you.

It had been years, after all. 

But no amount of preparation could steady the storm raging within him as the moment finally came. His jaw tightened, his smile strained, and he forced himself to breathe, even as each breath felt heavier than the last.

His chest constricted, and for that single, fragile moment, it felt as though everything he had ever wanted was still within reach. 

When you finally tore your gaze from him and walked past, your white dress trailed like a whisper and a mockery of the life he would never have with you. Satoru just watched, rooted to his place. 

His heart clenched painfully, screaming at him to reach out, to stop you, but he stayed still. He had no right. This was your moment, and he had promised himself he wouldn’t ruin it—not for you.

Your happiness means everything to him. It always has. Even if it means watching you walk toward another man, toward a future that doesn’t include him.

Satoru’s eyes followed you as you made your way to your soon-to-be husband,  Nanami Kento.

2013

The rain was relentless, pouring in heavy sheets that blurred the world around him, but Satoru barely noticed it. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold, as he walked toward you. His breath fogged in the air, but it wasn’t the cold that made his chest tighten—it was the thought of what he was about to do.

Through the rain-streaked glass, he saw you sitting at a small table by the window. You were hunched over, your uniform still clinging to your frame. You were drenched because you waited for him at the park before he texted you to meet up with him in this café instead. 

Satoru nearly stopped right there, frozen by the sight of you. That look on your face—the same tired, fragile expression you’d worn for the past six months—made something inside him shatter.

Satoru almost cracked. 

But he couldn’t.

He had to do this. For you.

He swallowed the lump rising in his throat, forcing himself to take another step, and then another, until he was close enough to see the rain streaking down your cheeks. Or were those tears? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to. 

His breath was uneven, his heart pounding as if it were trying to break free from his chest.

He hated this. Hated himself. But it didn’t matter. 

This was for the best.

“Satoru?” you asked, your voice soft but cautious. Disappointment is written all over your face but your determination to make your relationship work outweighs it. 

He froze for a second. God, you looked so beautiful, even like this—wet, shivering, and confused. A part of him wanted to just pull you into his arms and to apologize for what he was about to do, hold you so close that the world would have no choice but to give you to him without exceptions.

But instead, he dropped his gaze and forced the words out. “We need to talk.”

You blinked, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

He slid into the seat across from you, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He couldn’t meet your eyes, so he stared at the surface instead, tracing a crack in the wood grain with his finger. “I’ve been thinking… about us.”

“What about us?” you asked, your voice quieter now. 

Satoru exhaled sharply. “I don’t think this is working anymore.”

You stiffened, your fingers tightening around your coffee cup. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Satoru, what are you saying?”

“I’m not in love with you anymore,” he said, his voice hollow, as if that would make it hurt less—for both of you. “For a while now.” 

The words tasted like poison on his tongue, each one more painful than the last.

Your eyes widened, disbelief etched across your face. “You– you don’t mean that.”

When he finally looked at you, he thought about telling you the truth—that he was terrified of putting you in danger, that loving him came with risks you didn’t deserve. But he swallowed it down.

“I do.” His voice cracked. “I’ve been feeling this way for a while. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

You shook your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “Satoru, if something’s wrong, we can fix it. Just talk to me. I know you love me—”

“There’s nothing to fix!” he interrupted, louder than he intended. He winced at the hurt that flashed across your face. Softer now, he added, “It happens. People fall out of love.  Don’t make this situation harder for the both of us, please. I can’t give you what you want.” 

“You’re lying. Why are you doing this?” you whispered in disbelief. You quickly held his hand.  “You’re trying to push me away. Just tell me what’s really going on.”

He couldn’t answer that. Not the truth, at least. That being with him would mean a lifetime of danger, of being a target simply because of who he was. That he couldn’t bear the thought of you getting hurt because of him. That he loved you too much to keep you by his side.

“I’m not lying,” he said quietly, the finality in his tone slicing through the air between you. “This is just how I feel.”

Your shoulders sagged, and for a moment, he thought you might collapse under the weight of his words. 

You took a shaky step back, wrapping your arms around yourself as though you were trying to hold yourself together. “I see.” 

“Sorry, Y/N.” 

Without another word, he turned and walked away, the rain drowning out the sound of his footsteps and the sobs he was certain he would hear if he stayed a second longer.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t afford to. Because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to leave.

The first few years after your breakup were a strange limbo. You stayed friends—on the surface, at least. But there was always tension, unspoken words that hung heavy between you. He could see it in the way your eyes lingered on him during missions, the hope that flickered and faded every time he said something or did something that he used to do with you.

You waited for him to come back to you. Satoru knew that. 

And for a time, he almost let himself believe that he can. He just needed enough time to muster up the courage to come back to you. 

and when he finally received that wedding invitation on a random friday morning, he stared at it for hours before opening it.  He felt like he died twice as much when he also learned that your fiancé gave up his job as a sorcerer just to have a peaceful life with you. 

The life Satoru dreamed of giving you. 

That night, for the first time in years, he let himself cry. Not the quiet, controlled tears he shed in the rain that day, but the kind that left him gasping for breath.

And Satoru Gojo, the strongest, could do nothing but watch.

Looking back at everything he had done to keep you safe, Satoru doesn’t know which one’s better—losing you for good or losing you to someone else.

Always an arm’s length yet never close enough. 

His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He bit down on his lower lip hard, a desperate attempt to stifle the sound threatening to escape—a choked sob, a plea, a broken fragment of a heartache he couldn’t afford to show.

Out of the corner of his eye, he felt a nudge at his elbow. Gojo turned to see Shoko, quiet as ever, holding out his sunglasses.

Shoko looked at him with such softness and sympathy, one that Gojo wasn’t sure he could bear right now.

Shoko didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. 

Gojo took the sunglasses, slipping it over his eyes. He gave her a half-hearted grin before painfully turning his gaze back on you. 

His resolve cracks little by little, then all at once, when he finally sees the way you look at Nanami Kento. 

Gojo will never have the privilege to wake up to you in the morning, to be the first person who would witness your sleepy eyes as the sunlight slowly makes its way into the room. Never again will he have the privilege of making you breakfast, of watching your expression shift from fondness to playful exasperation as you scold him for drenching his pancakes in too much honey, his sweetness nearly as overindulgent as the way he looked at you. He will never be able to be the recipient of your lovesick eyes, that softness in your smile that was only ever reserved for him. 

He’ll never be able to feel your touch again, at least not in the way he yearns for used to. 

Gojo’s mind wanders off at the stolen moments he buried deep within his heart. How it seems like it was only yesterday when he’s still in your shared bed, with you curled up by his side while he wraps his arms around you, and how you’d point out that he was clingy even if he knew you loved every second of it anyway. How you caress his face and laugh at his antics only to assure him that he is the only one you love and that you won’t ever go away, putting his demons to sleep just with the sound of your voice. 

Oh, what a bliss.

And perhaps the most gut wrenching realization of all is that it was almost him. Those nights full of whispered secrets and promises to grow old together all vanished just because he was too scared of not being able to protect you.

Nanami will have all that he dreams of, all that he let go of, and all of you. 

What a lucky man he is, to be someone that is seen and loved by you. You look at Kento like how you used to look at him, so full of love and adoration as if he was the one who put all the stars in the sky. 

He wanted to hate him, to despise the man who now holds your heart, to curse the universe for giving your love to someone else. But how could he? How could he, when Nanami Kento wears his love for you so plainly, so unabashedly, as if it were his very lifeblood? All he needs to hear is evident in the unspoken devotion that screams in the way Nanami looks at you—a love so evident it makes him force to swallow down the bile in his throat. 

If it wasn’t clear before, it was painfully clear now—the ache in his chest was sharper, more unbearable than any blow he had endured as the strongest. His ribs felt as though they might collapse under the weight of his regret.

The realization comes all too late and unrelenting, you were already promising forever in the arms of a man who wasn’t him. 

He wanted to shout, to tell you to stop the wedding. to choose him. to beg for your forgiveness. 

Would you take him back? 

The voices in his head are becoming louder, much louder than ever. He was so stupid. So cowardly. How could he have let you go when being with you is the only thing he had ever truly wanted? 

He stayed firm in his place, knuckles turning white as he held himself together.

Not once did you look back at him. 

It has always been you, you had once told him. 

Yet you have already said I do—

It has always been you. 

It will always be you. 

a/n: sorry, did i scam you?

my song inspo for this is bizarre love triangle by new order. I feel like it's such a depressing love song aka love triangle between the writer, his lover, and something else. In Gojo's case, it's his duty as the strongest.