#reminder that sea salt is the best

[fruitofthelewd]

Your name is anon salt to me

I have addressed this before but yes I realize how you can get that. Is it the intended way, no, is it not intended, also no. Go with what you want, I don't mind either way.

[deusauris]

OKAY first one. This is the oddest fucking post possible I think but do you ever associate a character with something completely insane. Like, I’m not quite sure how to explain it to you but Childe has the exact same vibes as the Nākd salted caramel bar. He is like this to me. Why? I don’t know. This is him

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when gojo satoru sees a tiktok that says “she won’t marry you if you don’t bake her cookies” and takes it way too seriously?

a/n : satoru in a small ponytail. that’s it. i am so ill.

it starts with a tiktok.

some ridiculous, pastel-filtered, bubbly-voiced thing that popped up on his for you page. satoru wasn’t even paying attention at first—phone half dangling from his hand, his long legs stretched across the couch, socks mismatched, one slipping off at the heel. eyes glassy from too many cursed reports. a headache blooming behind his infinity.

then he hears it:

“she won’t marry you if you don’t bake her cookies.”

the video loops, endlessly.

satoru’s entire body tenses like he’s been struck. won’t marry me? the phrase echoes. his thumb hovers above the screen, then slowly lowers it like he’s disarming a bomb. he watches the video again. and again. and again. each repetition more damning than the last.

because here’s the thing—he’s already imagined it. you, in white. your name beside his on every formality. the tiny domestic moments. the matching toothbrushes. your socks in his drawer. the way you scrunch your nose at strong coffee but drink it anyway because it reminds you of mornings with him. gojo satoru, known for his irreverence, hasn’t taken anything seriously since he was sixteen—except you.

so, of course, he can’t take any risks.

within five minutes, he’s spiraling. tabs multiplying like cursed spirits. “best cookie recipes to make her love you.” “is baking a love language.” “can cookies be legally binding.” he’s skimming mom blogs and side-eyeing user reviews like they’re jujutsu intel. he gets into an argument with a reddit user named sugarboi92 about sea salt ratios. he forgets to blink.

you’re across from him on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, headphones in, humming softly to yourself. your lips move slightly with the lyrics. you don’t even notice the way his blue eyes flick toward you every thirty seconds, like he’s checking the stakes of the mission. his gaze lingers on the slope of your shoulder, the arch of your brow when you’re concentrating. the way you curl your toes slightly when you're content.

the next day, the kitchen is chaos.

flour in his hair. streaked across one cheek like warpaint. he’s tied his hair back, sort of—a stubborn, barely-there stub of a ponytail held by one of your elastics, fraying loose at the crown. his bangs still refuse to behave, fluttering messily over his forehead. he’s in your apron. pink. frilly. a cartoon cat winking on the chest. it rides up awkwardly over his broad frame, and he wears it with the dignity of a man crafting destiny.

his sleeves are rolled to the elbows. his forearms flex as he stirs. his fingers are clumsy, smudged with brown sugar. a smear of chocolate ends up on his temple. he mutters under his breath with each step, reciting the recipe like a curse formula. every so often, he glances toward the door, listening for your footsteps.

jazz plays faintly from the speaker. something soft, velvety. the smell of vanilla and browned sugar hangs heavy in the air. when he spins to check the oven, his socked foot slips slightly on a patch of spilled butter—he stumbles, catches himself with infinity, then growls, “no, no, no—these are for my wife.”

satoru tries. he really tries. he measures, levels, even uses your little kitchen scale. but halfway through, impatience wins. he eyeballs the butter. forgets the baking soda. adds too many chocolate chips. licks the spoon like it might tell him what love should taste like.

the cookies come out uneven. some puffed too tall. others thin, laced with caramelized edges. a few… a few are better left unnamed. but he arranges the best of them on a plate, forming a heart that leans to the side like it’s shy. he pipes icing across the center: “marry me?”

it’s crooked. a little desperate. but honest.

the kitchen is still warm when you shuffle in, rubbing your eyes, hair sticking up from sleep. your sleep shirt hangs off one shoulder. you freeze mid-step, blinking slowly at the sight of him.

he’s standing like a statue—plate in both hands, held up like an offering to a divine force. his hair is coming loose, white strands falling into his eyes. powdered sugar dusts his collarbone.

“...did you bake?”

your voice is raspy. amused. your brows lift slightly.

“for you,” he blurts. “they’re… hideous. but they’re made with love. and maybe some shell. tiny bits. character-building crunch.”

you blink. then smile. soft and slow. your hand comes up to stifle a laugh, but it slips through anyway—light and warm. he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a century.

you take a cookie, nibble it, eyebrows rising in playful surprise. “not bad. crunchy. very... bold.”

he grins, triumphant and sheepish all at once. “bold like my love.”

later, you’re curled into him on the couch, your fingers idly twisting the hem of his shirt. his hand is at your waist, thumb rubbing slow circles over your hipbone, grounding himself. the crumbs from the cookies are scattered on the coffee table, forgotten.

satoru murmurs into your hair, “you would marry me even if i didn’t bake, right?”

you hum, teasing. “maybe.”

you don’t see the way his jaw tightens slightly. how his hand stills. how his eyes lose focus, staring somewhere into the middle distance.

that night, he doesn’t sleep.

by 3 a.m., he’s back in the kitchen. hair tied up again, face set in grim determination. this time, he double-checks the measurements. preheats the oven properly. watches every timer like a hawk. he sifts the flour twice. levels every cup. wipes down the counter with surgical precision.

because gojo satoru might be the strongest sorcerer alive—but when it comes to you, he won’t risk anything. not even with cookies.

he knows the video’s probably a joke. he knows you’re not the kind of person who’d break up with him over a batch of chocolate chips. he knows tiktok is 90% lies and 10% cat videos with manipulated audio. but what if it’s not? what if, deep down, there's a part of you that really does want warm, homemade cookies from the person you love? what if someone else bakes them for you first?

that’s not a chance he’s willing to take.

not when he’s already seen every future where he loses you—and in none of them did it start with cookies. but maybe that’s why it’s so dangerous. maybe the end begins with small, quiet things.

so he bakes.

and love, unlike cursed energy, can’t be tamed. it pulses, wild and unscripted, without binding vows or techniques—just a heart stupid enough to keep trying.

[mephisto-reporting]

Hearbreak Anniversary with Rafayel

Summary: It was your anniversary with Rafayel. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Rafayel Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Content Warning: Fear of abandonment, self worth issues, angst, hurt and slight comfort, Rafayel grovelling, Rafayel POV

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

The soft glow of the sunset filtered through the gauzy curtains of Rafayel’s studio, painting the space in warm hues of gold and orange. The place smelled faintly of him—a mix of turpentine, salt, and the faint trace of his cologne. You had spent hours here today, your hands busy arranging the decorations you’d so carefully prepared for this special occasion. Sea shells, shimmering like iridescent pearls, lined the edges of the room, their opalescent beauty a nod to the ocean he once called home. Candles flickered softly on every surface, their flames dancing to an unseen rhythm. You’d even managed to find strands of silken seaweed and glass ornaments, hoping to evoke the beauty of his heritage, the beauty of him.

Every corner of his art studio had been dusted, tidied, and then transformed with touches of magic, warmth, and care. You even placed the tiny trinkets and mementos you had kept from your shared moments—little souvenirs from your adventures together, knickknacks that held meaning between the two of you. You wanted him to feel at home, to feel the same sense of belonging that you had with him. You even wore your best clothes, the ones he had once complimented.

Today was your first anniversary. The thought alone sent your heart fluttering, and you’d poured all that love into this space, into this moment.

A few months ago he had told you this was just another day for him. A god’s sense of time was different, fleeting, perhaps even insignificant. But to you, it meant everything. It was a celebration of love that had somehow defied the odds—of a mortal heart tangled with one belonging to something far greater. So you ignored the whispering doubts that crept into the back of your mind, choosing instead to focus on trust. Rafayel had chosen you, not her. No matter how many stories tied them together, no matter the whispered inevitability of their connection, he had assured you. It was you he loved now.

But as the hours passed, that fragile trust began to tremble.

You sat in the chair by the window, smoothing down the dress you’d picked especially for today. Time crawled. The soft golden light of day gave way to a dark, yawning sky, and still, Rafayel didn’t come home. The anniversary dinner, meticulously prepared and carefully plated, sat untouched on the table. Each tick of the clock became a cruel reminder of his absence.

Worry gnawed at you. What if something had happened to him? Perhaps the art sale ran late, or he was caught up with his patrons. But he always came back home, right?

Your heart twisted as you reached for your phone, dialing a number you didn’t want to use but needed to.

“Thomas?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“Oh, hey,” Rafayel’s manager greeted casually. “Everything okay?”

“Is Rafayel still at the sale?” You tried to keep the panic from seeping into your tone, but the silence on the other end was damning.

“Uh… no, he left hours ago. Said he was going to grab dinner. Lina was with him.”

Your grip tightened on the phone, your knuckles turning white.

Lina.

The name struck like a knife.

“Thanks, Thomas,” you whispered, hanging up before he could ask anything more.

You sat there, staring at the flickering candles, their light casting long shadows across the studio walls. He was with Lina. On your anniversary. You had trusted him, convinced yourself that you were enough despite the insecurities that had clawed at your heart since the day you met him.

But now, they came roaring to life.

You had known, of course, who Lina was. She was the one linked to the sea god, his past, his history—his heart. You tried not to let it affect you, tried to bury the insecurities that rose whenever she came up in conversation. Rafayel always assured you there was nothing between them. But then why was he with her, of all people, on your anniversary?

Tears blurred your vision as your chest tightened painfully. Lina.

She was everything you were not. Strong, beautiful, a part of Rafayel’s past, his first love. How could you compete with that? How could you compete with someone who had shared so much more with him, someone whose bond with him was carved in the very fabric of his existence? She was a part of him, woven into the his story, while you were… just someone who had stumbled into his life, someone insignificant in comparison.

Lina... The woman who was forever tied to his past. The sea god's bride. The one he’d loved for so long, the one who had always been there, time after time. You had told yourself, time and time again, that it was nothing. That Rafayel was different with you. He had assured you that there was nothing between them anymore.

But if it’s nothing, why is he with her now? On our day.

Your fingers trembled as you held the phone to your ear, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to ask any more questions. The answers were irrelevant now. His absence, her presence, they were all you needed to know.

Tears pooled at the edges of your vision before spilling over, streaking your face like tiny rivers tracing paths through dusted cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Nothing felt fair. He had promised you. He had promised. But promises were like ocean tides, weren’t they? Sweeping away whatever they could, leaving only bits of broken shells behind.

Lina was everything you could never be. She was strong, beautiful, powerful—everything that Rafayel deserved. She had the sea god’s heart, had always had it, and here you were, just a fleeting ripple on the surface, barely a mark to him. She was woven into the fabric of his past, his future. What are you to him? What have you ever been?

The memories of your relationship, the quiet moments of closeness, the laughter shared under the soft, flickering light of his candles, all those moments seemed so... fragile now. Fragile and fleeting. You were nobody. Just a distraction, a place holder. Nothing more.

You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor like the scratch of claws on stone. The studio, his studio, filled with remnants of him, was suffocating. His scent lingered in the air, the faint trace of his cologne mixing with the oils and paints scattered everywhere. His taste still clung to your lips from the last time you’d kissed him, the memories of his touch branded into your skin. It was all too much. Too much. The studio, so full of him, was now a suffocating reminder of what you had lost. You didn’t want to stay. You couldn’t.

You tried to hold the tears back, but it was useless. Every doubt, every fear you’d bottled up over the months came crashing down, drowning you in their suffocating weight.

This wasn’t love. This was a cruel game, one you couldn’t win.

You couldn’t breathe. You had to get out.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you toward the door. The wind hit your face the moment you stepped outside, cool and biting, but it wasn’t enough to quell the storm raging inside you.

You ran.

The streets blurred into one indistinct smear of light and shadow as you ran aimlessly, your feet pounding against the pavement, carrying you farther and farther from that studio. From him.

Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and the sharp tang of the ocean filled the air. The moon hung high above, casting a silver glow over the beach. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning as you collapsed onto the sand, letting the waves crash against the shore in a soothing rhythm that mocked your turmoil. You kept running, further and further away from whitesand bay, along the beach.

You stumbled, falling to your knees in the sand, clutching your arms around yourself. Your chest heaved as the tears fell freely, the sound of the ocean mixing with your sobs. Lina. You could picture them together, her hand in his, the same way they had been for so many years before you. The seagulls cried above you, indifferent to your pain. And in that moment, you realized that the world didn’t stop for you. It never had. You stared out at the endless sea, the dark horizon stretching in front of you.

How could I have been so blind?

The waves crashed against the shore, each one louder than the last. You are nothing to him. The thought echoed in your mind over and over, relentless, until you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

And just when you thought the world couldn’t get any colder, the tears started again. They fell freely now, salt mixing with the salt of the sea.

You had wanted to be enough. But maybe that was a joke after all. But even as your body trembled with the weight of the heartbreak, you knew one thing: You could never go back. Not to him, not to that studio, not to any of it. You were just a wave, crashing onto the shore, and he was the sea god.

The night wrapped itself around you like a suffocating blanket. The cold air bit into your skin, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache clawing at your chest. Each crashing wave seemed to echo the bitter truth you couldn’t escape: you were never going to be enough for him. You curled tighter into yourself, trembling as the tears continued to flow. The sand clung to your dress, to your damp hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The world had narrowed to the storm raging inside you—a tempest of betrayal, doubt, and misery.

The sharp chill of the ocean breeze whipped your hair against your tear-streaked face, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip of despair coiling around your heart. Every promise he’d made, every word of reassurance, felt like shards of glass now, cutting into the fragile hope you’d built. The waves surged closer, the cold spray dotting your skin. Your sobs mixed with the crashing tide, swallowed up by the vast, indifferent sea.

You hugged yourself tightly, your body shaking as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. Yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the ache inside you. But no wave could reach that far, no tide could touch the place where your heart ached. You wanted to scream, to shout at the world for the injustice of it all, but the air in your lungs wouldn’t let you. You were too small for this world, too insignificant for him. You would never be the sea. You were just a small wave, lost in the expanse of the tide.

Rafayel’s POV

The door to the studio swung open, and Rafayel stepped inside, laughter trailing after him. “You should’ve seen the look on that shopkeeper’s face when I said we’d take both cakes,” he said, his voice warm and light. He turned to Lina, who chuckled softly as she followed him, holding one of the carefully boxed pastries. “He probably thought we were insane.”

Rafayel kicked the door shut behind him, balancing his own box of confections, his grin still in place. “I can’t wait to see my cutie’s face when she tries these. She’s going to love them.”

But the moment his gaze swept across the room, his laughter faltered and then stopped entirely.

The studio was transformed. Soft candlelight flickered, casting golden hues across the walls. Seashells glimmered like scattered pearls, carefully arranged along the edges of the space. Strands of delicate seaweed draped like garlands, their green silkiness catching the light. Trinkets, small but unmistakably meaningful, dotted the surfaces—each one an ode to moments he had shared with you. The table was set with plates of untouched food, lovingly prepared, and the air held a faint, tantalizing aroma that now felt unbearably heavy.

He froze, the pastry box slipping slightly in his grip. His throat tightened as his eyes roved over every detail, taking in the love and care you had poured into the space. The decorations, the mementos, the effort—it was overwhelming.

“Rafayel?” Lina’s voice broke through the silence. She stepped forward, her brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” His voice cracked, and he set the box down on the nearest surface with trembling hands. “I fucked up,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers grazed one of the seashells, its surface smooth and cool. He trailed his hand over a string of seaweed, the soft texture almost mocking him. “I fucked up bad.”

Lina’s concern deepened. “What are you talking about?”

Rafayel turned toward her, his expression stricken. “The anniversary. Our anniversary. It slipped my mind.” His voice was a low, shaky whisper as he glanced back at the table, the untouched plates, the flickering candles. “She did all of this… for me. For us.”

He called out your name, his voice echoing through the space. “Are you here? Cutie?” His steps quickened as he moved through the studio, searching. The bathroom. The bedroom. The small corner where you sometimes curled up to read. “Are you asleep?” he called, though he knew better. Each empty room was another blow to his gut.

Panic clawed at him as he returned to the main room, his gaze darting to the table again, the small trinkets, the soft glow of candles still burning. The room felt haunted, filled with the ghost of your hope and effort.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly. He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Thomas.

“Thomas, did she—did she say anything to you? Did she mention where she might go?” Rafayel’s voice was taut with desperation.

Thomas hesitated. “She called me earlier. She asked if you were still at the sale. That’s all she said.”

The weight of Thomas’s words slammed into Rafayel like a wave. You’d called, searching for him, only to learn the truth he had tried to ignore. It had slipped his mind completely. He didn’t know you were setting all of this up. For him. For the both of you.

“Thanks,” Rafayel muttered, ending the call and immediately dialing your number. He paced the studio, his heart racing as the line rang once… twice… three times—

And then he heard it. The faint buzz of your phone, abandoned on the sofa near the window.

“Shit!” Rafayel cursed, grabbing the device and staring at the darkened screen as if it could offer him answers. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He collapsed onto the chair you had once sat in, his head in his hands. Where were you? His gaze drifted to the table again, the untouched dinner, the carefully arranged decorations.

How could he have been so blind? So careless? You had given him everything, and he… he had been too wrapped up in himself, too foolish to see what truly mattered.

Lina hesitated before taking a few careful steps toward Rafayel, watching his every move with growing concern. She’d never seen him like this before. His usual confident, almost cocky demeanor had vanished, leaving only raw distress in its place. He sat slumped in the chair, his phone clutched tightly in his hands, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

"Rafayel..." she began softly, her voice gentle but concerned. "What’s going on? What happened?"

Her hand brushed against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but the instant her fingers made contact with his skin, he flinched as though struck. His body jerked back, his eyes flashing with something wild—something dangerous.  His eyes, usually a mischievous swirl of pink and blue, flared into a startling, unearthly bright blue before he clenched them shut, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he pulled away, his fists curling. “Lina, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He forced himself to inhale deeply, reigning in his emotions as the scales receded and his eyes returned to their usual hue. “I’m fine,” he lied, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I just... I need to find her.”

Lina’s hand hovered uncertainly before falling back to her side. “Rafayel,” she began gently, “her phone’s here. Her purse. Even her car keys. Where could she have gone?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, the sharpness in his voice born of self-directed frustration. “And that’s what’s driving me insane.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain could ground him. “She’s out there somewhere, without her coat, without her phone... and it’s freezing tonight.”

Lina straightened, crossing her arms. “Then let me help—”

“No.” His interruption was immediate, his tone brooking no argument. He turned to her, his expression pained but resolute. “This is my fault. I need to fix this myself.”

“But—”

“Please, Lina,” he cut in, softer this time. “If she’s out there, you’ll hear from me. Just… if you see her, let me know. But I have to do this alone.”

After a long, hesitant pause, Lina relented, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But don’t do anything reckless. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I find anything.”

Rafayel nodded, murmuring his thanks before grabbing his coat and storming out into the night.

The cold air bit at his face as he ran through the streets, his breath forming short puffs in the frigid night. He clutched his phone tightly, the screen glowing as he swiped to a recent photo of you, showing it to every passerby he stopped.

“Have you seen her?” he asked a bewildered man on the corner. “This woman? Please—it’s urgent.”

The man shook his head, muttering an apology before hurrying off. Rafayel grit his teeth, suppressing the wave of panic threatening to consume him. Where are you?

The thought repeated like a drumbeat as he made his way to the beach. The icy wind off the water made him shiver, but he pressed forward, searching desperately. He called your neighbor, pacing along the shoreline as he waited for an answer.

The voice on the other end was soft, a little worried. “No... the lights are off. The door’s locked. I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

His heart skipped a beat, the silence that followed pressing like a weight on his chest. Where were you? Where could you have gone? You were working so hard fore him, for the both of you since the afternoon and he wasn’t even there to experience it with you together. He could imagine it, the smile on your face as you placed those shells, the excitement in your movements as you cooked his favorite food. His eyes darted to the horizon, a dark line of water stretching out before him, and his legs moved faster, pushing him toward the shore, toward the place where you sometimes went to escape.

The beach was empty when he arrived, the wind biting at his skin, the waves crashing softly against the sand. He scanned the shoreline, dread filling him as he searched. There was no sign of you, but his heart refused to let go of the hope that you might be here.

He walked for what felt like hours, the weight of the cold creeping into his bones as the night deepened. The autumn air turned chillier, the first hints of winter brushing against his skin. You hadn’t taken your coat. You hadn’t taken anything. What was he thinking? You’d never leave without saying something. So why was he—

His breath hitched as his gaze landed on something ahead. A small lump on the sand.

His heart stopped, the world narrowing down to that single, fragile form crumpled against the cold ground.

“No!” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He ran towards you, his legs moving faster than they ever had before, fear propelling him forward. His feet barely touching the ground as he pushed forward, his every step frantic. He reached you within seconds, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he gently touched your shoulder.

“Cutie?” he called, his voice cracking. His knees hit the sand as he reached you, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. You were curled in on yourself, your arms hugging your knees, your face hidden. Tear tracks glistened on your cheeks, even in the dim moonlight, and your body trembled from the cold.

“Shit,” Rafayel hissed, his voice barely a whisper as panic surged again. You were cold, so cold. Damp from the wet sand, your skin pale as if the very life had been drained from you. He pulled off his jacket, draping it around you as gently as he could, his hands still shaking.

Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see how badly she needed me?

He slid his arms around you, his heart aching as he pulled you into his lap, cradling you as though you might break into a thousand pieces. He brushed the strands of hair from your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he whispered your name over and over, praying that you would wake up. That you would hear him. “Fuck,” he breathed, feeling a wave of guilt crash over him. “What did I do? What the hell did I do…”

But he couldn’t. Not now. Now, all he could do was hold you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he rocked gently, trying to warm you, trying to make everything okay.

“I’m here, okay? I’m here. I’m so sorry, cutie.” he whispered, his voice breaking. His mind raced, but nothing could erase the hollow ache in his chest. The thought of losing you, of failing you—he couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words tumbling from him like a confession he had never intended to make. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I messed this up, I—I’m here now.”

He clutched you tighter, trembling with the weight of his regret. The wind cut through the beach, but he barely noticed, too consumed by the sight of you—so still, so fragile, in his arms. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything, to fix this

Your eyes fluttered open weakly, barely meeting his. You were too exhausted to respond, your body utterly spent.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice unsteady as he gently tucked his coat tighter around you. “I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.” His thumb brushed the tear-streaked curve of your cheek, his chest aching at the evidence of your heartbreak. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too cold...not like this. Not alone,” Rafayel murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands trembled as he tried to warm you, his arms sheltering you from the relentless chill of the wind. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He broke off, his throat tightening painfully. Words felt so useless now, but he couldn’t stop them. He needed you to know. “I’m the biggest idiot in the world. I forgot something so important, something that should’ve been at the center of my mind.” His arms slipped beneath you, lifting you effortlessly despite your protests—if there were any.

Your lips moved faintly, but the sound was lost in the cold wind. He leaned closer, his ear near your mouth. “What is it? I’m here. Please... say something.”

“I thought... maybe you'd care,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The words struck him harder than any physical blow ever could. He felt the sting in his chest, his breath hitching as guilt twisted the knife deeper.

“I do care!” he exclaimed, his voice desperate. “More than anything. I was just... I was so caught up in everything else, and I—I didn’t realize how much you needed me. How much you’ve always been there for me. I messed up, cutie. I know I did.”

You shivered against him, and he shifted to shield you better from the biting wind. “Let me take you home,” he pleaded, his voice softer now. “We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

For a long moment, you didn’t respond, and his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, you gave the faintest of nods, your head resting against his chest. You shivered in his arms, your eyes fluttering shut again, too drained to muster a response. Panic surged in Rafayel as he felt how cold your skin was against his. He shifted, standing with you carefully cradled in his arms, his coat wrapped tightly around you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent but soft. “I need you to hold on, okay? Just a little longer. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” He pressed his cheek to your temple for a moment, as though the simple touch might reassure you—and himself—that you were still here with him.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He scooped you up gently, careful not to jostle you. The warmth of his jacket wrapped around your frame and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to soothe some of the tension in your body. He murmured quiet reassurances as he carried you, his voice a constant presence in the cold, empty night. His normally cocky demeanor had shattered into shards of raw vulnerability, replaced by a frantic urgency to get you home—his home. Your breathing was shallow, your limbs slack in his hold, and every uneven step he took felt like walking a tightrope with everything he valued most precariously balanced in his grasp. He adjusted his hold, cradling you tighter against his chest. “Look, I know I’m an idiot sometimes. Fine, most of the time,” he admitted, his words a jumble of nervous energy and shaky humor. “But this isn’t the time to prove me wrong, alright? Just hang on a little longer. I’m taking you home.”

By the time you reached the studio, the candlelight had dimmed, but the room still held the warmth of the love you had poured into it. Rafayel carried you inside. By the time he reached the threshold of his room, his shirt clung to him, drenched from sweat and your tears. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle you, and hurried inside.

The room was cold and dimly lit, the heater long dormant. He set you down on the bed, fumbling with the blankets to cocoon you in their warmth. Your body trembled, and his chest constricted as he watched you stir faintly before slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible at first, as if the walls themselves might condemn him. Then louder, more desperate, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry. I was stupid—so, so stupid. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve kept you safe. Should’ve—” He stopped himself, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sob building in his throat. His eyes flickered between his usual hues and that unearthly blue every now and then.

His hands hovered over your face, fingers trembling as he brushed damp strands of hair from your skin. “You’re too good for me, you know that? Too good for someone who screws up as much as I do. But I promise—” His voice broke, the words spilling out in a frenzied rush. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Il love you, cutie. I love you so much.” And then, because even in his rawest moments he couldn’t help himself, he added with a weak, self-deprecating chuckle, “I am lucky I’m this charming, or I don’t think you’d ever put up with me.”

He turned on the heater, pacing back and forth as he muttered under his breath, berating himself in every way he could think of, his brattiness peeking through as he cursed the broken world that had led to this moment. He glanced at you repeatedly, as if reassuring himself you hadn’t vanished, that you hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

When you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open, he froze mid-step. His usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by wide, guilt-stricken eyes. “You’re awake,” he blurted, his voice filled with relief but tinged with apprehension. “I know I screwed up,” he admitted quietly, his lips brushing against your temple. “But—seriously, who let you do this to yourself, huh? Oh wait, that’s me. Fantastic job, Rafayel. Bravo.” He huffed out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting at your bedside. The words spilled out before he could stop them, over and over again. “I’m so, so sorry. This—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You’re supposed to be mad at me, not like this. Not…” His voice cracked, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Then, almost instinctively, the mask of bravado slipped back into place. “But, hey, look at you, stealing my bed like it’s your right. I mean, sure, I offered, but still.” His smirk faltered, his voice softening. “You better not make a habit of this, you know? Making me worry this much.”

You shifted, your eyelids fluttering completely open, and the sight of your weary gaze meeting his nearly unraveled him.

“Raf?” Your voice was weak, barely audible, but it was enough to snap him upright.

“Hey, you’re awake!” He forced a grin, though it couldn’t hide the guilt pooling in his eyes. “Good, because I was just about to start serenading you with an apology song. Don’t ask for a refund… the lyrics are terrible.”

You tried to sit up, but he was on you in an instant, gently pressing you back down. “Whoa, whoa, no sudden moves, alright? Just... stay put for once. Let me handle it for a change.”

"Handle what?" you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion and confusion.

His grin wavered, giving way to something more honest, more afraid. “Everything. All of it. I... I screwed up, okay? I’m the idiot who let you get like this, who didn’t see—who didn’t stop—” His words tangled, and he exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. Or, you know, until you tell me to shut up. Whichever comes first.”

Your lashes fluttered weakly again, and a barely audible sound escaped your lips. “...Rafayel...?”

His heart soared and broke all at once at the sound of your voice. “I’m here,” he said quickly, leaning closer so you could hear him clearly. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Tears welled in his eyes as you looked up at him, your gaze heavy with exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite name—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. It cut him deeper than any blade ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice a choked whisper. “I know that doesn’t fix this, but I swear, I’ll spend every moment making it up to you if you let me.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the hum of the heater and the soft whistle of the wind outside. Finally, you whispered, your voice trembling, “I waited...”

“I know,” he whispered, his tears falling freely now. “You shouldn’t have had to. You deserve better than that, better than me—but I’m begging you, please give me another chance. Don’t give up on me yet.”

Finally, your voice, though weak, broke the quiet. “You forgot... something that meant so much to me.”

Rafayel’s throat tightened, but he nodded, accepting your words. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you. I’ll show you how much you mean to me. I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the words soft but raw with sincerity. “More than anything. More than I can even say. I don’t deserve you, but… please, let me try. Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated, his voice a breathless whisper, “Not like this.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, you could see the mask slip—just for a second. Rafayel was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of failing you. It was the one thing he had never let you see, the one thing he kept locked away in the deep recesses of his heart, but now, it was clear as day.

As you looked at him, something shifted between the two of you—an understanding, perhaps. You could see his desperation, the way he clung to the edges of his composure, trying to hide the vulnerability he never allowed anyone to witness.

I thought... I thought this was everything I could give. Everything I could be..." your own voice cracking.

He shook his head again, his grip never loosening. “You’re so much more than all of this. I’ve been blind, cutie. And now I can see it—see you.” He gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to erase every doubt that had taken root there. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you feel invisible.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the tears still staining your face, but the weight of his words was a strange kind of relief. He was here. He saw you now. The storm of emotions inside you hadn’t dissipated, but his presence, the raw sincerity in his voice, made you feel something close to safety.

Rafayel kissed your forehead softly, the gentle pressure of his lips a tender promise. “I’m here, cutie. And I’ll do everything I can to make this right. You won’t feel invisible again.”

You nodded slowly, the tears still flowing, but there was a flicker of hope, however faint. "Just... don't forget again," you whispered.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice firm, but his eyes were full of vulnerability. "I won’t. Never again."

You didn’t respond immediately, your eyes closing as if you were too weary to respond. But when Rafayel reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, a faint squeeze answered him. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was enough—a thread of hope that he clung to with everything he had. For now, you didn’t pull away, and that was a start.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

[auroralwriting]

𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: at a lavish capitol party, you reunite with finnick odair—the victor you've loved in secret, the one who knows you like no one else ever could

it is recommended you listen to this song while reading for best immersion

warnings: smut smut smut! dni if you are a minor, vague mentions of finnick being used sexually by the capitol

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

The lights of Capitol parties blind you. The shining, shimmering hues reflecting off the glass and the polished floor would be overwhelming to anyone from the Districts who wasn’t used to this sort of lavish lifestyle. The music was enchanting. The sort of music you’d envision in your wildest dreams.

You find him when the light turns honey-thick. The world burns orange, soft as silk, and Finnick Odair leans against the railing like he owns the place. Of course he does.

He’s all salt-kissed and golden brown, the very hue of dusk and desire. Muscles lean, taut as ropes on a sailboat, shadows curling like fingers across the planes of him. His eyes catch on you—sea-glass green, sharp, knowing. His flowing, white shirt and deep brown pants remind you of sailors you’d imagine from folklore stories passed down through the generations. 

He sees you before you’re ready for it.

Leaning into the curve of the marble archway, you think you’re part of the scenery, just another piece of decoration in a party too grand for its own good. But Finnick’s gaze slices through the glitter and music like a knife. His lips curve, slow and knowing. It’s the kind of smile that feels like it was carved just for you.

And gods, it hits you like the tide. That smile. Like he’s already undressed you in his mind, memorized the way you move, the sound you make when you sigh his name. There’s a magnetic pull in that gaze, a gravity that wraps around your ribcage and tugs.

You shouldn’t look at him like this. Not here. Not in the Capitol, where everything you do is watched, weighed, recorded in the minds of people who love their victors too much and not at all. You shouldn’t. You know the rules of this place. What it means to want in the Capitol. But Finnick’s never played by rules unless he’s breaking them with elegance.

You make your way towards him. Because how could you not?

The glow catches on his cheekbones, gilds the line of his throat. His shirt billows slightly in the artificial breeze, hinting at the strength underneath. He looks like he stepped out of a dream, an old story told by candlelight, a sailor who wandered too close to the shore and caught the eye of a god. It’s hard to say, in this scenario, who was the sailor and who was the god. 

He raised a glass to you—champagne, no doubt, something delicate and expensive—and tips it ever so slightly in your direction. His eyes never left yours. It’s a challenge. An invitation. A warning. You took the bait.

Your heels echoed against the marble as you crossed the floor, weaving through drunken elites and the sharp scent of Capitol perfume. The air hummed with electricity, the kind that exists between storm clouds and waves. When you reached him, he said nothing. Just watched.

You stopped beside him, hands on the cool railing, gaze fixed out over the cityscape. The skyline sparkles like it’s been dipped in jewels. “You always haunt the edges of parties like this?” you ask, voice soft, the kind meant only for him.

His smile deepened, eyeing you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “Only when I’m waiting for something.”

“Or someone,” you said.

He chuckled low in his throat. “Touché.”

There’s a pause, filled only by music, laughter and voices, and the distant clinking of glasses. You feel him lean in slightly, just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. “You look out of place here,” he murmured.

You glance at him sideways. “So do you.”

He smirked. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Make them believe you belong until they forget where you came from.”

Your breath caught. “Do you ever forget?” you asked.

He turned to you fully then, the city lights catching in the green of his eyes. “Not for a second.” It’s the truth. You felt it in your bones. And suddenly, the Capitol didn’t exist. The music faded. The people vanished. There’s only the warmth of his body next to yours and the steady rhythm of his voice, like waves brushing against shore.

“Come with me,” he said, barely above a whisper. You don’t ask where. You just follow.

You let your eyes trail over him, slowly now as he guides you through the marbled halls. The sea-slicked hair. The shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at collarbones and the edge of a secret. His skin kissed by sun and storm, that warm, golden brown of driftwood and firelight. He’s a thousand stories wrapped in silk. Dangerous. Achingly beautiful.

Once you were far enough from the party, far enough from the prying eyes of the Capitol’s nosey citizens, Finnick delicately pushed you against the wall. “When I said “out of place”, I meant ethereal.” His voice is hushed, and not because he’s worried about anyone hearing. Niot when he had a stolen, secret moment with you. 

“I could say the same for you,” you let your fingers dance over the frill of his shirt, tracing the lines and edges like they were a puzzle you were piecing together. His finger softly caught under your chin, raising it so your eyes met his sea-green ones once more.

“You’re dressed like royalty,” Finnick commented. His adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke, his pupils blown and hazy. His tongue slowly emerged to wet his lips ever so slightly. “You’re dressed like a princess.”

You smiled softly. “Would that make you my prince?”

“Far from it,” Finnick chuckled, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb softly rubbed over your cheekbone. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget this. The way you look right now. I don’t think I could ever forget this in my life.” His words hold so much weight that you believe him fully without a doubt. You never questioned his loyalty to you.

Your lips parted slightly, and Finnick’s gaze dropped, lingering there. His thumb still grazed your cheekbone, slow and reverent, as if he was afraid you’d vanish. “I thought nothing in the Capitol felt real,” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

He exhales, a sound like surrender. “You do.”

Your heart stuttered. You couldn’t tell if it’s the wine you’d had or the way he said it, like it hurt to admit. His forehead pressed gently to yours, and for a moment, the world held still. The golden light pools in the hallway, casting shadows that swayed across your skin, across his chest. The distance between your mouths is a breath, a heartbeat, a choice.

He made it for you.

Finnick kissed you like he was afraid it was the last time. Like you were something rare he’d been given just this once, and he didn’t intend to waste a second of it. It’s not rushed. It’s not showy. It’s soft, velvet-soft, and far too honest. His lips moved against yours with a gentleness you didn’t know he possessed, and when his fingers slipped from your cheek to your neck, to your waist, you melted into him without hesitation. The kiss deepens. Not frantic. Not needy. Just hungry in that quiet, aching way, like he’s been starving for something more than touch.

When you finally part, breathless, your hands rest against the center of his chest. His heart is thundering beneath your palms.

“No one can know,” Finnick mumbled, his touch both gentle yet tight, as if he couldn’t fathom letting you go. “No one can know that I have you. No one can know I’m yours.”

You shake your head. “No one will. It’s just us. Always and forever, just you and me.”

He didn’t waste another second. He took your hand again, threading his fingers through yours. His hands engulfed your own, but it felt so right, so safe, so warm. 

He untied the sash at your waist with a tenderness that shouldn’t have existed in a place like the Capitol. Every inch he revealed, he studied like scripture, observed like a painting, worshiped like prayer. And when you returned the favor, pulling at the buttons of his shirt, brushing your fingertips down the ridges of his stomach, he trembled just once beneath your touch. He kissed you again. Slow, deep, deliberate.

His hand gently squeezed down from your waist, hooking beneath the plush skin behind your knee. He gently raised your leg, wrapping it around his waist, pushing himself impossibly closer to you. Your hands threaded through his bronzey hair, scratching softly at his scalp. 

He groaned softly at the touch, low and guttural, like it had been pulled from somewhere buried deep inside him. His mouth left yours only to travel lower—your jaw, your neck, the sensitive hollow just beneath your ear. Each kiss was unhurried, reverent, like he was trying to memorize you through taste and touch alone. Maybe he was.

“You’re…” he started, but the words caught in his throat. He didn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he didn’t have to.

The leg he held around his waist tightened instinctively as he pressed you harder against the cool marble wall, a sharp contrast to the fire building between you. His breath came faster, warm against your collarbone as he hovered there, waiting. Not for permission—he could read your body well enough to know it was already his—it always was and will be—but for something else. A sign. A moment. A beat in the symphony where everything aligned.

Your forehead touched his, your noses brushing, and in the golden hush between your exhales, you whispered, “I love you.”

The shift in him was electric. Still careful, always careful, but deeper now, his movements more urgent, more sure. Like he’d been holding back the tide and finally let it crash. His hands explored you like a man mapping unfamiliar terrain, slow at first, then boldly, reverently, like every inch of you answered some long-burning question.

The sounds between you grew softer and heavier. Breaths, gasps, the whisper of silk, the creak of the wall behind you. Time stretched out and folded in on itself, and nothing existed outside of the heat curling through your core and the way he moved like he knew your body already, like it had been calling for him long before tonight.

You couldn’t remember the last time Finnick had the chance to get his hands on you, or you him. Your time in the Capitol was limited, and you were separated by Districts. These rare chances were little wrinkles in time you wished to keep forever. To freeze time to be with him longer.

Your dress was bunched up around your hips, one of his hands squeezing and caressing the skin there like he was memorizing it. The thought of someone walking by didn’t even cross your mind. Your thoughts were solely focused on Finnick and Finnick only. After all, it was hard not to keep your attention on him when he looked the way he did, styled to perfection.

His name tumbled from your lips in a breathy whisper that made his grip tighten ever so slightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, mouthing at your skin with a hunger he didn’t bother to hide anymore. “I missed you,” he breathed, and it wasn’t a line. It wasn’t part of a game. It was truth, stripped bare and trembling almost like you were right there in that hallway.

His fingers dug into your thigh, the other hand braced above your head, steadying you both against the cool marble. You clung to him, arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging lightly down the curve of his back, leaving promises in their wake. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint barely holding him together. It wasn’t just lust. It never had been. You were something else to him. Something dangerous. Something safe.

Your fingers made quick, nimble work of undoing his pants, just enough so he could take himself out. Your eyes, however, never left his face. Because it wasn’t about that, it was fully about him. He must’ve felt the same; his eyes bore holes into your face. He moved with precision, knowing full well where to move and how to do it.

There was no foreplay for this moment. Your time apart was enough to make your desire palpable whenever you saw each other again. Finnick pushed in, the two of you making your own sets of strangled noises at the feeling. Relief, pleasure.

“I love you, I love you,” Finnick mumbled, taking your face in his hands like you were a glass sculpture. You pressed a kiss onto his lips, a silent echo of his words.

Finnick’s hands dropped to your hips, holding you up so he had better access to thrust up into you. Your arms draped around his neck, keeping yourself propped up. Your feet were just off the ground, your toes barely grazing the ground, but you paid no mind to that.

Your bodies moved in tandem, a rhythm built not just from want but from knowing—knowing the shape of each other’s pain, the stretch of absence, the cruel hand of distance that always pulled you apart too soon. This was more than just a reunion. It was a reclamation.

Finnick's grip was tight enough to bruise, and you welcomed it, needed the reminder that he was real, that this was real. That for however long this moment lasted, he was yours, and you were his. Even when separated by Districts, you would always belong to each other, and these stolen moments were just proof. A gentle reminder of your desire and passion. His mouth found yours again in a kiss that was all heat and desperation, teeth and tongue and the soft, broken sound he made when your walls clenched around him.

He thrust harder, deeper, and you gasped against his lips. “God,” he breathed, “you always feel like home.” You wanted to cry at that. Because you knew what home meant for someone like Finnick, something stolen, something mourned. And yet, here he was, making one out of you.

Your hands slid down his back, fingers curling into the fabric of his half-removed shirt as your bodies rocked together. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut like the feeling was too much—too good, too close, too honest.

“I don’t care how long we’re apart,” he said, voice cracking, “I don’t care what they make us do. This—you—you’re the only real thing I have left. You’re everything. You’re my world and my stars. I'll do anything for you. I'll do anything to protect you, to keep you safe.”

You kissed the words off his mouth, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. His thrusts grew more erratic, deeper, needier, the kind of pace that said he didn’t want to finish, didn’t want this to end. You held him tighter, burying your face in his neck, breathing in the salt and sweat and soft remnants of expensive Capitol cologne.

The moment shattered around you in heat and light, a white-hot surge that stole the air from your lungs as you came, clenching around him, taking him with you. He groaned your name, so wrecked it sounded like prayer, and spilled into you, his hips stuttering as he held you impossibly close.

Then silence. Not awkward, not empty, but full. Like the hush after a storm.

Your legs trembled around him, his body still flush with yours. Neither of you moved, unwilling to let go, unwilling to believe the night might already be over. Too soon. Not enough time together. You never got enough time together.

"Just love me. That's all I need from you."

His fingers brushed your cheek, curling a stray piece of hair behind your ear. He looked at you like he was memorizing the exact way your lashes touched your skin, the way your lips curved even when you were trying not to cry. Because even when you cried, you were still the most beautiful thing Panem had to offer. At least, to him.

“I’ll find a way back to you,” he whispered.

You smiled faintly. “You always do.”

[humaling]

Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick came back a different man. after weeks of silence and indifference, you find a locket in his cot—a reminder that maybe not everything is lost.

warnings: very angsty!! mentions of torture, the usual hunger games

word count: 9.4k

author's note: very angsty. hopeful ending tho. i feel absolutely depressed since i was broken up with and needed a way to cope so i wrote this

How do you grieve someone who still breathes? Who still walks beside you, whose laughter drifts through the corridors like the tide, whose scent lingers in the air like salt on the breeze? How do you mourn a soul that hasn’t left—only drifted too far from shore to reach?

You search for him in the waves of memory, in the warmth that once lived in sea-green eyes now as distant as the horizon. Those eyes used to anchor you, a harbor of safety in the storm. Now they are nothing but glass—cold, unreadable, unfeeling.

You tell yourself to wait. Tides change. Currents shift. He will come back to you. But as the days melt into weeks, the shoreline erodes beneath your feet.

And in the quiet hours, when the ocean is still and your thoughts are too loud, the truth creeps in like a rising tide.

What if the man you love has already drowned?

You sit in the farthest corner of District 13’s massive cafeteria, a space large enough to hold a thousand soldiers. The wall behind you is cold and unyielding, pressing against your back like a ghost of something long gone. You feel just as hollow.

Around you, people gather in clusters, voices weaving together in conversation, laughter spilling from their lips as if there isn’t a war raging beyond these walls. As if their world hasn’t already been splintered apart.

To your right, Primrose Everdeen speaks softly, her voice carrying the weight of quiet sorrow. She tells you something about the medical bay—about Peeta—but the words barely reach you. They drift past like foam on the surface of the water, light and inconsequential, while you are caught in the undertow, dragged somewhere deeper. Somewhere darker.

Your mind is tethered to someone across the room.

Bronze hair, sea-green eyes—the color of the ocean at dawn, just before the sun touches it. The color of home.

You know what that skin feels like beneath your fingertips, warm and smooth, shifting over muscle that tenses like a pulled fishing net. You know the ridges of his scars, carved into him like the grooves of driftwood battered by relentless waves. The roughness of his palms, the gentleness of his hands—hands that once traced circles over your skin as if mapping out a place to return to.

You know he sleeps best when sprawled out, like a starfish on wet sand, limbs stretched wide to keep the nightmares at bay. That he hoards the blankets like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood. That he needs exactly five pillows when he sleeps alone, building a fragile fortress against the dark. That his fingers move with effortless precision when tying a knot, quick and deft, like a fisherman who has done it a thousand times before.

And you remember his laughter—the deep, rich timbre of it, rolling over you like the tide. You remember the way his voice drops to a lower octave when he wants something, as steady and unshakable as the ocean in a storm.

You remember everything.

And yet, right now, he feels like a stranger.

Maybe he is a stranger. Maybe that’s all he’s ever been. A ghost of someone who drowned long ago. A boy lost at sea, swept too far by currents neither of you could fight. A stranger with sea-green eyes that once cradled the sunlight and now hold nothing but the vast, endless cold of the deep.

Your heart sinks. Not breaks—it’s already done that. It shattered three weeks ago in the medical bay, splintering like a ship dashed against jagged rocks. His gaze—once warm, once yours—turned to ice. His voice—once a melody—lashed at you like saltwater in an open wound, venom laced between every syllable.

And now, whatever is left of your heart sinks further, past your ribs, past your stomach, past anything human, until it is nothing but flotsam on a restless tide.

You never thought it was possible to mourn the living. To grieve someone whose heart still beats, whose hands still move, whose voice still carries. But here you are, swallowing salt, lungs filling with something heavier than water. Wearing a jumpsuit that doesn’t fit quite right. Picking at food that tastes like sand. Sitting in a dim, lifeless room, playing babysitter.

Loss upon loss, and yet—somehow—there’s still more to lose.

~

“They’re here.”

Katniss’ voice ricochets off the walls, sharp and breathless. You snap your head up instantly, fingers freezing around the knot you were tying. She stands in the doorway, chest heaving, breath ragged like she’s been running—or like the weight of those two words is too much to bear alone.

You stare, pupils blown wide, the meaning slipping through your fingers like grains of sand before she speaks again, firmer this time.

“They’re back.”

The words crash over you like a wave, and suddenly, you’re moving.

Your body surges forward before your mind can catch up, feet pounding against the cold floors, the world narrowing to a single thought. Finnick. He’s back. He’s here. He’s alive.

Finnick is alive.

You don’t look back to see if Katniss follows. You don’t hear anything but the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart like a war drum. The world around you is a blur of gray walls and fluorescent light, too bright, too sterile, too detached from the wild chaos inside you.

You shove past people in the hall, muttering apologies you don’t really mean, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The scent of medicine and metal seeps into your lungs, and somewhere ahead, voices carry through the air—familiar, distant, pulling you forward like a rip current.

Your heart slams against your ribs, pounding like waves against jagged rocks, relentless and unforgiving. The roar of blood in your ears muffles everything else, reducing the world to a single, all-consuming thought—Finnick. Finnick, who is here. Finnick, who is alive. Finnick, who will be in your arms again, where he belongs, where he has always belonged.

You think about the words you will say when you finally reach him, when your hands find his skin, when the unbearable distance between you ceases to exist. You will tell him that you love him, that you will never leave him again, not for anything, not for anyone. You will tell him that you are sorry, that you tried, that you fought, that you did everything in your power to bring him back before they could break him. You will tell him that District 13 is no better than the Capitol, that their president is nothing but another tyrant wrapped in the illusion of revolution, that this place is suffocating, a prison disguised as salvation.

But then you see him, and everything inside you goes still.

He sits on the edge of the medical bed, his back turned to you, his shoulders hunched in a way that feels entirely wrong. The sharp curve of his spine is more pronounced, his posture heavy with something you cannot name. A nurse stands beside him, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm, but he does not move, does not acknowledge her, does not seem fully present in his own body. There is something unnatural in the way he holds himself, something that unsettles you, that makes your stomach twist in a sick, sinking way.

You try to tell yourself that this is normal, that exhaustion clings to him like seaweed tangled around an anchor, that of course he is different after everything he has endured. You tell yourself that the unease slithering through you is nothing more than hunger, that six hours without food is enough to make your body feel strange, that the nausea building inside you has nothing to do with the way his head remains bowed.

You force yourself to push the feeling down, to breathe past the doubt and the fear clawing at the back of your mind.

“Finnick.” His name leaves your lips on an exhale, soft and desperate, like the rush of air from a drowning man finally breaking the surface.

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the relief that crashes over you is instant, a tide that swallows every doubt, every hesitation, every ache you have carried since the moment he was taken. You barely register the stiffness in his movements before your body is closing the distance, arms wrapping around him, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though he might slip through your grasp if you let go. The scent of antiseptic clings to him instead of salt, the sterile air of the medical bay stripping him of the warmth you have always known, but it does not matter. He is here. He is real.

“You’re really here,” you whisper against the curve of his neck, voice breaking under the weight of emotion pressing against your ribs. “I thought—” But the words catch in your throat, lost to the sheer relief of having him in your arms again.

His body remains rigid beneath your touch, his muscles locked so tightly that you can feel the tension humming through him like a wire stretched too thin. The longer you hold him, the more you become aware of the way he does not lean into you, the way he does not return your embrace.

A frown tugs at your brows as you slowly pull back, hands settling gently on his shoulders, careful not to press too hard. Your eyes search his face, scanning every feature, trying to find something familiar, something safe, something that tells you he is still him. His jaw is set in a sharp line, his lips pressed together in a firm, unsmiling press. His brows are drawn, a deep crease forming between them, but it is not exhaustion that shapes his expression. It is not relief. It is something colder, something harder, something unrecognizable.

His eyes, the ones that once held warmth, the ones that once softened when they met yours, the ones that always carried the unspoken promise of home, are different now. The sea-green depths that used to hold so much tenderness have darkened, the waves receding, leaving nothing behind but cold, empty waters.

“Finnick?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as your thumb moves to brush against his cheek, aching to ground yourself in something, anything, that feels familiar.

The second your skin grazes his, he flinches.

The reaction is small, a brief, involuntary jerk, but it is enough to send ice flooding through your veins, enough to make the air in your lungs turn sharp and unforgiving. Your mouth parts, the words forming somewhere deep in your throat, but they never make it past your lips. What could you even say? What could you possibly say when the worst thing you have ever feared is unfolding right in front of you?

Before you can find an answer, before you can even begin to process the chasm opening between you, his hands press against your shoulders, and he pushes you away.

The force of it knocks you off balance, sending you stumbling back, feet tripping over nothing, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch yourself. The impact never comes. Someone catches you before you hit the ground, steady hands gripping your arms, but your mind barely registers the touch.

Finnick is already on his feet, his body moving with frantic, clumsy urgency as he rips the IV from his arm, the tubing snapping loose, blood welling in the space where the needle once sat. He does not seem to notice, does not seem to care.

Then he turns to you, and whatever remains of your world shatters into pieces so small, you know you will never be able to put them back together again.

There is no recognition in his gaze, no softness, no warmth, no love. There is only anger, sharp and seething, festering beneath the surface like a wound left to rot. There is only hatred, raw and consuming, filling the space where something else—something beautiful, something yours—used to be. There is only indifference, cold and unyielding, cutting through you like the tide swallowing the last breath of a drowning man.

“Finnick?” You call out again, your voice cracking as you struggle to regain your footing, your limbs trembling beneath the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. The distance between you feels vast, an ocean you cannot cross, a current too strong to fight against.

Your hands move frantically at your sides, grasping at nothing, unsure of what to do, what to say, how to make sense of what is unfolding in front of you. What do you do when the man you love—the man who once held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable—now looks at you as if you are nothing?

Finnick’s lips part, and the scoff that escapes is sharp, cruel, void of anything familiar. “Don’t act like you’re so glad to see me.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving, but it is the way his words land that truly destroys you. They slice through your heart without hesitation, leaving gashes so deep you do not know if they will ever heal. The coldness in his tone, the sheer venom laced between each syllable, is enough to send your stomach twisting violently, enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse stutter.

You shake your head, your throat tightening as you struggle to make sense of it, to piece together something—anything—that could explain why he is looking at you like you are nothing more than a stranger, an enemy, something to be loathed. “Finnick… I don’t—” The words falter on your tongue, because how do you ask why? How do you demand answers when you are too terrified to hear them?

His expression twists into something cruel, something mocking, something that makes the ground beneath you feel unsteady. “You don’t what?” he sneers, taking a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with prey. “You don’t understand? You don’t get why I wouldn’t be happy to see you?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound dripping with something bitter, something tainted. “That’s funny. You, of all people, pretending to be clueless.”

The words don’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense. He is here. He is alive. He is back. So why does it feel like you are losing him all over again?

“Finnick, please,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I did.”

His expression darkens, his eyes flashing with something unreadable before his lips curl into a smirk, but there is nothing warm about it. It is hollow, cruel, a mockery of the smiles you once knew. “You don’t know?” He scoffs again, shaking his head. “That’s rich. That’s really rich.”

You reach for him, a desperate attempt to find something familiar, something that will bring you back to the Finnick you know, the Finnick who once traced the lines of your palms like they held the universe, the Finnick who pressed sleepy kisses to your shoulder in the early hours of the morning, the Finnick who whispered that he loved you like it was the only thing that ever mattered. But the moment your fingers so much as brush his arm, he jerks away as if your touch burns him.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, thick and suffocating. “Why are you doing this?” The words are barely more than a breath, shaky and broken, but they are all you can manage.

Finnick’s jaw tightens, his hands clenched into fists at his sides before his eyes meet yours again, his gaze colder than you have ever seen it. The weight of it crashes over you like a tidal wave, dragging you under, deeper and deeper, until all you can feel is the crushing force of the words he says next.

“Because I hate you.”

Your breath catches. Your body goes still. The world around you seems to blur at the edges, fading into nothing but the space between you and him.

No.

No, he doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean that.

But there is no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of doubt, no trace of the Finnick you know beneath the loathing that twists his features.

“You left me,” he says, voice steady, but laced with something bitter, something sharp enough to cut. “You left me there to die.”

Your head shakes before you even realize it, rejection spilling from your lips as if saying the words would make them true. “No. No, I—” Your voice wavers, breaking apart at the seams, but you swallow down the panic rising in your throat. “Finnick, that’s not true. I would never—”

His laughter is quiet, mirthless, like the hollow echo of waves against a broken shore. “Liar.” He exclaims, running a hand through his hair as if the very sight of you is exhausting. “I know what we were. What you were.” His eyes darken, and the next words come like a final nail in the coffin. “You were using me.”

Your breath shudders out of you, unsteady and uneven, but the ache in your chest only worsens as he continues, unrelenting. “I was nothing more than a means to an end, wasn’t I?” His voice is eerily calm, his gaze cold and unreadable. “All of it—the whispers, the stolen moments, the way you looked at me like I was something worth saving—it was never real. You had a motive, and I was too much of a fool to see it.”

Your entire body feels like it’s trembling, but you force yourself to move, to step closer, to reach for him as if you can pull him back from whatever abyss they’ve shoved him into. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “That’s not true, and you know that.”

He flinches away from your touch. Not violently, not aggressively, but in a way that hurts even more. As if your hands on him are unbearable. As if you are unbearable.

Your heart clenches so tightly it feels like it might collapse in on itself. “Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You’re breaking my heart.”

For the briefest of moments, something flickers across his expression. Something fleeting, something fragile. But it’s gone before you can grasp onto it, swallowed by the tide of whatever poison they’ve fed him.

His lips part, but no words come, only the silence stretching between you, cold and merciless.

Tears slip down your cheeks, hot against the numbness settling into your bones. You shake your head, refusing to let this be real, refusing to accept that the boy who once held you like you were his whole world now looks at you like you are nothing more than a ghost of something he wishes he could forget.

“I would never leave you there to die.” Your voice is hoarse, raw, carved from something deeper than heartbreak.

But Finnick only looks at you like he doesn’t believe you.

Finnick exhales, slow and sharp, like he’s trying to hold something in—something dangerous, something volatile. His hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching as if itching to lash out, to grab onto something, to make this feeling stop.

“They told me everything,” he murmurs, and there’s something distant about the way he says it, like he’s reciting a fact, like he’s just now realizing the full weight of it. “How you left me in that arena. How you saved yourself and let me suffer.” His sea-green eyes bore into you, darkened with something cruel, something unbearable. “I should’ve died there. I would’ve died there if I was lucky.”

Your throat tightens. His words are salt in an open wound, stinging, burning, seeping into the rawest parts of you. You shake your head, stepping closer, reaching out despite the way he flinches. “Finnick, please. That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He won’t hear you. His voice rises, every syllable heavier than the last, suffocating in its weight. “You let them take me.” The accusation slices through the air, through you, straight to the marrow of your bones. “You let them drag me away, and now you think you can stand here and pretend like you care? Like you ever cared at all?”

“I do care,” you whisper, but it’s drowned out by the storm unraveling in front of you.

Finnick’s breathing grows unsteady, his body taut like a wire stretched too thin, fraying at the edges. His fists clench and unclench, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting something unseen, something warring inside of him. His shoulders tremble, his entire frame locked in battle with itself, with the ghosts clawing at his mind.

“Get away from me.” His voice is lower now, raw and laced with something just shy of a snarl. “I can’t—” He swallows thickly, his breath coming out harsh and uneven. “I can’t be around you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your limbs feel heavy, your skin ice-cold, but you force yourself to stand your ground. “Finnick, I’m not leaving you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, fragile and desperate. “Not now. Not ever.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something you want to believe is hesitation, but before you can reach for him again, a firm hand clasps around your upper arm.

“Come on,” a voice urges—one of the soldiers, firm but not unkind.

You try to shake them off, to dig your heels into the floor, but Finnick’s gaze stops you in your tracks. The way his expression twists, the way his body shakes as his breathing grows erratic—it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“Get her out of here,” another voice commands.

“No, wait,” you plead, struggling as the grip on your arm tightens, as another set of hands joins the first, dragging you back, forcing distance between you and him.

Finnick stumbles back, his chest heaving, his hands threading into his hair like he’s trying to rip something out of himself. His entire body quivers, like a wave cresting too high, about to break.

Your own body thrashes against the hold keeping you away from him. “Finnick, please, listen to me! It wasn’t like that! You have to believe me!”

But he isn’t looking at you anymore. He turns away, his breathing sharp, his entire frame locked in place as if afraid to move, afraid to break.

And then you’re gone—hauled through the doorway, dragged down the hall, your screams swallowed by the sterile walls of District 13.

The last thing you see before the doors shut is Finnick, hunched over, hands gripping his head, like he’s drowning in a tide he cannot escape.

~

You sat with Haymitch outside of Katniss’ room, the dim, sterile hall stretching endlessly in front of you. The air was thick with something suffocating, something you couldn’t name—grief, maybe. Or something worse.

Apparently, Peeta was in the same condition as Finnick. Hijacked. Twisted. Warped. Their minds were tampered with, their memories poisoned, their love rewritten into something unrecognizable. Snow had not only taken them—he had turned them into weapons, sharpened and honed for one singular purpose.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Finnick despised you now, or the gnawing, gut-wrenching fear that the Finnick you once knew might never come back.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your knees to your chest. Your fingers curled and uncurled, your wrists rolling to shake off the numbness, to rid yourself of the ghost of his touch—the rigidness of his body beneath your hands, the way he flinched at your presence like you were something vile, something rotten. It made your skin crawl. Not because of him. Never because of him.

Because of what they did to him.

Because of the way you made him feel.

“It’s not your fault.” Haymitch’s voice cut through the silence, rough and low, but not unkind.

You turned your head to look at him, at the wreck of a man beside you. Haymitch looked like hell—more so than usual. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but beneath it, there was something else. A deep, quiet horror. Like he had seen this before. Lived it. Survived it, but barely.

You had heard the stories. What the Capitol did to him. What he endured in his games, and after.

Your throat tightened, a bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “Should’ve been me.” Your voice was hoarse, raw from screaming, from pleading with someone who no longer wanted to hear it.

Haymitch scoffed, pulling a flask from God-knows-where, twisting it in his hands before taking a swig. “No, it shouldn’t have.” He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared ahead, gaze locked on something distant, something only he could see. “You wouldn’t have lasted long enough in there.”

Your jaw clenched, a protest forming on your tongue, but he cut you off before you could speak.

“You don’t have the mind for it. The will for it. You’d break faster than Peeta. Hell, maybe worse.” He finally turned his head, meeting your gaze, his gray eyes softer than you had ever seen them. It unsettled you more than his usual cynicism.

You sucked in a breath, tilting your head back against the cold, lifeless wall. Your eyes burned as you bit down on your lip, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape. Your heart ached, a deep, gnawing pain that felt like drowning, like being dragged under a current too strong to fight.

It was unbearable. Unyielding. You didn’t know how to deal with it. You weren’t sure you ever would.

Haymitch sighed, running a tired hand down his face before taking another sip. “It’s a process, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “But you need to hang on. For both of you.”

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, gripping the fabric so tightly it might tear. He was right. You hated that he was right.

And you hated that, despite everything, despite the venom in Finnick’s voice and the ice in his eyes, you would wait for him as long as it took.

~

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders squared, as if bracing for a fight that will never come. As if standing like this, standing strong, will keep you from falling apart.

Your gaze is fixed on Finnick’s chest, on the slow, steady rise and fall that proves he is still here, still breathing. He looks peaceful like this. Almost untouched by everything that has happened, everything that has been done to him.

But you know better.

His fingers twitch from time to time, grasping at something unseen, someone unseen. A phantom touch. A memory slipping through his grasp.

You stay where you are, unmoving, barely breathing, watching him from a distance. Is this what it will be now? Is this all you’ll have left? Watching him from afar, knowing the only time he’ll ever look peaceful is when he’s unconscious? Knowing that the moment he stirs, it’s because of the nightmares?

Something acidic rises in your throat, burning, bitter, unbearable. The taste of grief, maybe. The taste of something you cannot name, something that twists your insides and leaves you hollow. You swallow it down, but it lingers, coating your tongue, settling deep inside you.

You hate this. You hate all of it.

All you want is to be in his arms, to lay your head against his chest and pretend that the world isn’t burning above you. Pretend that nothing has changed. Pretend that he still loves you.

But you stay in the doorway, feet rooted to the cold, unforgiving ground. Watching from a distance. Because that is all you have now. This is all you have now.

Footsteps echo softly against the cold floor, breaking the silence that has settled around you like a heavy fog. The sudden sound startles you, your body tensing as you instinctively turn on your heel, your fists clenching at your sides, ready to strike if necessary. But the moment your eyes catch the familiar cascade of long auburn hair, your shoulders ease, the fight within you slipping away just as quickly as it had risen.

Annie stands a few feet away, hesitant but unwavering, a quiet understanding reflected in the softness of her expression. There’s no pity in her gaze—only recognition, as if she knows exactly what kind of storm is brewing inside you without you having to say a word. A small, tentative smile tugs at her lips, a gesture so simple yet filled with warmth.

"It’s been a while, hasn’t it?" she says, her voice gentle, lacking the weight of expectation. She isn’t here to force words from you or demand answers you don’t have the strength to give. She is simply here.

You study her for a moment, unsure how to respond, as if the simple acknowledgment of time passing feels like an admission of how much has changed. Eventually, you nod, the motion slow, measured. "Yeah, it has," you murmur, your voice carrying the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered questions.

Annie doesn’t waver, doesn’t take the hint to leave you to your silence. Instead, she steps forward, closing the space between you in a way that isn’t intrusive, only familiar. She settles beside you, mirroring your posture as she leans lightly against the wall, her presence steady and unshaken.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your gaze cautious, guarded. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t probe. She only offers a quiet reassurance that you hadn’t realized you needed.

"Relax," she murmurs, as if sensing the lingering tension coiled in your muscles. "It’s just me."

Her words should be meaningless, just a simple reassurance, but somehow, they carry weight. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tightness in your chest easing—if only just a little.

Annie doesn’t expect you to talk. She just stays, letting the silence stretch between you in a way that feels less suffocating, less lonely.

Annie stands beside you, silent at first, her fingers idly twisting at the fabric of her sleeve. The air between you is heavy, thick with unspoken words, yet neither of you rushes to break it. The weight of everything—of what’s happened, of what’s still happening—lingers between breaths, settling deep in the space where grief and exhaustion intertwine.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but steady, as if she has rehearsed the words in her mind too many times before. “They kept me locked in a room without windows.” She doesn’t look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present, lost in a memory she can’t escape. “At first, it was just isolation. No light, no sound. Just me and the walls. I don’t know how long they left me there before they started asking questions.”

You don’t say anything. You barely breathe.

“They didn’t care about me,” she continues, voice devoid of emotion, like she’s reciting something detached from herself. “They wanted Finnick. Wanted to know how much he knew, how much he’d be willing to trade for me.” Her fingers curl around the hem of her sleeve, twisting it tighter. “I told them he didn’t know anything, but they didn’t believe me. They kept saying he would talk if he knew what was happening to me. If he thought they’d kill me.”

A sick feeling crawls up your throat. You grip your arms, trying to steady yourself.

Annie exhales slowly, as if forcing the weight of those memories from her chest. “But they weren’t just trying to break him. They were breaking all of us.” Her voice tightens slightly, but she pushes on. “Johanna—she fought them at first. Wouldn’t give them what they wanted. They stripped her of everything, piece by piece, until she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, trying to steel yourself against the wave of emotions threatening to pull you under.

“And Peeta…” Annie hesitates. “I never saw him, but I heard him. Sometimes, in the halls. The way he screamed… I knew they were doing something different to him. Something worse.” She finally looks at you, her green eyes filled with something raw, something fragile yet unbreakable. “They weren’t just hurting him. They were remaking him.”

A sharp, searing pain twists in your chest.

You shake your head, trying to will away the image of Peeta trapped in the Capitol, his mind being twisted into something unrecognizable. “And Finnick?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it, your voice barely above a whisper.

Annie hesitates, and that hesitation alone is enough to make your stomach drop.

“When they realized they couldn’t break him, they made him believe something worse,” she says finally, her voice so soft it’s almost lost beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights. “They made him believe you left him there. That you abandoned him.”

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“They told him you were never really on his side. That you used him. That he was nothing more than a tool to you.” Annie shakes her head, jaw tightening.

A sharp, visceral pain shoots through your chest, so intense that for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Annie notices. “I don’t believe it,” she says quickly. “And I don’t think—deep down—he does either. But they got inside his head. They took everything he was feeling and twisted it.”

Your vision blurs as a lump lodges itself in your throat. You’ve always imagined the worst, always wondered what they must have done to him, but hearing it like this makes it real. Makes it undeniable.

Your nails dig into your arms as you force the words out, your voice barely holding together. “I would never leave him.”

Annie’s expression softens, but there’s something pained in the way she looks at you. “I know that. You know that. But Finnick… Finnick isn’t himself right now.” She hesitates before adding, “That doesn’t mean he’s lost forever.”

But what if he is? What if the Finnick you love, the Finnick who loves you, is gone?

“I should have—” Your voice breaks, and you shake your head, unable to even finish the thought.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Annie says, her voice firm despite its softness. “Nothing any of us could have done.”

But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like you failed him. Like you lost him.

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to keep the tears at bay. “I just want him back.” The words come out fragile, almost childlike. “The real him.”

Annie’s expression softens. “So do I,” she murmurs. “And I think, when all of this is over, he’ll find his way back.”

Neither of you speaks after that. There’s nothing left to say.

Instead, you both stand there, side by side, drowning in the weight of everything that’s been taken from you.

~

It has been a month since Finnick and the others were rescued. A month of waiting, of hoping, of slowly unraveling under the weight of what has been lost. Finnick and Annie were cleared after two weeks. Johanna still has one more week under observation. And Peeta—Peeta is making no progress at all.

You visit Annie and Johanna most often. It feels easier, in a way. Johanna makes jokes sharp enough to slice through your grief, her bitterness grounding you when you start to spiral. Annie doesn’t say much, but when she looks at you, there is an understanding in her gaze that makes it easier to breathe. Even in silence, she sees you. She sees the way you are trying to move forward, to convince yourself that there is still something ahead of you and not just the gaping void Finnick’s indifference has left behind.

But every conversation ends the same way. No matter how much you pretend, no matter how much you try to stitch yourself back together, you always end up right where you started—wallowing in the emptiness, drowning in the cold distance Finnick has placed between you. Every moment without him feels stretched thin, an unbearable ache that never eases. The man you love is right there, close enough to touch, but it might as well be miles. He does not look at you. He does not speak to you. And if he does, it is with an apathy that cuts deeper than any blade.

Sometimes, when the weight of it becomes too much, you visit Peeta. Maybe because you think if you can bring him back, there’s hope for Finnick too. Maybe because you need to see what the Capitol did to him—to both of them—to remind yourself that this isn’t your fault. But Peeta isn’t Peeta. He flinches when Katniss’ name is mentioned, his voice is sharp, and his words are laced with venom. And yet, all you can see is Finnick.

You see it in the way Peeta looks at Katniss like she is the enemy, the same way Finnick now looks at you. You see it in the way his hands curl into fists when she enters the room, the same way Finnick tenses whenever you are near. You see it in the way his voice is edged with something hollow, something broken, something that does not belong to him. And you remember. You remember the cold detachment in Finnick’s eyes, the way his hands no longer cradle your face but push you away, the way his words are no longer laced with warmth but with quiet, unshakable hatred.

It makes your skin crawl. Makes you want to run. Makes you want to claw at your own chest and rip out whatever it is inside you that still dares to hope. You wish this was just a nightmare, something fleeting, something you could wake up from. But there is no waking up from this. There is only time. And with every passing day, Finnick becomes less of the man you loved and more of a stranger wearing his face.

So you tell yourself that whoever came back isn’t him. That the Finnick you love is still somewhere out there, lost in the wreckage of what the Capitol did to him. That this man—the one who won’t meet your gaze, the one who does not say your name, the one who acts as if you are nothing—is an impostor. A hollow thing trying to be him. Because that is easier than accepting the truth.

Because the truth is, if Finnick is truly gone, you do not know how to keep going without him.

Maybe that’s why everything is starting to blur, the edges of the world dulling into shades of gray. Nothing feels sharp anymore, nothing feels real. You’ve stopped trying to move forward. Instead, you let the grief sink its claws into you, dragging you under, hoping—maybe even begging—that it swallows you whole. Anything to keep from waking up another day, from dragging yourself through the motions, from existing in a world where everything you do, everything you see, everything you feel is stained with the absence of him.

You speak less. See people less. The days pass without meaning, slipping through your fingers like sand. Most of your time is spent in silence, lying on the stiff mattress of your bunker, staring at the ceiling, waiting. For what, you don’t know. Maybe for Finnick. Maybe for something else. Maybe for nothing at all.

But no matter how much you try to numb yourself, no matter how much you try to pretend it doesn’t tear you apart, the truth still sits in the hollow of your chest, pressing against your ribs like a caged scream.

You don’t last like this forever. Although you wish you had. But Coin doesn’t let opportunities slip through her fingers, especially not when she sees potential. And you? You’re efficient. You know weapons, you know how to track, how to move unnoticed. That makes you useful.

So she forces you out of your bunker, shoving you into training, into preparation, until suddenly, you’re being sent out on expeditions. To hunt, to kill, to spy. It doesn’t matter. You don’t ask questions. You just get the job done. Because what else is there to do?

Of course, the others notice. Katniss has been trying to get you to talk, to tell her what Coin is making you do. You learn, unwillingly, that she’s being forced to make propaganda films to strengthen the revolution. The idea of it makes you want to laugh. What difference does a camera make when people are already dying?

But it’s Haymitch who’s the most persistent. And that surprises you.

At first, you assume it’s just boredom. He doesn’t have alcohol to drown himself in, so maybe he’s looking for something else to pass the time. But the more he seeks you out, the more you realize it’s something deeper. He watches you too closely, the way your hands stay clenched at your sides, the way you don’t sleep, the way you barely eat. He sees through you.

And he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Come on, sweetheart, we both know what she’s doing,” Haymitch mutters one day, cornering you outside the training room. “She’s using you up until there’s nothing left.”

You scoff, shouldering past him. “You say that like I have anything left to begin with.”

He doesn’t let you go so easily. His grip snags your wrist, firm but not forceful, just enough to make you pause. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” His voice is quieter now, but sharper. “You’re letting her turn you into something you don’t even recognize.”

You rip your arm free, glaring. “What do you care?”

Haymitch exhales roughly, raking a hand through his hair. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, he says, “Because I’ve been where you are. And it doesn’t end well.”

You freeze. Something tightens in your chest, but you shove it down, scoffing. “I’m not you.”

“No. You’re not,” Haymitch agrees. “But you’re on the same damn path.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You think if you throw yourself into this, if you bleed enough for the cause, it’ll make up for everything? That it’ll bring him back?”

Your stomach twists violently. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cuts in, relentless. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything? To watch the people you love get taken from you, piece by piece, until you don’t even know who you are anymore?” His jaw tightens, his eyes dark with something old and painful. “I drank myself into oblivion to cope. You? You’re letting Coin use you as a weapon, like that’s any better.”

His words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. Because you know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while now. But admitting it—saying it out loud—that’s something else entirely.

Your throat burns. “You don’t understand.”

“The hell I don’t.” Haymitch shakes his head, exasperated. “You were Mags’ girl. She would’ve died before letting you turn into this.”

Something inside you cracks at that. You whirl on him, rage and grief twisting together. “Mags is dead.”

“And so is Finnick, if you keep this up,” Haymitch snaps back. “Because when he finally does come back to himself, do you think he’s gonna recognize you? Or are you just gonna be another ghost?”

The words hit deeper than you want to admit. A cold, ugly truth settling in your bones.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because the anger, the bitterness, the grief—it’s all rising too fast, threatening to suffocate you. Haymitch sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not saying this to piss you off,” he mutters. “I’m saying it because someone has to.”

You swallow hard, looking away. “So what? You want me to stop?”

“I want you to remember who the hell you are,” Haymitch says. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna lose yourself completely. And I know for a fact Mags didn’t raise you to be some mindless soldier.”

The silence between you is heavy, filled with too many unspoken things. But for the first time in weeks, something inside you stirs. A flicker of something—doubt, regret, maybe even hope.

Haymitch doesn’t push you any further. He just exhales and steps back, giving you space to decide for yourself. “Think about it,” he says, before walking away.

And you do.

For the first time in a long time, you really do.

~

The underground bunker hums with quiet activity, a constant murmur of voices and the soft scuff of boots against the cold floors. The air feels heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of too many people forced into the same confined space. You should be paying attention, listening for updates, but none of it registers. It hasn’t in a long time. Your mind remains distant, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the dull ache of something deeper, something you don’t have the strength to name.

Your feet carry you forward without thought, drawn to a space you shouldn’t be seeking out. Finnick’s cot is just another part of the bunker, another piece of fabric stretched too thin over metal, indistinguishable from the dozens of others. And yet, you always find yourself looking for it, searching for some trace of the past, as if by sheer force of will, you might bring back what has already been lost.

The dim lighting catches on something small resting against the rumpled sheets. A glint of gold, barely noticeable but impossible to ignore. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, stopping you in your tracks before you even realize what it is.

Your fingers close around it almost on instinct, the cool metal familiar against your skin. You don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. The weight of it alone is enough to tell you that this is the same locket, the one you once traced with your fingers on nights when the world felt too vast, too cruel. The one that held a piece of you and a piece of him.

The clasp resists when you try to open it, as if the locket itself is reluctant to reveal its secret, but after a moment, it gives way. Your breath catches the moment you see what’s inside.

Your own face, captured in a moment frozen in time.

The sight of it steals the air from your lungs, a sharp ache blooming in your chest. You knew this locket, knew what it contained, but seeing it here, now, in his possession—it doesn’t make sense. If he believed what they told him, if the Capitol had truly twisted his mind against you, why would he still have this? Why would he keep something that tethered him to you?

Your fingers tighten around the locket, the edges pressing into your palm as if grounding you in reality. For the first time in weeks, doubt begins to take root, curling into something almost dangerous.

A voice breaks through the silence, low and familiar, stopping your thoughts in their tracks.

"Did anyone tell you that touching someone else’s stuff is rude?"

The words send a shock through you, and your breath stutters in your throat. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Finnick.

His tone isn’t harsh, isn’t cold or cutting like you feared it might be. It simply exists, filling the space between you in a way that makes your pulse hammer against your ribs. After everything—after weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending you don’t exist—he’s speaking to you. Acknowledging you.

Slowly, you force yourself to turn, meeting his gaze for the first time since the medical bay. The sight of him knocks the air from your lungs. He looks like himself, and yet not at all. The sharpness of his features remains, the familiar curve of his mouth, the green of his eyes—but there’s something different. The exhaustion clings to him like a second skin, his expression guarded in a way that sends a painful twist through your chest.

For a moment, neither of you move. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant noise of the bunker around you. Then, hesitantly, you lift the locket, the gold catching in the dim light as you hold it between you. His gaze flickers to it, something unreadable passing across his face.

He doesn’t snatch it away, doesn’t shove it into his pocket as if ashamed to have been caught with it. Instead, his fingers brush against the metal, slow and deliberate, before he takes it from your grasp. His thumb traces over the worn surface, lingering over the picture inside, his jaw tightening slightly as he studies it.

You watch him, heart lodged in your throat, afraid to speak and shatter whatever fragile moment has formed between you. For the first time in weeks, something shifts in the space between you—not enough to undo the damage, not enough to bring back what was lost, but enough to spark the faintest flicker of something you thought had been extinguished forever.

"Why do you have it?"

Your voice is quieter than you intended, barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. The question lingers between you, pressing against the silence, desperate for an answer. You need him to say something—anything—that tells you he’s still in there, that beneath all the hatred, all the distance, there’s still a part of him that hasn’t let you go.

Finnick’s brows knit together, his gaze still locked on the locket in his palm as if the answer might be hidden in its worn edges. His fingers tighten around it, thumb tracing the familiar grooves, but he doesn’t speak.

The silence stretches, wrapping around you like a slow-moving tide. The world around you dulls, fading into nothing but the space between you and him. It’s been so long since you’ve had this—just him, just you. Even now, when everything feels different, wrong, broken, you can’t help but reach for what you lost.

Seconds drag into eternity, but you won’t back down. You’ve spent too many weeks pretending you could survive this distance when all you really wanted was to collapse into his arms, to hear him say something that could put you back together again.

Finally, he exhales, the sound barely audible, as if he’s been holding it in for too long. "I don’t know."

His voice is rough, strained, like the words cost him something. For the briefest moment, his eyes soften, something vulnerable flashing through them before it’s gone. He closes them, his lashes brushing against his cheek, his throat moving as he swallows hard.

You watch him carefully, memorizing him all over again. As if you haven’t traced every inch of his face before. As if you don’t already know every scar, every freckle, every shift of emotion that he tries to hide.

He looks exposed beneath your gaze, like the weight of your stare is too much, like he wants to run from it.

“I’ll tell you what,” you say, voice softer than you meant it to be. His eyes open at that, locking onto yours, and for a second, your breath falters. You could drown in that gaze. You always could.

Swallowing, you force yourself to keep steady, to say what you need to say. "Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

"Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

Finnick doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just holds your gaze like he’s caught between disbelief and something else, something heavier. His fingers curl around the locket, his grip tightening for a second before loosening again.

"What truth?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like he’s daring you to say something he won’t be able to ignore.

You take a breath, steadying yourself even as your chest tightens. "That the Capitol didn’t take everything from you."

His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. "You think you know what they did to me?" His laugh is humorless, bitter, the kind that scrapes against old wounds. "You think you understand what’s in my head?"

"I don’t have to understand it to know that this—" you gesture to the locket in his hand, "—means something. That you kept it for a reason."

Finnick exhales sharply, his fingers flexing, his shoulders rising with tension. "Or maybe I just forgot to throw it away."

The words sting, sharp and cruel, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you step closer, closing the space between you. His breath hitches for just a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his body tenses, like he’s fighting something within himself.

"Then do it." Your voice is steady, a challenge. "If it doesn’t mean anything, if I don’t mean anything, then throw it away."

Finnick says nothing. His grip tightens around the locket again, but his hand doesn’t move.

Your throat feels tight, but you press on. "I know you, Finnick. I spent nights tracing your scars on your skin, and so did you. And I know that no matter what they did to you, no matter what they forced into your head, some part of you still remembers."

His breath is uneven now, his gaze flickering away, like he can’t bear to look at you.

"Tell me I don’t matter," you say, voice softer now, almost pleading. "Tell me that locket doesn’t mean anything. And I’ll leave you alone."

Finnick stares at the locket in his palm, shoulders drawn tight like he’s caught in a battle you can’t see. His fingers hover over the clasp, as if debating whether to close it, tuck it away, or crush it in his grip. But he does none of those things. Instead, he just stands there, the weight of your words pressing down on him like an anchor.

You wait, heart hammering against your ribs, but he doesn’t speak.

"Finnick." You take another step, your voice softer now, hesitant. "Please."

His jaw clenches. "You think this changes anything?"

"It changes everything," you counter. "You’ve been pretending I don’t exist, but you kept this. Why?"

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes, something that makes your stomach twist painfully. "I don’t know," he admits, and for the first time since he came back, he sounds… lost.

It guts you more than the indifference ever did.

You don’t realize you’ve reached for his hand until your fingers brush against his. His skin is warm, familiar, but he flinches like you’ve burned him. He doesn’t pull away, though. Doesn’t shove you aside like you half expect him to.

"You do know," you whisper.

His breath shudders as he finally lifts his gaze to yours. The exhaustion clings to his face, but beneath it, there’s something else—a flicker of recognition, of a battle waging inside him.

"You said if I told you that locket doesn’t mean anything, you’d leave me alone." His voice is quieter now, almost hesitant.

You nod, forcing yourself to hold steady, even as your chest tightens. "I meant it."

Finnick swallows, gaze dropping to the locket again. His thumb brushes over the worn gold, over the tiny latch that guards your picture inside. Another long silence stretches between you, the tension pulling tight, suffocating.

Then, finally—so quiet you almost miss it—he exhales, "I can’t."

Your breath catches. "Can’t what?"

His fingers tighten around the locket, his shoulders rising with a shuddering breath. "I can’t say it doesn’t mean anything."

The air between you shifts, something fragile and dangerous crackling in the space. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative and unsteady, but real.

"Then stop pretending like I don’t exist," you whisper.

Finnick’s throat bobs as he swallows. He looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, teetering between fear and familiarity. His lips part, but before he can say anything, a voice calls from across the bunker.

"Odair, let’s go!"

Finnick tenses, something closing off in his expression again. His fingers curl around the locket, hiding it from view, and just like that, the moment shatters.

You watch as he steps back, his face unreadable again. But before he turns away completely, you see it—the way his hand lingers near his pocket, the locket still clutched tight in his palm.

He doesn’t throw it away.

And this time, you let yourself believe that means something.

[romerona]

The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years (a rare moment of decency among men in House of the Dragon, but let's roll with it).

However, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other, setting the stage for a classic love-hate relationship.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: kids being kids.

The second encounter.

Next

Cregan Stark lingered by the sweets spread, trying his best to fade into the carved wooden panels that lined Dragonstone’s grand banquet hall. The lavish celebration for Prince Aemond’s second name day was in full swing, the chamber brimming with lords and ladies draped in silks and velvets. Overhead, crystal chandeliers cast dancing lights across the polished floors, while the mingling scents of spiced meats, honey cakes, and salt-laced sea air reminded Cregan just how far he was from the North.

He would not have chosen to be here of his own accord—his father, Lord Rickon, had insisted upon it. The North had to show deference to the crown, and so here he was, a wolf trapped among gaudy southern birds. The swirl of vibrant fabrics and the swirl of conversation grated on him, making him feel more foreign with each passing moment.

He absently picked at an apple tart, gaze drifting around the hall. Laughter rolled in waves, bright silks shimmered, and voices overlapped like waves against a rocky shore. Then he saw you.

You, just eight summers old, stood on the dance floor, your silver hair braided and held in place by glittering dragon clips. A genial lord—perhaps one of your father’s many courtiers—guided you through a stately dance, each step practised and careful. Your gown of pale red silk, shot through with gold thread, flared as you twirled, catching the light as if it were spun from Dragonfire. Beside you, Princess Rhaenyra clapped politely, regal and composed, yet it was you who drew every eye, all luminous joy and childlike grace.

You seemed taller than he recalled—though still slight in that dainty, southern way. Everyone knew that you and your elder sister were the King’s favorites, and your presence commanded a sort of reverence. Lords angled for a moment of your attention, ladies curtsied and cooed with honeyed compliments. It was as though the court revolved around you.

From her seat by the King, Queen Alicent watched you dance and laugh. Her mouth curved in a careful smile, but even at ten, Cregan could sense it was a mask. The queen, he suspected, did not relish sharing Viserys’s affections with the daughters who stole so much of his warmth.

He glowered at the thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Honestly, what made you so remarkable? You were willful, well-pampered, prone to speak your mind, and insufferable too, if anyone were to ask him. You weren’t that special. Plenty of other children had those traits, too. And yet—no matter how he tried to turn his attention elsewhere, his gaze kept straying back to you, spinning in the lord’s gentle arms, your soft laughter rising above the music as if it had a life all its own.

Cregan stiffened the moment you approached, his posture snapping to an almost militant straightness as though he were preparing for a lecture rather than a conversation. The mischievous gleam in your lilac eyes immediately set his jaw tight—it was the same infuriating spark that had earned him countless reprimands from his father for failing to act with proper decorum around you. You sank into a delicate curtsy, the motion practised and graceful, yet the teasing quirk of your lips betrayed any semblance of genuine respect.

“Princess,” he greeted you with a curt bow, voice clipped. “What an unexpected honour.”

Your tone dripped with feigned gravity as you replied, “The honour is all mine, my lord. Stumbling upon the northern wolf lurking beside the sweetmeats… One might almost think you’ve been tamed.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed in irritation, a flash of defiance sparking in his grey eyes.

“A wolf doesn’t require taming, Your Highness,” he countered. “I stand exactly where I choose.”

You tilted your head toward the table piled high with sweetmeats and pastries, your voice light with false innocence. “And this is where you choose to linger, Lord Stark? Tell me, do the pastries in Winterfell rival these in quality?”

His retort was clipped. “They’re simpler, yes—but far more to my taste than this… southern absurdity.”

You drew a theatrical gasp, hand pressing over your heart. “How you wound me, my lord. Are you implying that life in the North eclipses all else?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “I do not imply. I state fact.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief, your voice carrying an air of mock civility. “Well, I ought not to take this as an offence. After all, it’s remarkable that you manage the common tongue so gracefully, considering your… brutish northern customs. Tell me, Lord Stark, do you and your kin still howl to your old gods beneath trees, hoping for a reply?”

Cregan’s hand tightened around the tart, the edges of the crust crumbling under the force of his grip. His jaw locked, and his stormy gaze fixed on you with a warning glare. “Since we’re trading such pleasant observations, Princess, perhaps we should turn our attention to dragons—or rather, your conspicuous lack of one.”

The teasing light that danced in your lilac eyes extinguished instantly. Your expression sharpened, the flush of indignation colouring your cheeks.

“What did you say?” you demanded, your voice like the edge of a blade.

Cregan didn’t flinch, folding his arms as he leaned slightly forward, his tone steady and deliberate.

“I said,” he repeated, drawing out each word with an almost casual air, “that a Targaryen princess without a dragon… is painfully ordinary.”

Your entire body stiffened at his words, and your hands curled into tight fists at your sides. Your face burned, the flush deepening as you glared up at him with fiery intensity.

“You will take that back,” you hissed, your voice trembling with barely restrained fury.

“I will not,” he replied simply, meeting your gaze without so much as a blink. It was a standoff, the air between you crackling like kindling set alight, neither willing to back down.

Before he could utter another syllable, you thrust both hands against his chest. The force of the shove made him stagger backwards, one heel catching on the table’s wooden frame. In a desperate bid for balance, he reached out, only for his fingers to catch the trailing hem of your fine silk gown.

The sound of ripping fabric tore through the air, followed by a cacophony of disaster as you both tumbled backwards onto the table. The grand centrepiece—a towering, intricately decorated cake—collapsed under your combined weight, sending frosting, crumbs, and sugar flowers flying in every direction.

For a moment, the hall was silent, the music grinding to a halt as every pair of eyes turned toward the spectacle. The only sound was the slow, steady drip of frosting onto the polished floor.

Cregan blinked up at the chaos, realizing he was sprawled awkwardly amid a sea of ruined confections. Beside him, you were similarly dishevelled, your silver hair streaked with frosting, your gown torn and stained with layers of cream and crumbs.

“You… absolute… oaf!” you hissed through clenched teeth, scrambling to sit up, your lilac eyes blazing with fury. With surprising agility, you scrambled onto him, flailing your small fists in a chaotic flurry.

“You shoved me!” Cregan barked, raising his arms to fend off your flurry of tiny fists. Your attempts to pummel him were more chaotic than effective, but you were determined.

“You insulted me!” you countered, your voice sharp with indignation.

“And you called me a brute!” Cregan retorted, his voice rising in frustration as he seized your wrists, halting your frantic blows.

“That’s because you are a brute!” you snapped, wrenching your arms free with a sharp tug. Your small frame trembled with indignation as you raised a tiny fist, ready to land what you clearly thought would be a devastating blow—but before you could make contact, a broad-shouldered knight, Ser Harwin Strong, intervened.

In one swift motion, he scooped you up and hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of grain, preventing any further skirmish while you continued to struggle, your fury undiminished. His expression was caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Unhand me, Ser Harwin!” you demanded, still reaching out in an attempt to land your blow, your face aflame with indignation. But Ser Harwin only tightened his hold, keeping you securely aloft as your small fists flailed at empty air.

“Cregan.”

He froze the moment that familiar voice reached his ears—low, firm, and unmistakably displeased. Heart thudding, Cregan scrambled upright, hastily brushing crumbs and frosting from his tunic in a futile attempt to salvage some semblance of dignity, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as he prepared to face his father, Lord Rickon Stark, whose stern grey eyes were now fixed on his son’s every move.

And then, beyond the circle of onlookers, came the voice of King Viserys. The instant he called your name, your thrashing ceased as if a spell had been broken. One fist remained clenched mid-swing, but the sound of your father’s stern summons froze you in place. You wriggled once more on Ser Harwin Strong’s shoulder before going limp with a huff of frustration, clearly aware that further resistance would only make matters worse.

The great hall seemed to hold its breath as King Viserys stepped forward, his frown deepening at the sight of the battered dessert table and his frosting-smeared daughter. Guards and courtiers parted to let him pass, and in the stillness that followed, every eye was fixed on you and the young Stark lord who stood before you, equally dishevelled.

The King’s gaze swept over the scene: the shattered remnants of the centrepiece cake, frosting streaked across the floor, and two children—one caked in sugar and silk, the other in crumbs and frayed northern dignity—standing stiffly before him. His expression shifted from confusion to thinly veiled disappointment as the whispers around the hall grew.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but carried the commanding weight of the crown. “What in the Seven Hells is the meaning of this?”

Ser Harwin carefully lowered you to the ground as though handling a volatile brew. You straightened your spine as best you could, brushing futilely at the frosting streaked across your gown. Despite your bedraggled appearance, you jutted your chin up stubbornly, attempting to smudge away stray frosting with all the dignity you could muster—though you succeeded only in spreading more crumbs along your sleeve. You shot a fiery glare at Cregan, who still looked like he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

Lord Rickon Stark chose that moment to step forward, clearing his throat. “Your Grace, my son—”

Viserys raised a hand, silencing him without a word. All eyes were on the King, and he, in turn, focused on the two of you with a mix of bewilderment and annoyance.

“Princess,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You will speak first.”

You gave an indignant huff, shooting another scornful glance at Cregan before reluctantly turning to face your father.

“He insulted me grievously, Father—told me I was ordinary because I do not yet ride a dragon!” Her lilac eyes flashed, and she swiped another glob of cake from her hair with a wrinkled nose. “So I merely defended my honour.”

“Aye, by launching yourself at me,” Cregan muttered, though he tried to appear calm, there was no hiding the stiff set of his shoulders—or a dollop of frosting sliding down his cheek. “And need I remind you, Princess, that you provoked me first by comparing my prayers to… howling at the moon?”

A chorus of hushed snickers rippled around them. Viserys’s brow lifted, and for a brief moment, it seemed he fought off a faint smirk.

“I see,” he said, folding his arms. “So, if I follow correctly, you have reduced a royal banquet to a frosted battlefield… because of a few sharp words?”

At that, you set your jaw stubbornly. “Words are not so harmless, Father. They carry weight, and his were particularly unkind.”

“And what of your words?” Cregan interjected, his chin lifting in quiet defiance. “They were none too gentle either, Your Grace.”

You flicked your gaze back to him, a sharp retort already on your tongue. “Oh, do hush, northern brute. I’d not have wasted my breath if you hadn’t been so—”

“Enough.” Viserys’s voice rang out, firm and commanding, cutting through the rising tension like a blade. The authority in his tone stilled you both, silencing further outbursts.

“You are both of noble blood,” he said, his gaze hard as it swept between the two of you. “This—” he gestured at the ruins of the cake, the scattered fruit, and the stunned courtiers “—is not how nobility ought to conduct itself. Especially not before half the realm’s finest lords and ladies.”

Your cheeks burned hotter than dragonfire, but your pride refused to crumble entirely. “Father, I—”

Viserys’s gaze hardened, silencing your protest before it fully formed. “You will each apologize. Properly.”

Your mouth opened to argue, but his iron stare left no room for negotiation. Your teeth clenched, but with a long-suffering sigh, you turned to Cregan, your lips pressed into a thin line.

“It seems,” you began, each word forced through your stubborn pride, “I owe you an apology.” Your gaze flicked to your father, then back to the northern boy. “By the King’s command, of course.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he met your glare. He gave a shallow bow, his voice measured and formal.

“And I apologize for my words, Princess. However,” he added, unable to stop himself, “they were not spoken without reason.”

Your eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed as though you might lunge at him again. But instead, you stood straighter, fixing him with a withering look. The silence stretched between you, heavy and sharp, until your father cleared his throat pointedly.

Both of you turned away at last, but the exchange between your gazes spoke louder than any words: I despise you.

And his? The feeling is mutual.

Helloooo, I hope you all enjoyed this one mess lol. But Oh, do I love making this. Also, thank you so much for the support, the likes, comments and reblogs, you all really make me have so much motivation.

<3 Thank you so muchhhh.

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[pitchsidestories]

lovers II Keira Walsh x Williamson!Reader

masterlist I word count: 2468

a/n: Hi, we realized that it's our 100th oneshot which sounds absolutely wild, so enjoy. For the readers who wait for the Emily Fox fanfic it will come out next. <3

You were in love with Ibiza.

In love with the beaches and the sunshine, the palm trees and the blue of the ocean.

You were in love with the clubs and bars, your sister and her friends took you to.

But above all, you were in love with your sister’s best friend.

The afternoon sun painted the hotel room in soft golden light as you slipped into a short dress. You could still feel the salty air and the sun from earlier that day on your skin as you began applying mascara to your eyelashes. Except for a bit of hunger, you felt fully content.

“Ready for dinner? You look gorgeous by the way.“, Keiras voice said from behind you.

You hadn’t noticed her coming in.

You flinched, almost stabbing yourself in the eye with the mascara wand.

Keira smiled apologetically at your reflection in the mirror.

You watched as her gaze started to travel down your body, taking in every curve in your tight-fitting dress.

With a smile you turned towards her and bridged the gap between the two of you.

“Are you kidding? Look at you… Your curls are so pretty and soft.“, you whispered, gently running her fingers through her reddish brown hair.

You loved the way the salt water had restored Keiras natural hair texture.

“My curls? I just didn’t straighten my hair.“, she laughed.

Her cheeks flushed slightly, barely visible through the light sunburn on her skin.

Completely enamoured, you beamed at her: “I love it.“

You were about to lean forward to kiss her when someone cleared their throat behind you.

Your heart stopped while you pulled apart. You ran through possible explanations for this situation in your head, just in case you would turn around to face your sister.

Instead, Alex Scott watched the two of you with a knowing grin.

“You do? Oh hi, Alex.“, Keira greeted the former football player.

“Little Williamson is right though. She could have done something with fashion but…“, Alex said without finishing her thought.

You rolled your eyes, she had always tried to convince you to work in the fashion industry but you wouldn’t trade your job as an English teacher in Barcelona for anything in the world.

“She chose to teach people English in Spain and honestly, it was the best decision ever.“, you finished for Alex.

Keira laughed: “I agree with that.“

Leah appeared next to Alex in the doorway. Subconsciously, you tried to put more distance between yourself and Keira.

“Of course, you do, Kei. Because that way you can talk to someone in your mother tongue almost every day. How did the Catalan interview go again?“, your sister teased.

Her best friend released a tired groan: “Don’t remind me.“

Alex changed the subject, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder: “Now that everyone’s dressed up, let’s get some dinner in before we go clubbing.“

“Sounds like a good idea.”, you agreed in a good mood, the sea air made you hungry.

At the restaurant Keira studied the menu thoroughly before looking at you with an innocent smile on her lips.

“Everything here sounds so good, do you want to share?”, she asked.

“Sure.”, you replied happily. Above your heads the fairy lights were switched on and you could hear the waves crashing on to the shore in the background.

The romantic atmosphere was quickly disturbed by your older sister.

“Excuse me? I thought you’d share with me!”, she pouted, sending glances at the Barca player which could kill.

“What about your girlfriend? Doesn’t she want to share with you?”, Keira asked in return, cheeks flushed.

“Yes, Lee, no need to be that dramatic about it.”, Alex Greenwood intervened laughing.

“I’m not dramatic.”, Leah countered smirking.

“That’s just how she’s.”, you explained cheekily.

“Why don’t we order food for the table so we can all share?”, your girlfriend suggested hoping this would calm the Blonde Arsenal defender down.

“Yes, that’s perfect. I’m in.”, the two Alex’s declared grinning.

“Same, you too, Leah?”, you turned around to investigate your sister’s face, waiting for her reaction.

“Sure.”, she nodded, sounding much calmer already.

 “What about a first round of cocktails?”, Jess wanted to know.

“Please.”, Leah answered.

A few minutes later the drinks arrived at your table, beaming you toasted with her. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”, she responded grinning.  

The sweetness and the alcohol sparked the desire in you to touch your lover’s curly hair again.

“Stop it.”, Keira demanded giggling.

“I’m not doing anything.”, you remarked in a not guilty tone.

“Yes, you’re. Stop it.”, she bit her lip nervously.

“Fine.”, you sighed defeated, quickly finishing your cocktail.

After the last sip you stood up smiling delighted at the other girls. “Girls, are we ready for the club now?”

“Let’s go.”, Alex Greenwood chirmed.

The sun was long gone now, the moon and the stars shown brightly as you and your sister former and current teammates joined the Ibizan night life.

Something your sister and you both shared was the passion for music. While Leah preferred to sing you would take every chance you could get to dance. Before Keira your first love has been rhythm and beats.

“Come on, Kei.”, Alex nudged the red-haired woman who admired you from the distance.

“I don’t dance. I’m here for the drinks.”, she waved the sports journalist off.

“But I do. Come on, Alex.”, Leah remarked cheerfully.

“Coming.“, Alex laughed and let the defender pull her into the direction of the dance floor.

The other Alex jumped up as well, following closely behind: “Hey, wait for me.“

You caught Keiras eye from across the room and danced your way over to her. You were not ready to stop yet but you also didn’t want to leave her alone.

Keira reached for your wrist with a laugh: “Stop twirling around, y/n.“

“Why?“, you asked, spinning out of her grasp.

“Just because.“

You stopped for a moment, studying her face. There was something serious and pleading in her eyes that you didn’t understand. You only wanted to continue dancing with your friends. “Keira…“

You interrupted yourself, taking in a sharp breath in surprise as two hands laid on your hips and spun you around.

A man in his mid-thirties and clearly drunk grinned at you. His gaze traveled down to your neckline while he asked you something that your brain didn’t seem to comprehend. Apparently he wanted you to dance with him but everything about him made clear that he had other things in mind than just dancing.

You froze in place, not sure if you felt disgusted or disgusting.

Just when you were about to say something, your sister squeezed between him and you and pushed him back: “Sorry, no. That’s my sister!“

“And she’s already taken.“, Keira added. You hadn’t noticed that Keira had gotten up from her seat as well.

Leahs head whipped towards her best friend: “What?“

“Uhm…“, you mumbled as you watched the man retreat with his hands raised in surrender.

You desperately tried to find a good reason to change the subject but you just couldn’t come up with one.

“Who is it, y/n? One of your colleagues or one of the Barca girlies?“, Leah asked, her voice tinted with anger.

“It’s…uhm…“, you started and forced yourself not to look at Keira. Lying would be so easy right now. But did you actually want to keep hiding?

Your sister got impatient: “Just tell me.“

“Keira.“, was all you could get out and prayed that you made the right choice.

The two best friends looked at each other. Keira nodded slowly: “It’s me.“

“Wait, you?! When? How? She’s my little sister!“ Leahs eyebrows furrowed in anger.

Keira shrugged, trying to keep her voice calm: “In Barcelona… it just happened.“

Your sister turned towards you with her jaw set: “We’ll talk about this tomorrow morning!“

She stormed off without waiting for an answer and you quietly wondered where she would go.

Keira and you ended the night there and went back to your hotel room.

You walked out on the balcony overlooking the ocean, Keira followed right behind you.

“She’s really mad.“, you said nervously into the night sky.

The midfielder wrapped her arms around you and rolled her eyes: “She can’t be mad about this.“

You knew she had a point.

“No, Lee is more upset about the fact that we didn’t tell her.“

“Still. I can talk with her if you want me to.”, Keira offered while you kept watching the waves come and go which was scarily similar to your older sister’s temper. Deep down you knew she would eventually calm down.

“No, I’ll do it, it’s fine.”, you assured the Barcelona player before kissing her temple softly.

For a moment she closed her eyes under your touch. “She’ll be fine.”, the midfielder whispered in a convinced tone as her lips touched yours in a heartfelt kiss.

“What was the kiss for?”, you raised an eyebrow at her curiously.

“For good luck.”, Keira replied smirking.

“But she said tomorrow so maybe we could just go inside and..”, you begun rambling.

“You think that’s a good idea?”, your girlfriend interrupted you with a doubtful look on her face.

“No, I’ll do it now.”, you sighed, knowing fully well that some things shouldn’t be put on hold. Although you’d miss the comforting hug of the midfielder who pretended to hate them but always made an exception for you.

Cautiously you stood at the entry of the hotel room your sister and her girlfriend were staying in. “Lee, can we chat outside?”

Without a word the older blonde got up and put on her shoes, signalling that she was ready to talk to you outside.

For a while the two of you walked silently on the sand which felt still warm under your naked feet.

“So, you and Keira, huh?”, Leah broke the silence, sounding more curious than mad this time.

“Yeah.”, you answered timidly.

“Since when?” the defender continued asking.

“We got closer when she came to Barcelona.”, you confessed.

“That was forever ago.”, she noted slightly hurt by your reply.

“Yes, but we just started dating a few months ago.”, you added quickly. This much was true. Undoubtedly, you always had a soft spot for your sister’s best friend. The more time you two spend together, the more it became obvious that there was more than just friendship.

“And you didn’t tell me.”, Leah swallowed hard through that realization.

“You didn’t ask me.”, you reminded her.

“If you’re dating my best friend? How was I supposed to know.”, she retorted.

“No, in general, it’s mostly about you when you call me.”, you countered.

“I didn’t realize that. I’m sorry. But I thought you’d tell me such things.”, the defender apologized, her skin despite the tan turned pale.

“It’s okay. I guess we weren’t great sisters for each other recently.”, you admitted guiltily.

Leah nodded in reluctant agreement: “I guess we weren’t.“

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, not uncomfortable but thoughtful.

“But we could do better now.“, you said determinedly,

Your sister stopped walking. You only realized that wasn’t on your side anymore after a few more steps.

You turned towards her and caught her staring at you.

“Y/n?“, she asked.

“Yes?“

“Are you happy?“

You smiled at her: “Very.“

“With Kei?“

“Yes.“, you confirmed again.

Leah studied your face for a moment, searching for any indication of a lie before she finally nodded once: “Okay.“

“Okay?“, you echoed with hopefulness in your voice. You didn’t want to fight with your sister. You wanted her and Keira in your life.

Leah kicked up some sand with her shoe: “Yes, okay. I think I can live with that.“

“Good.“, you beamed and slowly continued your walk, waiting for your sister to take her place by your side again.

You thought your talk was over when your sister suddenly spoke up again: “Y/n?“

You looked at her, signalling her to continue.

“Just because you live a life outside of the public eye doesn’t mean I’m not interested in your life or I’m not proud of you.“

Her words caught you by surprise. You frowned at her in confusion. “Wait, you’re proud of me?“

“Why do you sound so surprised? Obviously I’m proud of you.“

You stared down at the fine sand under your feet: “Sorry.“

Another break in your conversation arose. Apparently, struggling to express your emotions properly ran in your family.

“Not everyone has the bravery to go abroad for work… I would not.“, Leah continued.

You looked back up at her: “Really?“

She nodded slowly: “You know how much I love home. And Arsenal. I just couldn’t.“

Hearing this filled you with pride but at the same time, you had to suppress a smile because you really couldn’t imagine your sister anywhere else.

“True, you’re such a homebody.“, you laughed.

Your sister smirked and gave you a small shrug: “See, we’re just very different.“

“Yes, but that’s okay.“, you assured her. You could feel the tension dissolve slowly.

Leah raised an eyebrow: “I will still have to talk to Keira though.“

You let out a groan: “Oh no, not the big sister talk.“

“Oh yes, even for my best friend.“

“Fine, but try and be nice, okay?“, you asked innocently.

“Of course.“

“Thank you.“

She reached over and ruffled through your blonde hair: “Anything for my little sister.“

You tried to get revenge. You two were laughing like children while you chased her down the beach.

You never heard anything about their talk. Both Keira and Leah refused to tell you anything and stubbornly maintained their silence. You didn’t care anyway. They seemed closer than ever and that was all that mattered to you.

The next days were spend at the beach, enjoying the sun and the refreshing coolness of the sea.

“No. I’m not going into the water.“ Keira shook her head determinedly. She had spend the morning straightening her hair but to you, that was not a reason to miss out on swimming.

“Come on.“ You impatiently pulled at her arm.

Leah appeared on Keiras other side, pushing her forward. “You better go now.“

Together you barrelled towards the sea, falling over each as soon as you reached the water. The rest of your friend group burst out laughing,

Keira pushed her now wet hair back. It started to curl at the ends already.

“I hate you Williamsons!“, she laughed.

You kissed her cheek: “No, you don’t.“

“Not really, no.“, Keira admitted and pulled you towards her by your waist to kiss you.

Leah grimaced in disgust: “Okay, but you don’t have to kiss in front of me.“

“Stop complaining.“, you rolled your eyes.

Keira grinned at her: “You better get used to it, Lee.“

[ultravi0lence14]

HIGH TIDE

DEAN WINCHESTER X MERMAID!READER

WARNINGS: hurt/comfort, reader being a baddie

SUMMARY: back at the bunker, sam and dean learn that their fishy friend is more well versed than they assumed.

WORD COUNT: 1.3k

the sound of a whirling air conditioner and freezing cold air was the first thing you felt when you woke up. you were more than groggy; more or less feeling like you’d been hit by a bus none the less.

everything was a blur. you remembered saving that kid, watching as that man stared at you from his place in the ocean, but you couldn’t pin point what happened afterward. it was all blurs of pain, anguish, and a weird comfort followed by the feeling of smooth leather under your skin.

your eyes had yet to peel open, the throws of darkness keeping you company as you laid limp on a cold surface. as your senses started to come back, you could faintly hear voices arguing; two, to be exact.

“what are we going to do with her?” voice number one asked, voice lilted in that of slight anger. “we’ve never dealt with a problem like this before.”

“i don’t know, dean,” voice number two said, addressing voice number one as dean. “i’ve been researching the best i can, and nothing is coming up about mermaids losing their ‘magic’ or whatever you want to call it.”

dean, what a beautiful name — wait. losing magic?

at the exact time when the second voices words registered in your head, you felt yourself try and flap your tail. all that resulted was you smacking your leg against the table and searing pain to shoot up your body.

“ow.” you groaned, peeling your eyes open and then throwing your arm over them when the bright lights blinded you. you were so confused. yet slowly, everything was coming back to you in pieces.

the pain in your tail. the sea urchin attacking you. the words these two strangers were spewing. your magic had been ripped away from you, making you a mermaid no longer.

everything you’ve ever known had been ripped away from you. the liberation of the sea, your fishy friends. you didn’t have a family, not remembering ever having one, but the feeling of being torn away from your only home made salty tears leak from your eyes.

somehow, the salt from your sadness brought a semblance of comfort. a reminder of home.

“oh jesus. is she crying?” the voice that you recognized as dean had tore through your reins of sadness and made you slowly peel your arm away from your face. “sam, what the fuck do we do with a crying mermaid?”

not being able to lie to yourself, you couldn’t help but admire the attractive man standing above you. with wild green eyes, and golden skin like that of a sun god, you couldn’t help but stare at his stubbly jaw and attractive features as who you assumed to be sam also leaned over you.

his hair haloed around his face, and you wondered if these two were related from the similarities they bore.

“why are you crying?” sam asked, shifting an arm around your back as you tried to rise on your elbows into a sitting position.

“we’re not going to hurt you, i swear.” sam’s words did nothing to calm your racing heart, and you couldn’t help but glower at the man has he helped you sit at the edge of a wooden table.

“i’m crying because i just got my home and birthright ripped away from me jackass, not because i think you’re going to hurt me.” your words had sam’s eyebrows shooting up, and a snort leaving dean’s lips.

“i like her, sammy, she’s got spunk.” dean smirked over at you, and you couldn’t help but turn your cold glare onto him. pointing a finger at you, dean gave an incredulous look in your direction as he spoke with a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “don’t go all ursula on me, princess, i’m the one who saved you from being six feet under.”

a small shred of gratitude shone through your chest at his statement. for if it wasn’t for him, you’d be dead.

though you couldn’t help but narrow your eyes at him, jutting your chin in sam’s direction as you spoke to his companion. “thanks, i guess. but could you tell your friend over there to stop asking stupid questions like a total seaweed brain? i’m trying to grasp onto everything that just happened.”

with his hands in the air, sam took a step back from you and watched nervously as you kicked your feet back and forth, an expression of interest on your face. the flannel around your shoulders and the pair of boxer shorts on your hips had you staring in confusion, yet you decided not to dwell on one of these two changing you and focus on your new found legs.

you always had a tail, never becoming accustomed to legs in general. this was all new to you, and you realized then that you would need these two dopes help if you wanted to make it in the real world.

sighing, you scrubbed a hand down your face before turning to both of the men in front of you. “so sam and dean. . .”

“winchester,” sam replied, crossing his arms over his chest when he assumed you didn’t want to throttle him anymore. “we’re brothers.”

“thought so,” you shrugged, grimacing at the ugliness of the brown coloured shirt on your shoulders. “anyway, i’m very grateful that you two saved me, yet i can’t help but assume i’m not going to be turning back into a mermaid anytime soon. correct?”

sam sheepishly nodded, and dean couldn’t help but marvel at the pair of balls this assumedly innocent mermaid had on her.

“so, i thought maybe you two could help me.” your words left no room for questions, and dean couldn’t help but quirk a brow at your somewhat ridiculous statement.”

“help you?” he inquired, scratching at the stubble on his jaw as he stared at you with a smirk on his face. “i saved you from becoming sea food, isn’t that good enough?”

shrugging, you started combing your fingers through your hair. “in my books, no.” dean’s eyebrows shot up, and you held out a finger to him when he opened his mouth to speak. “i just need a bit of help getting on my feet; literally.” dean smirked at your joke, and you found it fair enough to continue.

“we could work together. maybe find something that could turn me back into a mermaid, maybe not. either way, help me become human for the time being, and i’ll try not to be annoying. deal?”

you spoke to the two brothers like you were making a gang negotiation, and both sam and dean wondered where you got this type of personality from living under the water all your life.

“i know what you’re thinking, and to answer your question, i am a very perceptive person. i see how you humans act and i create my own personality.” nudging sam’s knee with your foot, you grinned at the two men. “how am i doing so far?”

dean smirked at you, eyes racking up and down your frame as he watched you try and get down from the library table. “you’ve got yourself a deal, princess.” arm shooting out as you stumbled on your new found feet, dean steadied you into his chest so you wouldn’t completely fall on your ass. “first thing: try not to fall and break your neck before we could start though.”

“shut up.” you groaned, hands clutching dean’s shoulders as you stared into his sea foam eyes. “now, the first thing i want to deal with is this hideous thing you call clothes.”

“hey!” sam protested, speaking up for the first time in a couple of minutes. “that’s mine!”

“yeah, and it’s ugly.” you shot back, making dean snort and sam to drop his mouth like a gaping fish. “you guys got any dresses? i always saw the pretty girls on the beach wearing them.”

dean made eye contact with sam, silently giving each other an ‘oh dear lord’ look as dean slung his arm over your shoulder and helped you sit down in one of the library chairs.

‘yeah,’ dean thought, rubbing his brow slowly. ‘this is going to be a handful.’

TAGS: @starzify @whisperingdaze @titsout4jackles @daylighted @deansbeer @bluemerakis @gibson-g1rl @deanangel @sunsbaby @haunteres @honeyryewhiskey @florchids @figthoughts @misatxox @a-lil-pr1ncess @flow33didontsmoke @ilovedeanwinchester4 @whump-loverz @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @djudy99 @ryngzmn

NAT BABBLES: i wanted to make our girl whimsical but also a total princess and slight pain in the ass to both sam and dean (mostly dean)

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Ocean’s Embrace

Pairing: Poly 141 x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, suggestive jokes, mentions of alcohol, playful teasing, Johnny causing chaos, and Simon being hyper-aware of everything

Author’s Note: A cruise vacation with the boys? Pure heaven and absolute chaos at the same time.

Summary: A well-earned vacation leads to a week on a luxurious cruise, but with Task Force 141, things are never truly quiet. Between romantic moonlit walks, playful poolside antics, and protective instincts kicking in at the most unexpected moments, your time with John, Simon, Johnny, and Kyle is nothing short of unforgettable.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The ocean stretched endlessly around you, deep blue meeting the warm hues of the setting sun. A soft breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen as you stood on the deck, feeling the steady sway of the ship beneath you. For once, there were no missions, no life-or-death situations—just you and your boys, free to enjoy a well-earned vacation.

John was the one who had insisted on this trip. Or, rather, Laswell had insisted he take a break, and he had begrudgingly agreed on one condition: that you, Simon, Johnny, and Kyle came along. He thrived on the open sea, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts and cigar in hand, looking like he had belonged here all his life.

“You’re stressin’,” he murmured, pulling you onto a lounge chair beside him. His arm curled around your waist, keeping you close as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “We’re not on duty, love. Time to relax.”

You sighed, melting into his warmth as Kyle placed a cold cocktail in your free hand. “Already got you covered,” Kyle said with a smirk, sinking into the seat next to you. “Gotta admit, this was a good idea.”

“Oh, now it’s a good idea,” John chuckled. “Could’ve sworn you lot were complainin’ about bein’ stuck on a boat for a week.”

“Except for me,” Johnny said, plopping down at your feet with a grin. “I love this! Open water, endless drinks, poolside fun—”

“Absolute chaos,” Simon muttered from his usual spot in the shade, sunglasses low on his nose as he observed everything around him. You reached out, and he took your hand without hesitation, fingers threading through yours.

“We’re here to relax,” you reminded him gently. “Nothing’s gonna happen.”

He hummed, unconvinced but unwilling to argue, especially when you leaned over and kissed his knuckles. His grip on you tightened just slightly.

Later that evening, Johnny managed to drag you all to the casino, where he promptly entered an arm-wrestling match with a man twice his size. Kyle was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, while John just shook his head.

“He’s gonna lose,” Kyle snickered.

“Not if I bait him,” Simon muttered, then called out casually, “Bet you can’t do it, MacTavish.”

That was all it took. Johnny won—barely—and spent the next hour celebrating like he had conquered the world. The free drinks that followed? Absolutely worth it.

The most peaceful moments came with Kyle. He was the one who found the best lounging spots, the quiet corners of the ship where the two of you could steal moments alone. One night, you both snuck up to the top deck, where the stars stretched endlessly above you.

“This is nice,” Kyle murmured, pulling you close. “Just us. No orders. No pressure.”

“Just you, me, and a whole lotta water,” you teased, nuzzling against him. “Kinda romantic, don’t you think?”

He chuckled, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “Yeah… it really is.”

John made sure you were taken care of, always keeping an eye on you even when you insisted you were fine. He was protective, doting, making sure you were comfortable at all times.

Simon, ever the watchful shadow, kept a quiet but firm presence at your side. He rarely let go of your hand, brushing his fingers over your knuckles, reassuring himself that you were safe.

Kyle was your partner in crime, sneaking off with you to explore, whispering jokes that made you giggle until Johnny caught on and demanded to be included.

And Johnny? He made sure you were never bored, dragging you into adventures, twirling you around during karaoke, and making sure that by the end of the trip, you had laughed more than you had in months.

The last night, all four of them surrounded you on the deck, the soft sound of the waves filling the silence between you. John sat beside you, arm wrapped around your shoulders. Kyle leaned against your legs, tracing patterns into your skin. Johnny had his head in your lap, half-asleep from the sun and drinks, while Simon stood close enough that his fingers brushed against yours.

“Best vacation ever?” Kyle asked, his voice low and warm.

You squeezed their hands, heart full. “With you guys? Always.”

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[latanyalove]

Missed You

Pairing: Revolutionary Sabo x Y/N

Dialogue: Seeing Sabo after he went on a mission for a year made you acknowledge your feelings for Sabo.

A/n: I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing this! <3

The dust swirled around your boots as you stood on the docks of Baltigo, squinting against the harsh sunlight. A year. It had been a whole year since you last saw him. A year of coded messages, hurried updates through carrier pigeons, and restless nights spent staring at the ceiling, tracing the constellations and missing your best friend.

The Wind Granma, one of the Revolutionary Army's sleekest ships, was finally pulling in, its sails billowing and snapping in the salty breeze.

You told yourself you were here for duty, to help unload supplies and debrief returning scouts. You certainly weren't here, heart hammering against your ribs, to catch a glimpse of straw-blonde hair and a familiar, lopsided grin.

You busied yourself with checking the inventory manifest on your datapad, pretending not to notice as the ramp lowered and figures began disembarking. You recognized Koala, her bright orange hair a beacon amidst the crowd. Hack was there too, his stoic face unreadable as always. But then, you saw him.

Sabo.

He looked…different. Taller, maybe. More weathered. His familiar blue coat seemed to hang a little looser on his frame, suggesting he'd lost weight.

His eyes, usually bright with mischief, held a depth that spoke of battles fought and victories won, but also of hardships endured. A new scar bisected his left eyebrow, a stark white line etched against his tan skin. It made him look even more…dangerous.

Your breath hitched. You told yourself to stay calm, to remain professional. He was just another soldier returning from a mission.

You were a valuable member of the Revolutionary Army, respected for your strategic mind and unwavering dedication. You couldn't afford to let emotions cloud your judgment, especially not now.

He scanned the crowd, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on Koala, then Hack, before finally landing on you. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.

A slow smile spread across his face, the one that always made your stomach flip and your carefully constructed defenses crumble.

"Well, if it isn't Y/N," he called out, his voice rougher than you remembered. "Working as hard as ever, I see."

You forced a neutral expression, lifting your gaze from the datapad. "Sabo," you acknowledged, your voice betraying none of the chaotic emotions swirling within you. "Welcome back. Debriefing is scheduled for 1400 hours. Be punctual."

He chuckled, a warm, familiar sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "Always the stickler for rules, aren't you?" He started walking towards you, his gait confident and easy. You tried to maintain your distance, subtly shifting behind a stack of crates.

"Just ensuring efficiency," you replied, keeping your eyes fixed on the datapad. "The Revolutionary Army can't afford to waste time."

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that you could smell the sea salt and gunpowder clinging to his clothes, a potent reminder of the life he led, the life you were both committed to.

"And how have you been, Y/N?" he asked, his voice softening. "Keeping busy, I presume?"

"Extremely," you said, your fingers tightening around the datapad. "We've been planning the next phase of the operation. It requires all my attention."

You risked a quick glance at him. He was still smiling, but there was something else in his eyes now, a knowing glint that made you uneasy. He wasn't buying your act for a second.

"Of course," he said smoothly. "The revolution always comes first." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Anything else keeping you occupied? New strategies to implement? Perhaps... a new love interest to distract you?"

The question was laced with a playful teasing, but you could detect a hint of underlying seriousness. You bristled, your cheeks flushing slightly despite your best efforts.

"Don't be ridiculous," you snapped, finally meeting his gaze. "My priorities are firmly in place. And I hardly have time for… distractions."

He raised an eyebrow, his smile widening. "Is that so? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you're working awfully hard to avoid making eye contact with me."

Damn him. He always knew how to get under your skin. You opened your mouth to retort, but he cut you off.

"Relax, Y/N," he said, his voice low and soothing. "I'm just teasing. But I have missed you."

The admission, so simple and direct, stole the air from your lungs. You wanted to deny it, to tell him you hadn't missed him at all, that you were perfectly fine without him. But the words caught in your throat.

You looked away, focusing on a distant seagull circling overhead. "I'm sure you were very busy on your mission," you mumbled, hoping he wouldn't notice the tremor in your voice.

He stepped closer, closing the distance between you. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your cheek, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You instinctively flinched, but didn't pull away.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the sounds of the docks. "Look at me."

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. But you knew you couldn't resist him forever. Slowly, reluctantly, you raised your eyes to meet his.

His gaze was intense, unwavering. He saw right through your carefully constructed facade, to the longing and vulnerability you tried so hard to conceal. The smile faded from his face, replaced by a look of tenderness and understanding.

"I see right through you, love," he whispered, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. "You've missed me too."

The dam broke. All the carefully constructed walls you had built around your heart crumbled, washed away by a tidal wave of emotion. You wanted to deny it, to maintain your composure, but you couldn't.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You tried to blink them away, but they streamed down your face, hot and unbidden.

"Don't," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper. "Don't do this."

He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle and reassuring. "Don't do what? Acknowledge that we care about each other? That we've been apart for too long?"

You closed your eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming emotions. It was no use fighting it. He knew you too well. He always had.

"It's just… it's difficult," you said, your voice trembling. "This life… it's not easy. We're constantly risking everything. And when you're gone… it's like a part of me is missing."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "I know, Y/N. I feel the same way. But that's what makes it so important, isn't it? To hold onto those connections, to cherish the moments we have together."

He tilted your head back, looking deeply into your eyes. "I promise you, I'll always come back to you. No matter what happens, no matter how long I'm gone, I'll always find my way back."

You swallowed hard, struggling to regain your composure. "You can't promise that," you said, your voice laced with fear. "This is war. Anything can happen."

He smiled, a confident, reassuring smile that chased away the shadows of doubt. "I know the risks, Y/N. But I also know what's worth fighting for. And you… you're worth fighting for."

He lowered his head, his lips brushing against yours in a light, tentative kiss. It was a silent promise, a reassurance that he was here, that he was real, that you weren't alone.

You closed your eyes, melting into the kiss. It was a simple kiss, but it spoke volumes. It spoke of longing, of devotion, of the unbreakable bond that connected you.

You pulled away slightly, your heart still pounding in your chest. "Sabo," you whispered, your voice filled with emotion.

He smiled, his eyes sparkling with affection. "Yes, love?"

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Debriefing is still scheduled for 1400 hours," you said, a hint of your old formality returning. "Don't be late."

He chuckled, throwing his head back in laughter. "Of course, Commander," he said, his voice filled with amusement. "Wouldn't dream of it."

He winked, then turned and walked towards the main headquarters, leaving you standing on the docks, a warm smile gracing your lips.

The dust still swirled around your boots, but now, it felt like a celebration. The sun seemed brighter, the air sweeter. He was back. And for now, that was all that mattered.

You knew the challenges ahead wouldn't disappear. The war was still raging, and the future was uncertain.

But with Sabo by your side, you knew you could face anything. Because you had each other. And that was a revolution worth fighting for. . . .

The fluorescent lights of the Revolutionary Army headquarters hummed, a monotonous drone that mirrored the exhaustion thrumming in your own temples. Hours had bled into one another since Sabo had returned.

Hours spent poring over the maps he’d brought back, charting new territories, analyzing political landscapes, and searching for any sign of the World Government's ever-tightening grip. The war room, usually a hive of bustling activity, was now mostly deserted, save for you and the scattered remnants of hastily consumed coffee cups and half-eaten rations.

The debriefing had run long, you knew. You could hear snippets of it through the thick walls – heated discussions about strategic alliances, hushed whispers about potential threats, and Sabo’s steady, commanding voice cutting through the chaos.

You told yourself you weren't listening for his voice specifically. You told yourself you were focused solely on the task at hand, on deciphering the intricate details of the maps spread before you.

But the truth, as it often did, felt like a heavier weight.

Your eyes traced the contours of an unfamiliar island, your finger gliding over a network of rivers you'd never seen before. You were tired, bone-tired.

The relentless pace of the Revolution rarely allowed for rest, and Sabo's return, while a welcome relief and a vital push for progress, had only amplified the pressure.

You knew what was at stake. You knew the importance of every detail, every strategic advantage. But your mind felt sluggish, your focus wavering.

You rubbed your temples, trying to ward off the encroaching headache that threatened to derail your train of thought completely.

“Still working?”

The voice sent a jolt through you, a current of awareness that had nothing to do with the maps and everything to do with him. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

His presence filled the room, a familiar warmth that both comforted and unsettled you.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your expression carefully neutral. "Just finishing up." You gestured vaguely at the maps, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in your hand. "These are… comprehensive. Thank you."

Sabo closed the distance between you, his eyes, the color of a stormy sea, searching your face. The years hadn’t been kind to him, etching lines of worry and determination around his eyes and mouth.

But they had also made him… more. More powerful, more confident, more devastatingly attractive.

“You look exhausted,” he said, his voice soft, laced with concern. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek before you could react. The simple touch sent a shiver down your spine, a reminder of the intimacy you had both tried so hard to bury.

You flinched, pulling away slightly. "I'm fine. Just… a long day."

He didn’t retract his hand, letting it hover in the air for a moment before slowly dropping it to his side. The small gesture spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of the invisible barrier you had erected between you.

“The debriefing ran late,” he explained, his tone apologetic. “Dragon wanted to go over every detail.”

“I figured.” You kept your voice even, your eyes focused on the intricate lines of the map. "It's important."

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the hum of the lights. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing, questioning. You knew what he saw: the fatigue etched on your face, the forced composure in your posture, the subtle tension that vibrated in the air around you.

He knew you too well. That was the problem.

“You don’t have to push yourself so hard,” he said finally, his voice low. “We all appreciate what you do.”

“Someone has to do it.” You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Besides, I’m good at it.”

“And what about what you want?” he asked, his gaze intensifying. “What about what makes you happy?”

The question hung in the air, a loaded grenade threatening to explode the carefully constructed facade you had spent years building. Happiness. It was a luxury the Revolution couldn’t afford, and neither could you. Not when it came to him.

“Happiness is a luxury we can’t afford,” you said, echoing a sentiment you had repeated to yourself countless times.

He sighed, running a hand through his blond hair, a gesture that was both familiar and achingly endearing. “Is that what you really believe?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because the truth was that happiness, for you, was inextricably linked to him. And allowing yourself to feel that, to acknowledge the depth of your feelings, was a risk you couldn't afford to take.

"How was your journey?" you asked, changing the subject abruptly. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

He let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Did I ever. The World Government is digging its heels in deeper than ever. The situation is… precarious."

"Then we have to work harder." You straightened your shoulders, forcing a renewed sense of determination. "We need to be ready."

He watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded slowly. "You're right. We do."

He reached for one of the maps, his fingers brushing against yours. You pulled back instinctively, pretending not to notice the lingering warmth of his touch.

"Tell me about this island," he said, pointing to the same one you had been studying. "What do you think we can learn from it?"

And so, you plunged back into the work, immersing yourselves in the details of the maps, the intricacies of the terrain, the potential for strategic advantage.

You talked about supply lines, fortifications, and the ever-present threat of the World Government. You talked about everything but the one thing that truly mattered: the unspoken connection that still crackled between you, the unresolved feelings that haunted your every interaction.

As the hours ticked by, you found yourself relaxing slightly, drawn in by the familiar rhythm of collaboration. You and Sabo had always worked well together, your strengths complementing each other’s weaknesses.

He brought the raw power and tactical brilliance, while you provided the meticulous planning and strategic foresight.

For a brief, fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to imagine what it would be like if things were different. If you could let down your guard, if you could allow yourself to be vulnerable, if you could finally admit the truth that had been burning within you for years.

But the moment passed, shattered by the harsh reality of your situation. You were soldiers in a revolution, fighting for a cause that demanded sacrifice. There was no room for personal happiness, no time for romantic entanglements.

And besides, even if there were, you weren't sure you were brave enough to risk it. The potential for heartbreak, for devastation, was too great. Better to keep your distance, to protect yourself from the inevitable pain.

As the first rays of dawn began to creep through the windows, painting the room in a soft, golden light, you finally finished your analysis of the maps. You leaned back in your chair, stretching your stiff muscles.

"I think that's everything," you said, your voice hoarse with exhaustion. "We have a better understanding of the situation now. We can start planning our next move."

Sabo nodded, his eyes still fixed on the maps. "Thank you," he said softly. "You've done an amazing job."

"It was a team effort." You gathered the maps, stacking them neatly on the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get some sleep."

You stood up, ready to escape the confines of the war room, to flee the suffocating tension that had been building between you. But before you could take a step, Sabo reached out and gently took your hand.

His touch sent a jolt through you, stronger than before. You looked down at your hand, engulfed in his, the warmth spreading through your veins.

"Wait," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. You saw a flicker of something in his eyes, something that mirrored the emotions you had been trying so hard to suppress.

"I know you're trying to protect yourself," he said, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. "But you don't have to. Not with me."

Your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to believe him, you desperately wanted to let go of your fears and allow yourself to be vulnerable. But the fear was too strong, the risk too great.

You pulled your hand away, breaking the connection. "I don't know what you're talking about," you said, your voice trembling slightly.

He didn't try to stop you. He simply watched you, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding.

"Maybe someday," he said softly. "Maybe someday you'll be ready."

You turned and walked away, your back to him, your heart aching with a pain that was both familiar and unbearable.

You knew you were making a mistake, that you were pushing him away, that you were sacrificing your own happiness for the sake of self-preservation.

But you couldn't stop yourself. You had built this wall for a reason, and you weren't ready to tear it down. Not yet.

As you walked out of the war room, leaving Sabo standing there alone, you couldn't help but wonder if you had made the right choice. If you had condemned yourself to a life of loneliness and regret.

But you told yourself that it was necessary, that it was the only way to protect yourself. You told yourself that the Revolution came first, that personal happiness was a luxury you couldn't afford.

You told yourself a lot of things.

But deep down, you knew the truth. You knew that you were running away from the one thing that could truly make you happy. And you knew that someday, you would have to face the consequences of your choice. . . .

The dust motes danced in the harsh morning light filtering through the barracks window, each speck a tiny reminder of the time that had passed. Months.

Three months, to be exact, since Sabo had returned from his year-long mission. Three months since those words, etched into your memory, had been spoken.

"I know you're trying to protect yourself," he had said, his voice a low murmur amidst the chaos of his homecoming. His touch, the gentle stroke of his thumb against your hand, had been a brand against your skin. "But you don't have to. Not with me."

The words were a lifeline, a promise of safety and vulnerability offered with a sincerity that made your heart ache. But you, ever the pragmatist, ever the cautious one, had kept your distance.

You'd smiled, offered a quick hug, and retreated into the familiar safety of your routine.

Protecting yourself was second nature. Loss was a constant companion in this life, a shadow lurking behind every victory, every shared laugh. You had learned early on that the less you allowed yourself to care, the less it hurt when someone was ripped away.

Sabo’s mission had been a brutal reminder of that lesson. So many faces you knew, so many voices you’d heard in the mess hall, gone. Erased.

The new recruits, a fresh wave of faces filling the void, were a constant reminder of the lives lost. You threw yourself into training them, burying your grief and fear in drills and strategy sessions.

It was easier to focus on the mechanics of combat than to contemplate the fragility of life.

One recruit, in particular, caught your attention. His name was Silas, and from the moment he arrived, something about him didn't sit right. He was charming, undeniably so, with a disarming smile and an easy laugh.

He was eager to learn, always asking questions, always volunteering for extra training. He quickly integrated himself into the unit, becoming a favorite among the other soldiers.

But beneath the surface, you saw something else. A calculating glint in his eyes, a subtle shift in his expression when he thought no one was watching. He was too smooth, too perfect. His stories, though seemingly innocuous, felt rehearsed, carefully crafted to elicit the desired response.

You tried to articulate your unease to Captain Eva, a hardened veteran with a keen sense for danger. But your words felt flimsy, based on instinct rather than concrete evidence.

“He’s a good soldier, Y/N,” Eva had said, her brow furrowed. “His scores are excellent, his record is clean. You can’t condemn a man based on a feeling. We need every able body we can get.”

You knew she was right, logically. The losses from Sabo's mission had crippled their forces. They were stretched thin, vulnerable. Questioning a promising recruit without cause would be detrimental to morale and could potentially weaken their defenses.

So, you kept your suspicions to yourself, watching Silas, analyzing his every move. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something, that his presence here was more than just a coincidence.

Meanwhile, Sabo's presence was a constant, bittersweet ache in your chest. He tried, subtly, to bridge the gap you had created. A casual invitation to join him for a drink, a shared smile across the training grounds, a lingering touch on your arm during a strategy session.

Each gesture was a reminder of the vulnerability he offered, the safety he promised. And each one made you pull further away. You were afraid. Afraid of letting him in, afraid of the pain that would inevitably follow if something happened to him.

One evening, you found yourself patrolling the perimeter of the base, the cold night air biting at your exposed skin. The quiet was unsettling, broken only by the distant howl of wind and the creak of the metal fences.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ward off the chill that seemed to seep into your bones.

A voice broke the silence. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"

You turned to see Silas leaning against the fence, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He smiled, that charming, disarming smile that always made you uneasy.

"What are you doing out here?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

"Just taking a walk," he replied, shrugging. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd enjoy the fresh air."

His explanation sounded plausible, but your gut screamed otherwise. You studied him, searching for any sign of deception.

"Everything alright, Y/N?" he asked, tilting his head. "You seem tense."

"Just doing my job," you replied, turning away. "You should get back inside. It's going to rain."

He chuckled. "Always so serious. You know, you should lighten up a little. Life's too short to be so worried all the time."

His words were a casual observation, but they struck a nerve. You stopped, turning back to face him.

"You don't know anything about my life," you said, your voice low.

"Maybe not," he replied, his smile fading. "But I see you. I see how you keep everyone at arm's length. How you're afraid to let anyone get close."

His words were too close to the truth, too perceptive. You felt a surge of anger, a desire to lash out.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," you snapped, turning to leave.

"Don't you?" he called after you. "Or are you just afraid to admit it?"

You ignored him, quickening your pace towards the barracks. His words echoed in your head, a painful reminder of the walls you had built around yourself.

Later that night, as you lay in your bunk, unable to sleep, you replayed the conversation in your mind. His words, his presence, his very existence, felt like a threat. You couldn't shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on, that he was playing a game with you.

The next day, you decided to trust your instincts. You started digging, discreetly, into Silas's background. You spoke to contacts in other units, combed through old records, piecing together fragments of information.

What you found was disturbing. Silas's file was clean, almost too clean. His past seemed meticulously crafted, with no inconsistencies, no red flags. But there were gaps, holes in his story that couldn't be easily explained.

You discovered that he had transferred to your unit from a remote outpost, citing personal reasons. But the commander of that outpost had no record of Silas ever being stationed there. The name Silas, it seemed, was an alias.

Your pulse raced as you sat in the dim light of your office, the glow of the computer screen casting eerie shadows on the walls. You knew you had to tread carefully.

You were too busy to confront him directly, and he wasn't an immediate threat.

Yet.

Sabo adjusted his cravat, the morning sun catching the gold buckle. He scanned the newspaper, a frown etching itself onto his forehead as he read about the latest World Government atrocities. A sharp rap at the door pulled him from his grim thoughts.

"Come in," he called, folding the paper and setting it aside.

The door creaked open to reveal Silas, one of the newer recruits, standing stiffly at attention. He looked young, barely out of his teens, with a nervous energy that radiated from him. In his hands, he held a steaming cup, its contents swirling gently with each subtle movement.

"Excuse me, Mr. Sabo," Silas stammered, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Miss Y/N requested for this to be sent to you." He carefully placed the cup on Sabo's cluttered desk, the ceramic clinking softly against the wood.

Sabo's eyebrows rose in surprise. Y/N? He hadn’t seen her much lately, both of them caught up in the endless tasks of the Revolutionary Army.

A warm feeling bloomed in his chest. "Really? Did she say why?"

Silas scratched the back of his head, his nervousness amplified under Sabo's curious gaze. "Well, she didn't actually say to tell you it came from her, but… she said something about your cold."

That sounded exactly like something Y/N would do. Always thoughtful, always looking out for others, but often preferring to offer her kindness in a roundabout way, avoiding direct credit.

He had been battling a persistent cough for the past few days, a minor annoyance he'd been trying to ignore. He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"Thank you," Sabo said, reaching for the cup. He carefully lifted it, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and warming his hands. He inhaled deeply, the aroma of ginger and lemon filling his nostrils.

It was definitely her concoction; he recognized the unique blend of herbs and spices she used to soothe a sore throat. He took a sip, the warm liquid coating his throat, a soothing balm against the scratchiness. It tasted wonderful.

"You're welcome, sir," Silas replied, relief evident in his voice. He hesitated for a moment, then saluted clumsily. "If there's nothing else, I'll be going now."

"That's all, Silas. Thank you again," Sabo said.

He turned back to the cup, taking another slow, deliberate sip. He wondered what Y/N was up to. He hadn’t seen her since the last strategy meeting.

He took another sip, feeling a pleasant warmth spreading through his body. He chuckled softly to himself. She was too good to him.

He was about to take a third sip when a strange dizziness washed over him. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the papers on his desk blurring into an indistinguishable mess.

He gripped the edge of the desk, trying to steady himself, a flicker of confusion warring with a growing sense of unease.

This wasn't just a head cold.

His vision swam, the vibrant colors of his surroundings fading into a dull gray. His muscles felt heavy, unresponsive. He tried to call out, to shout for help, but his voice caught in his throat, a strangled gasp that died before it could even escape his lips.

The cup slipped from his grasp, the ceramic shattering against the hard floor, the remaining liquid splattering across the wooden planks. The sound seemed muffled, distant, as if he were underwater.

Sabo's knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, the world spinning around him. His vision grew darker, the edges of his consciousness closing in like the jaws of a vise.

He tried to push himself up, to fight the sudden weakness that gripped him, but his body was no longer his own.

The last thing he saw before darkness consumed him was Silas' evil grin, the glint of triumph in the young recruit's eyes as he stepped back from the shattered remnants of the cup.

The room tilted further, and then there was only blackness, a void that swallowed him whole.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the training grounds, painting the Revolution Army's headquarters in hues of orange and gold. But you weren't admiring the view.

No, you were pacing, your boots crunching on the gravel path, growing increasingly agitated. Sabo was late. Thirty minutes late.

You knew exactly what he was doing. He'd promised to personally inspect the new shipment of weaponry before they were distributed, a task he usually delegated. He’d even insisted on handling the initial inventory himself.

All a thinly veiled excuse to draw you in, to trap you in his office with endless debates about strategy and… well, just about anything. You knew his tactics, his charming smile, his infuriatingly insightful questions that always managed to unravel your carefully constructed composure.

And dammit, you were falling for it. Again.

You stopped pacing, a sigh escaping your lips. You told yourself it was the weapons, the crucial importance of their quality, that was driving you to his office. The Revolution Army's safety depended on it. But deep down, you knew it was more than that.

It was the pull, the undeniable gravitational force that Sabo exerted on you, a force you both resisted and craved in equal measure.

"Fine," you muttered to yourself, pivoting and striding purposefully towards Sabo's office. "He wants to talk? I'll give him a talking to. About punctuality, about delegation, about the importance of not making people wait."

You reached his door, your hand hovering over the knob. You didn’t bother knocking. Your patience had officially evaporated.

"Sabo–"

The word died in your throat. The scene that unfolded before you was nothing like the playful confrontation you'd envisioned. Sabo lay on the floor, a shattered teacup beside him, its contents staining the rug in a dark, ominous pool.

Towering over him was Silas, one of the new recruits, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing intensity as he clutched the newly arrived weapons. Weapons that were far too dangerous to be wielded by someone with ill intentions.

A cold dread washed over you. Silas had always given you an uneasy feeling. Something about his eagerness, his overly zealous patriotism, felt…off.

You’d meant to report your suspicions, but the chaos of the recent operations had pushed it to the back of your mind. Now, seeing Sabo vulnerable and Silas armed, the weight of your negligence pressed down on you.

Acting on instinct, you channeled your Devil Fruit powers. Water materialized from thin air, coalescing into a powerful stream that slammed into Silas with the force of a tidal wave. He was knocked off his feet, the weapons clattering to the floor as he landed in a heap, unconscious.

Adrenaline coursed through you as you rushed to Sabo's side. Your fingers trembled as you checked his pulse. Faint, thready, barely there.

You frantically scanned the scene, your eyes landing on the shattered teacup. The sickeningly sweet aroma that lingered in the air confirmed your worst fears. Poison.

Without hesitation, you activated your Devil Fruit again. You meticulously controlled the water, guiding it into Sabo's body, a delicate operation fraught with risk. You had to be precise, careful not to damage his already weakened system.

You enveloped the poison with the water, isolating it, pulling it away from his vital organs. It was a slow, agonizing process, draining your energy with each passing second.

Finally, you managed to extract the tainted water, expelling it from Sabo's body in a rush. You collapsed back on your heels, gasping for breath, your vision blurring.

You were exhausted, depleted, but your relief was short-lived. Sabo remained motionless.

The reality of the situation crashed down on you with brutal force. It was your fault. All your fault. If you’d trusted your instincts, if you’d reported Silas sooner, Sabo wouldn’t be lying here, fighting for his life.

"Sabo, please wake up," you pleaded, your voice cracking. You gently shook his shoulder, willing him to respond. But he didn't move. His face was pale, unnervingly still.

Despair washed over you, a suffocating wave of regret and fear. You sank to your knees, burying your face in his chest, the rough fabric of his jacket scratching against your cheek.

The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was so faint, so fragile, it filled you with a chilling premonition.

It was then, in that moment of utter desperation, that the truth you had so diligently suppressed burst forth. You realized, with a clarity that bordered on pain, that your feelings for Sabo ran far deeper than professional admiration or friendly camaraderie.

"I've always loved you," you whispered, the words choked with emotion, "even when I pretended not to."

The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. You pressed closer to him, clinging to the hope that somehow, somewhere, he could hear you.

"I said it okay," you continued, your voice rising in desperation, "please wake up now."

Silence. Only the sound of your ragged breathing and the frantic beating of your heart filled the room. You didn't know when the tears started to fall, hot and stinging, tracing paths down your cheeks and soaking into his jacket.

You cried, not just for Sabo, but for all the unspoken words, the missed opportunities, the wasted time spent denying what had always been there. You cried for the future you might never have, for the happiness that seemed to be slipping through your fingers.

Time seemed to stretch into an eternity, each second an agonizing reminder of your potential loss. You stayed there, huddled against him, a broken mess of fear and regret.

Then, a voice, raspy and weak, broke the silence.

"It took you me almost dying for you to confess?"

You gasped, your head snapping up. Sabo. His eyes, though still clouded with pain, were open. A faint smile played on his lips.

You scrambled back, your heart leaping with a mixture of relief and disbelief. "Sabo! You're awake!"

He slowly reached up, his hand trembling as he gently wiped away a tear from your cheek. "Yeah," he said, his voice gaining strength, "thanks to you."

The relief was overwhelming, so intense it almost brought you to your knees again. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. "You idiot! Don't ever do that to me again!"

He chuckled, a weak but genuine sound. "Promises, promises," he murmured, then winced in pain.

You immediately sobered, your concern returning. "Don't talk," you said, your voice firm. "You need to rest. I'll get someone."

You started to pull away, but his hand tightened on yours, stopping you. "Wait," he said, his gaze locking with yours. "What you said…before."

Your cheeks flushed crimson. You suddenly felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable. You’d confessed your deepest feelings while he was unconscious, believing it was a one-way conversation. Now, the weight of his attention, the intensity in his eyes, felt almost unbearable.

"It was… I was just… scared," you stammered, trying to downplay the moment. "I didn't mean…"

He cut you off, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. "Did you mean it?"

The question hung in the air, demanding honesty. You looked into his eyes, searching for any hint of mockery or pity. All you found was sincerity, a vulnerability that mirrored your own.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself. "Yes," you whispered, the word barely audible. "I meant it."

Sabo's smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made your heart skip a beat. He pulled you closer, his hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of doubt or regret.

"Y/N, I've known for a long time," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. "But hearing you say it…" His thumb stroked your jawline, sending a shiver down your spine. "It means everything."

Your heart raced, your breath hitched in your throat. The warmth of his hand was a stark contrast to the coolness of the floor beneath you, a reminder that this was real, that he was alive.

"Sabo," you whispered, your voice trembling. You didn't know what to say next, your mind a whirlwind of emotions. You felt the heat of his breath against your skin, the thump of his pulse under your fingertips. You had never been this close to him, never allowed yourself to be.

His hand slid to the nape of your neck, his touch firm yet gentle, sending a cascade of sensations through your body. Your pulse quickened, your heart pounding against your ribs like a caged bird desperate to break free.

"Sabo," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. "I-"

He placed a finger to your lips, silencing you. "Shh, love," he said, his eyes searching yours. "You don't need to explain."

The moment stretched, filled with a tension so potent it could have powered the entire island. You could feel the throb of your own heartbeat in your ears, a wild drumroll to a crescendo you hadn’t anticipated.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice a soft, hopeful whisper that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room.

You stared at him, the question hanging in the air like a delicate thread, connecting you in a way that no words or battles ever could. It was a simple request, one that could have been brushed aside with a laugh or a joke, but instead it felt like the most significant question you had ever been asked.

You nodded, unable to form a coherent response. Your breath caught in your throat as he leaned in, closing the space between you. His lips met yours with a softness that belied the intensity of his gaze, a gentle pressure that spoke of the depth of his feelings.

But before the kiss could intensify, you placed your hand on his chest to stop it. "Sabo," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion, "you need to get checked. There could still be poison in your system."

Sabo's eyes searched yours, the passion in them momentarily fading into a look of understanding. He nodded, his hand moving from your neck to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against his heart.

"I know," he whispered, the beat beneath your palm reassuringly steady. "But I had to know that you felt the same."

You felt his heart's rhythm, the warmth of his skin, and the firmness of his chest. His breathing was shallow, and you could see the effort it took for him to maintain the gentle pressure of his lips.

You didn't want to stop the kiss, but you knew he was right. Safety had to come first, especially now.

"Alright," he murmured, his voice a soft caress against your mouth. He kissed you once more, a light, lingering brush of his lips that spoke volumes of his love and restraint. He pulled away, his gaze never leaving yours. "I'll go get checked."

You nodded, the reality of the situation sinking in. The urgency of the situation hit you like a tidal wave. "Do you need help?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

Sabo looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and amusement. "No thank you, love," he said lightly, his voice still a little hoarse from the ordeal.

"You're sure?" You asked, concern etched on your face.

Sabo nodded, his eyes still clouded with pain but filled with determination. "Yes, I'm sure," he said, his voice a little stronger. "You have to take Silas to the prison."

You nodded, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on you. The man who had tried to kill the person you loved lay unconscious a few feet away, and you had to ensure he was dealt with accordingly. You stood, your legs feeling wobbly, but you knew you had to act swiftly.

"How did he get you to drink it?" you murmured, the question echoing in your mind as you took a deep breath and turned to face the chaos.

You saw the shards of the teacup, the dark liquid seeping into the floorboards. It was a stark reminder of the vulnerability that had been so artfully exploited.

Sabo looked up at you, his cheeks flushing slightly. "He said that you sent it," he admitted, his voice low and hoarse. "That you'd heard I'd picked up a cold on the last mission and had brewed me something special to help."

You stared at him, your eyes wide. "A cold?" you repeated, your voice a mix of shock and disbelief. "You almost died because of a cold?"

Sabo looked shy as if he remembered too, his eyes flickering with a hint of embarrassment. "He said that you wanted to give me tea for my cold," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I should have called to get confirmation, I was just happy that you gave me something."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and a warm blush crept up your neck, staining your cheeks. The thought of Silas using your kindness as a weapon made your blood boil, but at the same time, a tender warmth spread through you.

You had never been one to show affection openly, not with the weight of the revolution resting on your shoulders. But here was Sabo, admitting to a vulnerability that you hadn't even known he had.

With trembling hands, you helped him to his feet, his lean frame surprisingly heavy against you. Each movement sent waves of pain through his body, and you could feel his muscles tighten as he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.

His eyes never left yours, and in that moment, you understood that you had been wrong to push him away, to deny what was so clearly written in the air between you.

You used your Devil Fruit powers once more, creating a gentle cushion of water beneath his feet to ease the pain of his steps. "I'll get Hack," you murmured, knowing that your friend and fellow comrade would know exactly what to do.

With a flick of your wrist, you sent a stream of water through the air, weaving around the corridors and towards Hack. The power was a part of you, a silent call that only those who knew you well would recognize.

And Hack knew you well. A moment later, you heard a small yelp. Hack stumbled into the room, his eyes wide with surprise as he took in the scene.

He had been following the trail of water, unsure of what he would find. But when he saw Sabo's ashen face and the shattered teacup, his expression turned to one of concern.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice sharp with alarm.

You didn't have the luxury of time to explain everything. "A new soldier went rogue," you said tersely. "Silas. He tried to kill Sabo with poisoned tea, pretending it was from me. I need to take him into custody and get him to the interrogation room."

The fishman, a burly, silent type named Triton, nodded solemnly. His gills flared slightly, a sign of his own shock. "Understood," he said, his voice a guttural growl. "I will take Sabo to the medical bay immediately."

You felt a pang of guilt as you watched them go, torn between your duty to the revolution and your desire to stay by Sabo's side. But you knew you had to deal with Silas.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. The traitor had to be contained before he could cause any more harm.

With a firm step, you approached Silas's prone form. His eyes fluttered open, the same feigned innocence you had seen so many times in his interrogations. But you knew better now. You knew the darkness that lurked beneath his surface.

You grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and hoisted him to his feet, his body limp and uncooperative. His smug smile faltered at the sight of your watery eyes and clenched jaw. He must have realized that his charade was over.

"You're going to tell us everything," you said through gritted teeth. "Everything about the enemy's plan, every detail you know. And if you don't, I'll make sure you regret ever setting foot in this headquarters."

Silas's eyes widened in genuine fear for the first time, and you felt a grim satisfaction knowing you had the upper hand. You marched him through the corridors, his feet dragging behind you as you made your way to the interrogation room.

The room was stark, the walls painted a cold, institutional gray. The only source of light was a single flickering bulb that cast eerie shadows across the floor. It was a stark contrast to the warm, inviting light of Sabo's office.

You pushed him into the room, his body collapsing into the metal chair at the center. You secured his wrists and ankles to the chair with water-based cuffs, the same ones you had used countless times to contain and question enemy combatants.

You stepped back, arms crossed over your chest, and stared him down.

"Why?" you demanded, the question echoing through the small space. "Why would you do this to us? To him?"

Silas remained silent, his smug expression slipping away to reveal something darker, something more sinister. You could feel the anger building in you, a pressure cooker threatening to blow. But you needed information, not just a confession of guilt.

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Why, Silas?"

Silas's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, for anything that might give him leverage. But there was nothing. Only the cold, unforgiving steel of the chair and the unwavering gaze of the woman he had underestimated.

"Okay, have it your way, Karasu," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you stepped away from him. "It's your turn."

With that, you turned and strode out of the interrogation room, the door slamming shut behind you. The sound of the lock clicking into place was a harsh echo in the quiet corridor.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The scent of the antiseptic cleaner on the floor was a stark contrast to the coppery smell of blood and fear that clung to Silas.

As you walked away from the room, you felt the weight of what you had to do next. You knew that you couldn't let your emotions cloud your judgment.

The mission was more important than your personal feelings. You had to be cold, methodical, a force to be reckoned with.

The echo of the slammed door was still reverberating in your ears when you heard the first faint cry, a sound that made your blood run cold. Silas's voice, strained and desperate, was unmistakable.

Soon enough, the cries grew louder, more insistent. The sound of his pleading sliced through the air, a grim reminder of the reality of war and the sacrifices it demanded.

You knew you had to remain strong, to focus on the mission. But the screams grew more intense, and with each one, your resolve wavered.

The walls of the corridor seemed to close in around you, the cold metal pressing against your skin, a prison of your own making. You clenched your fists, willing the cries to stop, to no avail.

With a deep breath, you turned on your heel and sprinted towards the medical bay, the urgency of the situation propelling you forward. The corridor blurred as you moved, your boots echoing off the walls, a staccato rhythm that punctuated the silence.

The medical room was a stark contrast to the rest of the headquarters. The sterile white walls gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, the smell of disinfectant a stark reminder of the fragility of life.

The door swished open as you approached, revealing Hack's concerned face as he bent over an unconscious Sabo, a medical scanner in his hand.

"Is he okay?" you asked, your voice a desperate whisper.

Hack looked up, his expression grim. "The antidote is working," he said, "but the dose was strong. He's going to need rest."

Sabo's eyes fluttered open, the room swimming into focus. The first thing he saw was your face, hovering above his, your eyes filled with a mix of relief and sadness.

"Love," he whispered, his voice still raw from the poison.

You leaned in, your hand lingering on his forehead, feeling the heat of his fever. "Don't talk," you murmured, "just rest."

"Missed you," Sabo slurred again, his eyes half-closed. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before, vulnerable and weak, and it twisted your heart in a way that was both painful and exhilarating.

You knew the strength he had to maintain out there, the persona he had to uphold, and now, here he was, laid bare before you.

"Sabo," you whispered, your voice thick with a mix of fear and love. "You can't say things like that."

He managed a weak smile, his eyes drifting shut again. "It's the truth," he murmured. "I can't hide it anymore."

Your heart clenched at his words, the weight of your carelessness crashing down on you like a waterfall. If only you had paid more attention to Silas, if only you had trusted your instincts, he wouldn't be here now, fighting to survive.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

Sabo's hand searched for yours, his fingers feebly entwining with yours. "Love, don't cry," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper that seemed to resonate through your very soul. "This isn't your fault. It's war. It's what we signed up for."

Tears spilled over your lashes and rolled down your cheeks, leaving salty trails on your skin. You didn't want to let go of his hand, didn't want to accept the reality of the situation. But you knew you had to. You had to be strong, not just for the revolution, but for him.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Rest," you ordered softly. "I'll handle everything."

With a nod, you turned and left the medical bay, the echo of his words lingering in the air. You couldn't afford to be weak, not now.

The corridor outside was eerily quiet, the cries from the interrogation room now just a distant memory. You took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. Silas had to be dealt with, and the revolution had to move forward.

Your boots clicked against the cold, hard floor, each step a silent promise to protect the man you had realized you loved. You knew what you had to do, and you would do it, no matter the cost.

As you approached the interrogation room, you paused, steeling yourself for the battle of wills that was about to unfold.

The door slid open at your touch, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the warmth of your emotions. Silas was still bound in the chair, his eyes wild with fear.

"You're going to tell me everything," you said, your voice firm and unwavering.

He looked up at you, a sneer twisting his features. "What makes you think I'll tell you anything?"

You leaned in, your eyes narrowing. "Because, Silas, I know your type," you said, your voice low and dangerous. "You crave power, and now that you've tasted it, you can't get enough. But you're a fool to think you can betray us and walk away unscathed."

He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that sent chills down your spine. "You think you know me?" he spat. "You know nothing. Nothing at all."

The anger bubbled up within you, hot and fierce, but you pushed it down. You had to keep your cool, had to get the information you needed. You leaned back, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Oh, but I do," you said, your voice sweet as honey. "I know that you're in love with the idea of the revolution, but you're too much of a coward to truly commit to it."

His eyes flashed with rage, but you didn't flinch. You knew you had struck a nerve, had found the weakness in his armor. "You're wrong," he hissed.

You cocked your head, your eyes gleaming. "Am I?" you asked, your voice a siren's call. "Or are you just too scared to admit it? To admit that you're nothing more than a pawn in a game you can't win?"

He struggled against his bindings, the cords of his neck standing out as he strained to argue. "You don't know anything about love," he spat. "You're all just a bunch of cold-hearted soldiers playing at affection."

You felt the sting of his words, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you stepped closer, your hand trailing along the chair's arm. "Love," you murmured, the word a soft caress in the stark room. "Don't cry."

You leaned in, your breath a warm whisper against his cheek. "You see, Silas, love is what makes us strong. It's what keeps us fighting, even when the odds are stacked against us. And you," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper, "you don't know the first thing about love."

Your hand hovered over his chest, the heat of his anger almost palpable. You could feel his heart racing beneath your palm, a frantic beat that mirrored the chaos in your own chest.

"But I do," you said, your voice a gentle reassurance. "I know love, and I know that what you did to Sabo, that's not it."

With a flick of your wrist, you released the water from your hand, letting it pool around his chest, creating a cage of liquid steel. His eyes widened in shock and fear, his breaths coming in sharp gasps.

"You're going to tell me everything," you said, your voice calm, almost tender.

"Everything you know about the enemy, every move they plan to make. And if you don't," you paused, your hand tightening, the water pressing closer to his skin, "I'll make sure you regret ever setting foot in this headquarters."

His eyes searched yours, looking for a hint of mercy, but all he found was a steely resolve. You knew that this was it, that you had to be the one to hold the line, to protect the man you had realized you couldn't live without.

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, until finally, with a defeated sigh, Silas began to speak. His words spilled out in a torrent, a confession of his betrayal, of the enemy's plans to infiltrate the headquarters, of their desire to dismantle the revolution from within.

As he talked, you felt your heart rate slow, the pressure in your chest easing slightly. You had done it. You had saved Sabo, you had protected the revolution, and you had kept your promise.

But even as you felt the warmth of triumph, the cold reality of what you had just done seeped into your bones. You had used your power to coerce a confession, had played on his fear and his pain. The weight of it settled in your stomach like a leaden stone.

You stepped back, the water retreating with a soft hiss. "Thank you," you said, your voice devoid of emotion. "You've been very helpful."

Silas's eyes remained locked on yours, a silent plea for understanding, for forgiveness. But you knew you couldn't give him that. Not now, not ever.

Turning on your heel, you left the interrogation room, the door sliding shut behind you with a finality that echoed through the empty corridor. The cries had stopped, replaced by the heavy silence of the night.

As you approached the elevator, the gravity of what you had just done settled heavily on your shoulders. The thought of telling Dragon, the leader of the Revolutionary Army, about Silas's treachery and your part in it was almost too much to bear.

You took a deep breath, willing your shaking hands to still, and stepped inside the metal chamber.

The descent felt like an eternity, the walls closing in as your mind raced with the potential consequences of your actions.

When the doors opened, you were greeted by the dim glow of Dragon's office, the only source of light a single candle flickering on the desk. He looked up as you entered, his piercing gaze locking onto yours.

You could almost feel the weight of his scrutiny, the intensity of his stare cutting through the shadows.

"What is it, Y/N?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate the very air around you.

You took a moment to compose yourself before speaking, the words thick in your mouth. "Silas," you began, "he's been working with the enemy. He tried to kill Sabo."

Dragon's expression didn't change, but the air in the room grew tense. "Go on," he prompted, his tone unyielding.

You recounted the events, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart. The way Silas had taunted you, the smell of the antiseptic floor, the sound of the lock clicking into place. The memory of Sabo's weakened form, his hand reaching for yours, his whispered confession.

"And what of the traitor?" Dragon's eyes bore into yours, his voice cold, the flame of his anger barely contained.

"He's in the interrogation room," you said, your voice tight. "He confessed."

Dragon nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "And what of your involvement?"

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a boulder. "I used my powers to extract the truth," you admitted. "But it was necessary. For the revolution."

Dragon's gaze softened slightly, his understanding clear. "And how is Sabo?"

"Recovering," you whispered. "But it was close."

He nodded again, the silence stretching between you like a tightrope you were both balancing on.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Dragon said finally, his voice measured. "You did what you had to do."

You nodded, the weight of his words a balm to your tortured soul. But the question remained, hanging in the air like a specter. "What happens now?"

Dragon leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant as he considered your words. "Now," he said, his voice a whisper, "we must be vigilant. The enemy will not rest."

You felt a shiver run down your spine. The thought of the enemy infiltrating their ranks was a terrifying prospect, but one you were all too familiar with. You had to be ready to face whatever came next.

"We will deal with Silas accordingly," he continued, his voice a low growl. "And we will find the others."

The promise of justice was a comfort, but you couldn't shake the feeling that it was only the beginning. The war was far from over, and the battles ahead would be fiercer, more personal.

"Dismissed," Dragon said, his gaze returning to the flickering candle.

You turned and left the room, the weight of his words and the unspoken promise in his eyes following you like a shadow. You knew that the path ahead was fraught with danger, but with Sabo by your side, you felt invincible.

The corridors felt colder as you made your way back to the medical bay, the echoes of your footsteps the only sound in the quiet night.

The lights were dimmer, the air heavier with the scent of fear and anticipation. But you were determined.

As you reached the medical bay, the door slid open, revealing Hack still at his post. He looked up, his expression a mix of relief and concern.

"How is he?" you asked, unable to keep the tremor from your voice.

"Stabilizing," he replied, his eyes flicking to the unconscious form of Silas on the gurney. "But he'll need to be monitored closely."

"Thank you, Hack," you said, the words a sigh of relief. You stepped forward, taking over the monitoring equipment with a gentle nod to the doctor. "I've got it from here."

Hack nodded, his eyes understanding as he handed you the charts. "I'll be outside if you need me."

As Hack disappeared through the sliding door, you were once again alone with the man who had become the center of your world. Sabo lay on the medical bay bed, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

His skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh, sterile lights, but his aura was as potent as ever, filling the room with the warmth of his spirit.

Slowly, you climbed into the bed beside him, needing to hear his heartbeat, to feel the reassurance of his presence. "I've missed you too," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion.

Your fingertips grazed his chest, feeling the steady thump beneath the fabric of his shirt. His pulse was strong, a comforting rhythm that seemed to sync with the erratic beat of your own heart.

You curled into his side, your body fitting against his like two pieces of a puzzle that had been apart too long. His arm slid around your waist, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back, warm and possessive.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him—sea salt, gunpowder, and a hint of something that was uniquely, intoxicatingly Sabo.

His heartbeat was a steady thump, thump, thump beneath your ear, the rhythm of it a soothing lullaby that seemed to speak directly to your soul. You felt your own heartbeat slow to match his, the frantic pace of the day melting away into the warmth of his embrace.

For all the times he had shielded you, you were more than happy to return the favor. You had seen the way he looked at you during battles, the split second glances that said more than a thousand words ever could.

The fierce protectiveness in his eyes was something you had come to crave, to cherish, even when it scared you. Because it meant that, in this brutal world, you weren't alone.

You leaned into him, your nose buried in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of him was a potent cocktail of sweat, smoke, and something else—something that was unmistakably, irrevocably, him.

It was a scent that had haunted your dreams, invaded your thoughts during the loneliest nights of the revolution.

Sabo's hand tightened around your waist, pulling you closer still. His breathing grew deeper, his chest rising and falling against your side.

You felt his eyes on you, heavy with meaning, and you knew he was fighting the same battle you were—the urge to ignore the war outside and lose yourself in each other.

You turned to face him, your eyes searching his for any hint of regret or doubt. But what you saw was unbridled passion, a yearning that matched your own. It was a heady feeling, intoxicating and overwhelming.

You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips, feeling the stubble rasp against your skin. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed.

"I don't know if this is the right time," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the thundering of your heart. "The revolution, the war, it's all so… intense."

Sabo's eyes searched yours, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. "Life is intense," he murmured, his thumb brushing tenderly against your skin. "But moments like these, moments of connection, of love, they're what make it all worth fighting for."

You felt your resolve slipping, the dam you had built around your heart crumbling piece by piece. You had yearned for this, for his touch, for the validation of his feelings, for so long.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, and brushed his lips against yours. It was a gentle kiss, tentative at first, as if he were afraid you might vanish if he pushed too hard.

But you were real, solid, and you were not going anywhere. . . .

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 7)

Pairing: Pirate!Bucky x Lady!Reader

Prompt: Kidnapped

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: descriptions of kidnapping; mentions of death and murder

Divider by @silkholland

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

You put up a fight.

It doesn’t matter that you lost, you keep telling yourself.

You fought. With everything you had.

You made them work for it.

They hadn’t waltzed into your home unannounced and plucked you like a ripe fruit.

No. They had to chase you. Through your father's grand halls, past portraits of ancestors who surely would have been appalled by the racket.

You had turned over tables, ducked behind curtains, slipped from one room to the next, heart pounding in your throat just like your feet on the floors.

It made them rougher. It made them intimidating. It made them brutal.

But even when they finally cornered you, when their calloused hands aggressively grabbed at your arms and pulled you, you didn’t stop. You thrashed and screamed and kicked and bit and clawed - every inch of your body on high alert and protesting against their strong hold.

They were sweating by the time they bound you, snarling curses and grunts of frustration flying at your face with the spit out of their mouths. They called you names, ugly names, growled at you to stop resisting.

One of the three men even laughed - a low, cruel sound - but it was laced with fury.

You tell yourself it was worth it.

Every bruise, every ache in your body as they now drag you down the manor steps to the waiting ship, every ragged breath you manage to gulp in your struggle - it’s all worth it. Even as your father’s angered voice fades behind you, lost in the salt-stung wind and the distant crash of waves.

Because you didn’t make it easy for them.

You fought back.

And that is something you will forever be proud of.

Although that forever might end sooner than you had envisioned before this day.

Still, you tell yourself you won something - however small.

Maybe you won’t live to see the end of this. Maybe the days ahead hold horrors you couldn’t yet imagine.

But you didn’t go quietly.

The gangplank groans beneath the firm boots of your three kidnappers as they haul you aboard. The salty air stings the cuts on your wrists where the ropes bite into your skin but you refrain from wincing.

The ship rises and falls with the swell of the sea. It’s unfamiliar. So foreign in its feeling, it reminds you just how much you leave behind by stepping foot onto this ship.

The men shove you forward.

Around you, the crew is working. You have no idea why there are so many people needed on a ship but you feel the urge to shrink into yourself at the many stares you receive.

So many men. And none of them say anything. But they smirk and chuckle menacingly and you grow more uneasy with every step you take.

A prize. That’s what you are to them.

“Cap’n’s gonna love this,” one of the men holding you mutters, spitting onto the deck. He smells of sweat and dirt.

Again, you refrain from wincing.

“Aye,” grunts the one behind you, whose arm you had managed to claw so deep, the blood is already drying in ragged streaks. “Feisty little wench. Wonder how long she’ll keep her spirit when the Captain’s done with her.”

You hope there is no fear on your face. But your heart certainly picked up in pace. Your silence seems to irk the men further, and you feel the grip on your arms tighten, yanking you forward. “Come on, girl, move!”

The boards beneath your feet are damp and uneven, smelling of seawater and tar. The crew keeps eying you with varying degrees of interest - some openly leering, others grinning like your presence on the ship is the best to have happened to them all year. A shiver crawls up your spine. Your hands ball to fists.

They part as you are dragged toward the wheel, where a figure stands. His silhouette is tall and commanding against the blood-red sunset.

That must be the captain.

He isn’t barking orders or pacing like you might have expected. Instead, he stands still, one of his arms resting casually on the hilt of a blade strapped to his hip, his other hand tracing lazy circles against the ship’s wooden railing.

His left hand is basically red with scar tissue, though he doesn’t seem to mind it’s on full display.

He looks more put together than some of the others - the three men who captured you especially. The way he carries himself seems almost careless. So nonchalant. Confident, as though he owns not only the ship but the waves themselves. His dark hair is pulled back loosely, strands of it catching the wind.

James Barnes.

It’s not like you haven’t heard the name before.

Of course, you have.

The pirate who had crawled up from the depths after losing everything, carving his name into the bones of the sea. Ruthless. Calculating. Cold.

Your father never said much about the man, but that is part of what unnerves you. He isn’t afraid of anything - at least, not that he lets show. But any time someone dared to bring up Bucky Barnes or his crew, your father’s face would harden in a way that always made your stomach twist.

Now you are standing on the deck of Barnes’s ship, caught in the middle of a vendetta you hadn’t even known existed.

All you know, all you had heard from half-overheard conversations or rumors whispered among the servants in your manor is that Bucky Barnes lost his mother and sister in a raid many years back.

It was brutal you had heard. Indiscriminate. Pirates or mercenaries stormed his village under the cover of darkness and burned torches to the ground.

He was young then, barely a man, but he fought. With everything he had. But it wasn’t enough.

The details are hazy but you heard enough to imagine how awful that must have been.

His father had survived the raid. He was a sailor then. But he joined forces and took his son along, cutting a swath of vengeance across the water. They hunted the men responsible all over the globe. That’s when he became a pirate.

His father’s obsession with vengeance consumed him until it finally cost him his life. Again, you are lost on any details. It might have been a skirmish gone wrong or the grief dragging him under the water. You can’t tell.

All you can tell is that it left Bucky alone. And it made him the cold-blooded pirate he is nowadays.

But nothing could have prepared you for the reality of him.

His eyes are a storm. Wilder than any tornado you had heard stories of. His jawline is sharp, cheekbones high, a handsome face marred only by the thin scar running from his temple to his ear.

The men haul you forward and he watches you with a calmness that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He doesn’t speak right away, just lets his gaze sweep over you slowly, deliberately, intensely, like he is studying something he’s been waiting for a long, long time.

“Cap’n Barnes,” one man says. His lip is split, a crimson smear trailing down to his chin. You did that. “We got her.”

Rough hands shove you forward unceremoniously. You stumble but don’t fall, catching yourself just in time. You keep your expression as blank as it would go.

Bucky’s lips twitch at the corners, but it’s not quite a smile. He steps down from his spot near the wheel, boots hitting the deck with a weight that silences even the wind. He looks at the men then and there is something darkly amused in the way his brow arches.

“This is her?” His voice is smooth but carries an edge, the kind that could cut without raising.

Bucky’s harsh gaze flicks to the scratches on one man’s arms, then to the bruises blooming on another’s jaw, and to the trail of blood on the last man’s neck, still trailing lower, from the chapped lips you had punched open.

You allow yourself a short breath before his attention can switch back to you.

The men shift nervously under his scrutiny and the raised eyebrow. “She fights like a damn wildcat,” defends the one with the open bruises. The captain hadn’t even said anything yet. “Nearly gouged my eye out.”

Bucky barks out a laugh, the sound sharp and unexpected. “Shame it didn’t stick.”

The men grumble in discomfort, looking at each other.

The captain chuckles, though it’s low and humorless and rather terrifying. Your skin prickles.

“You mean to tell me the daughter of a landlubber put you lot on your asses?” he spits out.

You can’t help your reaction.

You are well aware that you are finding yourself in a rather dangerous position. But nobody talks your father down. Nobody gets to walk over his title in such a manner. Nobody gets to derogate your father. Not even a damn pirate captain. Running over your father’s name means running over yours as well.

So, yes, you jerk against the arms that hold you and you let your fury redden your face.

Though you should have known better.

Because Bucky’s attention is now solely focused on you, eyes like steel blazing against your skin.

He steps closer to you, his boots scuffing the wood, and you straighten instinctively, refusing to shrink under the pressure his gaze puts upon you. He stops just short of you, close enough that you can see the faint stubble on his jaw and the cold intrigue in his eyes.

His lips twitch again. This time it’s the shadow of a smirk. It unsettles you.

You shiver.

Bucky’s smirk deepens. He reaches out his scarred hand, tilting your chin upwards with two fingers. His touch isn’t rough, but it isn’t gentle either. More like he’s inspecting a piece of cargo. You try your very best to meet his gaze with eyes burning in defiance.

He looks eager - wickedly so - for something you’re not sure of but the fear you tried to shove to the deepest corners of your body comes creeping up your neck, overshadowing the pride you held for yourself just moments before.

You hate yourself for it. But your heart can’t help but thud violently.

“You’ve got your father’s looks about you,” he murmurs so quietly, you’re not sure anyone but you even heard it. It’s probably not even meant for your ears but he doesn’t seem like a person to care what people think. So why would he care if you heard him.

He sounds dangerous though. Too calm and still lethal. Your fear takes on another shape.

But as his hand moves to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, your head jerks away on its own and your lips form a slight snarl.

Bucky chuckles again. And to your surprise, it actually sounds amused. His hand falls from your face and he takes a step back from you with his wide smirk still plastered on his handsome face. He tilts his head at you slightly, studying you some more.

Pieces click into place. Actually, they’d been there all along, waiting in the corners of your mind, half-formed and heavy with a meaning that makes you shudder. But one you have to acknowledge now since you find yourself in its cause.

This isn’t a random kidnapping. This isn’t about piracy. You’re not just here because your father is able to pay a high ransom for your release.

This is something far older, far darker.

This is vengeance.

The vengeance Bucky Barnes had fought for his whole pirate life.

You don’t know any specifics. Perhaps Bucky doesn’t either. But a pirate doesn’t care for specifics after all.

Your father’s trading empire had always been shadowed by backroom deals, underhanded tactics, and alliances forged in blood. He’d always tried to hide the dark parts from you of course. He was good at hiding things - his anger, his dealings, his sins.

But you always felt like something was wrong with his world. And you were curious, foolishly so. You were a child, and children always want to touch the flame.

You never did well with the path he went down.

The first time you confronted him - clutching letters you weren’t meant to read in your trembling grip and demanding answers - he barely even looked at you as he ordered the guards to lock you in your room.

“This is not your business. And if you want to keep that little head of yours, you will learn to stay where you belong.”

You didn’t learn. You were young and stubborn and naive, so you kept pushing, kept digging into the corners he wanted you to leave untouched.

You spent weeks locked inside your room every time. He taught you lesson after lesson, each one harder than the last. Servants were forbidden to speak to you, the scraping of plates grating on you as they slid your meals through the door. No books. No letters. No glimpse outside. Just silence so suffocating, walls pressing against you from all sides, like they were on your father’s side, conspiring to keep you in.

Your father isn’t a cruel man - not in the way you’d imagine cruelty, all whips and chains and unrestrained fury. His cruelty is colder, quieter, built into the way he looks at you like you are a disappointment for daring to see too much. For daring to want too much.

He wants to protect you is what he told you. He told you it’s dangerous out there.

It is.

But it’s dangerous because of him. He hadn’t locked you away out of protection, he just tried to keep you from looking too closely at the cracks in the foundation of his empire.

And now, because of those cracks, because of his choices, you are here.

It isn’t hard to imagine that your father might have had some hand in whatever led to that fateful raid those years ago that cut down Bucky’s family.

And the pirate had lived his life thereafter chasing the ghost of his family’s ruin.

And that makes you his prize. His weapon. His proof that revenge could be tangible.

He basically lived the last years in pursuit of this moment.

The thought burns in your chest. Low and fierce. But you won’t break under the mistakes of your father’s legacy. Not for him. Not for Bucky. Not for anyone.

You press your lips together and meet Bucky’s gaze again and this time you see it. Sitting just behind his irises.

Hatred.

“Take her below,” he orders gravely. “And keep her in one piece. For now.”

[aonungslvr]

he’s…what?

pairing ; jealous! ao’nung x f!sully! reader

taggings ; 🪽⭐️🐚

summary ; ao’nung quickly falls for the sully sister after she arrives in his village, but who is this boy she keeps talking about?

3.1k words

when you and your family had first arrived in awa’atlu you hated it. the sound of ilu’s chirping and waves thrashing against the sand wasn’t normal. the smell of salt was disgusting. there were no trees to shield you from the suns rays or give you coverage when you wanted to be alone. no grass or cool dirt to dig your feet into.

this wasn’t your home; you belong in the forest. you had been chased out of your home after having a knife held to your throat by sky demons; obviously you weren’t happy to be here.

your nerves certainly were not eased when the tsahík of the metkayina, ronal, had grabbed your four-fingered hand to show the crowd. you were instantly met with hisses and snarls from the lighter blue clan. you gently trembled at her touch, less from fear and more from annoyance, and continued staring into the sand, trying to dig your feet into it like dirt. it was too hot; this wasn’t your dirt. your mother intervened, seeing your discomfort, and held you to her; raising her fangs towards the tsahìk. your father entered himself in hopes of calming the situation down, showing the clan his own 4 fingered hand.

when ronal had moved on and the attention focused on the leaders of the metkayina, you glanced up, seeing the ocean clan more clearly this time. you had noticed a girl and two boys closer to your family than the others; they looked around your age. the female was eyeing your youngest brother before her vision shifted towards you. she offered you a warm smile along with a small wave. you looked her up and down before giving her your own smile and wave, though you lowered your hand as you could tell she was now focused on your extra finger.

you looked beside her to see a taller boy with a bun, he had been the one to make fun of your brothers thin tails, the tail you all shared. you sighed and continued staring at the teen, for some reason you couldn’t stop. that was proved false when the boy looked your way, you diverted your eyes back to the sand as fast as you could. you hadn’t been able to see it, but the teal na’vi eyed you up and down silently. his shorter friend slapped his arm and laughed at him, whispering something you couldn’t quite pick up.

apparently whatever your parents and the leaders were talking about had been concluded. you heard the olo’keytans stern and loud voice speak out among the crowd, before he faced your family directly and spoke a bit softer.

“my son ao’nung, and my daughter tsireya will show you our ways.”

ao’nung and tsireya. the boy you had stared at spoke up in disagreement, leading you to his name being ao’nung, as well as him being the chiefs son. the kind girl had also made herself to be tsireya when she guided your family to your new home.

you walked among kiri, trailing shortly behind her. you followed tsireya and ao’nung had followed from behind you all, paired with his little friend.

“i do not like it here kiri.” you spoke as you looked up to face her.

she scoffed in return, “yeah me neither.”

“these are ilu, if you want to live here, you have to ride.”

you and your siblings were all hip length deep in the sea, surrounded by multiple swimming animals, they were called ilu. they reminded you of your ikran.

the ocean siblings had been tasked with training you all to learn how to survive within their clan, and it was time to tame your animal.

tsireya first helped lo’ak, you already knew why. it was quite obvious. he had settled onto the creatures back and held onto the saddle. he made tsaheylu with the marine animal and she took off. you watched as your brother had tried to hold on as best he could but was ripped off due to the speed and pressure that being underwater included.

he had failed miserably and tsireya continued to guide him, but you couldn’t all wait for him. (you’d be there for years.)

ao’nung had invited you over a few feet to show you how to get your own ilu. he explained the process just as tsireya had. you mounted the animal and waited for instruction.

“hold here, when you make the bond, you need to think with her. not against her. let her guide you.”

after seeing what happened with lo’ak, you figured that was a load of bullshit and you would be swept away too. you gripped on the saddle with one hand and grabbed your braid with the other.

“your position is wrong.”

the blue teen pushed your back down and shifted your legs. the feeling was different, the extra skin on his arms were odd. your heartbeat quickened for a moment and the ilu beneath you flapped her fins.

“there. remember, bond gentle.”

you connected your kuru with the creature, and took off. you panicked for a little until you were reminded with how dramatic lo’ak is. he had made this look like such a hard task, it really wasn’t too bad. the water pressure threatened you but you were able to manage. you tightened your grip and squeezed your eyes shut. as you felt the tide flow with you, you slowly opened your eyes. you instructed your ilu to slow it down, which she listened too.

the sea wasn’t horrible. there were so many new creatures you had never even known about. you looked among the fish and corals as you smiled at the sight. feeling your chest begin to tighten, you and your ilu went back up to the surface, swimming closer to where you had left the others.

tuk was the first to congratulate her big sister, “that was so cool (y/n)!”

“yeah way better then lo’ak”, laughed your eldest brother, neteyam.

“ok bro, who invited toruk makto?” your youngest brother was always the jokester, and you laughed at the reference.

looking back at your mentor, you noticed ao’nung hadn’t held any malice or laughter towards you, you took that as a good sign.

throughout the training of your family, you had sectioned off into unofficial groups. tsireya tended to assist lo’ak and tuk, while ao’nung helped neteyam, kiri, and you. ao’nung had tried selling you off to tsireya because he was upset he had to deal with three sully’s while his sister only had two. she had argued that having tuk was basically like having two in one, and she stood with her statement.

with annoyance, he taught you what you all needed to know to adjust to the ocean. most of his lessons were filled with sighs and reprimands when someone would do something wrong, but that had started to fade lately.

“what do you mean ao’nung is nicer? no he isn’t? he still makes fun of us during training…”

oh.

it had only began to fade for you.

well this was fine, neteyam was probably just exaggerating. after all, he was certainly a charmer yesterday.

. . .

“you are not breathing right.”

you and ao’nung sat on a jagged rock in the middle of the reef, he was giving you a private lesson on holding your breath because apparently you were falling behind. (not true.)

you looked at him as he demonstrated how to intake the air and hold it, but it just looked like normal breathing. you tried to repeat what he did but it still wasn’t good enough for him.

“what are you even doing? are you even breathing?”

you rolled your eyes and looked away from the teal teenager, he was so dramatic.

“pay attention to me forest girl,” he redirected your face back towards his.

he placed one of his wide hands on your smaller diaphragm and the other where your heart layed.

you panicked at the sudden contact and prayed he couldn’t feel your heartbeat pick up beneath his touch.

“eywa please i never ask for anyth-“

“your heartbeat is fast. that’s why you cannot breathe.”

thanks great mother.

despite the metkayina’s teasing, he had genuinely seemed to adjust to you. you two spent more one on one training together and even hung out when it wasn’t time to train.

it was nearing eclipse when ao’nung had come to your families marui, unfortunately, your father had noticed him first.

“what are ya’ doin’ here boy.”

the shorter navi hesitated for a moment until he was able to speak up,

“i’m- i’m here for (y/n.) sir.”

your father looked him up and down with a stern look on his face. ao’nung was convinced he would be thrown outside by toruk makto himself. jake grunted and leaded down into your new friends face.

“she’s back by 10 before eclipse. a second after and i’ll cut your tail off. she comes back with even a hint of your touch on her i’ll drag you deep into the ocean by your braid and leave you there. understood?”

“yeah- got it.”

“i said understood.”

“uh-understood sir!”

your dad sighed before finally alerting you of the conversation,

“(y/n!) visitor!”

you showed up at the door as your father was walking away, and was greeted with the sight of ao’nung shaking in the sand.

“hey ao’nung! you alright?”

he eyed the exit, indicating you to leave with him. once you step out he grabbed your thinner arm and ran towards the shore, looking back for the deadly gaze of jake sully.

“oh my god (y/n) why didn’t you tell me your dad is fucking terrifying.”

you giggled and brought your hand to your lips, trying to conceal it.

“whatever, no big deal, follow me.”

despite his ego being damaged, he led you along the shore, pointing out some shells he though you would like on the way. you two eventually made it to the more foresty part of his island, farther from the clan.

you were unaware this area existed and instantly fell in love. it had been months since you had seen a tree. the sight reminded you of your home and it brought you so much happiness. you glanced at the back of ao’nungs head as you continued to follow him where he led. you two made it to a part of the small forest that opened out into the beach. you could see the sunset and water clashing onto the sand all from behind a tree.

“ao’nung! this is so beautiful, it’s just like the forest!”

“well yeah, that’s what i was hoping for..”

he was hiding his flushed face but you could hear the smile he was trying to hold back.

“come!”

you grabbed his arm towards a tree you deemed was tall and had enough branches. effortlessly, you climbed up the tree. you jumped and stood on branches, easily making it to the high thin branch you wanted. you had planted your left leg and arms on the branch as your right leg hung down.

the lighter blue na’vi watched you and his mouth dropped open. he had made fun of your family for being poor divers, but god you were good at climbing. him and his friends would break the branches if they were to ever try that.

“get up here!”

“yeah…i don’t think so.”

you quickly remembered you were among the sea people now, and their bodies simply weren’t built for climbing like you were.

“ah right.”

you hopped down onto a lower branch then the ground, the teen boy staring in aw yet again. you ran up to him and pulled him into a hug while giggling.

“thank you ao’nung, really. this was great”

he scoffed in embarrassment and rubbed his neck,

“yeah, we’ll there’s actually one more thing. i was just wondering if you’d l-“

you cut him off before he could finish his question.

“this is just like what txäol would show me!”

what.

ever since the first mention of this “txäol” they kept coming.

no matter how many times ao’nung tried to get you to like him more, it always ended up as a talk about txäol.

“ao’nung this necklace is so pretty! it looks like the one txäol gave me!”

“txäol used to say that! he’s super funny.”

“oh eywa this shell would look great next to the flowers txäol gave me!”

you were beyond oblivious at the way ao’nungs eye would twitch when you brought up your best friend from back in the forest.

it was a comment on the gifts he’s given you, or the stories he used to tell you, or sometimes you would show the metkayina boy some things the omatikayan gave you before you left the forest.

ao’nung raised his concerns with tsireya first. she was pretty close to you, so he thought she might have some intel.

. . .

tsireya automatically burst out laughing when her brother questioned her.

“your-your joking right? sweet eywa, your so funny! your helpless brother- truly!”

“what- tsireya what are you talking about?! who is txäol?!”

“oh-oh my eywa i cant-“ she continued laughing.

“is he her boyfriend?!”

this just caused tsireya to start laughing again. she gripped her stomach and bent over, unable to stop the giggles that flowed out of her.

“whatever- your never any help! i’ll just ask her!”

and so that’s what he did.

the teal teenager approached you while you were mounting your ilu, getting ready to go hunting.

“(y/n)!”

you turned your head to the sound of your name and saw ao’nung riding his own ilu towards you.

“oh- hey! did you need anything? i was just about to head out.

he had been torturing himself over this question for so long he just cut to the point.

“is txäol your boyfriend?!”

you paused and had no words. your ilu had picked up on your shock and had even dropped her own jaw.

“t-txäol? h-“

you were cut off by the reef na’vi.

“if he is- just tell me. i understand if you have a lover back home that you can’t forget about. all i’m asking is you let me know!”

“he’s n-“ you tried to speak before you were interrupted again.

“i just can’t deal with the not knowing! i see you, (y/n), and i need to know if you see me too! you talk about this txäol guy all the time, so if your in love with him instead, tell me! i won’t be an-“

“he’s gay!”

oh.

bonus!!

the sky people had finally returned back to their planet, and wouldn’t be coming back this time. this meant your people were safe. you could go back to the forest! back to the forest…

when you first arrived at the reef, all you could think about was going home, and how happy you would be. but now that home was right in front of you, you just couldn’t. not without ao’nung.

you two had recently began courting each other, and had plans of mating once you both completed your rite of passages. you couldn’t leave him behind now. so if you couldn’t leave him behind..why not take him with you!

. . .

you yipped for your ikran, calling her down to the sandy shores.

“seyä! hi girl!” you rubbed her nose and cleaned off some sand off her head.

you mounted seyä and invited ao’nung to do the same.

“no fucking way.”

“she doesn’t bite!”

“yes the fuck she do? look at her!”

“aww you poor thing..is he being mean to you?”

you rubbed your ikrans head and made tsaheylu. she flapped her wings and screeched, scaring the hell out of ao’nung.

“yeah there’s no way i’m going anywhere near that th-“

he was cut off as seyä picked him up under his arms using her claws, flying up in the air. you giggled and grabbed ao’nungs hands, pulling him up behind you on the saddle.

“that wasn’t so bad- right?” you could swore you saw a tear running down his face, but he denies it.

. . .

the fly had taken a few days and you were exhausted, ao’nung had given you company and made sure to hold you extra tight when you were getting tired. if it wasn’t for him stopping you to make you sleep, you probably would’ve flown while sleeping.

after what felt like years, you finally arrived back at the forest. you flew over the trees until you saw the omatikaya people, your people. your smile had began hurting your jaw as you landed your ikran on a tree, hopping off and landing on the branches. you would just jumped right down but you had to help the metkayina.

“here- just..place this foot here. and then this arm right here.”

it took awhile (32 minutes) to get him down around 7 branches. it usually took you a few seconds, but who were you to judge.

he mainly just trailed behind you as you greeted so many friends you had missed. he felt like the outsider now, surrounded by darker blue people with thin limbs. he stayed back until he heard someone scream your name. a boy scream your name.

“(y/n)! oh my eywa- your back!” he ran up to you and embraced you in the tightest hug out of everyone else.

ao’nung looked this guy up and down and frowned at him, about to step in and announce himself as your boyfriend until you spoke up.

“txäol! oh i missed you so much-!”

oh. him. the metkayinas anger was reduced, but still present. this boy was all over you! how could he not be upset? he stepped up closer to you and wrapped his hands around your waist, hugging you from behind.

“oh- txäol meet ao’nung, ao’nung meet txäol!”

txäol raised his nonexistent eyebrows at how the boy hugged you and eyed you. he would definitely need you to tell him about everything he missed.

“i’m txäol, (y/n)’s best friend!”

“ao’nung. her mate.”

you kicked ao’nungs knee, trying to get him to be nicer. he was still jealous and god did it show.

“speaking of mates..” txäol started.

you stared and him and gasped. “your lying.”

“(y/n) meet ityea, my boyfriend.”

a shorter omatikayan male entered from the forest and held txäol’s hand. you screeched. like loud. ikran loud.

“txäol oh my eywa i can’t even- you guys are so cute!!” you hugged your best friend and spun around.

“right?! but no- you guys too! i can’t believe you found someone in another clan- you guys are adorable!!”

ao’nung backed up and grounded himself. right. he was gay.

[magicpaint]

TWST Indie Perfume Recs

While browsing, I've noticed a lot of fragrances reminding me of TWST characters. All characters have five fragrances, while each dorm is given one general fragrance. 22 named students of NRC, Ramshackle, the staff, RSA, Book 7 characters, and event characters have been included.

Fragrance notes are taken from their respective websites.

Heartslabyul —

Alice (Crow & Pebble) — Bakewell tarts and black tea, white roses painted red, a distant whiff of black pepper and orange marmalade.

Riddle Rosehearts

High Tea (Possets) — A very true to tea blend. Infused with lemon, sugar, milk, and that indescribable scent of the best starched linens.

Rosewater Lemonade (Hexennacht) — Tart, sweet lemonade infused with fresh, heady rose petals.

Dormouse (Wild Hybrid) — Tea-soaked fur, caramel cakes with a thin smear of butter, toast crumbs and pink pepper

Last Breath (Deep Midnight) — A sweet goodbye as an organ pipes a haunting hymn. Main notes of red roses, lily of the valley, and white tea waft in as the lid closes…

Jabberwocky (Pierrot Perfumery) — An interesting blend of labdanum resin, charred oak, amber musk, and blood.

Ace Trappola

Cherry Fizzy (Death & Floral) — Classic dark cherry soda with small hints of cocoa beans and strong carbonation

The Red Hare (Stone & Wit) — Fresh ginger, fig preserves, cherry, almonds, suede

Black Cherry Bomb (Death & Floral) — Melted black cherry popsicle juice, ginger ale cream soda, salty and hot summer skin, honeydew, golden caramelized amber

Sucker Punch (Sugar & Spite) — Red, shiny lollies, lemon hard candies, and fluffy pink cotton candy

Knave of Hearts (BPAL) — Crushed roses and blackcurrant tarts.

Deuce Spade

0 The Fool (Wild Hybrid) — The dust of a road travelled, davana, tea rose, sunflower, honey myrtle, pink pepper, rhododendron leaf, angel's trumpet, orange and crystalline musk.

Misspent Youth (Death & Floral) — Iced cold root beer, the glowing hum of a 7-11 parking lot, peppered vanilla, blood orange & ginger candy, fuzzy grey amber

White Rabbit (Siren Song Elixirs) — White musk, Coconut, Narcissus flower, Lime verbena, Amber, Double Vanilla

Clowning Around (Luvmilk) — Fresh, buttered, caramel popcorn, salty peanuts, tufts of blue cotton candy, and taffy apples.

Storm Chaser (Fyrinnae) — Misty, salty onshore winds, wet sand and soil, storm surge, broken branches, and gasoline.

Trey Clover

Violet Pound Cake (CocoaPink) — Fresh baked pound cake squares sprinkled with wild candied violet petals then softly dusted with confectioners’ sugar.

Flourite (Hexennacht) — lavender, chamomile, lemon balm, spearmint, a faint wafting of violets.

Coco Violette (Deep Midnight) — Reminiscent of old fashioned violet candies and sweet childhood memories. Old fashioned violet, milk chocolate, and a hint of creamy vanilla.

Dead of Night (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of lavender, white pepper, dryer sheets, detergent, warm cotton, and vanilla musk.

Lab Partner (Nui Cobalt) — Unripe mandarin, chilly grey cashmere, green peppercorn, flushed skin, and toasted oats.

Cater Diamond

Raining Diamonds (Nui Cobalt) — A glistening air of wonder and enchantment. Chilled white grapefruit, ambrette seed, stellar musk, forget-me-not blossom, sheer vanilla, and honeyed almond.

Tell It to the Moon (Sugar & Spite) — Precious woods, cashmere vanilla, resin, spice, and a swirl of bright mandarin.

The Aquarius (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of pear, ginger, nutmeg, salty popcorn, tart lime, sugared citrus, sea salt, lotus, calendula, and cedarwood.

Festival Nights (Luvmilk) — Melon kakigori, dango drizzled with mizuame, wataame, and fireworks in the distance.

Everything Is More Beautiful Because We Are Doomed (Death & Floral) — Rich gourmet vanilla blended with benzoin and black woodsmoke

Savanaclaw —

Dantalion (Fantome) — Creamy chai tea, obscuring mists, sandalwood, a plaster mask, clarifying ginger, carnations, dandelions, & a melted beeswax candle.

Leona Kingscholar

Afterglow (Alkemia) — A softly glowing veil of golden musk, Madagascar vanilla beans, woodsmoked black amber, chai tea, spiced rum, and incense woods.

Lion (BPAL) — The dry, glorious warmth of the Savannah. A golden, spiced amber, proud, regal and ferocious.

Untamable (Imaginary Authors) — Leather Saddle, Tonka Resin, Saguaro Blossom, Texas Yellowstar, Cumin, Tumbleweed, Paso Fino

Badlands (Solstice Scents) — Dry woods, worn leather, dusty fossils, sandalwood, palo santo, hot resins, juniper wood, ponderosa pine cone, parched grasses and desert plants, oud, spices.

Villain Origin Story (Nui Cobalt) — Jaded by the world’s ills, a heart is ignited not by hope, but by fury. Sinister patchouli, spiced mulberry wine, smoldering musk, deep mahogany, and a sliver of peach skin.

Jack Howl

White Fir (Pineward) — orange, ginger, white fir, clove, anise, pine, musk, vetiver, oakmoss.

Turquoise (Hexennacht) — Wild blueberry, white amber, prickly pear, apricot, artemisia, green tea, honey sage, ghost flower, lemon verbena, lavender, lemon balm, cactus flower, dry grass.

Bitter Cold (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of freezing air, cedarwood, balsam fir, pine needles, and a delicate touch of mint.

Werewolf (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of patchouli, black spruce, juniper, amyris resin, rosemary, clove, and clary sage.

The Cactus Where Your Heart Once Was (Death & Floral) — Prickly pear cactus accord and orange flower absolute

Ruggie Bucchi

First Dandelion (Alkemia) — A bright meadow of sunny dandelion flowers, green dandelion leaves, and warm dirt.

Laundromat (Hexennacht) — Laundry soap, fabric softener, ozone, and coin-op washing machines.

Maplemallow Doughnut (Hexennacht) — Fresh doughnuts, topped with sticky maple frosting, and tooth-achingly sweet marshmallow fluff.

Laundry Day (Cirrus Parfum) — Clean white laundry musk, lavender, vanilla, earl grey tea, and New Caledonia sandalwood

Blood and Donuts (Deep Midnight) — Dark Egyptian amber and gaharu wood, well blended and served with creamy vanilla, cinnamon spice, rich chocolate, and a splash of turkish coffee. It's.... to die for.

Octavinelle —

Black Pearl (Wild Hybrid) — The scent of deep sea life and vanilla

Azul Ashengrotto

Voice of the Sea (Alkemia) — An olfactory musing from the underside of a wooden dock—salinaceous seabreezes, sun bleached driftwood, crushed seashells, a twist of Meyers lemon peel, barnacles, mineralistic sand, and seasoaked timbers.

Breakwater (Wylde Ivy) — Mist soaked and sun scorched basalt, bergamot, dried black tea leaves, and white sandalwood

Small Comforts (Stone & Wit) — Black tea, tamarind, clove, anise, cinnamon, white musks

Poison Pen (Death & Floral) — Black musk, mahogany wood, balsam accord, old paper, ink, red sandalwood, ylang, lapsang souchong, and a tiny touch of cinnamon bark

With the Fishes and the Dead (Death & Floral) — Black squid ink and mile long oceans. Black ambergris, black labdanum absolute, salty ocean water, and black pits of stretched out emptiness.

Jade Leech

Koschei the Deathless (Fantome) — Forest mushrooms, turmeric, myrrh, treemoss, dry bones, sea kelp, dark patchouli, creamy ylang.

Ghost Whale (Crow & Pebble) — Stormy sea air, clary sage, black pepper, jasmine green tea, ambergris, cedar and agarwood.

FROGS! (Death & Floral) — Grounding and warm woods, Virginia cedar, cold-pressed yuzu, overgrown moss, forest mushrooms, wet humid frog skin

Leviathan (Hexennacht) — ambergris accord, soil, ozone, marine accord, seaweed accord, mitti attar, geosmin, matsutake mushroom, algae.

The Lighthouse (Mythpunk Olfactive) — The cozy aftermath of a seaside storm - maritime pine, ozone, heather, bloodmoss, rocky wet sand, black tea, wet wool drying by the fire

Floyd Leech

Scenic Route (Hexennacht) — California sagebrush, narrow-leaf eucalyptus, purple sage, pink peppercorn, driftwood, ocean air, orange blossom, sandalwood, cypress, palo santo, patchouli.

Why Would You Make This!? (Stone & Wit) — Lime, bergamot, Sichuan pepper, paprika, apples, raisins, salt, watermelon

OYSTER! (Poesie) — Grey musk, ocean brine, bitter cucumber, a twist of lemon, elemi resin, and angelica

Siren (Wild Hybrid) — Salty ocean water, barnacle covered rocks, wet ship wood, beeswax, sailor's pipe tobacco and spiced rum and the tang of blood to be spilt.

1991 (Sunsphere Scents) — Saltwater, grapefruit, an old boardwalk

Scarabia —

Eternal Sunshine (Hexennacht) — Coconut water, pineapple, apricot, papaya, banana, sunscreen, pool water, sandalwood, seaweed accord, sea salt, driftwood, mysore accord, sun-warmed sand, pool toys, choya nakh.

Kalim Al-Asim

Eight Minutes of Light and Heat Left When the Sun Dies (Death & Floral) — Pulpy coconut water and sweet Thai tea, blended with soft orange blossoms and a scorching desert thunderstorm looming in the distance.

Tempest (Siren Song Elixirs) — Dragon fruit, Lychee, Dahlia, Black Vanilla, Creamy Vanilla

Awakening Desert (Alkemia) — Rainstorm across desert. Cracked earth drinks deeply, softening into moist clay. Desert springs refill and replenish. An elemental scent of awakening... dry warm earth, parched grasses, dried wood, and mineralistic clay drenched in rainwater.

Beautiful, But Annihilating (Sorce) — Fresh coconut, jasmine sambac, tonka bean, salty skin

Cardigan (Death & Floral) — Bergamot and spiced cardamom blended with Egyptian musk superior and sandalwood

Jamil Viper

Serpentine (Sorce) — Ripe figs, fig leaf, cardamom, caramelized honey, vanilla, Peru balsam, Cedar, Iso E Super

Moonstone (Hexennacht) — argent ambre, night-blooming jasmine, evening air accord, lunar musk.

Whisper Your Bitter Things (Poesie) — Pressed coffee beans, dried clove bud, cassia bark, jasmine and neroli blossoms, and roasted vanilla pods

The Snake (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of black narcissus, night blooming jasmine, honey, toffee, and black musk.

Violent Moon (Sugar & Spite) — Candied clove, incense, elemi, palo santo, raspberry leaf, sanguine musk, litchi, moss, sandalwood and patchouli.

Pomefiore —

Champagne Supernova (Black Hearted Tart) — Fizzy pink champagne is elevated with frozen mangoes and a sweet red berry accord. Freesia petals, baby powder, and cashmere musk add a flirty feel.

Vil Schoenheit

Smells Like Teen Slayer (Pierrot Perfumery) — A blend of stone fruits, sandalwood, amber, and white florals.

Thigh Highs (Luvmilk) — Juicy mango, creamy papaya blossom, a touch of resin coated vanilla, hints of jasmine and violet on a woody, earthy base.

Fluffy Pink Murder Robe (Fable & Canon) — Delicate blushed florals, Madagascar vanilla, soft fuzzy peach skin, and a spilled glass of champagne.

Proud Queen (CocoaPink) — She rules all that is strange and dangerous, poisonous and beautiful. Foxgloves, opium poppies, bitter nightshade, green roses of hellebore, oleander's apricot notes, and innocent orange blossom, with a breath of raspberries, white chocolate, marshmallow, and warm white musk.

Evil (BPAL) — Smouldering opium tar, tobacco absolute, green tea, black plum, kush, ambergris accord, ambrette seed, and costus root.

Epel Felmier

Bad Apple (Redwood Alchemy) — Apple, Leather, White Musk & Civet

Blue Jay Orchards (Birch & Besom) — Apple cider donuts, gently smoked honey, orchard soil, cedar, ripe gourds

Riverside Hayride (Solstice Scents) — Moist Dirt, White Carnations, Fallen Leaves, Bare Branches, Hay & a Hint of Pressed Apples

November (CocoaPink) — The unmistakable scent in the air the moment winter arrives. Pale snowflakes, bitter, cold air, dry vanilla, snow dusted trees, agar-wood, baked apple pie and smokey swirls of crackling tobacco.

Bite the Apple (Black Hearted Tart) — Honeycrisp red apples are plunged into a cauldron of creamy caramel and rolled in pieces of toffee and crushed walnut.

Rook Hunt

Crossbow of Vengeance (Fyrinnae) — Dried tobacco, freshly crushed black pepper, and the almost undetectable sweet scent of your poison-dipped bolts.

Balcony Tryst (Fyrinnae) — Tangerine blossoms! Sweet tangerines mixed with the heavier scent of their flowers, grounded by a bit of ginger lily, soft leather, and benzoin.

Ranger (BPAL) — Untamed wilderness: buckskin accord with Terebinth pine, Russian birch, black ironwood, elder bark, hay, armoise, juniper, patchouli, galangal root, Spanish moss, and cabreuva.

Hunter's Moon (Pulp Fragrance) — An Ode to Diana, lunar goddes of the Hunt: Moonflower, tonka bean, honeyed amber, sandalwood, tolu balsam, oud, and rich golden spice.

The Hunter's Kiss (Andromeda's Curse) — Key Notes: Leather, Dark Forest, Incense

Ignihyde —

Starship Mechanic (Fyrinnae) — Working among the generators and weapons control areas all day ensures the scents of titanium, steel tools, engine oil, and fuel stick to their skin and hair for hours. Even after a scented shower, mixing with the lingering fragrances of bergamot, woods, and patchouli, their line of work is fairly obvious when you get close. But you don't mind at all.

Idia Shroud

Please Rewind (Amorphous) — Highlights include VHS tape cases, hot popcorn, and the ozonic, static-like aroma of a hot VHS tape fresh from the VCR.

Artificer (BPAL) — Gleaming metal, gear oil, sparking wires, shattered glass, and a blue flicker of arcane power.

Shroud (Sugar & Spite) — Obsidian violet, geranium, coconut milk, amyris, saffron, cedar, and vetiver

In The Styx (Birch & Besom) — Cool mineral water, metallic silver, dry woods, aquatic atmospherics

The Black Gate (Pierrot Perfumery) — A truly evil blend of wormwood, labdanum, nag champa and blackened metal.

Ortho Shroud

Aerobraking (Fyrinnae) — The combination of warm machine oil, cold titanium, and the slightly stale scent of re-circulated oxygen.

Electric Feel (Death & Floral) — A blend of different electricity accords; hot wires, neon signs, tv static fuzz, the electricity that rumbles inside a thunderstorm.

Deus Ex Machina (Alkemia) — An olfactory portrait of industrial decay and the fallen gods of age of disruption, innovation, and technological revolution… fire hardened steel, rusted iron, motor oil, wet cement, burnt copper wires, and grey amber

Abduction (The Eyes Are Always There) — metallic and ozone top notes transition into a heart and base comprised of a subtle blending of rich spice, wood, organic and earthy components.

Eldritch (Red River Apothecary) — Inky black musk, cosmic horror, patent leather and a smattering of dark energy

Diasomnia —

Gargoyle (Nui Cobalt) — Rain-drenched lavender, cathedral incense, beeswax candles, and ancient stone.

Malleus Draconia

Green Eyes, Black Hair (The Strange South) — Oud, marshmallow, freesia, and vanilla.

Beastly (CocoaPink) — Ancient castle stones, the brooding airs of a dark forest, a threat of winter; a fougere fit for a prince, the musk and leather of a beast; a library filled with rare books; and a single red rose.

Insomnia (Sugar & Spite) — Oud, Black Pepper, beeswax, dragon's blood, light and dark patchouli, benzoin resin

Lost Temple (Nui Cobalt) — A nexus of mystery and hidden power. Damp moss, a humid tangle of mandevilla vines, freshly cut palo santo, rain-drenched stone, and the memory of sacred fires.

Thunder In Your Ear (The Strange South) — Dragon's blood, red musk, sleet, mandarin, and vanilla.

Silver

Aurora (Alkemia) — A luminescent skin-but-better aurora of soft cashmeran, orris root, cardamon infused coconut milk, white amber, white musk, white violet, white ginger, lotus flower, and a touch of honeyed cream.

Gentle Tormentor (CocoaPink) — You are that wild-eyed faery's child, beautiful and merciless. A bed of vanillas, tonka and white musk, laced with delicate lemon and bergamot.

Doe Eyed and Dreaming (Sugar & Spite) — Assam au lait, dry vanilla pods, burned brown sugar, oak wood, tonka, ambrette and the tiniest hint of firewood

Fey Touched (Nui Cobalt) — A glistening aura of elemental power to enhance all spellcraft. Sunflower petals, honeyed almond, yuzu, sacred benzoin, and prismatic mist from woodland stream dappled in sunlight.

Inside a Nightmare (Death & Floral) — The olfactory profile of a constantly changing nightmare. Freezing cold water, asphalt, sea salt, lavender & chamomile. very soft leather car interior. Which turn was wrong, and where did we end up?

Sebek Zigvolt

Magic Compass (Nui Cobalt) — An enchantment to navigate you through the fog and keep you on the right path. Shining brass, benzoin, angelica flower, quatre épices, sandalwood, golden patchouli, and a touch of ripe passion fruit.

Vert et Noir (DSH) — A bright, citric-green eau fraiche vetiver fragrance with vegetal notes and ozone to bring the unexpected.

Sorcerer (BPAL) — A golden, sparking surge of raw, wild magic: waves of amber, frankincense, red cacao, blood orange, and lavender touched by demonic incense and dragon’s blood.

Lightning (BPAL) — Lightning slashing the midnight skies over the endless reaches of the ocean. The electric tang of ozone, marine notes, and a drop of sharp rain.

16 The Tower (Wild Hybrid) — Lightning and stone

Lilia Vanrouge

Frickin' Bats (Hexennacht) — Vanilla ice cream, black licorice whips, candy corn, root beer, kettle corn.

90s Goth (Amorphous) — Aroma palette is a spooky, spicy, dark floral musk with hints of leather and spice. Highlights include clove cigarette smoke, jet black lipstick, worn leather, fog machine, and white violet musk.

Bats in the Belfry (Pierrot Perfumery) — A sweet, musty blend. Notes of vintage lace, dried flowers and dusty photos.

You'll Never Grow Old (CocoaPink) — A vintage amusement park on a summer night boardwalk where the coolest vampires hang out. The irresistible mingling of cotton candy, waffle cones, caramel popcorn, and candy apple is stalked by the tang of an oncoming storm, sea salt, freshly-dug dirt, and a primal, seductive musk.

Moondust Will Cover You (Sugar & Spite) — Lush green foliage, tiny, still-green wildflowers bathed in moonlight, and a sweet breeze that smells of love and sorrow.

Ramshackle —

Parlour (Fantome) — A darkly polished mahogany rapping table, spirit boards, sweet rosewood chests, burning incense, and a hint of vetiver.

Grim

Purr (Hexennacht) — kitten fur accord, yarn (wool absolute), milky kitten breath, tonka bean absolute, musk.

Le Chat Noir (Hexennacht) — chimney smoke, freshly fallen snow, and the cool, dry, musky scent of a cat just in from a long winter stroll.

Vampire Cat (Nui Cobalt) — Playfully alluring. Top notes of tart cherry and pomegranate, a warm heart of rooibos, torch ginger, and hibiscus, and a base of red cedarwood and dragon’s blood resin.

Making Biscuits (Deep Midnight) — The most ubiquitous of cat practices, biscuits are about sharing. Main notes of: bread, sugar, fire, pumpkin, cardamom

Kitten and the Falling Leaves (Alkemia) — An olfactory portrait of crisp dry leaves and warm musky kitten fur.

NRC Staff —

Dire Crowley

The Night-Raven (BPAL) — Indigo musk, wild plum, rose geranium, benzoin, night-blooming jasmine, and patchouli.

Prismatic Crow (Crow & Pebble) — Soft woods, dark forest fruits, dry pine needles, juniper branches and a wisp of smoke.

A Fine Gentleman (The Strange South) — Blackberry, licorice, wood shavings, bay rum, and clove.

Ravenous (Siren Song Elixirs) — Frost, Snow, Ozone, Birch, Cypress, Fir Needles, Oakmoss, Sandalwood, Black Salt, Black Pepper, Charcoal, Sweet Milk, Blue Musk, Vetiver, Nag Champa, Mahogany, Narcissus blooms

Villain (BPAL) — A classic Victorian men’s cologne: a lavender fougere, with hints of lilac, lime, and citrus musk.

Divus Crewel

Hand Me My Leather (Hexennacht) — premium leather/suede accord, vanilla, benzoin, tolu balsam, Peru balsam, olibanum, amber, black pepper, cedar, sandalwood, tonka, musk.

My Curse (Stone & Wit) — Red wine, hyssop, cashmere, suede, musk

The Devil's Bentley (Pierrot Perfumery) — Coal, brimstone, car exhaust, black musk and 1970's amber cologne.

Wardrobe (Solstice Scents) — Creamy woods blend with cashmere, fur, velvet and a touch of dry woody spice.

Hexes 4 My Exes (Birch & Besom) — Leather, Earl Grey tea, vintage powder, crushed violets, cauldron smoke

Mozus Trein

1891 (Alkemia) — A delightful anachronism of French lavender buds, mandarin peel, lime leaves, bergamot, bay leaves, coriander, clove, nutmeg, ginger flower, pink pepper, elegant white carnations, heirloom tree rose, opium tar accord, and woody amber resin nestled in an embrace of precious oriental incense woods.

Beloved (Stone & Wit) — Apricot brandy, sandalwood, cedar

Vintage (Hexennacht) — Golden amber, Medjool dates, vanilla, amber attar, citrus, resins, Mysore sandalwood, opoponax.

Lucifer (Hexennacht) — White sage, blue musk, cedar, blackberry, black tea, bergamot, apple.

The Blues Are All the Same (Death & Floral) — Smooth vanilla cognac, aged barrel wood, and sticky honey.

Ashton Vargas

The Heartbreaking Simplicity of Ordinary Things (Death & Floral) — Freshly opened tennis balls, cool crisp meteor shower nights, warm and sweet cardamom

Black Mass (Hexennacht) — essentially, "MOON-mallow ": smoked vanilla, frankincense, Peru balsam, labdanum, amber, vetiver, atlas cedarwood, patchouli, night musk, and scorched marshmallows.

Greymist (Pineward) — noble fir, scotch pine, expressed citron, blond tobacco, botanical musk, vetiver.

Lothario (Wild Hybrid) — Night blooming flowers with a touch of campfire smoke and leather.

The Wolf Only Needs Luck to Find You Once (Death & Floral) — Crisp forest night air, lunar musk, large drifting Oakwood trees, the musky scent of a trailing shadow.

Sam

Spellbound (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of cinnamon, bourbon, tonka bean, salted caramel, sandalwood, and vanilla.

Cafe (The Strange South) — Chicory coffee, hot beignets, and pralines.

Memento Mori (Siren Song Elixirs) — Lily, Tuberose, Forget-Me-Nots, Rain, Amber, Incense

Parlor Trick (Solstice Scents) — Ivory lace, white wax, aged paper, glossy white smoke, teak, black tea, blonde woods, delicate spice, bone musk, Manor and a faint trace of rose

Imp (Haus of Gloi) — Peculiar passion fruit mingling with sun cured apricots, perfectly pink grapefruit juice and innocent whispers of wet mimosa blooms.

Royal Sword Academy —

Ambrose the 63rd

The Mentor (Nui Cobalt) — A venerable wizard, mysterious but kind, with faded robes and shining eyes. Ancient sandalwood, well-worn linen, olive leaf, oakmoss, Earl Grey tea, and sacred temple incense. Wear for guidance in times of confusion, and for spiritual support in times of discouragement.

Wizard's Tome (Pierrot Perfumery) — An herby blend of sage, lavender, with notes of parchment and wet stone.

Wizard's Library (Birch & Besom) — Antique books, a smooth cup of hazelnut coffee, cedar desks, sandalwood, sweet tobacco

Nocturne #10 (Siren Song Elixirs) — Mahogany, Amber, Dried leaves, Vanillin, Fireplace Smoke, Coffee, Shea butter, Wood embers, Marshmallow

As Above So Below (Sugar & Spite) — Delicate, ephemeral lilacs, sweet swirls of cream, and mahogany wood

Chenya

Cereal Marshmallows (Hexennacht) — Cronchy, sugary, delicious. Also terrible for you, but OH WELL.

Pouty Kitten (Luvmilk) — Old fashioned cream soda, piles of sugared strawberries, a bowl of whipped cream, freshly cut grass on a warm summer day.

Cheshire Cat (BPAL) — Grapefruit, red currant, dark musk, Roman chamomile, delphinium, and lavender.

Lavender Sugar Cookie (Fable & Canon) — Soft, sweet lavender and rich vanilla folded into buttery sugar cookies.

Lofty Castle (Luvmilk) — Candied lavender, fresh honey, puffs of cotton candy, and raw sugar.

Neige Leblanche

Sit For a Spell (Sorce) — Salted cantaloupe, a light drizzle of wild rosemary honey, fresh spring air, ambrette seed, and winding honeysuckle vines

Lost in the Wood (Crow & Pebble) — A thicket of mossy silver birch, bluebell flowers and violet leaves crushed underfoot, with apple blossoms and elderflower blooming overhead.

Meadowmoss (Pineward) — Oakmoss, alpine sandwort, wild grass, green wheat, orange blossom, fir balsam, tomato leaf, azure bluet, mountain wildflowers.

Angelic (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of sparkling yuzu soda, white tea leaves, mint, apple blossom, white sage, cedarwood, and angelic musk.

Good (BPAL) — Shimmering celestial musk with vanilla, white honey, acacia, and sugar cane.

Book 7 Characters —

Baul Zigvolt

The Faerie Knight (Wild Hybrid) — Tuberose, aged leather, helichrysum, cassie absolute, apricot, ethereal musk and tangled greenery.

Chevalier Vert (Olympic Orchids) — Citrus, rhubarb, tomato leaf, armoise, violet leaf, violet, orris, and peony, Sichuan pepper, and soft woods.

Luna (Laurel & June) — Crystal white amber, night blooming jasmine and lotus flowers; heather, fig blossoms, cool night rain

Stratus (Osmofolia) — Broken stems, ambergris, bitter galbanum, silvery osmanthus, wet stones, damp soil, glimpses of cherry blossom buds, and never-ending fog.

After the Night's Shade (Mythpunk Olfactive) — Earl grey (bergamot, black tea), 'blue' Spanish lavender, golden amber, osmanthus, rosewood, sandalwood, tonka bean, vetiver (Bourbon), aged patchouli, opoponax 216, pure oakmoss, and pine tree moss

Dawn Knight

Forest Prince (Luvmilk) — A woodsy clean scented blend of cedarwood, moss, hyacinth, sandalwood, and subtle musk.

Paladin (BPAL) — Immaculate white musk, sweet frankincense, bourbon vanilla, white leather, and shining armor.

Iron & Oak (Redwood Alchemy) — Oakmoss, Cashmere Wood, Iron, Lily of the Valley, Spice

Lost Epitaph (Mythpunk Olfactive) — Briar rose, narcissus, creeping ivy, crumbling headstones, cemetery rain

Apparition (Hexennacht) — Spectral amber, alabaster vanilla, bone-white woods.

Maleanor Draconia

Dragon Princess (Crow & Pebble) — Ocean waves, gifts of pink peony, waterlily blooms and ripe tangerines, underpinned by deep red amber and dragonsblood incense.

What's Inside a Girl (Sugar & Spite) — Smoldering embers, honey, clove, and wildflowers

Draconic Resilience (Nui Cobalt) — A stalwart spell for strength and reinforcement. Glowing embers of cedarwood, oudh, and mahogany, supple leather, copaiba balsam, vermillion musk, and heat.

Love is Lost (Sugar & Spite) — Dark plum, black vanilla, nag champa, indian sandalwood, cashmere, red patchouli, and smoky embers

She Was the Storm (Death & Floral) — Black hemlock, driftwood, hay absolute, dreamy sandalwood, spiced oudh, dried fruits, dead leaves

Event Characters —

Dylla Spade

Tulips and Chimneys (Alkemia) — An urban springtime of rainy aldehydes, wet asphalt, industrial steam engines, farmer's market bouquets of fresh tulips, Toulouse violets, mint pastels, and a warm touch of clove viburnum.

Odette (Haus of Gloi) — Clean sun dried linens, tuberose, ginger lily and white musk.

Meadow Nymph (Morari) — Wildflower Accord, Green Apple, Dew-Laden Grass, Lemon Peel

Night of Folly (The Strange South) — Exhaust, floral musk, and a Zulu coconut.

Street Racer (Cirrus Parfum) — Cherry bubblegum, leather car interior, newly laid rubber, hot tarmac, a tinge of anxiety

Eliza (The Ghost Bride)

Dance With Me (Possets) — Refreshing and refined at once. A superb coumarin-laced lavender combines with fizzy pink grapefruit, and it all rests on a bed of white musk.

Scenes From a Marriage (The Strange South) — A single violet rose, apple, champa flower, ylang-ylang, chipped paint, and dusty old picture frames.

Midnight Wedding (Sorce) — Bergamot, oud, patchouli, sandalwood, tonka bean, Ambroxan

Dead & Lovely (Pierrot Perfumery) — A flowery blend of jasmine, wisteria, lilies, corpse flower, and casket silk.

Forever As Now (Sugar & Spite) — Lavender, Tonka, French vanilla, sandalwood, Egyptian musk

Eric Venue

Private Eye (Solstice Scents) — Natural Blend of Cocoa, Myrrh, Pink Pepper, Black Pepper, Tonka, Buddha Wood, Tobacco, Coffee, Guiacwood & More

Invocation (Sugar & Spite) — Spiced brandy, toasted praline, pistachio and walnut, oak, mahogany, palm Santo and patchouli

World Famous For 15 Minutes (Death & Floral) — Sweet tobacco and vanilla, blended with a hint of violet and gin

Black Iris (Alkemia) — Royal purple iris and Queen Elizabeth orris root pillowed in a soft nimbostratus raincloud.

Sassy (Hexennacht) — glossy magazine pages infused with a wafting fusion of 90's scent strip samples. IYKYK.

Fellow Honest

Carnival of Illustrious Hearts (Alkemia) — A glitteringly gourmet gala of French sugarcreams, candied orange blossoms, raspberry cotton candy, rosewater torte filling, and Bourbon vanilla amber.

Mischief Master (Crow & Pebble) — A heart of carnation, orange blossom and rock rose atop a base of oakmoss and musk, topped with a burst of fresh, sweet orange and aromatic saffron.

Shadow Touched (Nui Cobalt) — A dusky philtre for stealth and sleight of hand. Black vanilla, unsweetened chai, antique myrrh, Omani musk, rich pipe tobacco, agarwood, and unrefined cashmere.

Lament of the Midway (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of spilled cherry slush, bubblegum, black licorice, hay, dead grass, motor oil, cement and corn husks.

Widowmaker (Siren Song Elixirs) — Mirabelle plums, dark ripe fruit, black vanilla, gunpowder, black suede, hint of cotton candy

Gidel

Bubble Pop (Death & Floral) — Bright pink bubble gum, spiced apricots, lemon rind and bitter orange peel, red berries + bergamot.

Star Circus (Luvmilk) — Rich, creamy vanilla and blueberry.

Night Carnival (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of funnel cakes, whipped cream, and a dusting of sugar sprinkles.

A Whiff of Wafflecone (Imaginary Authors) — Fragrance Notes: Vanilla, Salted Caramel, Saigon Cinnamon, Heavy Cream, Sandalwood, Orgeat, Scoop Shop

Boardwalk Sideshow (Birch & Besom) — Salty sea air, bright orchids, mint limeade, white musk, jasmine

Kifaji

Archipelago (Haus of Gloi) — Golden fruits from across the seas. Toasted coconut, kola nuts, tamarind and jackfruit - all warmed with a light dusting of brown sugar.

Helios (Osmofolia) — Honey, heliotrope, chamomile, lemon, mango, and white amber.

Alibi (Cirrus Parfum) — passionfruit, orange blossom, guava, strawberry yuzu lemonade, and a dash of coconut cream over a rosewood base.

Sun Gold (Laurel & June) — White amber, banana milk and honey

Sent From Heaven (Laurel & June) — Hibiscus blooms, rice flower, shea, faint bit of smoke, white amber

Marja Felmier

Villa Diodati (Poesie) — Pungent wild rosemary, fresh balsam pine, crystal clear lakewater, dry, and dark vanilla

Snowshoe Hare (Nui Cobalt) — Nutmeg and tonka bean nuzzle up against fluffy marshmallow, cottonflower, white suede, clove bud, cashmere, and a trace of carrot seed.

Winter's Lament (Deep Midnight) — Crackling Firewood, Cassis, Apple, Spruce, Balsam, Citrus, Dark Tea, Pinecones, and Sugar Crystals

Grandma's Best Friend (Deep Midnight) — Iris, Sandalwood, Heliotrope, Musk, Apple, Citron, Jasmine, Cedar

Orchard Brew (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of candied apples, mulling spices, caramel apple cider, and dark amber.

Najma Viper

Cipher (Stone & Wit) — Lime, jasmine, spices, oud (black agar) accord, raspberry

Good Omen (Sugar & Spite) — Jasmine, pineapple, green apple, tart grapefruit, musk and sandalwood

Titania (Poesie) — Blonde woods, sparkling bergamot, orange creamsicle, magnolia, and stargazer lily

Pink Lipstick (Lovesick Witchery) — Notes of orange cream pops, sugar, vanilla bean, heliotrope, oats, pink velvet, whipped tonka, gilded amber, and fluffy pink musk.

Sitting On the Edge of a Cloud (Sorce) — Mandarin orange, pink grapefruit, cotton candy, coconut water, amyris wood, sandalwood, palo santo, ambrette, tonka bean

Rollo Flamme

C'est Noel (Sorce) — Coffee, freshly baked cinnamon bread, roasted chestnuts, blown out candles, lingering church incense, and softly falling snow

En Repos (Sugar & Spite) — A mélange of melancholy, indeed. Beeswax candles, church incense, pale musk, amber resin and funeral flowers.

A Midnight Dreary (Wylde Ivy) — Notes of scattered coffee grounds, cedar smoke, rum, well aged leather, black vanilla, singed tonka, dripping wax, with a touch of spiced amber and fireplace embers.

Cathedral (BPAL) — Venerable and solemn: the scent of incense smoke wafting through an ancient church. A true ecclesiatical blend of pure resins.

Dance of Death (BPAL) — Dry, bone-white orris, black musk, serpentine patchouli and our murkiest myrrh.

Skully J. Graves

Not Dead, But Arisen (Fantome) — Freshly turned grave soil and spring greenery lie beneath uplifting orange and crisp yuzu.

Cemetery Tour (The Strange South) — Osmanthus, crumbling stone, brick dust, moss, and graveyard dirt.

Lacrimosa (Sugar & Spite) — Blonde woods, heliotrope, a bouquet of dried, dusty flowers tied with tattered velvet ribbon, bone-white birch, guaiac wood, tears, and a pinch of graveyard dirt

Cemetery Soirée (Nui Cobalt) — A celebration of life in the presence of Death. Mossy stone walls, lanterns aglow, steam from a cauldron of hot spiced cider, funeral flowers catching rain from crimson leaves above.

Merry Halloween (CocoaPink) — The Pumpkin King comes to Christmas Town! A festive clash of holidays. Sweet pumpkin, salted caramel apples, candy corn, and night woodsmoke meets snowy mounds of vanilla ice-cream; wild pinyon pine, black spruce needles, cranberries and candied orange peel.

Website Links —

Alkemia

Amorphous

Andromeda's Curse

Birch & Besom

Black Hearted Tart

BPAL

Cirrus Parfum

CocoaPink

Crow & Pebble

Death & Floral

Deconstructing Eden

Deep Midnight

DSH

Fable & Canon

Fantome

Fyrinnae

Haus of Gloi

Hexennacht

Imaginary Authors

Laurel & June

Lovesick Witchery

Luvmilk

Morari

Mythpunk Olfactive

Nui Cobalt

Olympic Orchids

Osmofolia

Pierrot Perfumery

Pineward

Poesie

Possets

Pulp Fragrance

Red River Apothecary

Redwood Alchemy

Siren Song Elixirs

Solstice Scents

Sorce

Stone & Wit

Sugar & Spite

Sunsphere Scents

The Eyes Are Always There

The Strange South

Wild Hybrid

Wylde Ivy

[thatnonameuser]

You said something about Azul's darling having children healing his childhood trauma. ANGST WARNING!! AND BULLYING!

This gave me an idea, he was bullied for being slow and different from other kids from the original plot. In this yandere au, that can be twisted into how he's such a loser, he'll probably never be good enough for a darling to accept him. He's so fat, not even a kind and pitiful darling, would want him. How the other mers think he's so stupid that he'd fumble trying to catch his darling and that they'll just be claimed by another, cooler, yandere. Laughing at him all the while so and flexing how their wonderful talents and skills would be enough to steal away a darling's heart, unlike him.

I can imagine how much this'll break his self esteem and brand him as a "weak yandere" to the other fishies. Azul would strive to be the opposite of all this, he would plan to take away their special abilities to "win a darling over" and make it his own, as his unique magic forms through sheer spite. He's so jaded and the thoughts of not being good enough to have a darling still ingrained in him. He probably won't fall in love with MC until after his overblot. Having the internal belief that, no darling would want a loser like him.. He probably won't care that MC is a darling at first and is just planning to use her as leverage against the other yanderes. Hence, taking over her only place to live. It benefits him as well since he'll be able to open another branch of the Mostro lounge and attract the other yanderes.

But then something changes. MC does something while they are inside the blot space. He realizes that.. she sees more in him than anyone ever had. Even if MC says so only in passing cause she's reasonably pissed- He can't help but focus on those specific words, ignoring the rest of her rant. Suddenly, he feels whole, and he knows she doesn't want to share this feeling with anyone. Suddenly...

He's already drafting a contract after their visit in the coral sea museum, giggling to himself as he marks that day their first date....

I hope you find this idea as interesting as I did!! I love Azul 😁

I really love asks for the yandereverse, because there are so many ways that the charas’ backstories can change. Azul’s bullying making him insecure when it comes to his darling is perfect, and it kind of works with how the Coral Sea sees yanderes and darlings. I also love Azul, I love me an evil mafia man.

The Coral Sea is an anti-darling rights area, so yanderes have more freedom to do what they want in order to take their darlings for themselves. And yanderes are supposed to be strong and tough, how else do they keep their darlings safe and with them? The kids of the Coral Sea know that well. 

And Azul wasn’t that. He was slow, and weak and a scaredy-catfish crybaby who hid inside a pot. HE was supposed to be a yandere? That was genuinely surprising to nearly all his former classmates. And they made sure he knew that. Their teasing was relentless….

‘Are you sure they weren’t wrong? You’re not supposed to be slow and stupid if you’re like us.’

‘He’ll probably lose his darling.’

‘I’d hate to be them, he’s so fat and icky.’

….And at the same time they rub salt into the wound. After all, they’re fast and strong and smart and talented and good looking. They’ll get their darlings no problem, while he will be left alone and broken hearted watching his darling being with someone else. All the bullying broke him down over a while, he started to think it was right. 

But despite all the bullying, Azul still tries his hardest to stop being the weak yandere his peers deemed him as. And in a form of vengeance, he’ll take away the special abilities they shoved in his face to remind him how inferior he was, After all, the yanderes that bullied him have their own insecurities that they want to hide from their darlings, so he’ll take their very best away to make himself better for his future darling. He’ll make himself better so that whoever he falls for won’t have to be disgusted by him. (While making his bullies as disgusting to their darlings as they said he’d be .)

But… He just can’t forget the years of bullying ingrained into him. What darling would want him? What darling would love him when he’s just a dim-witted octopus? That denial blinds him up till when he finally meets you. 

Once he’s aware of you being a darling he sees the opportunity, not love. (Because he doesn’t deserve you, so why bother?). After all, what would all your yanderes do or pay to have you for themselves? No price is too high when it comes to a darling, and so, getting you under his thumb is his first priority. Getting you out of Ramshackle and under his control/ownership will make this so much easier. But there’s one big problem. 

You won’t sign his contracts. You told him you’d rather never go home than sign one. I imagine after that point, he starts trying to find loopholes to get you to sign. And your friends are his best bet. So he tricks Ace, Deuce and Grim into being indebted to him, so that you’ll feel obligated to help them. But that didn’t work, because (to be honest, you’re grateful for the alone time) you just let them be stuck in a contract with him. Fortunately, Crowley got involved and you had to go into a contract with him. 

But unfortunately, instead of accepting his offer to stay at Octavinelle till the time limit was up, you proceeded to stay over in Savanaclaw. He’d never been more angry before in his life. The idea of you sleeping with and doing seven-only-knows with those beasts never made him more jealous. The smell of Leona Kingscholar on your skin made him want to add onto the debt the prince owed in vengeance. 

But not wanting to spoil anything more, in the blot space your attempts to pull him out of his self-loathing, change him. He sees that you care about him, that you don’t think he’s a not a stupid, ugly octopus and that instead you see him as something more. Someone who’s hardworking, intelligent, and even cute. And that moment, he truly realizes his love for you. You’re not like the others, you see something in him that no one ever had before. He doesn’t get that you’re saying it only for the sake of your, and maybe a little of his, life. Those words echo in his head. You love him, all his bullies were wrong, his darling isn’t disgusted by him. He feels whole….

…..And he doesn’t want to share this feeling. This complete joy.

He needs you to be his. He’ll draft another contract, one intended to make sure no one else will ever be able to steal you from him and ensure you’ll be by his side, on the land and in the sea. The museum will be like a date to him, hearing your kind words about his childhood appearance makes that younger self cry with joy.

You, quite literally, became the center of his world. And he intends to hold that same place as he becomes a part of your world. Whether you like it or not.

[owlobservation]

Itoshi Sae Profile from Egoist Bible Vol.2 (2024)

"Only the idiots who can keep up will get to see what comes next."

Team: Japan U-20 National Team

Position: Offensive Midfielder (OMF)

Weapons: World class kicking accuracy, world class technique, world class tactical vision, and world class physical ability.

Birthdate: October 10th.

Age: 18 (Third year high school)

Zodiac sign: Libra.

Birthplace: Kanagawa Prefecture (Kamakura City)

Family structure: Father, mother, himself, younger brother.

Height: 180 cm.

Foot size: 26.5 cm.

Blood type: A.

Previous team before he returned to Japan: Re Ale Youth FC.

Dominant foot: Left.

Favorite Soccer Player: Álvaro Recoba. "The left-footed player who creates a rainbow on the pitch."*

Age started playing soccer: 1 year old. "Before I knew it, I was already playing soccer."

Nickname: Treasure of Japan.

Strengths: Being able to see things objectively. "I'm often told that I'm a dry person but who cares."

Weaknesses: I don't know anything except about soccer. "Don't live like this, you guys."

Favorite food: Salted kombucha. "Because I can return back to zero."**

Disliked food: French fries. "It's so delicious that I could die, but it's also so unhealthy that I could die."

Best rice accompaniment: Salted kelp. "They don't have it in Spain so I got it sent from my parents' home."

Hobby: Analyzing data of soccer players and teams. "It's nice to see things visualized as numbers."

Favorite season: The end of summer. "I feel like the whole world has become lonely."

Favorite show: Chibi Maruko-chan. "It reminds me of my parents' home."

Favorite music: Suisei by Tofubeats feat. Seira Kariya. "I listen it to cool down."

Favorite movie: Taxi Driver. "This De Niro guy is the coolest."

Favorite manga: Gegege no Kitaro.

Character color: Azuki Red.

Favorite animal: Seagull. "I like migratory birds that don't stay in one place."

Favorite brands: All the brands that sponsor me. "They have good eyes for betting on me."

Best subjects: No idea because I didn't really pay attention in class and only focused on soccer. "I've never seen my report card."

Fetish: Butt. "You can tell an athlete's ability by the shape of their butt."

What makes you happy: A play beyond my imagination.

What makes you sad: Being forced to carry the weight of Japanese soccer on my shoulders. "Yes, I'm talking about you guys."

The first time someone confessed to you: I don't even remember which one was the first time, dumbass.

Last year's valentine day chocolates: Around 2.000. "My manager told me."

Sleep time: 8 hours. (7 hours+1 hour nap)

Where do you wash first in the bath?: Bangs' hairline.

Mushroom or Bamboo shoots?: Depending on the mood.

What made you cry recently?: Why would I tell you, idiot.

At what age did you stop receiving presents from Santa?: 10 years old.***

What did you ask for a Christmas present from Santa?: My undiscovered talent.

What would you do on your last day on earth?: Give the world's best striker the world's best pass.

What would you do if you received 100 million yen?: I'm not interested. It's just a small change.

What do you do on your days off?: Gazing at the sea.

What would you be doing if you hadn’t discovered soccer?: Living a normal, happy life. Maybe my personality wouldn't have turned out like this.

Who is your favorite historical figure?: Copernicus. He was the man who overturned the world’s common knowledge.

If you could only bring one thing to a deserted island, what would it be?: No need. I’d live the way I wanted without any rules.

Where would you go if you had a time machine, to the past or the future?: Not interested in either. I have no pointless expectations or regrets for my future or my past. Just live in the moment. You guys are so tepid. 

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World-class Offensive Midfielder With Boundless Parameters

Aiming to become the best midfielder in the world, Sae is a super player with the complete package of mind, technique, and physique. Isagi’s best play which he pulled off with “reflex” was stopped with just a light tackle. He killed The Direct Shot flawlessly, showing the big difference between the two.****

He’s Only Interested In Blue Lock! The One He Chose Was Shidou?

Sae was only interested in Blue Lock and paid no attention to his younger brother Rin or the U-20 Japan National Team. The world he sees and the place he aims for are clearly different from those of the U-20 National Team. Sae chose Shidou from Blue Lock as his teammate. With a series of super plays, they managed to corner Blue Lock.

The reason for Sae's sudden change... What on earth happened in Spain!?

Sae went to Spain and promised his younger brother Rin that he’d become “The Best Striker In The World”. However, when he returned home four years later, his attitude had changed completely . He declared that he would become “The Best Midfielder In The World” instead and pushed Rin away, calling him "tepid".*****

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Sae's Ranking on "Best 3 of Everything: Players seriously voted each!"

1. Ranked #1 The Best at Crossing (Centering)

Hiori’s commentary: "Well, all of Itoshi Sae’s kicks are perfectly designed. I admire him."

2. Ranked #2 The Most Likely To Succeed As Coach

3. Ranked #1 Who Doesn't Cry Easily

Aryu’s commentary: "If Itoshi Sae were to cry, it would be when he became the world’s best. That would be the moment of ultimate styl."******

4. Ranked #1 The Least Family-oriented person

Isagi’s commentary: "If you look at those two, you would assume so. But if they really hate each other… It means that they also think about each other."

5. Ranked #2 The Most Likely To Thrive In The Sengoku Period

6. Ranked #2 The Most Leader-like (or has the qualities of a leader)

7. Ranked #3 Longest Eyelashes

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Notes:

*Álvaro Recoba (El Chino) is a midfielder from Uruguay known for his "rainbow-like" curved kicks.

**Return back to zero=being refreshed.

***In early 2021 twitter Q&A, he said he stopped getting Christmas presents when Rin stopped believing in Santa. His answer is revised in Egoist Bible to just "10 years old."

****The original sentence is “...a super player who possesses everything– mind, technique and physique (心技体)”. 心技体 or Shingitai refers to the three qualities an athlete must have: 心 is heart/mind, 技 is technique/skill, 体 is body/physique/strength. It is said that an athlete needs 3 of them to succeed. If they only have the right mind and skills but not the body to support them… well you’ll know what will happen!  So from our understanding Shingitai is an ‘inseparable set’. We translated it as a “complete package” to let you know that those 3 qualities are inseparable!

*****Here the word used is 突き放す (tsukihanasu). Tsukihanasu is 'to push away', to push someone (or something) away and make them leave. It can also refer to an attitude of  treating someone without love, sympathy, or emotions. Please check my notes on Rin’s profile page, because there is a connection!

******What Aryu originally said isファ イナリーオシャ final osha. "The moment where Itoshi Sae finally cried would be the moment of ultimate/final styl.” is most likely what he meant! We personally think ‘ultimate styl’ had more feel than ‘final styl’ (?), that’s why we went with ultimate osha!

Check Sae's profile from the first volume of Egoist Bible here!