#sorry for not posting im working on something :)

[aesthetically-dying101]

Smooch

A/N: TO THE ANON: IM SO SORRY, i accidently deleted the ask that asked: "how would the jjk men react to you randomely kissing them?" FUCK ME IM SORRY FOR DELETING IT, ANYWAYS POOKIE HERE IT IS

warning: some established relationships, some non established, kissing, gojo being a lil shit, nanami being so DAMN adorabe its making me vomit. creepy rando man. mostly fluff tho (not for geto, sorry pookies), i'm being nice. Mostly crack

Characters: Nanami, Toji, Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, Choso, Shiu, Higuruma. (in that order)

The air still thrummed with the tension of battle, smoke and cursed energy clinging to the ruined streets like stubborn memories. You stood on trembling legs, the adrenaline making everything sharper: the glint of blood on the edge of Nanami's blade, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the way his tie flapped rebelliously despite the chaos being over.

You’d seen him fight before, but this? This was something else. The man was a force. Watching him wade through curses, calm and unyielding, to protect his students—protect Yuji—had set your heart on fire.

Literally. Your chest ached. He was just so… Hot.

Inspiring.

Selfless.

Outrageously overworked, but hot.

Your crush on Nanami was no secret to yourself, though you’d buried it deep under professionalism and a healthy dose of "I'm-a-grown-adult-who-totally-has-it-together" denial.

“Kento,” you croaked, your throat dry from shouting during the fight. Not that he heard. He was still wiping blood from his weapon, his focus entirely on making sure Yuji wasn’t missing any limbs.

Yuji, for his part, looked like a kicked puppy. “I’m fine, Nanami. Really! A couple of scratches—”

“Scratches become infections. Infections become—” Nanami began, his voice low and even, and you wanted to scream because how dare he sound that composed after nearly dying. Maybe it was your brain short-circuiting from the sheer Nanami-ness of him.

The sheer whiplash of your emotions—from panic to relief to sheer I cannot believe this man exists—burst out of you like a firework. Before you could second-guess yourself, your feet moved. You grabbed the front of his stupid, perfectly pressed shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him.

Kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t planned.

It was pure, unfiltered relief, and affection, and admiration, and the overwhelming sense that Kento Nanami was too goddamn precious for this world. His lips were warm and dry, just like you imagined.

For one glorious moment, he froze—caught off guard in a way you’d never seen before. Then his hand twitched like he might touch you, and that’s when reality smacked you upside the head.

“Oh my God,” you blurted, shoving him away so hard he actually stumbled back a step. “Oh my God, I’m sorry—Nanami, I—Mr. Nanami—I mean, Kento—I—what did I just do?” Your hands flew to your face, muffling your panicked stream of consciousness.

Nanami stood there, stunned, his weapon slack in one hand.

“I don’t—uh—wow,” you stammered, pacing in tight circles. “That was so inappropriate. I mean, we’re at work—well, technically a post-apocalyptic battlefield, but that’s basically work. I just—oh my God, you’re bleeding. Are you bleeding? You are! Let me—no, no, I can’t touch you—”

“Do you like me?” His calm voice cut through your spiral like a knife through butter.

You stopped mid-pace, blinking at him.

“Do I…” You pointed to yourself, dumbfounded. “Do I like you?”

Nanami’s brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a riddle.

“You kissed me. That suggests…” He trailed off, his ears red. Red. Nanami Kento, the unshakable man himself, was blushing.

“OF COURSE I LIKE YOU!” you blurted, because what else was there to say? “Are you kidding me? You’re smart, and kind, and self-sacrificing to a fault, and the way you fight—” You gestured vaguely toward his weapon, heat flooding your face. “I mean, it’s really impressive, and your voice is, like, weirdly soothing? And—God, have you seen your hands? They’re insane. Like, how dare you have hands like that?”

Yuji, bless his sweet little heart, was standing a few feet away, looking utterly bewildered but also kind of...proud? Like he was rooting for you? You couldn’t decide if that made it better or worse.

Yuji made a small sound somewhere behind you.

“Yay?”

“Yuji, not now!” you snapped, your eyes still locked on Nanami, who looked like you’d just handed him a quadratic equation written in crayon.

The silence stretched. You wanted to melt into the cracked pavement and die there. And then—slowly, impossibly—his lips twitched.

“‘How dare I have hands like that?’” he repeated, his tone dry but warm.

“Don’t mock me! I’m having a crisis!”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint laugh lines around his eyes. “I’m not mocking you.” His voice softened. “I’m trying to process.”

“Process what? That I kissed you? That I have terrible taste in men—not that you’re terrible, you’re amazing—oh my God, I’m still talking—”

“I like you too.”

You froze. “What?”

“I said I like you too,” he repeated, his expression calm but his eyes gentle. “And I’m glad you kissed me, even if it was…unexpected.”

“Unexpected?!” Yuji exclaimed. “Dude, we all saw it coming!”

You and Nanami both turned to glare at him, and Yuji threw up his hands in surrender. “I mean—yay! Go, you guys! Woo!”

Nanami sighed, his hand reaching up to adjust his tie, and you caught it before he could. His gaze flicked to yours, surprised.

“Just…take care of yourself, okay?” you murmured. “You can’t keep putting everyone else first all the time.”

His hand closed around yours, firm and reassuring. “If I promise, will you stop worrying?”

You bit your lip. “Maybe. If you promise and let me take you to dinner.”

He raised a brow. “Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

“Understood,” he said, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw him smile.

You stumble into the apartment you share with Toji, at what must be the devil’s hour, the taste of dried blood and exhaustion heavy on your tongue. Your body feels like it’s made of bricks, each step a reminder of tonight’s shitshow. The job was a disaster, but hey, you're alive.

Barely.

Your shoulder’s throbbing, probably dislocated (you know you're gonna ask Toji to snap it back into place); there’s a slice on your thigh that’s gonna leave a nasty scar, and you’re fairly certain you’ve got a mild concussion. But the mission? Technically complete. Success, if you squint.

The apartment is dark, save for the faint glow of a streetlamp slicing through the blinds. The air is thick with the familiar scent of gun oil and that stupid cologne Toji always wears. You peel off your boots by the door, wincing as your sock squelches. Blood. Great.

Toji’s a lump on the bed, sprawled out like a dead man. His arm dangles off the side, his breathing slow and deep. Must be nice to sleep like that.

Must be nice to sleep at all.

You limp over, each step making you rethink your life choices, and shake his shoulder. Gently, at first. He doesn’t budge. Typical. You give him another shove.

“Oi, wake up, Toji.”

Still nothing. Unbelievable.

You’re mid-eye roll when he moves like a damn cobra, faster than your sluggish brain can process. In one smooth motion, he’s got you flat on your back with the cold barrel of his pistol pressed firmly against your throat.

Your first thought? Oh, for fuck’s sake.

His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, but there’s enough menace in them to make anyone else wet their pants.

“Wife?” he grunts, voice rough from sleep.

Neanderthal, you think, staring up at him, unimpressed. You’ve just dragged yourself home from a near-death experience, and this is the reception you get? He smells like sweat and sleep (is that a thing?), his hair sticking up at angles only a demon could love. And he has the audacity to press a gun to your throat? Really?

“Put the gun down, idiot,” you mutter, too tired to care that he could accidentally end you right now.

Toji blinks, his foggy brain clearly struggling to connect the dots. But he lowers the weapon anyway, tossing it to the side with a grunt.

“You good?” he asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

Instead of answering, you grab his face. Both hands, firm, like he’s some unruly beast you’re taming. Toji freezes, wide-eyed, and before he can start grumbling or say something infuriating, you kiss him.

Not a peck. Not a lazy, tired smooch.

A kiss.

Like the kind that says, I almost died tonight but didn’t, and for some reason, I wanted to see your dumbass face when I got back.

He doesn’t react at first, probably still half-asleep and trying to figure out if this is some kind of weird dream. But then his hands come up, one settling on your hip, the other cradling the back of your head like you’re made of glass. He kisses you back, slow at first, then with a kind of feral intensity that makes you forget you’re bleeding all over the damn bed.

When you finally pull back, panting and lightheaded, he stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “What the hell was that for?”

You flop onto the mattress next to him, groaning as every injury makes itself known. “Almost died. Needed a kiss. Shut up.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then mutters, “You’re bleeding.”

“No shit, my shoulder's been dislocated too,” you snap, already regretting the kiss because now you’re reminded that everything hurts. “You gonna fix it, or just stare at me all night?”

Toji huffs, dragging himself out of bed.

“You’re lucky I like you, woman,” he grumbles, rummaging for the first aid kit.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, letting your eyes drift closed. The bed dips as he sits back down, and you feel the sting of antiseptic on your shoulder.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he says, voice softer now. “Gotta patch you up first.”

“Whatever you say, caveman.”

You think you hear him chuckle, low and rough, but you’re already half-gone. And despite the pain, despite the chaos of the night, you feel... safe. Stupidly safe, with Toji grumbling insults under his breath and his hands working carefully to keep you in one piece.

Home. Or something like it.

Gojo Satoru walked into the apartment, exhausted but relieved to finally be home. He'd been on mission after mission for what felt like forever, leaving little time for himself, let alone his girlfriend. The past few days had been a blur of paperwork, cursed spirits, and long hours of absence that left an ache in his chest, a longing to be with the one person who always made him feel like himself.

As the door clicked shut behind him, a familiar shift in the air settled over him — his Infinity. It wasn't just the buzz of the usual limitless power that made him feel protected and invincible, no, this was different. This was the subtle, barely perceptible moment when he knew his Infinity was off because she was here. It always did that when she was around, and he knew she’d be nearby.

But before he could even finish the word “I’m home—”

BAM.

You crashed into him, practically knocking the wind out of his lungs. Your lips slammed against his with all the pent-up affection that had built in your heart over the past few days. You kissed him like he was air, your hands grasping at the front of his shirt as if you'd missed him more than anything. The kiss was messy, needy — but most importantly, it was real.

Gojo froze for a split second, a low laugh escaping his lips as he felt the sheer intensity of your sudden onslaught. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as though he could disappear again if you didn’t hold him tightly enough.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he mumbled against your lips, feigning surprise, though the dramatic shift in his voice betrayed how deeply he was enjoying it. “Is this how you welcome me home, huh?”

“You’ve been gone for days, Satoru,” you muttered in between kisses, your voice muffled but full of emotion. “I missed you.”

You couldn’t help but slip your hands lower, brushing against the firm muscles of his chest, feeling the warmth that only he had. It wasn’t just about the absence- it was the aching distance, the unsaid words, the nights you'd spent curled in bed, staring at the empty space beside you, wishing he was there.

Gojo felt his heart skip a beat- you had that effect on him, always. Your warmth, your softness, and the way you seemed to understand him better than anyone else. The tension in his shoulders melted away as he melted into you, hands sliding down to hold you by the waist, to anchor you against him.

And then, with a dramatic gasp that could only be Gojo, he pulled back, his hands coming up to cradle your face (kinda squishing your cheeks), eyes wide as if he’d been struck by lightning.

“Princess—” he whined, the very term of endearment a mockery of how absurdly dramatic he could get. “I’ve been gone for days, and this is how you treat me? After everything I’ve sacrificed for you? For us?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You adored his theatrics, even if they were so Gojo Satoru.

“Yes, this is how I treat you,” you teased, glancing up at him with a playful sparkle in your eyes. “Now, kiss me like you mean it.”

And as if on cue, his lips descended, only to be met with—spray.

Hsssssssssss!

The sharp, cold spray of her plant vaporizer hit him right in the face.

His mouth immediately fell open in shock, the spray misting his face, and Gojo recoiled in mock horror. “WHAT—?!”

“You were gone too long,” you said, still holding the sprayer with an air of nonchalance, though you could barely keep your own smile from breaking through. “You don’t get to come back after disappearing and act like everything’s fine. You’re gonna have to earn your kiss.”

His hand flew to his face, rubbing the wetness away in exaggerated frustration.

“You vaporized me?!” he asked, turning his eyes toward you, his dramatic pout making him look like a child who’d been wronged. “After all I’ve done for you?! All my sacrifices? I’ve been risking my life, getting cursed every time, and THIS is how you treat me? This?!”

You giggled, looking at him like he was a giant kid. “You did disappear for days, 'Toru. And you were busy being all heroic, saving the day. Not like you left me with any choice.”

He wiped his face again, but as he did, he kept his eyes on you, his usual smugness replaced by a touch of genuine longing.

“I didn’t want to be gone,” he muttered, the act slipping for a moment as he looked at you with an almost vulnerable expression. “But you know how it is... sometimes I’m not really in control of it. I just... miss you, too. I just...”

Before he could finish, you stepped forward again, slower this time, your hands gently cupping his cheeks. This time, your kiss was softer, more tender, a quiet apology for the harsh spray. Your lips were warm against his, and the familiarity of your scent- the sweetness of your presence- seemed to fill every space around him. Your kiss spoke of longing, of missing him in ways that words couldn’t explain.

Gojo’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. For a moment, there was nothing but the shared warmth, the closeness of your connection.

“I missed you,” you whispered, breaking the kiss just long enough to say it. “I missed you so much, Satoru. You don’t even know.”

He exhaled a soft laugh, brushing a strand of your hair from your face, his thumb gently tracing the curve of your cheek.

“I know,” he said quietly, his voice steady but full of affection. “I missed you, too. You’re all I ever think about when I’m out there.”

A silence fell between you, comfortable, soft. You rested your forehead against his, and he closed his eyes, just enjoying the moment.

Home.

“I’m never leaving you that long again,” he promised, his hands still resting on your hips, pulling you into him.

“Good,” you said with a playful grin. “If you do, I'll vaporize you again.”

He shot her a teasing look. “NooOOo- t's gonna mess up my hair-”

With a dramatic sigh, he kissed you again, and this time, there was no interruption, just two people who couldn’t bear to be apart any longer.

The sun was setting, casting golden rays across the horizon, as though the universe itself mourned for the moment. You sat beside Suguru, his body battered and bruised, the life draining from him far too quickly. Blood pooled around him, a cruel mockery of the warmth he used to exude. His breaths were shallow, his strength ebbing away like water through a sieve.

He was still so beautiful.

Your hands trembled as you reached out to him, brushing strands of dark hair from his face.

That face.

It still bore the faintest traces of the boy you once knew—sharp, confident, full of purpose. Now, his features were gaunt, his skin pallid, but his eyes... his eyes still held a spark of the man you had loved. The man you still loved.

"Suguru..." your voice cracked, a whisper more than a word.

He managed a weak smile, the corner of his mouth quirking up, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"You're here," he rasped, his voice barely audible, strained.

Tears blurred your vision.

You nodded, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, as if the pain could anchor you in the reality of the moment.

"Of course, I’m here," you said, your voice breaking. "Where else would I be?"

A bitter chuckle escaped him, though it sounded more like a cough. "By his side," he murmured, the weight of Gojo’s name heavy in the space between you.

You shook your head fiercely. "Don’t," you pleaded. "Don’t do that. Don’t push me away—not now."

His gaze softened, but there was a flicker of sadness in his expression. "Old habits, I guess."

Silence settled between you for a moment, save for the distant cries of the injured and the hum of the world continuing without care. You hated it. How could everything go on like this while he was slipping away?

"I should’ve done more," you blurted out, the confession tearing from your chest like a wound ripped open. "I should’ve stopped you... back then. I should’ve fought harder for you."

Suguru’s brows furrowed slightly, a mix of surprise and regret crossing his face. "You couldn’t have stopped me," he said softly. "I made my choice."

"But I should have tried!" you cried, your voice cracking under the weight of your guilt. "I knew you were hurting. I saw it, and I—" Your words faltered, choked by a sob. "I thought if I gave you space, you’d come back. That you’d find your way back to me. To us."

His hand, weak but steady, reached out to yours. His touch was colder than you remembered, but it grounded you all the same. "Don’t blame yourself," he murmured. "You... you were the one good thing I had left, and I couldn’t taint that. You were my light, even when I didn’t deserve it."

You leaned closer, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. "You’ve always deserved it," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I never stopped loving you, Suguru. Not for a second. Not even when you—"

Your voice caught, and you lowered your head, pressing your forehead against his. He smelled faintly of blood and something earthy, something that reminded you of home.

"I’m so sorry," you whispered. "I’m so, so sorry."

Suguru’s breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought you saw his composure crack. His eyes glistened, his lips parting as though to say something, but he hesitated. "I... I don’t deserve your love," he finally said, his voice barely more than a breath. "Not after everything I’ve done. The people I’ve hurt."

You pulled back slightly, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "You deserve every ounce of love, Suguru," you said fiercely, your voice steadier than you thought possible. "Even when you were lost, even when I didn’t know how to reach you—I loved you."

And then, before either of you could second-guess, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft, tentative, a brush of lips that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. Suguru stiffened beneath you, his breath hitching, but he didn’t pull away. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a brief, fragile moment, it was as though the weight of the world had lifted. There was only you, only him.

When you pulled back, his gaze searched yours, wide with surprise and something else—something raw and unguarded. "Why...?" he asked, his voice cracking, his brows furrowing as though the question itself pained him. "Why would you...?"

You smiled through your tears, shaking your head. "Because I never stopped," you said simply. "And because you deserved to know before—" Your voice broke again, and you choked back a sob. "Before it’s too late."

A tear slipped down his cheek, and his lips curved into the faintest smile.

"You’re cruel," he whispered, though there was no malice in his tone. "Giving me a taste of something I can’t hold onto."

"You’ve always held it," you said, your voice trembling. "Even when you didn’t know it."

You kissed him again, deeper this time, as if you could pour all the love, all the regret, all the words left unsaid into that single moment. When you pulled back, Suguru’s eyes were glassy, his breaths shallower than before. God no- please, he needs more time.

"I wish..." he began, but his voice faltered.

You nodded, understanding the words he couldn’t say. "Me too," you whispered, your thumb brushing against his cheek. "I wish we had more time."

The light in his eyes began to fade, and panic surged through you, but you forced yourself to stay steady. This was his moment, not yours. You wouldn’t let your fear steal it from him.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "For... for everything."

Your heart shattered, the pieces lodging in your throat, but you managed a smile, even as tears blurred your vision. "Always," you whispered. "Always, Suguru."

His eyes lingered on yours for a heartbeat longer before they slipped shut, his breath hitching once, then stilling. You clung to him, pressing your forehead to his, your tears mixing with the blood and sweat on his skin.

And then, there was nothing.

The grand hall buzzed with life, the air thick with wine, roasted meats, and the chatter of those brave—or foolish—enough to attend a banquet in Ryomen Sukuna's domain. You, one of the longest-standing servants in his service, moved amidst the chaos, your well-practiced steps carrying trays, refilling goblets, and blending into the shadows. You had no illusions about your position here. To serve the King of Curses was to balance on a knife's edge, but the years had hardened you. You were still alive, and in a place like this, that was an achievement in itself.

Perhaps you were even favored.

The whispers among the other servants suggested so. Sukuna, for all his wrath and godlike power, hadn’t crushed you beneath his four arms or silenced you for eternity. It wasn’t kindness, you knew that much. But the fact that you were still here, breathing, meant something. And that meant you tread carefully—at least most of the time.

But tonight? Tonight, you drank (a terrible decision, really).

The banquet was in full swing, and even servants were afforded some respite during such grand affairs. You’d accepted a goblet of sake, relishing the brief warmth it offered your tired limbs, and maybe—just maybe—you indulged in one too many. Which is why you didn’t immediately notice the attention of a particular male servant lingering too long, his touch brushing your arm as he whispered something that made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

“Don’t.” Your voice was firm, but the man didn’t relent, his smirk a sickening thing.

The room suddenly felt too small, the flickering torchlight casting shadows that felt sharper, darker. You turned, stumbling slightly in your attempt to move away, only to collide with something solid, something unyielding.

Four arms caught you in an iron grip, steadying your swaying form.

And then you looked up.

Sukuna, in all his terrifying glory, loomed over you.

His dual faces stared down, one expression unreadable, the other bearing a smirk that could freeze blood. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, and the room seemed to hold its breath. The noise, the revelry—it all faded into nothingness as your brain registered who you’d just stumbled into.

“Oh—my Lord, I—” Words failed you, and before you could think better of it, you leaned up on unsteady toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

As if that'd make any situation better.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even logical. You’d kissed him out of pure instinct, as though the ridiculous gesture could smooth over your mistake. The taste of sake lingered on your lips, and you felt his skin—warm, impossibly warm—beneath them.

The world stopped.

Sukuna didn’t move, didn’t speak. He merely stared at you, the faintest arch of his brow the only indication of his surprise. One of his mouths twitched, as though he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or bare his teeth.

But the other servant? He slinked away without another word, the weight of Sukuna’s gaze enough to cow even the boldest.

You, however, weren’t thinking about that. You were thinking about how dead you were.

“My apologies, my Lord,” you mumbled, stepping back quickly, your legs trembling as you bowed low. “It was a mistake. I—I’ll leave—”

You fled without hesitation, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest.

*-*

The morning came too soon, and with it, a summons to Sukuna’s quarters.

You stood outside the heavy wooden doors, your palms sweating despite the cold. Servants whispered as they passed, their pitying gazes confirming your worst fears.

You’d kissed the King of Curses- on the cheek- but still.

You’d crossed a line so absurd it was almost laughable—almost.

The doors creaked open, and you stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of incense and something darker, something uniquely him. Sukuna lounged on a throne-like chair, his four arms resting lazily, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your knees threaten to give out.

“You summoned me, my Lord.” Your voice was steady—barely.

He leaned forward slightly, a smile curling one of his mouths. “Do you make it a habit to kiss your superiors, little one? Or am I special?”

Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your chest.

“No, my Lord. It was— It wasn’t intentional. I—”

“Explain.” His tone was almost amused, but the weight of his command was unmistakable.

You swallowed hard, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “There was a servant. He—he wouldn’t leave me alone. I was trying to get away, and I—” You broke off, heat flooding your face as you realized how ridiculous it all sounded. “I thought… If I kissed you, he’d stop.”

Silence.

And then Sukuna laughed.

It wasn’t the cruel, mocking laugh you’d feared. It was low, rumbling, and almost—almost—genuine. “You used me as a shield? Bold. Stupid, but bold.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you—”

“Offend me?” He rose, his massive form towering over you as he descended the steps toward where you stood trembling. One clawed hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’re lucky I find this amusing. If it were anyone else…”

His words hung in the air, unfinished, and you didn’t need him to elaborate.

“But…” His voice softened, though it was no less dangerous. “The thought of another human touching what’s mine—” His grip tightened ever so slightly, his crimson eyes darkening. “—that doesn’t sit well with me.”

You blinked, confusion warring with fear. “Yours?”

“Yes, mine.” The declaration was calm, almost matter-of-fact. “You’ve served me longer than any other. You’re still alive. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

Your heart stuttered, his words wrapping around you like a noose. “I—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, little one.” He released you, turning back toward his throne. “You’ll stay by my side from now on. I don’t want anyone else getting ideas.”

The dismissal was clear, but your legs refused to move, your mind reeling. Sukuna glanced back, his smirk widening at your stunned expression. “What are you waiting for? Go. And don’t make me summon you for something so trivial again.”

You bowed quickly, fleeing the room before he could change his mind.

As you stumbled into the corridor, your heart still racing, one thought burned in your mind.

What just happened?

Choso hadn’t expected to see you here.

The fight had been messy—blood everywhere, clinging to his skin, his clothes, the ground. Some of it wasn’t his own, but that didn’t make it better. The curse had been stubborn, and Choso’s cursed technique demanded sacrifice, drawing from the very essence of his being to fuel his strength.

Now, the aftermath was a field of carnage, and he stood in the middle of it, panting. His hair clung to his damp forehead, stray strands falling from the tie that barely kept it in place. Crimson stained his hands, dripping from his fingertips like a grim metronome. He was still catching his breath when your voice broke through the haze.

“Choso!”

You ran toward him, your expression shifting from relief to concern as you closed the distance. He froze, wide-eyed, as you reached him, ignoring the gore and grime that painted him from head to toe.

“Hey—what are you doing here?” His voice came out rough, almost scolding, but the undercurrent of worry was impossible to miss. “This isn’t a safe place—”

“Are you okay?” you interrupted, not stopping until you were right in front of him. You looked him over, your hands hovering near his arm before pulling back. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s not mine,” he said quickly, though his voice faltered when he saw the doubt flash in your eyes. “...Most of it isn’t mine.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat as you stepped even closer. He could feel your warmth now, the way your presence melted into his, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“You shouldn’t—”

Before he could finish, you cupped his face in your hands, ignoring the sticky residue of blood that smeared against your palms. His lips parted in a silent protest that died the second your lips met his.

The kiss was soft, lingering—nothing hurried, nothing frantic. Just your warmth, your assurance, pouring into him like sunlight piercing through a storm. His mind blanked. For a moment, the weight of the fight, the exhaustion, the blood, it all evaporated.

When you pulled back, you didn’t move far, your faces still close enough for him to see the tiny flecks of color in your eyes.

“I’m covered in blood,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“So what?” You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face with a thumb. “I still love you.”

The words hit him harder than any blow he’d taken during the fight. He stared at you, his breath catching, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might give out.

“You shouldn’t—” he began, but you cut him off again, this time with a finger pressed gently to his lips.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I should or shouldn’t feel.” Your voice was soft but firm, leaving no room for argument. “I love you, Choso. Blood, scars, all of it.”

He swallowed hard, searching your face for any sign of hesitation, any trace of fear. But all he found was sincerity, shining as brightly as the sun.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he cursed himself for it, looking away. “I don’t deserve that.”

“Yes, you do,” you said without missing a beat. You tilted his chin back toward you, forcing him to meet your gaze. “And I’m going to keep telling you that until you believe it.”

For a moment, he could only stare at you, his mind a whirlwind of emotions too tangled to unravel. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he reached for you, his blood-streaked hands trembling as they came to rest on your waist.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice thick with something unspoken, something fragile.

“You don’t have to thank me for loving you,” you said with a gentle laugh, leaning in to rest your forehead against his.

He closed his eyes, letting the sound of your laughter fill the hollow spaces inside him. For the first time in what felt like forever, the blood on his hands didn’t feel like a weight he had to carry alone.

“I’ll get better at this,” he promised, his voice a quiet vow.

“You don’t have to,” you replied softly. “You’re enough just like this.”

And in that moment, with your arms around him and your love anchoring him, he almost believed it.

Shiu Kong was done.

Done with Toji’s crap, done with his own responsibilities, done with the persistent ache in his shoulders from hunching over paperwork all damn day.

His tie was loosened, but it felt more like a noose. A neat pile of ash gathered in the tray beside him, his third cigarette of the last hour smoldering between his fingers. Even the quiet hum of his office was suffocating. He just wanted— needed—a moment of silence, of nothingness, where the world would stop demanding every ounce of his energy.

So when the door creaked open, a surge of frustration welled up in his chest.

“Not now,” Shiu barked, spinning his chair around, ready to tell whoever it was to get the hell out. But the words died on his tongue the second he saw you.

You.

His wife, standing there with that soft, knowing smile. The one that threatened to disarm him every single time. And before he could say anything—an apology, a question, anything—you closed the distance, your hands cradling his jaw like he was something fragile.

Then, you kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried or fleeting. It wasn’t the type of kiss meant to start anything more. No, this was one of those grounding, soul-deep kisses—the kind that said everything words couldn’t.

Shiu froze. For a heartbeat, his mind couldn’t quite catch up. But then, his eyes slipped shut, and he melted into you.

God, he melted.

The cigarette tumbled from his fingers into the ashtray as his hands came up to hold your waist, pulling you closer like he needed you to keep him tethered to the earth.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead pressed lightly against yours. His eyes opened, and there you were, looking at him like he was something worth saving.

“...I was working,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

“I know,” you replied softly, brushing a thumb along the dark circles under his eyes. “But you looked like you needed a reminder of why you bother.”

He huffed, a sound caught between a laugh and a sigh. His head tilted, and you felt his lips graze your temple. A quiet, almost whispered, “You’re too good to me.”

“Someone has to be.”

The words came out lighter than you intended, but there was no mistaking the sincerity beneath them. You stepped back slightly, fingers still brushing against his tie as you loosened it further.

“You’ve been at this for hours. You’re going to work yourself into an early grave,” you chided, though your tone was gentle.

“Could be worse. Could be Toji burying me,” Shiu muttered darkly, his lips twitching in that way they always did when he tried to hide his amusement.

You rolled your eyes. “If Toji doesn’t kill you, the stress will.” Your hands slid up his chest and rested over his racing heart. “Take a break. Five minutes, even.”

He looked at you like you’d asked him to dismantle the entire operation single-handedly. “I can’t just—”

“You can,” you interrupted. “And you will. Because if you don’t, I’m going to drag you out of this chair myself.”

The silence stretched, but there was no tension in it. Just the steady thrum of your shared breath. Finally, he sighed, shoulders sagging like the fight had gone out of him.

“Fine,” he relented, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

“Oh, so you can be charmed,” you teased, grinning as he shot you a mock glare.

“You think you’re funny, huh?”

“I know I am.”

Another quiet laugh escaped him—this one real, unguarded. He reached for you again, his hand finding yours, thumb brushing along your knuckles. For the first time that day, the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured. But his tone betrayed him, softer than silk, full of gratitude he didn’t have the words for.

“And you love me anyway,” you replied, leaning in to press one last kiss to his forehead.

Shiu said nothing, but he didn’t need to. The way he pulled you into his lap, burying his face in the crook of your neck, spoke volumes. The smell of smoke and the faintest hint of cologne lingered between you as he breathed you in, as if you were the antidote to all the poison in his veins.

And for the first time in hours, Shiu didn’t think about Toji. Or work. Or the chaos waiting for him tomorrow.

For now, there was just you.

The room was cloaked in the kind of silence that only exhaustion could birth, heavy and thick like a shroud.

Papers were strewn across the table—witness statements, diagrams, hastily scrawled notes that didn’t quite connect. The overhead light buzzed faintly, and Hiromi could feel the weight of hours pressing down on his shoulders, the ache of his back bent too long over evidence that refused to yield.

You were pacing.

Barefoot now, shoes abandoned hours ago, socks sliding against the tiles as you moved like a restless pendulum, muttering bits of the puzzle under your breath. He watched you in the moments he dared to lift his gaze from the documents—watched how the fatigue softened your edges but sharpened your focus, a juxtaposition that shouldn’t have made sense but did.

Then, it happened.

You froze mid-step, eyes going wide, lips parting as if you’d just swallowed lightning.

“Wait,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “Wait, wait, wait—oh my God.”

Hiromi sat up straighter, the air shifting with your energy as you spun on your heel, face alight with something triumphant, manic, and devastatingly beautiful. “We’ve got it.”

“What?” His voice was hoarse, unused for hours, but you didn’t answer. You only crossed the room in three steps, grabbed his face in your hands like he was some divine revelation in human form, and kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even fully conscious—an act born purely of adrenaline and sleeplessness and the electric hum of victory. Your lips pressed to his, fleeting but fierce, a lightning strike that left him stunned in its wake.

Before he could even process it—before he could react—you pulled away, breathless and wide-eyed, as if you didn’t even realize what you’d done.

“We’ve got it,” you repeated, a grin breaking across your face. “I have to tell them—this’ll break the whole case open—”

And then you were gone, feet pounding against the floor, the door swinging shut behind you with a gust of air that smelled faintly of you.

Hiromi blinked. Once. Twice.

The world slowly resumed its shape around him, but everything felt wrong now, tilted. You’d kissed him.

You’d kissed him.

And then you’d left like it was nothing, like it hadn’t sent a shockwave through every nerve in his body.

For a moment, he just sat there, fingers brushing absently against his lips, stunned into an unfamiliar stillness. Then—

“Wait.”

He shot to his feet, chair scraping harshly against the floor, legs moving before his brain caught up.

“Wait!” His voice echoed in the hallway as he stumbled after you, his usual composure unraveling like thread. “Hey—wait—come back!”

You were already halfway to the supervisor’s office, still riding the high of discovery, when his hand caught your wrist. The sudden pull made you spin, chest colliding with his as you blinked up at him, wide-eyed and confused. “Hiromi, what—”

“You kissed me,” he said, breathless and disbelieving, like the words had been dragged out of him by some unseen force.

“What?”

“You kissed me,” he repeated, voice cracking just slightly, and he was looking at you now like you’d hung the stars but forgotten to tell him they were his. “You—back there—you kissed me.”

For a second, you just stared at him. Then, like a slow dawn, realization crept over your face, turning your expression into something equal parts horror and wonder.

“Oh,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

“I—oh.”

“You already said that,” he pointed out, but his voice was softer now, almost teasing, and you couldn’t help the way your lips quirked despite the mortification blooming in your chest.

“I—” You were cut off by his lips on yours, warmer and surer than before, a second chance taken with both hands.

This time, you kissed him back.

And when you broke apart, both of you laughing, breathless, and slightly unsteady on your feet, it felt like the exhaustion had been replaced with something brighter, lighter.

“Case first,” you murmured against his lips, though your hands didn’t quite loosen their grip on his jacket.

“Fine,” he said, smirking. “But I’m not letting you run off this time.”

And you didn’t.

A/N: ikikikik that hiromi's and nanami's are similar but LET MEEEE BEEEEEEEE. i tried okay, an attempt was made or whatever.Again, i'm so sorry to the anon that requested this and i stupidly deleted the ask. at first i wrote the gojo one in "her" pov, but i didn't like that and went back to "you".

Masterlist

:)

[phopollo]

what are the backstories for the fuel trucks like in the cartooniverse? (im especially curious about hydras)

Oh i looooove talking about everyone backstories-- sorry this took so long to reapond to, I wanted to find a post for context, but I can't find it, so!

Context 1 (pardon old art and designs);

Context 2;

While most of the main cast were extremely young, there was something akin to a recession, as well as a HUUUUGE shift in power and whatnot, and not every station recovered from it

So!! With that-- backstories!

(Bit of a long one, sorry akdbsj)

Porter

Porter was factory built (the only one of our main freight gang who was) and sent to work at Station 24 (where our story is set) immediately, under the impression he would be the only fuel truck there. Upon arrival, he was surprised to find Lumber there, just not working on account of being too young and small, along with Rusty and Dinah. (Not like, super young though, Dinah was applying for clearance to race at the time & all 3 of them were cleared to start working within 2 years) All of whom IMMEDIATELY decided that this is their big brother now, he didnt have a choice in the matter. But, Momma saw the way he responded to and interacted with the kids, and thought he was really immature, so she made him wait a few months to start working. In that time, he ended up maturing quite a bit just trying to keep the others out of trouble, allowing him to finally begin working

Hydra

Hydra was built and raised by an electric engine who, like Hydra, is extremely concerned about the environment. But with hydrogen being such a new fuel source and being so unstable, he spent a lot of his childhood in and out of the repair shed-- more time in when he was younger. When he was about 15 or so, his dad & him went for a long term visit to station 24 on account of having better repair trucks with better information on hydrogen as a fuel source, where they then proceeded to find a new main repair truck for Hysda. Eventually, it just seemed more reasonable for Hydra to stay at Station 24 closer to hus doctor rather than having to travel back and forth. He was only cleared to start consistently working about 2 years before the start of the story. Even though he's in much more stable condition now, it still seems most reasonable to keep him near his doctor. Bonus Babydra & hydrogen father doodles I've made in the past;

Lumber

All things considered, Lumber had a relatively normal childhood. He was fortunate enough that he didn't really know there were problems with his station in the aftermath of the pretty much recession until shortly before he started hearing whispers that his starion was being shut down, which happened when he was roughly 12-13. When it happened, Lumber's family were all sent to different stations, landing Lumber at Station 24, where Momma took him in and where he's been since. (He keeps in contact with his family though, dw)

Slick

Slick was built into a family of livestock trucks who didn't work on the rails, but helped provide more agricultural goods to train society. Initially, Slick was not built to carry oil, she was built with the intention to be a milk tanker and work more directly with her family and continue in the business. But to make a long story short, there had been several incidents involving factories mass producing oil tankers made with extremely poor quality parts, causing a lot of breakdowns and scrappings, causing oil tankers to eaen a bad rep, and making more reputable factories not want the association. As a result, there was a bit of a (good quality) oil tanker shortage, leading to something almost akin to a draft going out to draft tankers who hadn't started working yet to become oil tankers-- and this included Slick, who at the time her family received it, technically wasn't even finished being built. Due to the shortage, Slick began working on the rails extremely early-- 2 years earlier than usual youngest rolling stock can start working early. When more and more stations started feeling the delayed affects of the recession and shutting down, the little business Slick's family ran did too, as many of the stations they received business from shut down. So similarly to Lumber, Slick ended up getting transferred to station 24 at 14-15, while the rest of her family got split up to find work at other stations. (She has no idea where they ended up and has no kept in contact.) Shes been here since. Bonus again, but this time the doodles of Slick's family, who are absolutely meant to feel reminiscent of the other freight + Rusty;

HOO

Sorry if that all got a little disjointed, the adhd was acting up BAD trying to write this all

[doumadono]

hi, love!!

for your 6k follower event, could you do Izuku Midoriya for the NSFW alphabet, please?

im so happy youre back! i missed you! :’(

Warnings: post-timeskip Deku

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II ⊹ Doumadono's 6k followers event

A - Aftercare Izuku is tender but thorough when it comes to aftercare. He’ll hover over you, brushing damp hair from your face, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, and murmuring how amazing you were. He insists on cleaning you up himself, bringing you water, and holding you close. He’s not satisfied until you feel completely cherished and safe within his arms.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

B - Body Part For Izuku, it’s hard to pick a favorite part of you — he adores you for who you are, not just your physical traits. That said, if pressed, he’d shyly admit he has a soft spot for your tits. He loves how soft they feel, whether he’s fondling them in his calloused hands or resting his head against your chest. Izuku doesn’t think of himself as particularly attractive, but if he had to choose, he’d pick his hands. They’re strong, capable, and he takes quiet pride in what they can do to you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

C - Cum Izuku prefers finishing inside — it’s intimate, emotional, and satisfies his craving to be close to you in every possible way. His semen is a bit salty and not too bland, but it's a taste you can't get enough of.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

D - Dirty Secret Despite his shy exterior, Izuku harbors vivid fantasies about power dynamics. The idea of being tied up or restrained by you — having to surrender entirely — thrills him in ways he doesn’t fully understand. He hasn’t worked up the courage to ask outright, but he hopes you’ll notice the way his breath catches when you take charge.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

E - Experience Izuku isn’t particularly experienced, but his determination to please you makes up for it tenfold. He’s an attentive lover, watching your every reaction and committing your preferences to memory.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

F - Favorite Position Izuku loves having you ride him. The sight of you above him, head thrown back in pleasure, is something he’ll never get enough of. He’s equally fond of missionary, where he can rest his forehead against yours as he murmurs how good your pussy feels around him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

G - Goofy His adorable awkwardness doesn’t vanish in the bedroom. If he tries to dirty talk, he’s endearingly hesitant, especially when it comes to calling you names. He stumbles over his words, his cheeks flushing as he tries to find the right balance between desire and respect. “Y-you look so… Hot… I mean, you’re so fu… Freaking hot! I want to make you… Cum so hard… I mean, I already am, b-but—” He groans softly. “You’re such a good girl… or, um, do you like that? Or is it weird if I call you that? I can stop if it’s—” His words are cut off as you kiss his lips. His awkward attempts are unintentionally sweet, leaving you grinning even as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling, “Sorry, I’ll get better at this, I promise.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

H - Hair Izuku keeps himself neatly groomed, though he doesn’t obsess over it. His pubic hair is trimmed, soft to the touch, and well-maintained.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

I - Intimacy Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word carries his unfiltered adoration. He’s not just making love to you — he’s worshiping you, ensuring you feel how much he treasures you in every move he makes.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

J - Jack Off Izuku rarely finds himself needing to masturbate. His focus is usually elsewhere, and he’s not someone who gets easily consumed by lust. When he does feel the urge, his first thought is always you — wanting to share that intimacy with you rather than handling it alone. If you’re not around, he’ll reluctantly take care of himself, but rest assured he will be thinking of you and only you while he does it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

K - Kink He thrives on praise. Hearing you tell him how good he’s making you feel or how much you need him sends his confidence skyrocketing and pushes him to give you even more. He also loves when you edge him, his body trembling as he teeters on the brink of ecstasy, eyes glassy with tears of pleasure.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

L - Location Izuku prefers the privacy of the bedroom, where he can focus entirely on you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

M - Motivation Nothing gets Izuku going like the sight of you wearing his clothes. There’s something primal about seeing you draped in his oversized hoodie or his shirt slipping off your shoulder. Pair that with a playful smirk or a teasing comment, and he’s ready to have you wherever you stand.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

N - No Izuku is firm about safety and consent. Anything that could hurt you or push you too far is off the table. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

O - Oral Izuku loves giving, always prioritizing your pleasure over his own. With his determination, it’s no surprise that he can have you writhing on his tongue in no time at all. Receiving, he’s shy at first, his face burning as you go down on him, but his deep, breathy groans make it clear just how much he loves the attention.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

P - Pace Izuku’s pace is naturally steady and controlled. When the heat between you reaches its peak, he surprises you with an increased pace, his hips snapping into yours with a force that leaves you breathless.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Q - Quickie Quickies aren’t Izuku’s preference. He finds them too rushed, lacking the depth and connection he craves during sex. For him, every moment with you is something to be savored, and he’d rather take his time exploring your body and making you feel completely adored than succumb to fleeting urgency.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

R - Risk Izuku is cautious, but there’s a certain thrill in stepping slightly outside his comfort zone. As long as it’s safe and consensual, he’s willing to experiment, especially if it’s something you suggest.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

S - Stamina Izuku’s stamina is impressive, honed through years of grueling training. He can go multiple rounds, always ensuring your pleasure comes first. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

T - Toys Midoriya’s shy about introducing toys at first, his cheeks glowing red the moment you bring it up. But as he grows more confident, he becomes curious, especially if it means making you feel even better. Watching you squirm under the effects of a vibrator pressed to your already swollen clit while he finger fucks your pussy quickly becomes one of his favorite things.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

U - Unfair Izuku isn’t fond of teasing — it’s just not his style. He prefers being straightforward, focusing on giving you exactly what you want rather than drawing things out.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

V - Volume Izuku starts out quiet, but as things heat up, he becomes super vocal — groaning your name, whispering praises, and letting out breathless, desperate moans and sighs. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

W - Wild Card The day Izuku met you during one of his patrols, he couldn’t shake the memory of you — and that night, it manifested in a vivid, wet dream. Waking up flustered and guilty, he convinced himself he’d somehow disrespected you. Embarrassed and overthinking, he began avoiding you entirely, leaving you to wonder if you’d done something wrong or if he simply didn’t like you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

X - X-Ray Izuku is proportionate to his strong, lean build, with just enough girth to make every thrust hit perfectly. His cock is uncut, and slightly upward curved.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Y - Yearning Izuku’s sex drive isn’t particularly high, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less passionate. For him, intimacy is more about quality than quantity.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Z - Zzz Afterward, Izuku loves holding you close, his body wrapped protectively around yours. He falls asleep with a soft smile on his face, his dreams filled with the quiet comfort of knowing you’re his.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

@pixelcafe-network

[sombrashe]

viral twitter selfie reader x rapper thanos

twitter has always been your go to app when it came to selfies. instagram always felt to formal and facebook felt lame to be honest. so the perfect middle ground for you was twitter

it took a while but eventually you gained a small following. mostly just friends and occasionally a fan of your pictures. you continued posting like normal until some afternoon you gained notification after notification

once you finally got home from work you look through your profile and find out one of your selfies went viral. some basic one of you in bed with your hair swimming around you. you were freshly ready for bed and looking oh so tired.

you attempt to find the reason for your vitality. you chalk it up to a one time thing. you're on break when you phone starts blowing up. this time you're follower count shot straight into the hundred thousands. looking through you notice all your pictures gaining attention and you still have no clue how it happened.

you continue posting like normal and relish in the positive comments and questions about your outfits. every negative comment is quickly overshadowed by another positive one. you're replying to a few messages when you get a dm notification.

ThanosWorld Hey señorita, you got a banging bod

vintagezodiacsign oh wow thanks, have fun being blocked <3

ThanosWorld No wait. I'm sorry. I really like that pic you have where you're in bed

vintagezodiacsign thank you.

ThanosWorld I'm a rapper in Seoul. I have a EP coming out and want to use that pic for the cover. I'll pay

vintagezodiacsign uh huh, sure

ThanosWorld I'm serious. I can send you something rn. How much do you want?

vintagezodiacsign a thousand

vintagezodiacsign my cash app is in my bio

you sit there rolling your eyes. you don't actually expect anything but then your phone buzzes. heat washes over you as you open the notification to five thousand dollars sitting in your cash app.

vintagezodiacsign you're joking

vintagezodiacsign im not sending it back

vintagezodiacsign in case you're trying to scam me

ThanosWorld So can I use it? I'll give you 10% of the royalties from each sale

vintagezodiacsign make it 25%

ThanosWorld Deal. I'll be in touch gorgeous 🫰🏼

[ihrthoney]

for us

pairings: namgyu x preg!reader

warnings: angst & fluff :p

an: i started my first big girl job but im motivated so ill try to post more :)! i haven’t posted in a minute and i hate pregnancy tropes but i make the exception for squid games lol. i will make a part two!

nam-gyu was many things, an addict, a partier, an idiot and a sweetheart. the sweetest ever, actually.

unfortunately for you you worked at club pentagon, which is how you met the physical embodiment of an acid trip.

who he was when he was sober was something you cherished and kept close to your heart. it wasn’t hard to weave your way into his rotten lungs, but soon enough you became his air, his new high.

after learning you never did substances, he switched positions at the club and asked you to get a safer job, not wanting you to inevitably cave to the horrible things that he tries.

you scold him of course, reprimand him and argue about hating how he acted when under the influence. for a while he managed to stop, wanting something serious and stable.

but then he met thanos, he came home obnoxiously intoxicated. nam-gyu was so star struck that he saw a famous rapper that he didn’t understand why you locked him out of the room, until he woke up the next morning with a headache he only got when he was on drugs.

apologies spewed out of his mouth, wishing for a second chance. his wish was granted, he found another outlet for “extra money” and promised you both a fresh start.

until the extra money vanished off the face of the earth and now he was in incredible debt.

the few months of bliss now gone, thoughts of continuing such an unstable relationship this far into life didn’t seem like a good idea. the arguments were bad, mostly on your end as you couldn’t get him to stop begging and spilling empty promises,

“i’ll make the money back and i’ll work harder to make more for you, please baby i’m so sorry.” the sight of him on his knees and holding your legs would’ve been kind of sweet if this wasn’t the millionth time he’s promised to be better.

to his disappointment, you walked out of his life that night, asking him to only find you when he grew up.

he was determined to make the money back, nam-gyu had no hesitation when calling the number on the card.

-

seeing thanos’ face on the big screen in the unfamiliar room brought a bitter taste in your mouth. you felt bad, seeing as he had the talent but like your ex he succumbed to the high instead.

your ex. that fucking moron. that piece of shit doesn’t even know you’re carrying his damn kid.

a week after you walked out of his life, you guys met up one time to exchange clothes and what not but one thing lead to another and here you were in hospital debt. finding a stable job was hard, especially when you worked as a bartender most of your adult life.

the stress was eating you alive, renting the nice place you had was not cheap and the nice landlord could only be nice for so long because you had to start paying more.

the past few months have been rough and you really wish you had the support of your ex even if he wasn’t the greatest, he was yours and that’s all that really mattered.

standing in line to sign the consent forms made you nauseous, afraid of what’s to come. as you’re walking back to your bed, you get stopped by a hand on your shoulder,

“yn?”

you feel your heartbeat quicken as you turn around and look at your ex boyfriend.

“why are you here?” his hand is still on your shoulder, slightly moving up and down your arm.

he always had a thing for keeping a hand on you, he said it grounded him.

“the same reason everyone is, debt.”

the expression on his face makes your chest ache, he looks so concerned that it makes you a wee bit mad, “what debt are you in? you’ve always been financially responsible!”

he was right, out of you two you made the smarter choices. it dawned on you that you had yet to tell him you’re pregnant with his kid.

“yn? what happened? did someone scam you? i know some people that could find them.” his tone deepening as he becomes more serious, “no! it’s not like that. it’s complicated..”

the worry in your voice makes his eyes fill with worry, “baby, you can tell me.” the name makes you push away from him but the distance is immediately gone as he closes it, pulling your hands into his own. you can’t look him in the eye, scared he’s going to be mad at you.

you’re going to keep it no matter what but the thought of him hating you and your kid makes your heart crack.

the swirled hormones make everything seem so much more intense, tears start to fill your eyes which makes his widen. his hands, ever so warm, hold your face and tilt it so you’re looking at him.

“what’s wrong, i’m here ba-“

“i’m pregnant, nam-gyu.” he pulls his hands off of your face like he was burned, an expression of hurt and anger swirls in his eyes,

“who’s the father?” you look at him like he’s stupid, which only makes him more upset. “why are you looking at me like that?”

does he seriously think i got with someone else?

nam-gyu is distraught, the thought of you no longer being in love with him makes him sick. the fact that you’re carrying someone else’s child makes any will to live disappear. suddenly he doesn’t care that he owes money to anyone, there’s no chance to get you back. “does he treat you well? are you happier?”

“i’m not seeing anyone new, nam-gyu.”

“you shouldn’t be playing games if you’re pregnant. you could hurt yourself or the baby.”

despite his own lack of rationality when making choices, he was always so careful with you.

you threw any rationality you had and spit out the truth,

“it’s yours.”

now he was looking at you like you were stupid, “what?”

“the baby. it’s yours. you’re the father. i’m carrying your child.” he blinks at you slowly, taking in the information you just dropped on him,

“it’s.. you’re carrying.. our baby?” nodding your head, you step forward and take his hand and guide it to your stomach.

“after we broke up, i started to feel sick so i took a test. i didn’t know what to do, i couldn’t find a good job near my place, moving is too expensive, i was afraid to reach out to you. i owe the hospital so much because i’m paying by month but i ran out of savings and then this guy came up to me and gave me a card to make money.”

by the end of your ramble, nam-gyu pulled you in for a tight hug, smoothing your back with his hand. softly, he coos into your hair, “i would’ve never denied you. had you called, we could’ve figured this shit out together.”

you argued back, “how was i supposed to know that? you promised me over and over again but nothing changed!”

despite missing the warmth, you again create a distance by pushing him away from you, although it’s no use given how he holds your arms but he still keeps the distance out of respect for you.

“i have changed! i’m here, i’m going to win that money and i’ll take care of you.” his eyes plead, the hands that hold you start to shake.

“you’ll win it? alone?” the logic hits him and he laughs at his own idiocy, “we’ll win, i’ll make sure we both get out of here. we can put the money together. it’ll be more than enough for us to start over!”

you’re skeptical, sure the chance of winning is there but.. is your trust in him still there?

“if we win-“

his hands move from your arms to your stomach, “when baby, when we win-“

your eyes roll at his optimism, “if and when we win, you need to quit drugs. cold turkey. no excuses, no more second chances. if you so much as look at a drug, i will kill you and raise this kid alone, do you understand me?”

he mocks a soldier, hand to his head and stance straight, “yes ma’am!” the pose barely lasts as he starts to giggle, following you to your bed while holding onto your hand.

there was more to come, you had a feeling that much money wouldn’t come so easy, but things felt just a tad easier with him.

© ihrthoney. reblogs & feedback are greatly appreciated𑁤

[deonsx]

Sorry for asking so late but can I bother you to do a Rin x reader where the blue lock guys try to get the two together but don't know that they're already a couple and they prefer to not have pda? I understand if this is a pretty weird post so sorry 😭🙏

Hiii im dead for a while but now im here by the way if you into date games play killer chat im playing for 2 days (every route)

Unfortunately for you, Isagi and Bachira were terrible at reading the room.

“I’m telling you, Rin just needs a little push!” Bachira whispered loudly, glancing over at Rin, who sat silently at the table with his arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed in his trademark glare. You were seated across from him, quietly reading a book.

Isagi nodded, leaning closer. “Right! They get along so well. We just need to create the perfect opportunity for them to bond”

“What are you two scheming now?” Chigiri’s voice cut in, unimpressed as he crossed his arms “Shh! We’re playing Cupid,” Bachira said, his grin widening. “Rin and (Y/N) have potential. They just need a little help”

Chigiri sighed but stayed to watch the disaster unfold. Their first attempt came at dinner, where Bachira “accidentally” knocked over a drink right into your lap “Oh no! (Y/N), you’re soaked! Rin, why don’t you help them clean up?” Rin blinked at Bachira, his expression somewhere between annoyance and disbelief. “What?”

“I think I can handle a little water,” you said quickly, standing to grab a towel. Rin gave a short nod. “Good. That’s settled” He turned back to his plate, leaving Isagi and Bachira dumbfounded

Next, they decided teamwork was the key. During practice, Isagi orchestrated drills that paired you with Rin every single time “Isagi, stop screwing with the pairings,” Rin snapped after the third consecutive drill

“What? It’s just coincidence!” Isagi replied, sweating under Rin’s glare. You exchanged a subtle look with Rin, suppressing a smile. He was irritated, but you could tell he found their meddling amusing in a way only you would notice

Their final attempt was a classic: trapping you both in a room together “Oops! Door’s jammed!” Bachira called, locking the storage room from the outside. Rin groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as you sat calmly on a crate

“Should we let them think this is working?” you asked, a small smirk tugging at your lips “No. That’ll encourage them.” Rin walked to the door and pounded on it. “Open the door, or I’m kicking it down”

Panicking voices followed. “Wait! We’re not ready yet!” Rin sighed and glanced at you. “Idiots” You smiled, leaning back. “You’re lucky they have no idea, or they’d never leave us alone”

“Tch. As if they could figure it out. They’re too dense.” But when Rin turned to look at you, his gaze softened for just a moment a fleeting look that spoke volumes. When the door finally opened, Bachira and Isagi peeked inside, expecting tension, chemistry something

Instead, Rin brushed past them without a word, leaving you to follow behind with an amused shrug “I don’t get it” Bachira muttered. “Why isn’t it working?” From down the hall, Rin caught your hand briefly, just out of sight, before letting it go

Enjoy!

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦𝔳

summary. the capitol, what a lovely place. however, as humanity's story goes, the most captivating sights have the darkest secrets. capitolites crawl around the city like vermin, teeth bared like daggers ready to sink their teeth into the newest tributes. good thing they have a few days to train.

content warnings. mentions of past suicide (only lasts a paragraph or two), depictions of gore (it's in a dream tho dw), graphic depictions of addiction, smoking, and fist fighting (not in the way you think??)

total wc. 13,045

notes!! i don't have much to say ab this one guys im sorry,, i didn't edit it so that's really great but i talk about that more in the post-notes @ the end!! once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

20:10.

TRAINING CENTER, FLOOR 4.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” Alice Reymond beams at the suite, clasping her hands together in awe.

The Training Center is one of many skyscrapers within the Capitol, a large portion of it dedicated to the yearly tributes and their teams. Each floor is assigned to its corresponding District. For example, the first and lowest floor is where the tributes of One will reside. As such, you and Remy are assigned to floor four. Sam and Henry are below you on three, Ariadne Evans and Selene Jones above you on five.

Since the Reapings, you’ve spent hours memorizing each tribute. Ruben deems it to be a waste of time, saying most of them will die in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. You beg to differ. Sure, a good portion of tributes will die early on, but most of them will end up surviving the bloodbath and be threats to your survival. Since most people view it as Ruben does, your determination to memorize each tribute provides you with the ascendancy. Well, it would, had you not been born a L/n.

If they Capitol weren’t so fucking infatuated by your family, you’d undeniably have the upper hand by knowing each tribute by name and District. But they all already know you. By more than just name, at that. They know your family tree, history, District, name, and all else that’s up for common knowledge — which is everything. It’s fucking maddening. You have to do double the work just to learn each name whilst yours is a given to everyone else. 

You’ll be a target in the arena, deemed the highest threat and the most valuable kill.

“We each have our own rooms, bathrooms, and dressing rooms. Just like on the train. Though this place is far more ostentatious.” Alice continues on, walking around the space with a wide grin. “Dinner will be served in half an hour, so you’re able to get washed up. Return back here in something more comfortable than those costumes, yes?”

Alice shoos you and Remy away, turning to admire the suite alone. She continues to mutter words of veneration under her breath long after everyone has left.

The suite has an open layout, kitchen and living room separated by a three foot wall. To the right of the space is a wide hallway, corinthian columns on either side. Down the hall are four doors, one for each of you. The floors are hardwood, the walls velvet with intricate mouldings.

You push open your door. Your room is decorated in different shades of blue, likely due to Four’s being a fishing District. It’s cliche, though you find yourself far more fond of the blues than you were of the pure whiteness back home. It adds character despite that being basic.

You’re quick to strip out of your pirate outfit, slipping into something more congenial. 

Your stylist was kind enough, a short plump woman named Birdie. Her hair was chopped into an electric red pixie cut that messily framed her round face. She didn’t look as much as a Capitolite as Alice Reymond, though she still had that wealthy aura to her. She was super sweet, asking how you wanted your hair done and how short you wanted your skirts. Most stylists don’t care to ask for the tributes’ preferences, so you were grateful to her in that sense of things.

The piracy was her idea, though she allowed you to choose between fabrics. You were sure you’d be dressed into something appalling, whether that be two shells or a full blue bodysuit. But the pirate dress wasn’t too bad. It was actually the best option possible. It was creative enough to draw attention, yet modest enough that you weren’t exploited.

You remember feeling someone’s eyes on you at all times, making you shift uncomfortably as you couldn’t figure out who was staring.

But when your carriage turned after leaving President Fedra’s building, you caught the eye of District Seven’s tribute. Ellie Williams, you believed her name to be. She wore something much showier than you did, making her undeniably attractive. Her short auburn hair was cast back, accentuating her blotchy freckles. Whoever Seven’s stylist is this year surely has an eye for Ellie’s features, knowing exactly what to highlight and how.

You walk around your room, taking in the sight of the space. It’s larger than your room on the train, though it’s full of so many gadgets that it doesn't feel as vast as your room at home. You mess around with the devices for a while, exploring the wonders of Capitol technology. 

You can change the color of your walls, lightbulbs, and carpet with the press of a button. You leave it on blue though, something about the color bringing a sense of comfort to the foreign space. There’s also a machine that materializes food within the blink of an eye! All you have to do is order a meal by speaking into the intercom! How cool is that?

Your adulation is quick to fade. And you’re now disgusted by it.

Kids die from starvation in the Districts daily. Yet, here in the Capitol, food is materialized by the press of a button? The thought makes your stomach churn and you’ve suddenly lost your appetite.

Right on time, there’s a knock at your door. You rush to open it, no longer wanting to be near the sickening machines of the Capitol. Alice stands in the hallway, eyes bright as she announces that it’s time for supper. You nod, following behind her to the kitchen. On the way, she knocks on Remy’s door and he joins you guys at the table.

You sit down, the meals already set out in front of each of the four chairs. Though, one remains empty. Looking down the table to where Ruben should be sitting, there’s naught in his space. You raise an eyebrow at this, turning to Alice.

“Where’s my brother?” 

“Oh, all mentors attend a dinner at the Capitol following the Parade! They’re able to talk with sponsors about how well you guys did.” She responds cheerily as she tells an Avox to cut her steak. “He should be back by now, though. Hm. Perhaps he’s just running late.”

You frown, having no choice but accept her nugatory explanation — which did nothing to console your nerves. 

The Avox nods, stepping away once he’s cut her meal into tiny bites. You catch his eye and he raises his brows, silently offering to cut yours as well. You shake your head, “I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

Alice glances up at you, her movements paused. “What’d you say?”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.” You tell her, gesturing to the Avox behind her. You speak casually despite knowing how this will inevitably vex her. “He was going to cut my steak for me and I declined.” Her eyes widen before she places her fork down gently, trying hard to withhold her patience. “It’s informal to speak to Avoxes in such a manner, Y/n. You’re meant only to address them when giving orders. They’re criminals and have earned their place as servants.”

“What’s informal is your lack of sympathy.” You scoff. “You have no idea what their crimes are. There’s a high possibility that they’re defendable, that they have families who miss them dearly.” “Yet there’s a higher chance that’s not the case.” She responds. 

Alice appears to be absolutely horrified by your show of defiance and willingness to argue on such a matter as this. Remy watches with wide eyes as you two continue to bicker back and forth, all Avoxes now having lowered their heads to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

Your argument is ended only when the front door of the suite clicks open.

Ruben staggers through the doorway, his hair tousled and his shirt half unbuttoned. Your eyes widen as he lifts his head. His pupils are blown and bloodshot, his lips are parted and chapped. The cause is obvious — the post Parade dinner. He must’ve taken one too many of the personally enhanced drugs that the Capitol provides him with.

Alice is quick to her feet, rushing to his aid. It’s so odd how she can be so caring at times, yet so malicious at others. Remy’s brows are furrowed in confusion, clearly not understanding why Ruben is acting so peculiarly. 

Alice brings him over to his chair, where he slumps down onto the table. You don’t move. Part of you feels a sense of pain, seeing him like this. You feel like you should help him as he’d helped you all through your childhood. But another part of you wants to run away, cower in your room until it’s all over. You’re frozen in place, feeling like that useless, defenseless child you once were. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Remy asks, his voice small.

It takes a few seconds before you realize the question is directed at you. Remy watches you with concerned eyes. You blink a few times, taking a deep breath to ground yourself before you answer him. 

“He just had a lot of fun and he’s feeling a bit tired, is all.” You say, using the same response Ruben once gave when explaining why your father would return home drunk all the time. You then turn to Alice with the same pointed expression Ruben would give your mother. “Stay with Remy, I’ll take Ruben to bed. We’ll let him sleep it off. He’ll be better by dawn.”

Alice’s brows furrow for a second, though she’s quick to piece it together. She nods, pulling Ruben’s face out of his food before stepping away to allow you to intervene. You crouch down, draping one of his arms over your shoulders before pulling him to his feet.

Ruben stumbles, his knees buckling under her weight so you’re practically carrying him all the way to his bedroom.

His room is a carbon copy of your own, though he’s switched the color settings to a dusky hue of taupe. You lead him over to his bed before dropping him onto the mattress, allowing his weight to slide off your sore shoulders. He groans, shifting around atop the blankets.

“Oh, quit your whining.” You roll your eyes, though you’re aware he’s likely too far gone to comprehend anything you say. With a sigh, you begin to unlace his shoes. “If anything, you should be thanking me.”

“Thanks, Y/n.” He says, syllables slurring together. He barely opens his mouth, his voice muffled through his teeth. He lulls his head to the side, peering at you through lidded eyes. “‘Never wanted ya t’ do this part, y’know.”

“I know.” You whisper, tossing his shoes aside.

You unbutton his shirt, pulling it off his shoulders for him. Scars cover his arms and torso, painting his skin in different shades of pigmentation. Some scares you recognize to have been caused by your parents’ abuse, others by his time in the arena. There are only a couple that you were unaware of. Though, despite already having known about almost all of them, the sight of his body so battered is painful to look at. 

You wonder if yours will look so bad after your Games. You’re already coated in scars from your parents' inflictions, but that makes up only half of what Ruben has. A mosaic of all things bad, scars are. They paint a picture of ache, telling the story of one’s agony.

You stand straight, folding his shirt over your arm before placing it on his desk. The Avoxes clean the rooms while everyone’s asleep, which includes picking up clothes. So, taking a few seconds to fold them neatly goes a long way.

“G’night.” Ruben murmurs as you open the door to leave. Despite his residual grogginess, the next three words that leave him ring clear as day through the dark room. “I love you.”

Your heart clenches in your chest at the sound, not having heard those words fall from his mouth in a long, long time. You never thought you’d hear them again and, if you did, you hoped it would be said in sobriety. With him inebriated in such a way, you don’t feel it’d be fair to return the gesture. It’d erase all intended sentiment.

“Yeah,” You whisper, “You too.”

With that, you exit his bedroom and shut the door softly behind you. You walk back out to the dining area, seeing that the table has long since been abandoned. Remy and Alice must have gone off to bed. The Avoxes are clearing the dishes, working in complete silence. You thank them, grabbing the attention of a few. As they’re unable to respond, they simply nod in appreciation before returning to their task.

You stand in there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. You could go to your bedroom, though the sight of all the gadgets makes you sick and you’re certain you’ll be unable to sleep. In the end, you decide to exit the suite. 

It’s frowned upon to venture the halls at night, though it’s technically not unallowed. There are cameras everywhere, watching the tributes’ every move. You spot three in just the hallway down to the elevator. The buttons on the wall start at ground level — where the actual training is set to take place starting tomorrow morning — ranges from 1 to 12 for each District, then ends at rooftop. You were unaware that the Training Center even had roof access. Curiosity gets the better of you, causing you to press the button.

The walls of the elevator are glass, allowing you to look at each floor as you pass it. Though you’re moving far too fast to actually examine what you’re seeing. 

You step out of the small space once you’ve reached the roof, the doors sliding open to reveal a huge amount of space. The railing is made of concrete, reaching the height of your chest. Though you know that there’s an invisible boundary preventing the tributes from killing themselves before the Games. The Capitol wants to see your deaths, so prior suicide is highly loathed by the excited viewers.

The air is chilly, but not cold. You walk across the roof to the edge of the building, resting your elbows on the concrete wall. You can’t see the stars here as the city pollutes the sky with artificial light. The streets, however, provide their own spectacle. And, if you squint hard enough, they almost look like stars. But you quickly feel dumb once you’ve done it. 

The fresh air is nice, despite the lack of stars. It helps to clear your head, ridding your thoughts of your own problems. But whenever your mind manages to stray, you’re reminded of Ruben and how closely he resembles the father he loathes so greatly. They’re perfect mirrors of one another — addicted to the Capitol’s attention, abandoning their family to relish in the spotlight of the sadists, and eventually falling victim to addiction. The only difference is that Ruben hadn’t had kids yet. Perhaps he never will, the fear of replication too much to bear. More than that, you wonder if you’ll end up like the same way, partying with the Capitolites until you’re unable to walk. It’s in your blood, you suppose, so you’re sure it’s inevitable. Might as well accept it now, right?

Just as your thoughts begin taking a darker turn, you hear the elevator doors slide open.

You straighten our back, knowing whoever it is must be either a tribute, mentor, or escort and they’re thereby an enemy to you. As soon as you’re in the arena, whoever they are will be working towards your death.

“You can’t jump, y’know.” A rough, female voice says as her footsteps thud across the rooftop toward you. “I heard a rumor that there’s an invisible field around the building.”

You only look in her direction once she’s leaned against the railing beside you, her back facing the cityscape. Ellie Williams. The girl who defied the Capitol at her Reaping, the girl who stared at you throughout the Parade, the girl who’s suddenly pulling out a cigarette.

“Want one?” She asks, catching your gaze.

“Didn’t know those were allowed here.” You respond shortly, turning to face back forward.

“They’re not.” Is all she says.

Your lips thin in silent perspicacity, eyes narrowing. “Of course not.”

“Well they can’t arrest me, can they? It’s too late, they need me in the Games.” She points out, placing the cigarette between her lips. She once again holds one out to you. You shake your head and she shrugs. “It’s not like your lungs will kill you any sooner than the arena will.” “Unless I survive.” You point out.

“There’s always that, yeah.” She agrees easily, igniting the cigarette with an oddly shaped lighter. It looks oddly familiar to you. She notices your staring and is quick to defend herself. “It’s not mine, it’s Joel’s. So are the cigs. He’s the one who advised me to smoke in the first place, said it’d helped to ease his nerves before his Games. So I decided ‘why the fuck not?’”

She inhales deeply, though it’s apparently too deep because she suddenly breaks out into a coughing fit. She spins around to lean on the wall forward-facing. 

You watch as she struggles for air, the hacking eventually fading to laughter. She straightens, still raspy as she says, “I get that you think you’re better than everyone, but you could at least try to make conversation before we’re shipped off to die. What’s the harm?”

“I don’t think I’m better than everyone.” You respond with a huff.

“Might not think so, but you are.” She says, inhaling once more. She coughs again, though it’s far less riveting than the first time. She exhales the smoke out into the night sky, her breath forming a puffed cloud against the blackness. “You’re the rich girl, you’ll get all the sponsors. You’re already better off than I am in that sense.”

“You’ll get sponsors just fine, I’m sure.” 

You say, thinking back to her costume in the Parade and the way the Capitol adored it. Exploitation is one of the most used methods to obtain sponsors. If she plays her cards right, she could easily be the newest Diamond. She’s attractive and you’d be a fool to deny that.

“Not if you’re hoarding them all.” Says Ellie. You know she doesn’t mean it insultingly, but it still hits you that way. She notices your expression and adds, “Intentional or not, the Capitoli- Uh, Capitol people will be tripping over themselves to get you gifts.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation to you, they won’t be sent through to me.” You say, because it’s true.

Ruben may be your mentor, but your father is sure to be present in Saint Mary’s Hall — which is where the mentors watch the Games and coordinate sponsorships. He’s a Diamond and will therefore be permitted entry, especially considering his daughter is a tribute. 

When Ruben was in the Games, your father had been his mentor and controlled all his sponsorships. Because gifts must first be approved by the mentor prior to being sent into the arena, he had this power. But, the thing is, your father refused a single gift from reaching Ruben. Even when he was dying of dehydration and bloodloss, he refused to let anything through. It created a rift in Saint Mary’s Hall, many sponsors deeming him immoral. He was quick to patch that up, though, as he said he’d been doing it to make his son stronger. Being as skilled as he is at manipulation, the Capitolites were quick to naivety. From there, he was only praised for his thinly veiled neglect.

So, if your father is within the Hall this year — as he likely will be — there’s no way anything will be sent through to you. He’ll refrain Ruben from permitting gifts and withhold sponsorships completely, purely because he wants his kids to win fair and square. It’s iniquitous to let you starve, yes, but you’re almost glad for it. Because Ellie is right. If it weren’t for his cruelty, you’d be undeniably hoarding all sponsors from other tributes. Sponsors could send you buffets and magical medicines while all other tributes die out slowly of starvation and lack of medical care. It’d be the equivalent to cheating the Games and you’ll be damned if you win this thing through sponsorships. If you make it out alive, it’ll be thanks to you, not the Capitol.

“Won’t be sent through?” Ellie asks. She raises a brow at you, wordlessly inclining you to explain.

Instead of telling her your entire life story, you redirect the subject to one you know she’ll be unable to deny. “Actually, I changed my mind. I could use a smoke.”

Ellie’s eyes widen, the corners of her lips twitching as she removes the cigarette from her lips and holds it out to you. You hold it between your index and middle fingers, staring at it with a hint of uncertainty. It’s unwise to do anything related to addiction, considering your family history. But it’s so tempting and the arena isn’t too far away. Plus, being addicted to smoking cigarettes is far better than your father’s alcoholism or Ruben’s drug addiction. Right?

“Scared?” Ellie taunts you.

Her gibe is the final push to make you indulge. You scowl at her before placing the cigarette between your lips and inhaling deeply. It seeps into your lungs, burning the back of your throat on the way down. Your head instantly feels wonky, your vision swimming. You hear Ellie’s laughter as you begin coughing just as hard as she had.

You lean against the concrete barrier, resting your forehead on your folded arms to muffle the hacking sounds. Between coughs, you manage, “That was fucking awful.”

It takes a bit for you to quiet down. The first feeling that you register is queasiness, but then you notice the equanimity. Your maddening thoughts have begun to muffle, pushed to the back of your mind. It only lasts a few seconds though, causing you to already reach for another drag.

“What’d you come up here for?” Ellie asks, passing you the cigarette. “You already know I’m here to smoke, it’s only fair for you to explain in return.”

“Hey, I never asked you for an explanation.” You remind her, inhaling. “I owe you nothing.”

“No, but you’re using my cigarettes aren’t you?” She points out, a glint of something akin to regalement behind her gaze. “A form of payment is due anyhow.”

“Joel’s cigarettes, you mean.”

“Shit,” She curses as you pass it back to her, “I forgot I told you that.”

You huff a laugh, watching as she turns to face the horizon. Not that it’s much of a sight though, what with the buildings plaguing the skyline. Her side profile is illuminated by the dull lighting of the roof. Your eyes trace the slope of her nose, admittedly infatuated by her. You blame it on the nicotine, even more so on the relaxation it causes you.

Ellie drops the cigarette off the roof, pulling a second from her box. While she’s turned, you begin speaking. Perhaps because it’s easier to talk when you can’t see her face or perhaps the cigs are making you that much more sociable.

“Back home, there’s nowhere I could go where I couldn’t see the ocean.” You say, causing Ellie to suddenly perk up at your voice. Her eyes flick between your face and her hands as she rushes to light the cigarette. “I rarely spent time in it, always holed up in our house. But the sight of the sparkling water was a comforting constant throughout my life. It’s odd to be where the water isn’t. Plus, despite not having been in it much, the few memories I do have are enough to satisfy me. They’re all good ones.”

“Let’s hear ‘em.” Ellie says, passing you the lit cigarette. 

You inhale deeply before speaking, “Well, my first memory of the sea is learning to swim in it. My brother took me. He wasn’t allowed to, but I begged him so he did. He was patient, but laughed at me the entire time, saying I looked like a fish out of water. He claims I was a fast learner, that I picked it up quick. But I can remember the salt in the back of my throat and the way my eyes burned. There was nothing quick about that. I was four and was certain I would die.”

Ellie chuckles, watching you from the side. One arm is rested atop the railing, the other taking the cig from your hand. “He’s your mentor this year, right? What’s that like?”

The question itself is innocent enough, genuine curiosity that comes with getting to know a stranger. But it makes you bristle nonetheless, your shoulders suddenly feeling tense. Not because of Ellie’s question but because of the answer. 

‘It’s horrible.’ You could say in regards to the technicalities. The distance between you, the long glances you share, the unsaid apologies. Flashes of his messy hair, bloodshot eyes, and undone blouse pop into your head. ‘It’s great.’ You could say, just as truthfully. This time, you’d be referring to the mentality of his proximity rather than the materialistic things. The comfort that comes with being near him, even amid deafening silence, the odd nostalgia that hits you when he’s sat at the dinner table beside you.

Though, as it turns out, the memory that announces itself most needily is the one most painful — tucking him into bed after he’d taken a few too many pills only a short while ago. Perhaps because it falls under both categories. The horridity of seeing him so disheveled paired with the aching reminder of your father. Though, there’s still a greatness to it. To feel him lean on you, knowing that you’re actively repaying all he’d done in your shared youth, that he needs you. To hear those three words whispered into the darkness of his room despite knowing they’re empty of the meaning you covet.

“Did I say something wrong?” Ellie is quick to ask, nervosity to her tone as she picks up on your hesitation. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” You say, “I’m just not sure how to explain it. The duality.”

She hums in recognition. “I get that. I came here with a loved one as well and, uh, it surely didn’t turn out as I thought it would.”

You blink at her, taking the cig from her offered hand. Your thoughts are fuzzy, though just barely enough that you hardly even notice. It’s nice how you’re still in control of yourself whilst feeling the faraway effects of the nicotine. 

“Riley, right?” You ask, tilting your head at her as you breathe in the tingly air.

She nods, “Yeah. We’ve been best friends since we were nine, inseparable. But, recently, she’s grown a bit distant. Though she didn’t fully disappear on me until the Reaping. Since then, we haven’t spoken a word to one another.”

“You looked pretty close during the Parade.” You tell her.

You can vividly recall the image of their intertwined hands coming onto the screens. The crowd cheered as you watched with thinned lips. It was obvious to you what it meant, though the audience remained completely oblivious. You were impressed, at first, by their unapologetic defiance to the Capitol, especially considering it was the second time they’d done it. But you knew it was a bad idea on their part. Once they're in the arena, the Gamemakers need only press a button to end their lives.

“Didn’t realize you were looking.” Ellie says.

“Everyone was looking.”

She thinks on this before saying, “It’s odd, isn’t it? The lack of privacy. The Parade aside, there’s always someone looking.”

“I suppose.” You agree.

To you, it’s not such a foreign concept. Even in your own home, you were unallowed to lock doors. Your father claimed that needing solitude was a flaw that’d lead to vulnerability in social settings. So having privacy was never even a question, though there’s a vast difference between the possibility of someone walking into your bedroom when compared to being ceaselessly monitored at all times. 

How someone could ever grow used to being watched nonstop is beyond you. Even in your private bedrooms and bathrooms in your assigned suites, there’s no way of knowing whether there are cameras. You wonder how Ruben dealt with it, how he still deals with it annually during his mentorship for the past ten years.

Ruben’s Games were twelve years ago, though he’s only been a mentor for ten in total. He was a mentor for two years until your uncle, Theodore, won the 64th Games. Theodore promptly took over the role of mentorship for District Four for the following two years. It was only cut short when he drank himself dead. His second year being a mentor, two children were Reaped and both died brutally in the arena. He’d blamed himself and ended up committing indirect suicide via alcohol poisoning.

It was a hard toll on everyone. He was always so cheerful, a big round man who was exceedingly vocal about the things he loved. After his Games, though, he changed. He was secluded in a way he’d never been before. To learn that cheery Uncle Theo killed himself was hard on a ten year old. He was your favorite relative after Ruben. You oftentimes wonder what he’d think of your Reaping, how he’d mentor you in place of your brother. Would it be more or less tolerable?

At the thought, you reach for the cigarette. Ellie passes it to you wordlessly.

You’re grateful for her lack of questions, glad she’s able to realize when you don’t necessarily wish to speak. You’re also grateful for the comfortability of her silence. With Ruben, quietude is an awkward endeavour, making the air so thick you feel suffocated. Even with Alice, it feels unnatural. But with Ellie, it feels intrinsic to her company. 

“Shit, it’s probably getting late, huh?” She says after a long time of silence. You look up at the moon, noticing how far it’s risen into the sky. It’s been about an hour or two since you abandoned your suite for the fresh air. Ellie runs her hands down her jeans as she straightens. “I’ve gotta get going before my escort notices I’m gone. She’s super controlling about that kind of thing.”

“Your escort is Tilly Reymond, right?” You ask, recalling the way she’d approached Alice right before the Parade, referring to her as a sibling would.

“Oh yeah,” Ellie says, “Yours is Alice.”

You laugh, remembering their conversation from earlier today. They bickered like children. Tilly had come over to ask if Alice was feeling proud of herself for having another L/n Reaped in her lifetime, to which Alice grinned madly and said she did, in fact, feel rather pleased. From there, they did little aside from argue. 

Their quarrel differs greatly from yours with Ruben. Tilly and Alice are passive aggressive, giving compliments on each other’s dress whilst eyeing a certain stain or disarranged jewel. You and Ruben, on the other hand, fight as though you’d both rather eat glass than admit the other to be correct. It’s nasty, throwing insults like daggers. Something you’d both been unfortunate enough to inherit from your parents, presumably. To argue with such animalistic avidity.

“Well,” Ellie says with a small smile to announce her residual need for departing, “Meet me here at the same time tomorrow? I’ll bring some more cigarettes.”

“More of Joel’s cigarettes.” You correct her with a teasing grin.

She waves a dismissive hand, “Yeah, yeah.”

And with that, Ellie Williams walks back inside. She’d left you with the cig you’d been smoking, so you remain outside for a little while longer as you work it down to a butt. Your mind reels with tangled thoughts of the Parade, Ruben’s addiction, and Ellie’s laughter. Fuck, it’s been a long day. And tomorrow is bound to be even more taxing.

6:00.

TRAINING CENTER, FLOOR 7.

Ellie hardly slept a wink last night, her dreams full of terrors regarding her upcoming fate. Through wafts of heavy smoke, trees from Seven, and estranged voices, she could barely make out the contents of her slumber. What she could decipher was waking up over and over, only to find she’s still trapped in a dream. 

At one point, she was in the arena. As she doesn’t yet know what she’ll be thrown into, her brain concocted the one from last year — which had been won by a girl named Abigail Anderson. It was a rocky terrain, the entire arena on a slope. The tributes were on a mountain, having to find shelter in caves and trees that littered the topography. The tributes in her dream, however, were the ones Reaped this year. She was starving and wounded and struggled to walk on the dampened stone. Other tributes ran past her, their forms abstract and footsteps inhuman. She called for help, only to be ignored by each one. Finally, after what felt like hours of agony, someone crouched down to aid her. Riley. Her best friend and her savior. Except she wasn’t. Instead of propounding assistance, she pulled Ellie to her feet only to shove her back again. She’d tumbled down the mountain, eyesight rolling alongside her. The scene shifted.

She’d fallen all the way down to the rooftop from last night. The logistics were nonsensical, though that hardly mattered when she took in the state of the unwaking world. From her place of elevation, she was able to overlook the Capitol as she’d done last night. Though, this time, the buildings were up in flames, people screaming in the streets with scorched flesh and mutilated bodies. She attempted to run to the elevator, only to find that her feet were manacled to the floor. She fought with futility against the chains until her ankles were bruised and blistered from the unforgiving metal. Somehow, due to unconscious malarkey, she could see the Capitolites as though she were looking through a pair of binoculars. Their faces, distorted and pained. Their hair, scorched and lacking in their tell-tale extravagance. Then she saw a familiar face. Riley, crumpled on the ground just as Ellie had been when they were on the mountain. Riley reached up, begging for help. Ellie lurched at the sight, though she was still bound to the rooftop. Riley was pleading with someone. Ellie followed her gaze to see you, leaned back coolly against a brick building with a cigarette hanging from your lips. Her– Well, Joel’s cigarette. You helped Riley to her feet, only to shove her to the ground. It was a perfect mirror of what Riley had done to Ellie. Only this time, the shove caused her to be trampled by the huge crowd of panicked people that plagued the streets. Her body was crushed under the people until she was naught but a heap of meat and tissue.

Ellie awoke with a jolt, her chest heaving. 

Those were the only two dreams she could accurately recall. All the rest were blurred and distorted by the others. But she knows there were more, so many more. The scene kept shifting, antagonizing her relentlessly. Flashes of Riley’s face, both pleading and cruel. Of your face, imbued by that same duality. Of Joel’s or Marlene’s or even Tilly’s. Her mind was a horrid, callous place and she never wanted to think of the terrors again.

Though, as it turns out, her luck ran out rather quickly. The trepidation of her dreams followed her all the way down to the training rooms below ground level. Joel and Tilly brought she and Riley down, the group of them comfortably conversing in the elevator. Even Riley joined in, though Ellie couldn’t. Her head was still reeling, though she’d woken an hour prior. She wonders if she’s still in a dream, only this time with sentience.

She chews at her nails as the elevator opens to reveal a wide, metallic hallway with two heavy doors at the end. Above them is a sign reading, Tribute Training Rooms. She removes her fingers from her face, stuffing her hands in her pockets. 

“Hey,” She feels a heavy hand on her shoulder, causing her to jerk away. She turns to see Joel standing beside her as Tilly and Riley leave them in favor of entering the training rooms. “You’re actin’ weird today.”

“Oh,” She breathes, willing herself to relax, “It’s nothing, just on edge. I guess.”

He nods, pulling her over to a shadowy corner of the hall. “Did the cigarettes work? Y’know, for your nerves.”

“Uh, yeah, actually.” She says. “In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Just then, the elevator doors creak open and another pair of tributes walk out with their mentor and escort. She recognizes them to be from Eleven, only able to remember because that’s the Reaping that Riley stormed off after. 

They’re the two kids, their mentor being Dina Woodward who won the 66th Games at age thirteen. She’s infamously kind to her younger tributes as she’s able to relate to their youth. The Capitol is split directly in half, one portion adoring her for the empathy whilst the opposing portion loathes her for it.

As they walk past, Dina offers Joel a kind nod that he returns. She pushes the heavy double doors open, holding them ajar for her little tributes to saunter through. Joel only turns back to Ellie after Dina has shut the door behind them.

“Ya have to be more careful.” He tells her harshly. “If anyone, even Dina, overheard that you’re smokin’ in the Capitol, we could get into a shitload o’ trouble. Me specifically, since they can’t do anythin’ to you before the Games. But still.”

“I get it.” Ellie scoffs. “I didn’t even say anything while she was out here, anyway.”

“Well still.” He crosses his arms. “What’d ya wanna ask me?”

“Why’re you helping me?” She inquires, eyes narrowing in distrust. “You were a complete dick when we first met and now you’re giving me illegal solutions to help my nerves. Why even bother if you think Y/n will kill me?”

Joel sighs through his nose, leaning back. “I had a talk with a friend last night.”

“At the dinner party?”

“Yep.” He concurs. “She kinda lit into me ‘n’ said I need to at least try with my tributes. See, I wouldn't usually take such hard criticism, but t’ argue with Teresa Servopoulos is a fuckin’ death wish.”

“That’s..” Ellie trails off, trying hard to remember which District she’s from. But her mind is blank. She knows Tess is a mentor, which would explain her presence at the dinner party last night, but Ellie can’t seem to recall anything else about her.

“District Three.” Joel says, picking up on Ellie’s contemplation. “Victor ‘f the 55th Games.”

“Oh yeah.” She says. “She won the year before you did.”

“Yeah, she–”

Joel is cut off by the elevator doors opening again. From them, District Two’s crew exits. Ellie stiffens at the sight of Abigail Anderson’s strong build. The braided girl scowls at Joel, her gaze so sharp it could cut through the tension that’s suddenly accumulated within the hall. Had Ellie not just had that funky dream about Abigail’s arena, she’d likely have not thought anything of her presence. But she did and so she does.

She won last year’s Games, taking over mentorship from Melanie Moore. Abigail’s victory allowed Melanie to move to District Ten, where she instantly wed Owen Moore — winner of the 70th Games. Their relationship gathered a lot of attention from the Capitol as people gushed over their love story, much to Melanie’s distaste. This year is the first time in seven years that Melanie isn’t the mentor for Two. Which is a shame because the tributes appear to have already picked up Abigail’s insolence. Lev and Yara walk shoulder to shoulder, glaring at Joel just as their mentor is.

Joel frowns, though he seems more upset than angry at their show of distaste. Once they’ve entered the training rooms, Ellie turns to him. “Geez, what’s her problem?”

“Uh,” He pauses, thinking on how best to explain, “Her father, Jerry, was Reaped the same year that I was. And, well, only one victor can win, so–”

“I get it.” Ellie nods, feeling a sense of solemnity to his tone. It’s unsettling to hear from such a naturally rough man. Joel’s Games were aired when Ellie was three years old, so she doesn’t recall much from them. The Capitol replays highlights from past Games, but it’s not the same. She knows only what the Capitol deems important — his most brutal kill, him running in the opposite direction from the Cornucopia, and his final kill. Jerry Anderson isn’t among that.

“C’mon, kid.” Joel says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Let’s go.”

Ellie nods, following him down the hall to the training rooms. The interior is exactly like the outside, a big metal box made of tile, glass, and concrete. A large circle is formed at the center of the room, all the tributes and their corresponding mentors and escort encircling an athletic man who’s preaching explanations, schedules, and rules for training here. There are stations set all around, an expert in each skill located there, willing to offer help to the tributes. The escorts and mentors all leave once the instructions are finished.

Ellie watches them depart. The crowd of them is plagued with ambivalence; the escorts exude an air of wealth and elegance reserved only for someone raised in the Capitol, whereas the mentors exude strength, honor, and dignity reserved for killers who won past Games via brutality. 

As the doors close behind them, she watches through the cracks as pairs are formed. She sees Joel and Tess begin talking with a blonde woman she recognizes to be Maria Miller — she married into Joel's family by marrying his little brother. Joel doesn’t talk about him much. Abigail and Owen also seem to instantly turn to each other, as do Tilly and Alice. And, before she can see any other duo, the doors close fully. She turns back around to see the rest of the circle has dispersed.

Her instinct is to look for Riley, though she quickly discards that instinct and walks over to an empty station without reading what it’s for. A short, hoary man welcomes her to the plant section. She withholds a sigh, now realizing why it was empty. Everyone else fled to the weapons.

“Plants are much more important that most people realize, you see.” Says the old man, picking up a small bunch of berries. “What does this look like?”

“That’s nightlock.” She says.

“Oh, uh-” The man’s brow furrows.

It’s clear he was expecting her to say ‘Those look like blueberries, I would totally eat them!’ but she didn’t. Ellie hunted in the woods in Seven often enough to know her way around which plants are and aren't edible. She feels bad for the man, as she looks clearly upset. It’s not her fault, though, she hadn’t meant to come over here.

“What are nightlock berries?” Asks a small voice from beside her. Ellie jolts at the sudden presence of another, turning to face the owner of the voice. A small girl with dark skin and coiled hair stands to her side. She’s from Eleven, one of Dina Woodward’s tributes. 

“Oh, I’m glad you asked.” The old man grins. “Nightlock is a wild plant that grows small purple berries below its pointed leaves. They’re extremely poisonous to anyone who eats them. You’d be dead before they even reach your stomach.”

“Woah,” The girl whispers, looking at the pomes with wide eyes. “I never would’ve guessed such little things could cause such big reactions.”

The man chuckles, “Yes, nightlock is not something to underestimate.”

As the two of them fall into a long conversation about plants, Ellie slowly backs away from the scene and exits the station. She knows well enough not to sit at stations she doesn’t need to sit at, doing so would be a waste of everyone’s time. But then again, perhaps it was a good thing. Everyone is learning, yes, but they’re also watching. She feels the careers’ eyes pinned to her as she exits the plant station. Everyone is observing everyone, learning their weaknesses and strengths.

For Ellie to walk into the plant section first, they’ll assume she knows nothing about it. They’ll underestimate her. And, much like the poisoned berries, it’s a foolish thing to do. An idea pops into her head as she walks over to the archery section.

A few other people are there, she counts three. Henry from Three, showing his little brother how to aim an arrow at a target; Ariadne from Five, who’s hitting the bullseye each time; and the other little kid from Eleven, whose name Ellie doesn’t know, attempting to hold the bow with both hands. See, just from gazing across the space, she’s gathered enough information to be considered valuable. Ariadne Evans is a beast with a bow, Henry will likely be trying to teach Sam to use every weapon possible, and the little Eleven boy is horrible at long range.

Ellie walks over to the table, grabs a bow and quiver, then positions herself in front of one of the targets. The instructor offers assistance, though she refuses it easily. She feels a pair of eyes on her, though she doesn’t dare turn around. Every instinct in her body screams to hit the bullseye, to show off. But that’d be useless. Then her strengths would be revealed.

She positions the bow in her hand, holding it out a bit crookedly. She places the arrow on the string, purposely messing up a few times. Then, with both eyes open and her back slightly hunched, she releases the arrow. It clatters against the floor and Ellie huffs, feigning annoyance. She does this three more times before setting the bow and quiver on the table and storming off, appearing to have given up on archery.

As she leaves the station, she does a quick assessment. Three people had been watching her. Nolan Barlowe from Ten — the buff guy who looked overjoyed to have been Reaped. Thalia Thatcher from One — the younger sister of the 68th victor. And, finally, you. The literal best people to have put an impression on. You three are the most threatening. If she’s underestimated, all the better.

You’re leaned against the wall, arms crossed as you observe everyone with sharp eyes. She fights a smile at the sight. You look the polar opposite of who she’d smoked with last night. Your gaze remains steady as you eye her from across the room. 

Right. You’re not supposed to know each other aside from brief passing. 

She is amused by your technique, though it’s the single most cockiest thing she’d ever seen. You’re not training with everyone else, instead opting to watch as though you’re superior. It exudes the idea that you don’t need to train, which Ellie assumes is the case. 

She walks over to another station, struggling to ignore the way your eyes follow her every move. The station happens to be spear throwing — which won’t be hard for her to suck at because she does suck at it. Throwing the overlarge stick over her head and hitting a target? Yeah, it’s not exactly something she practices back in Seven. There’s no need to spear while hunting as it just damages the meat. Had there been any bodies of water in her District, which there’s not, she’d perhaps have learned it through fishing. 

She vaguely wonders if you’re good with a spear, being from Four and all. She then recalls what you’d said about not being in the ocean much. God, it pisses her off how secretive you are. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that you know how to spear. You’ve clearly trained a lot, so you’ve likely practiced with it. But also, she knows you went to the ocean sparingly.

Two other people are at the spear station — Nolan Barlowe, and an old man she doesn’t recognize at all. She doesn’t even remember him being Reaped. Oh. He must be from Twelve because she hadn’t watched their program when it aired.

He watches her with a glint of something unreadable in his eye. It makes her stomach churn as she grabs a spear.

There are human-shaped mannequins against the wall for tributes to practice hitting. Nolan sees Ellie and scoffs under his breath. At first, it irritates her. But then she remembers this is her plan: look weak and be underestimated. She sighs, feigning recluse toward his show of disregard. He keeps his eyes locked on hers as he throws the spear without looking, the blade wedging right between the mannequin’s eyes. She swallows, this time not needing to feign her unease. I mean, seriously, who practices with a spear in their freetime?

Ellie shifts as the two men practice on either side of her. She adjusts the spear in her grasp, dramatizing her oblivion. 

Do I hold it with one or two hands? She thinks to herself. The fuck do I do with my elbows? 

With a grunt, she throws the spear at the target. She shocks herself when the blade wedges in the mannequin’s heart. She’d fully expected to miss. Nolan’s brows furrow in curiosity. Ellie grabs another spear, desperately needing to undo what she’d just done. She holds it the same way as before, muttering under her breath to remember how exactly she’d done it. She then tosses it halfheartedly, the spear landing three feet in front of the mannequin. She frowns and Nolan chuckles.

“I knew it was just beginner’s luck.” He says with a scoff, causing the man from Twelve to chuckle. Ellie sighs, fighting the urge to argue with him. Instead, she scowls at them both as though she’s terribly offended, then storms off. 

The next hour in the training rooms is spent doing the same thing. Sometimes, she actually feels like she could get the hang of some weapons. She finds herself quite enjoying small throwing knives, though she purposely drops them when she notices herself getting better with them. She also, shockingly enough, is good at just straight up hitting things. She’d used a crowbar as a weapon and scared the trainer, who was forced to take a few steps back to avoid being injured.

She’s noticed other tributes’ traits as well. Nolan hasn’t left the spear station, so it’s likely he’s only good at one thing. After half an hour in the archery section, Ariadne left to practice with a mace. And, terrifying as she is, she’s even better at that than with a bow, swinging it around like it weighs nothing. Ellie was also proven correct when she watched Henry escort Sam to each station, instructing him on how to use every weapon. Lev and Yara are both scary with a bow as well, having even better aim than Ellie herself. The couple, Roland and Archie, don’t dare stray a foot from one another, bound together at the hip. She’s also noticed that Riley has been trying different stations, though she’s careful not to be near the one Ellie is currently at. She’s stayed away from the axes, not daring to show off her skill with them just yet.

Ellie is walking over to the fire-making station when she feels a tap on her shoulder. She whips around to see you standing behind her, finally having peeled away from your wall. Your gaze is steady as you watch her, looking every bit the threat you are.

“I need a partner at the combat station.” You tell her easily, casually. As though you’d never spoken before. Ellie gets flashbacks to doing this exact same act with Cat at the Remake Center. It makes her chest cave.

“And I’m your first choice?” She asks.

Everyone’s eyes are pinned to the two of you, though Ellie knows they’re far more interested in you than her. You haven’t left your wall for the entire hour of training, watching everyone with such closeness that there’s a heavy weight in the air. You’ve done naught but observe. It’s truly no shock that they all find it impossible to look away.

“Yes.” You say easily, your voice deceptively smooth.

She narrows her eyes, desperately trying to read what you’re thinking. Is it not foolish to be talking at all? She’d thought you two came to a silent agreement that speaking would give away your recent rendezvous. She continues to stare at you. But you’re a closed book, thoughts cryptic. But then you tilt your head at her, inclining her to reply.

Ellie shrugs, “Why not?”

With a threateningly alluring grin, you begin walking toward the large mats set to the side of the room. Ellie trails behind you. Nobody has used the mats yet, leaving the instructor to be sleeping in her chair. You kick off your shoes before stepping up to the ring. Ellie unlaces hers, taking a few moments longer than you did.

She’s still clueless on your logistics to this, to training with her. You’re the most feared. The tactic of refusing to show your strengths was honestly the smartest thing you could have done in your position, in spite of the clear show of pride. If you were to train with someone, it’d make best sense if you were to do so with your fellow tribute, though Remy is too small to fairly practice hand-to-hand with. Or you could train with the second strongest tribute present, which would either be Nolan or Ariadne. Or, possibly, the weakest, which would be– Oh. Well, shit. It’s Ellie. Perhaps she took her strategy too seriously. Yes, the children from Eleven are weaker than she is, but it’d be unfair for you to beat them up. Ellie is a year older than you and thereby your best option.

“No damage to the face.” You tell her as she pulls herself up onto the mat.

She looks around. A crowd has formed around the ring, everyone yearning to see you in action. Ellie feels a sense of pride at knowing she’s the one who gets to fight you. She turns to face you, realizing she has two options. She could keep up her weak facade, causing everyone to continue to underestimate her so she can easily sneak up in the arena — which is the wiser of the two. Or she can reveal that she’s not the useless girl she’s pretending to be — which is more satisfying. 

Ellie squares her shoulders, already coming to a decision. Fuck, her dignity will be the death of her.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She replies.

You chuckle, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Good to hear.”

Ellie holds up her fists, not at all knowing how to approach this. Are you a tackler or..? She knows that Marlene likes to keep her distance, dodging more than she punches. She knows that Riley uses her legs more than most people, sweeping or kicking her opponent. But you’re a mystery to her, to everyone. Do you rely on offense or defense more heavily? She knows Marlene uses–

Her thoughts are cut off by a blow to her gut. Ellie hunches over, not having even noticed you moving in on her. She’s quick to recover, though her stomach aches from your punch. 

The crowd remains silent as you two begin to circle each other, holding their breaths in anticipation. 

She watches you, taking in the way you step and the way your fists are idly positioned in front of you. But you’re giving no signs toward your next move, completely closed off. She decides to make the move this time, aiming for your jaw despite her agreement of ‘No damage to the face’. You evade her easily, light on your feet as you back out of her reach. 

Ellie comes forward, attacking again. She’s fast. Fast enough that you’re unable to dodge her fist to your ribs. Breath is forced from your lungs at the impact. Ellie is momentarily proud of herself. But that's before she realizes all she managed to do was rile you up.

Your leg collides with her side before she registers the movement. The same side that you’d punched in the beginning. While she’s still catching her breath, you grab her by the arm and twist it around her back. She grunts at the ache in her shoulder. 

Your lips caress the shell of her ear as you whisper, “I knew you were a good pick.” before then shoving her hard in the back, sending her stumbling forward.

She’s quick to spin around to face you. It pisses her off to see that you appear unmoved, standing in the same spot as before without so much as a hair out of place. You move with fluidity, like a dance. More than that, you’re calculative. You already know Ellie’s style. 

You close in on her, reeling your arm back and aiming for the face. Apparently, you’ve both abandoned the agreement. Ellie ducks under your fist, taking advantage of your unprotected stomach, punching you hard in the gut. Exactly where you’d hit her. It’s childish, but it makes her feel a sense of satisfaction as you buckle over.

The satisfaction is short lived as your ankle is suddenly coming at her face. She twists, grabbing you by the calf and using her own leg to sweep you off your feet. Your back slams against the mat. Hard. Ellie stands over you with a shit eating grin.  

“Still think I’m a good pick?” She asks, crouching to taunt you. You’re splayed across the mat, chest heaving. Sweat clings to your hairline, your lips parted. Ellie’s stomach flips at the sight, though she’s careful not to show it.

A smirk tugs at your lips, “I knew you weren’t weak.”

“Is that why you chose me?” She chuckles. “To prove to yourself that–”

She's cut off when both your feet fly into her stomach. She coughs, staggering backward as you hop to your feet. You’re instantly on her, hands on her shoulders before you drive your knee into her gut. Once. Twice. Three times before Ellie notices your face has been left unguarded by your busy hands. Her fist collides with your jaw. Your head snaps to the side. She’s quick to use your momentary shock to her advantage, tackling you to the ground.

You slam against the mat, on your back once more. This time, she’s wise enough to hold you down. Ellie’s knees are on either side of your torso as she pins your wrists above your head. You pant heavily as she grins down at you. You scowl up at her, brows contorted into a furrow. But then, all at once, your expression does a 180 and you’re smirking with just as much titillation as she. You squirm under her, causing Ellie’s grip to tighten on your wrists.

“Y’know,” You say through heavy breaths of exertion, “If it weren’t for our current situation, this could be a rather fun position.”

Ellie’s face flushes, her eyes widening. Her focus slips and your grin widens. Unbeknownst to her, that was your only intention — to get her to slip up, to be taken aback just long enough for you to change the game. You buck your hips hard enough to roll her over. You straddle her waist as Ellie pants beneath you, glaring. 

“That wasn’t fair.” She says.

“It worked, though, did it not?” You point out with a grin. She groans, tipping her head back against the mat in defeat. She can feel every movement you make, your bodies close enough together that she’s sure you could count the freckles on her face, if you so desired. “What’s your next plan, Williams?”

“I’m thinking.” She grunts. “I could headbutt you, but that’d damage your face.”

“Oh, so now you care about that.”

“I don’t want your stylist killing me in my sleep.” 

“Ah, she’s far too kind for that.”

“Is she?” 

Ellie thinks of Cat, wondering what she’d make of this. Do you have a similar relationship with your stylist? She doubts it. What she and Cat have is highly illegal and could result in both of them being turned to Avoxes if they were ever found out. You’re far too reputable to risk such a thing. But then again, most stylists barely even talk to their tributes. 

She wonders, wonders, and wonders when it comes to you. A mystery, you are. An enigmatic book so foreign to her she’s unsure where to even begin to read you. The words blur and the page numbers shuffle, forming an unintelligible story left unread by all. 

“What an odd tone, that was.” You say. Ellie hopes you’re unwise enough to not recognize it as jealousy. To imagine you with your stylist as she was with hers is a sight she wishes to remain as such an enigma.

“I yield.” Ellie says, cutting the conversation short via surrender.

The crowd hums with conversation. Everyone knew you would win anyway, though they’re shocked at the fight Ellie was willing to put up against you. They disperse as you climb to your feet, offering Ellie your hand. She takes it, standing.

She briefly catches the sight of Riley’s face as she’s pulled up. Scowling, condescending. Not at all an expression one would reserve for their lifelong best friend. It makes her stomach twist and she quickly releases your hand. You don’t seem to think much of it, walking over to put your shoes back on. She does the same. 

And with that, you part ways as strangers. Which, with or without the rooftop acquaintance taken into consideration, is technically true.

21:37.

TRAINING CENTER, FLOOR 4.

“Did I or did I not say to avoid any type of combat?” Ruben asks, trying desperately to keep his tone level as he reprimands you for the bruise on your jaw. The moment you walked into the suite, he rushed to freak out over it whilst Alice gaped dramatically.

“I won.” You argue back, scowling at them both. “Plus, it’s not like I was hiding some big secret. They all know I can fight.”

“Yeah, well now they know your technique.” He says, pinching his nose in annoyance. “They know what you’d do in certain situations. They know if you prefer offense or defense, if you use your upper or lower body more, if you–”

“I get it.” You butt in, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Do you? Because it doesn't seem like you do.” Ruben snaps. 

He’s been, frankly, acting odd all day. You wonder if it has something to do with last night’s dinner. You want to ask about it, sitting at the foot of his bed with bright eyes as he speaks about his issues. But you can’t do that, no longer on that level of relation with him. 

You frown at him, fists clenching at your sides. “You’re not my fucking parent. I’m an adult and can handle the Games how I damn well please.”

“Well if you die, that’s on me. That’s my guilt to carry.”

Of fucking course. It only makes sense that he’s only interested in how your death would affect him, how guilty he would feel. Not once does he think of his little sister who would be the dead one, buried six feet under the dirt.

“Great. Then you add my death to your fucking sob story.” You seethe. “Cry about it to your Capitol friends, maybe they’ll make you some new drugs.”

Ruben opens and closes his mouth a few times. His eyes are wide, clearly offended by your comment. A mixture of satisfaction and repent swirls within your gut, creating a recipe for cataclysm. You know this’ll end one of two ways — you and Ruben will get into a screaming match, taking after your parents in all the worst ways, or one of you’ll storm off and subsequently not talk for a long time. Both options result in misery, so you allow Ruben to make the choice.

Alice’s jaw is hanging open, resembling some sort of a fish gasping for air. She appears absolutely appalled by your audacity to insult Ruben in such a way. It takes everything in you not to wipe that expression clean off her face.

“You say some really fucked up shit when you’re mad.” Ruben says, voice quiet. “Y’know who else used to do that?”

You say nothing, already knowing his answer. You hope your lack of indulgence will prevent him from saying the name, but it doesn’t. He speaks it nonetheless, spit with such venom that your jaw twitches.

“Your father.”

Something deep in your chest yearns to lash out again, to bear your words like daggers ready to slice him open with their cruelty. It’s an insatiable, carnal desire that’s followed you all your life, looming over you like a shadow. Anger is so quick to wrap his hands around your throat, so hasty in pulling the strings like a sadistic puppeteer. You only now register that it’s not Anger causing this, it’s you. The blood in your veins and the nitrogenous bases in your DNA that tether you to your father. There’s nobody, nothing else to inculpate aside from your own heritage.

You crave the sweet release of shouting at him, imagining the hurt look on his face. Despite knowing the satisfaction won’t last long before guilt replaces it, you still want it. To inevitably hurt the ones you love, what a curse that is.

As said, there are two options from here and you take the latter. With a heavy huff of anger and a clenched jaw, you turn on your heel and storm out of the suite. You’re on the rooftop before you’re even able to register how you’d gotten there.

You were supposed to be here half an hour ago, having promised Ellie to meet at the same time as last night. You desperately hope she hasn’t left yet, for you really want a cigarette.

“Look who finally showed up.” her voice is heard before her form is seen. You turn toward it to see Ellie leaned against the railing opposite of the one you’d occupied the night prior. Fair skin and freckles dance under the silver moonlight cast upon them, auburn hair a flame against the darkness.

She already has it lit between her fingers and you refrain from lunging toward it. 

You wave off her comment, walking toward her.“Yeah something came up.”

“Such as?”

“A desperate need for some food.” You lie. “Didn’t mean to take so long, Capitol meals are just too good to turn down.”

Ellie chuckles, mindlessly passing you the cig. You take it, placing it in your mouth with an animalistic hunger that only causes her laughter to grow laced with amusement. The smoke fills your lungs and clouds your head, a momentary sense of tranquility washing over you. It causes the sting from Ruben’s words to not burn so much, easing the wound he’d left like intangible ointment.

You begrudgingly pass it back to Ellie, staring at her as she inhales. There aren’t any bruises on her face, which is rather unfair as you’re certain you got a lot of punches in. Well, you suppose they were mostly aimed at her stomach and ribs. Shame.

“Why’d you choose me?” She says into the chilled night air, breath fogged. It takes you a moment to realize what exactly she’s referring to.

“As a combat partner?”

“Yeah,” She confirms, “If you wanted strong, you could’ve asked Nolan or Ariadne. If you wanted weak, you could have asked Selene or Elliot.”

“I didn’t want them, though. I wanted you.”

Her mouth twitches at this, though she simply speaks, “But why?” “Because I knew your frailty was an act.” You shrug, swiping the cig from her. “You’re a good actor, a great one even. But I know what it looks like to enjoy something. And you really enjoyed that archery station. The spear and the crowbar too, just not as much. And, oh, how could I forget your cute little plant section?”

“Okay, stalker.” She huffs as you laugh. 

“I was watching everyone, Ellie. Don’t feel too special.”

“Awh,” She feigns a pout, “I was just beginning to.”

It’s comfortable here, on a roof of solace. It’s like a secret oasis shielded away from the rest of the world, obtained only by the two of you. It’s nice, perhaps too nice. You’ve formed a bad habit of distrusting things when they grow too good to believe. As you pass the cigarette back to Ellie, your mind comes up with countless scenarios of how this could end — you get caught, cast out of the games, and turned into tongueless Avoxes; or maybe you don’t get caught, become good friends, then you’re forced to kill her in the arena. No matter how this goes, the ending is the same. Inevitable loss of comfort. 

Ellie remains silent beside you, comfortable in the lack of conversation. She overlooks the city, the lights reflecting within her viridescent eyes. You imagine the way the light will leave them in the arena. Because, amid the infinite scenarios in your mind, there’s not a single one that entails you losing the games. Whether you’re the one to take Ellie’s life or not, she won’t live.

“Where’d you learn to fight?” You ask, desirous for an off-switch to your thoughts.

Ellie’s eyes remain on the scene below as she responds. “The higher Districts might train for the games, but the lower ones are taught to defend themselves.”

“From what?”

“Anything?” She shrugs. “Everything.”

You hadn’t thought of it that way, as an act of defense. Of course you’re aware that’s what fighting is for. But you were raised into thinking it was a fact of life — you’d been expected to know how to take an enemy down at the age of seven. You were trained to fight with Ruben before you used the holograms. 

“Well who was your practice partner?” You ask. “Back in seven.”

You hadn’t thought much of the question, though it causes Ellie’s expression to falter. Her lips tighten as she passes you the cigarette. “It was interchangeable between my caretaker and Riley.”

Oh. Okay yeah, that was your fault. You’d completely forgotten about her stifled relationship with her best friend. Guilt traces up your spine. You want to ask what she means by caretaker, but you decide against prying for more information. 

Although she’s good at hiding it, Ellie’s expression is rather dejected. At the sight, you feel the need to offer a fair trade. To give her information about yourself that’s not so easy.

“Mine was my brother.” You say softly, turning toward the city before inhaling the smoke. It’s her turn to stare at you while you observe the city. Her eyes bore into the side of your face and you fight the urge to look at their greenery.

“Are you guys, uh,” She trails off, sounding unsure on how to approach this. “What’s your relationship like? Currently, I mean. You— well, I know you used to be close because you said he took you to the ocean as a kid. And, uh,” 

Her rambling makes you laugh, lightening the ache in your chest.

“We’re not so close anymore.” You admit, passing. Her brows furrow, clearly wanting to ask more. You appreciate her forbearing from doing so, though you know she deserves honesty. If you wish to pry as much as you do, you can’t expect to not return such an endeavour. In a much quieter voice, you speak, “He wasn’t the same after his Games.”

Ellie frowns, “I wouldn’t expect anyone to be, considering what the tributes are put through.”

“Yeah,” You sigh, “It was just, really bad.”

She nods in understanding, though you know she doesn’t exactly have many details. “I’ve lost people too.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I was a baby but yeah.” She says, quick to undermine her own losses in comparison to yours. It’s endearing. “Both my parents passed when I was an infant. I was raised by my mom’s best friend, Marlene. She’s cool and all but– Well, she’s not my mom. And she makes no effort to act as one.”

You’re quick to recall Ellie referring to Marlene as her caretaker. Well, now you know why.

Ellie turns, looking out at the horizon. Her face is illuminated by the moonlight, smoothing her skin and shining her hair. She breathes out a cloud of smoke, clouding the cool air.

You’re not sure what to say, unused to having people confide in you. Are you supposed to tell her more about yourself as to relate to what she’s saying? Or would that be self-centered? Just as you’re about to spew out a random response, Ellie speaks up, swiftly changing the topic. Thankfully.

“I don’t tell many people emotional shit like that.” She admits. “But, for some reason, that’s all you and I seem to talk about — sentimental crap.” She then turns back to face you, your eyes meeting for a moment. Something passes between you, her gaze sharp but in a watchful way rather than a predatory one. She hands you the cigarette. “Tell me something about you. Something conversational.”

“Like what?” 

“What’s your favorite color? Who’s your biggest inspiration? What’re your hobbies?” She lists off, counting each point on her fingers. 

“I don’t really have hobbies.” You say, huffing a laugh. “Don’t have time for them.”

“That’s impossible, everyone has hobbies.”

You hum as you inhale the smoke, thinking. You truly can’t think of anything. You’re normally too busy with your mother’s training or retrieving game from mister Alden. When you finally think of something, it’s from your past. Long before Ruben left, when you were allowed to be a kid. “I used to enjoy writing poetry when I was younger, though it was no good.”

“See, that’s a great hobby.” Ellie smiles encouragingly, nudging your shoulder. 

“Okay, then. What’s yours?” You redirect, narrowing your eyes at her.

She grins even wider, already knowing her answer. “Hunting, gardening, doodling, painting, reading comic–”

“Painting?” You ask, mildly shocked by this.

“I mean, it’s the one I do the least out of them all, but–” “What do you paint?”

Her brows raise at your sudden interest. “Depends on the day. Sometimes I paint people, though I can never get the proportions right so I only end up pissed at myself by the end. Sometimes I paint abstractly, but I can never figure out what the end result depicts because it’s just a big burst of colors and vague shapes. Ninety percent of the time, they’re landscapes. Of the woods, of the road by my house, of the abandoned mill. Anything, really.”

“Hm, I didn’t really take you as a painter.”

“I’m not, really. I mostly just doodle in my notebook.” She says. “I only paint when I want to create something bigger than the journal’s confines.”

“Is that what you brought with you? Into the arena?”

“No. That would've been a good idea, though.” She shakes her head, clearly disappointed in herself for not having thought of that before you. 

“What’d you bring, then?” You ask. She holds out her hand in response. On her right index finger resides a thick metal ring, shaped as a moth. The creature’s wings wrap around her finger, body thin. It’s so intricate, so detailed. You lean closer to get a better look. “Is it a family heirloom or something?”

“No, uh,” She falters as she decides on how to answer. You straighten, still looking at the ring even after her hands have been dropped back down to her sides. “It’s from a friend.”

“So is mine.” You tell her before reaching up to touch your necklace. Ellie looks at it, eyes tracing the line of your collarbone all the way down to the pearl pendant. She reaches out, fingertips grazing the thin chain. Her hands are cold, causing your breath to hitch. She notices and is quick to pull her hands away, clearing her throat awkwardly.

She turns back toward the Capitol, you do the same. The city is asleep, the lights all turned off in the windows as the streets are naked of vehicles. You wonder if there’s a curfew, though you doubt it. Capitolites rarely have rules.

You imagine yourself living here, residing in an overpriced home that you won’t be charged a penny for. You’d be tended to by a vast quantity of Avoxes, never hearing any of their voices. The home would be yours to keep and yours to design. There’d be blue everywhere, subtle reminders of your life back at Four and the salty ocean that mister Alden would put through each visit on his skiff. The thought sounds nice at first, the luxury of it all. But the finer details — owning people, never seeing the ocean again — those are what get you. Not to mention all the parties you’d have to attend. All Capitolites are made to attend the more prestigious parties, mandatory under President Fedra’s decree. But then another thought crosses your mind. You’d have to win the Games first. To even be pondering on your life after them, you’ll have to survive before all else. The idea sickens you as it never has before. At first, you think it’s because you'll have to kill people, a thought that’s never sat right in regards to your morals. But then, as Ellie passes you the cigarette, the cool metal of her ring brushing your finger, you realize it’s not only that. It’s not the fact that you’ll have to kill people. It’s the fact that you'll have to kill her.

[post] notes!! i'm gonna be so fr, i only edited half of this chapter bc its SO fucking longggg (sorry ab that btw). i normally try to reread & edit as i go, but i seem to have abandoned that process #whoopsies!!

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.    @h4-rt3s.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevyscoven

[sugarikiz]

( ℳ ) ickie’s 300 follower appreciation post !

wow. honestly just wow. my 2025 goal was to reach 300 by the end of it, but one more time, ive been caught off guard. I cannot begin to talk about how much I appreciate this; without all of you wonderful moots and readers of my work, im sure I wouldn’t be here writing this today. from one little fic based off a night time fiction I had in my head, turning it into a (although cringy) debut, i had no idea that it would turn into something so close to my heart. from the cringy first few fics to having so many people tell me they love my work is insane, and I wouldnt want it any other way. once again, thank you all so so much, and i love you all! mwah !! 💋

honourable mentions

@puma-riki — GAHHH LILY I LITERALLY LOVE U SM ur litch so gf material (if you were a boy I’d be in love fr) besides my awkward rizz, i honestly appreciate ur support so much, and i hope we continue to be friends for a long time 💞 (and that you survive the rest of high school; im dying and im in the seventh grade ㅠㅠ)

@bywonyo — AI MY PRINCESS & 6th follower of my itty bitty blog !! you’re so pretty like I can’t even 😞🎀 i love your works sm and let’s continue to be weird and struggle with blr being annoying together bcs thats just who we are 🙏

@irasvr — ira my hindi speaking beloved !! you’re honestly so sweet like- ilysmm 💓 i loved your work for my first event like PLEASE WE NEED MORE <33 overall ur such a sweetheart and let’s be besties forever and ever (and share more traumatic school stories 😼)

@heeaara — hello my fellow caie survivor lol >< ur writing debut was 4+4 (ATEEE) and i just need to tell you you’re so sweet 💞 let’s be moots forever and always?

@hannamoon143 — HANNA MY LOVEEE your works? jaw-dropping. you? even more jaw-dropping! you’re sm fun and I hope you feel better soon ^^

@flufflights — LILY YOU’RE SO CUTEEE I CAN’T EVEN 💓 your writing is amazing so let’s maybe do a writing collab in the future?

+ so many more, so sorry if i didn’t get to you !!

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Being someone who read Under The Red Hood and came out with the firm belief that, for Jason, it's not about killing Joker, it's about Jason wanting proof Batman would choose him over the Joker (bc shelia chose the joker). Makes seeing any other media where it's all about just wanting the Joker dead is a teeny bit frustrating. to be honest

Jason could've killed the Joker himself, really, really easily. Jason kidnaps the Joker before the confrontation. I can't open my comic for a reference right now, but it felt like he had the Joker for quite a bit before the confrontation. He had him. He beat him up with a crowbar. He had every single opportunity to kill the Joker himself, but he didn't because that wasn't his goal. Make no mistake, he did plan for the Joker to be dead by the end of it, but do you see what im trying to say here

Edit: If I knew this post was gonna get 1000+ notes I would've tried to word it better or something, this was a rant I made on the way to the grocery store 😭

It's not about making Batman kill either. When Batman says he won't kill, Jason adjusts and goes, 'Let ME kill the Joker or kill me to stop me' instead. The test is all about Batman choosing him. The whole final confrontation is Jason's first death again. The parent, The Joker, and the explosives. It even ends with Jason unable to move as a bomb goes off right next to him again because the parent didn't choose Jason. And instead tried finding an option that'd benefit them and (consequencely) letting the Joker walk, again, lol, lmao <-in agony

[paper-cities]

@canisalbus

[mossy-aro]

ultimately i think my insistence on aro positivity honestly is as much a political stance as a personal one.

when i say aro positivity is crucial and that i dislike doomer-ist posts that express sentiments like 'I hate being aro so much I wish I was dead instead’ it's not because I don’t think there can and should be a space for negativity and acknowledging self-hate, or the many ways being aromantic can really suck sometimes. i find that to be very important!

that being said. there is smth here about how self-hate posts are sometimes just arophobia that we inflict on ourselves. and when we put that out into the ether it (intentionally or not) can become arophobia that we inflict on other members of the community. i think there absolutely needs to be a place for negativity and the expression of anger and frustration and self loathing even - these are all good things to talk about because these are things that we experience. that being said, it can also be genuinely upsetting and triggering to people to have what is essentially arophobia shown to them and then have that be validated by other aspec people. your personal thoughts can affect your wider community on a level you may not anticipate. and i understand it i truly do! it took me so long to be able to recover from accepting being aroace - it threw my entire world off kilter and made me question everything about my place in the world.

but my insistence on aro joy and positivity is because ultimately i do believe that building is at the core essence of it all. that ultimately discussions and the purpose of community should be about construction, not destruction. and this is both a personal and a political stance. talking about how much you hate yourself and cultivating online discussions/spaces where negativity about aspec identity is the main and only theme is destructive - if that’s where we let the conversation end. these thoughts can and should be used as a vehicle to look for a path forward!

joy and positivity create a space where the focus can become on forging a path forward, on construction, on community building instead of tearing ourselves and others down with negative thoughts. it’s not productive or healthy when it stops at a place of negativity - it becomes actively destructive to the essence of community.

and i do think that this is especially poignant considering the fact that being any kind of queer, but especially aromantic (and/or asexual) means forging a path for yourself and making your own happiness where there is no obvious way forward. our communities exist mostly online (right now, anyway), there is little recognition of our existence in the real world, the effects of amatonormativity are both pervasive and actively dehumanising, and there are legal, economic and social structures in place actively making our lives more difficult. yes that all sucks! it’s good to acknowledge that. we need to in order to change it. but more importantly, that’s not the end. we are still here and our happiness, our future is for us to determine. even if we can’t change the laws or society, loving yourself and understanding aromanticism as a political identity (as well as personal), as a radical worldview, and as a protest against amatonormativity is essential for both community and personal well being. the personal is political.

tldr. i guess my point is that as a community, we should focus on building, improving, and nurturing ourselves and each other (construction) as opposed to destruction. we should recognise aromanticism and asexuality as political identities as well as personal ones and rely on community and self-love in the absence of anything else as a form of protest and political power. destruction (the recognition of everything that is wrong) is essential as a starting point - but where do we go from there? we rebuild.

[littleplantfreak]

“tell him he looks sexy with his hair pushed back” absolutely not i’m going to hide his hair gel actually

[deerspherestudios]

Hii im from Indonesian I got a little question for you, after playing mushroom oasis and astronought I’m just curious why are you using Indonesian language, mawar : rose and bidadari/malaikat : angel ? Like don’t get me wrong it’s pretty rare (or maybe I rarely saw it) people using Indonesian language as for reference

I also really like the way you make a characters it’s very detailed :0 I very enjoy reading your blog’s

I've never mentioned it but I'm actually from SEA! I don't wanna mention which country specifically but it's easy enough to figure out. It's just for fun and flavor using words from a language I'm familiar with!

And thank you! Part of the reason they're so detailed (I assume you meant in terms of personality, backstory, etc!) is because people send me fun questions to ponder about and it's really helped flesh out my characters!

On a side note, I know I've sprinkled in some Spanish too but sadly I don't speak it. I do think it's a beautiful language, but I hesitate to use it without understanding it properly.

The one full line I've ever used that Atom says in Astronought is from a song (Waltz in E-major, Op. 15 "Moon Waltz" by Cojum Dip), so I assume the phrase is correct!

[chalkrub]

linocuts from recently :^)

[stiffyck]

I WISH ARO HEADCANONS WERE MORE POPULAR IN FANDOMS

[unriding]

me n moze say good morning to the world !!! ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ

art by @rabbbitseason of course <3