#that is precisely the kind of personality that I have

[yothatshitgas]

Maybes and What Ifs | Chapter 1 Pairing: Paige x Azzi Word Count: 3.7k Note: Work of fiction.

This is the start of the expansion series of The Dress. Hope y'all like it. I kinda rushed towards the end, but hopefully it still flows nicely. Let me know yalls thoughts :)

Summer 2017

“Your eyes are wandering,” Celeste said, sliding up beside me on the right. Her gaze followed mine across the court, “Azzi Fudd. That’s who you’re staring at.” 

I tilted my head slightly, letting my gaze follow Azzi Fudd as she ran down the length of the court. Her pace wasn’t mind blowing athleticism, but there was a rhythm to the way she moved. A kind of efficiency so precise in a way that made it hard to look away. Her arms pumped in controlled strides, her legs extended with each push against the hardwood. She wasn’t the fastest, no. But she was definitely smooth, her muscles work in sync with an exact tempo.

I blinked, tearing my eyes away then turned to Celeste, “haven’t heard of her before.” 

“Not surprising,” she replied, cracking open her Gatorade, “she was literally just in middle school, like, last week.”

“Makes her one of the youngest here, right?” 

“Yeah,” Celeste nodded, taking a sip, “but out of anyone actually worth watching? She’s the youngest.” 

That made me pause. I glanced back toward the court where Azzi was still running. Her cheeks were flushed, but she looked nowhere near winded. Just a steadiness in her every being that was far beyond her age.

“Right,” I said, “I haven’t seen anything that impressive.”

Celeste turned her head slowly, eyebrow fully cocked and her mouth curled into a smirk that said she wasn’t buying a single word, “okay,” she drawled, “totally. That’s why you’ve been watching her like she hung the moon.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, Celeste just got up and jogged back towards another group of girls that huddled under the far basket.

I mean, I really am not that impressed. Not in the way everyone else seems to be, at least. There’s nothing about her that screams generational talent. Sure, Azzi’s got decent handles. Her shot’s near perfect. But the same could be said about every other girl in this gym fighting for a spot. Nothing she’s doing is revolutionary.

At least… that’s what I  keep telling myself.

‘Cause honestly, the only thing that caught my attention was that damn smile. Bright, easy. Like she wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Everyone else has that look - tight jaw, narrowed eyes, desperation practically tattooed on their forehead. But Azzi? She looked like she was playing a pickup game at the local rec center. Just turned fifteen and somehow the most relaxed person in the building.

And that bugged me more than it should have.

Who the hell smiles that much during drills? Maybe it’s her age playing a part. Maybe she hasn’t felt the pressure yet, the kind of pressure that makes your chest tight, your legs heavier and your hands shake. She doesn’t look like she’s carrying any of that. Not yet. 

During scrimmage, Azzi and I ended up as pairs on the backcourt. It wasn’t planned, just how the rotations panned out. We trailed by a few points in the beginning, not by much, but enough to make every possession feel like it mattered. Their frontcourt consisted of Aliyah and Samantha who, I guess, found it fun to bulldoze through our defense with the sheer difference in size. Forcing our way into the paint won’t work, so I needed to figure out a different angle. Something to shift the pressure to the perimeter. And then, I saw her.

Azzi.

Posted up just beyond the arc on the left wing. Wide open.

Without hesitation, I whipped her the ball with a clean, fast chest pass. The moment it hit her hands, I just knew it would go in. She didn’t fumble, there was no sign of panic. She squared her shoulders, dipped into her form and released. Fluid - like everything else she does, as I’ve observed. Her motion was pure muscle memory, her follow through so crisp the net barely stood a chance.

Swish.

From that moment on, it was like we were synced. Unspoken chemistry. No looks needed. I’d drive, draw the defense and she would be at the wing, ready for a corner three. The more shots she knocked down, the more defensive gravity she pulled and that gave me breathing room I needed to slice into the midrange. I got on the board and Azzi stayed hot. We clawed our way back into the lead, one possession at a time and by the time the whistle blew to signal the end of the scrimmage, our team was up. Barely, but up

I jogged toward the sideline, breathless and buzzing with post-game adrenaline. I dropped to the bench, towel draped over my shoulder, heart still knocking at my ribs. Azzi strolled over, stopping just in front of me. I looked up, only to be met with bright eyes and a crooked grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Thanks for finding me,” she said quietly. Her voice was soft, almost shy, almost like it was meant just for me to hear and that made my cheeks burn hotter than the scrimmage ever had.

I looked away too fast, yanking my water bottle to my lips and taking a long drink I didn’t need, I just needed to give my hands something to do, “yeah,” I managed, my voice came out rough and I cleared my throat, “no problem. Good shots.”

She gave a little nod, “thanks. I’m Azzi, by the way.”

“Paige.”

“I know who you are.”

“Oh.” I blinked. Brilliant. I cleared my throat again, trying to hide the smile forming on my lips, “I mean, you know, formality and shit. Kind rude not to introduce myself, too.”

Azzi smiled, just little but it was enough to make me feel as if I’d been holding my breath during this entire conversation. Then she started to walk backward, still facing me as she drifted toward her bench, “good job today,” she said, that same soft timbre in her voice, “and good luck tomorrow, Paige.”

__

“Paigey,” Celeste sang from across the room, dragging out my name like she’d been rehearsing it just to annoy me. Her voice laced in a kind of smug delight that already had me sighing before she even finished, “you and Azzi? Y’all were kinda going crazy out there today. Gave Clark and Boston a run for their money.”

I didn’t look up, just gave her a noncommittal hum under my breath as I stared at the game footage playing on my iPad. Although, I hadn’t actually registered a single play in the last five minutes. I couldn’t stop replaying the scrimmage in my head. It wasn’t the stats or the matchups, it was just her. Azzi’s perfectly timed cuts, the way her shot looked from my angle whenever it sailed through the net and stupidly soft thanks for finding me that had burrowed deep in my chest and refused to leave.

“C’mon,” Celeste pressed, “that pass from the top of the key?” she  brought her fingertips to her mouth to her lips and flicked away, “chef’s kiss, Paigey.”

I sighed, pausing the video and let a moment of silence stretch between us, “she’s decent,” I said, keeping my tone as casual as I could.

“Decent?” Celeste scoffed, “that girl shot like bricking a pass from you is a sin punished only in the depths of hell, don’t be annoying.”

“I’m not being annoying,” I mumbled, fiddling with the corner of my iPad case, “I’m just being objective.”

“Right.”

No bite, no dramatics. Just smug certainty and a smirk that got under my skin. I let out an irritated breath and tossed my iPad onto the nightstand, “bro, why the hell was she smiling the entire scrimmage?”

“You have a problem with her smiling now?”

“Yea. No. I don’t fucking know, maybe?” 

Celeste doubled over, dissolving into a full-body laughter. Almost comically. She clutched her stomach, still laughing. High pitched and helpless.

I stared at her, “you done?”

She wasn’t. She wheezed between gasps, wiping tears that weren’t even there from the corners of her eyes, “you found someone who can actually keep up with you on the court,” she choked out, “and you’re mad that she’s doing it with a smile?”

I opened my mouth, but she didn’t give me a chance.

“You, the same girl who grins like a Disney villain after a no-look dime, are pressed because a fifteen year old might be having too much fun on the hardwood?”

“I’m not mad,” I corrected her through clenched teeth, “I’m confused. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t even celebrate her own shots. When she misses? No scowl. She doesn’t even flinch after a turnover. She just smiles. Like none of this matters.”

Celeste flopped back on her bed, “maybe it doesn’t,” she said, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “or maybe it does and she just doesn’t show it the same way we do.”

I hummed.

“I mean,” she said after a moment, “you’ve never had someone sync with you like that, right?”

I stayed silent.

“Be sure to invite me to the wedding.”

“Gross,” I groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow, launching it at her, “she’s in middle school.”

“Freshman,” Celeste corrected, catching the pillow with one hand, “and you’re a sophomore, one year difference. It’s not that deep, Bueckers.”

“God, please, shut up.”

She grinned and pulled her blanket over her shoulder, “just saying. Chemistry.”

__

By day five, the roster had been sliced down to eighteen. None of the cuts came as a shock, but they were sure as hell sobering. The air felt heavier, more desperate. Six more girls needed to go and nobody felt safe anymore. That was when it stopped being tryouts and started feeling like survival. The shift was obvious - conversations got shorter, laughter disappeared entirely and water breaks felt calculated. Everyone was trying to figure out who’d survive the final cut. It wasn’t just about talent anymore. It was poise, mentality, consistency. How you moved when the coaches weren’t looking, and especially how moved when they were.

We had two days left to prove we belonged in one of those sacred spots. Two days to look irreplaceable.

And that’s exactly how Azzi and I presented ourselves. Together. We didn’t talk much, not that there was much need to. On the court, it was instinctual. We were finishing each other’s sequences as if we’d run drills together for years. Our chemistry was starting to speak louder than our resumes and people noticed.

I caught the coaches whispering on the sideline more than once. Nods and notes jotted down. Quick glances after another seamless backdoor dish. If there was one thing I felt halfway confident in, it was us. We were making this team.

At least, we should be. But nothing was locked in. Not with the depth chart crowded, guard-heavy didn’t even begin to describe it. We had four too many, each player with a case to make. Some were taller, stronger. Some had national titles under their belt. Others were just straight up dogs - relentless in a way that I admired and feared at the same time. I didn’t want to admit it, but the doubt crept in more often than I’d like.

I pulled my hair back for what felt like the tenth time that morning when the elastic snapped between my fingers. Perfect.

“Fuck,” I muttered, staring at the broken tie like I could will it back together.

“Here.”

I turned. 

Azzi was already holding out a spare black hair tie, dangling it between two fingers.

I blinked, “thanks.”

She shrugged, “you look nervous,” she said, as casual as ever.

“I don’t get nervous, Fudd,” I replied, looping the new tie around my fingers, “I just want this, more than anyone in here.”

She didn’t flinch, just sat down beside me on the gym floor, cross-legged, elbows resting on her knees, “what if I wanted it more than you?” she asked, it didn’t come out as a challenge, it came out as a simple question that had just occurred to her.

I snorted, “right.”

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know,” I rubbed the back of my neck, “you make it look easy. You glide around the court like you could do all of this in your sleep. So no offense, but it’s hard to picture you wanting this more than me when it barely looks like you’re breaking a sweat.”

She stared at me, then a smile tugged at her lips, “thank you? Also fuck you?”

That made me laugh and I grabbed a towel, dragging it across my face to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks, “yeah,” I admitted, grinning into the cloth, “I deserved that. That made no sense.”

I stole a glance at Azzi as she watched the court, eyes sharp and unwavering. Every muscle in her posture leaned toward the game, charged with intent. Nothing about her energy read anxious or eager to prove something, she simply belonged on the court and she knew it with every fibre of her being. The effortlessness wasn’t arrogance, it was certainty. While everyone else was gripping at control, she already held it in her hands.

That’s when it hit me, maybe she did want it more than me but, at the very least, we wanted it in different ways.

__

The low hum of the AC filled the room, a mechanical heartbeat that did little to cut through the blank quiet pooling in my chest. Celeste was downstairs in the lobby with the rest of the girls, probably knee deep in someone’s group chat scandal. I tapped out early, an attempt at salvaging the remainder of my social battery, chasing silence to fix the strange weight pressing behind my eyes. 

I was halfway through drying my hair after a much needed shower when a soft knock broke through the stillness. I walked over, opening the door without thinking and there Azzi stood barefoot in the hallway, wearing a faded oversized t-shirt with pale blue pajama shorts. No makeup, curls loose and still damp, post shower. Just her. Soft and unexpected.

“Hey,” she said, that same calm smile plastered on her face, “figured you’d be here.”

“Uh, well…” my voice caught somewhere between surprise and confusion, “I was downstairs, just got tired. Early day tomorrow and all.”

“Right,” she nodded, but then she continued, eyes meeting mine, “can I come in?”

“Huh?”

“I wanted to hang out. If that’s cool with you?”

“Oh.”

Heat unfurled beneath my skin, climbing from my neck to my ears. I stepped aside in silence, unable to formulate an actual sentence. She stepped in with ease, making her way over to the small loveseat in the corner of the room and folded herself onto it, cross legged, perfectly at ease. She looked around, eyes wandering from the desk clutter, to the dirty pile of laundry, to the practice gear draped over the chair then back to me. Waiting.

I stood frozen before I came to my senses, dropping onto the edge of the bed, still clutching the towel around my neck. The AC failed to help with the sudden warmth gathering across my face.

“Where do you live?” I asked, grasping for anything to say, my voice came out lighter than intended at my attempt to make small talk.

“Arlington,” she replied, then clarified, “Virginia.”

“What school?”

“St. John’s this Fall, My dad coaches there.”

“Cool.”

Cool? That’s what I went with?

This is getting ridiculous. There was nothing about this girl that should be this intimidating, for God’s sake, she wore unicorn-print pajama shorts and smiled at vending machines. I sat a little straighter, turning more fully toward her. She didn’t move much, still perched on the love seat, fingers drumming slightly against her knee. She seemed comfortable, entirely unbothered. Meanwhile, I was busy second guessing every single blink.

I glanced at her again and found her already watching me. Our eyes held.

The lamplight from the desk hit her at an angle, casting the softest gold along her cheekbones. Her eyes weren’t brown, but not quite black, either. It was something richer, a color that made you want to look longer just to figure it out. In her eyes, I suddenly forgot what my own voice sounded like.

“You?” she asked, tone light but she still held my gaze, “where are you from?”

“Minnesota.”

“I’ve got family there,” she replied.

“Cool.”

Jesus Christ.

I almost groaned out loud. Cool again? 

I broke our eye contact and looked down at my lap, my hands restless. I searched for something grounding, anything to tether me back to myself. My fingers drifted to the black hair tie still looped around my wrist, the same one that she’d handed me during practice without hesitation. I caught her eyeing the band.

“You want it back?”

She shook her head, “it’s just a hair tie, keep it.”

“Okay, thanks.”

The silence returned. It wasn’t awkward, just full of things neither of us had figured out how to say yet. Then, her voice came again.

“Paige.”

Just my name, soft through her voice. It hit me square in the chest and my heart completely stalled, it felt like my breathing was out of rhythm.

“Yeah?”

She hesitated but then came her question, “do you hate me?”

“What?”

“You’re relaxed with the other girls,” she said, eyes landing on mine again, “you joke, you laugh. You’re loud. But with me, you close off. You freeze. It’s like you don’t even want to give me the time of day.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said immediately, hoping to ease her worry.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“Just is.”

I expected that to frustrate her, yet the only thing that came from it was another tilt to her head, studying me with the same focus she had on the court.

“Paige,” she said, quieter this time.

“Az.”

There was a small shift, her smile cracking through the silence, “only my grandparents call me Az,” she murmured, amusement tugging gently at her voice.

“Oh,” I suddenly felt self-conscious, “sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep -” 

“No,” she said, cutting me off with a quick shake of her head, “there’s nothing wrong with it, I like it. It sounds right when you say it.”

I scrambled internally for something to say, anything to pull me back from whatever this was starting to become. But my mind was empty, too full to speak. Every second that passed felt like a thread pulling loose.

Not because of her.

Definitely not.

“Paige,” her voice cut through, enough to pull me out of the mental spiral I had fallen in.

“Hm?” 

“I like playing with you.”

Five simple words, but each syllable caused my heart to jump, stumble and skip a beat. 

“Oh,” I said. Fucking brilliant, then, because my mouth hated to cooperate with my brain at even the most vital moments, I smiled, “I like you, too. I mean, playing. I like playing with you, too,”fuck, I immediately buried my face in my hands, groaning into my palms, “just… please ignore me.”

Through my fingers, I peeked up and caught her smiling.

__

When the final roster was announced, among the twelve names was mine and Azzi’s. There was no ceremony, just a printed list taped to a wall outside the meeting room. I stared at it longer than necessary, even after finding my name. Around me, girls hugged, cried, calls made. Others left with their heads down, fast steps and forced smiles. But Azzi and I had made it. Whatever we were or weren’t, it had worked. On the court, at least.

We were told we had a week. Enough time to go home, reset and wrap our minds around what came next. Buenos Aires. International competition. A tournament that would last just four days, but would require every bit of focus, discipline and resolve we could muster.

When we touched down in Argentina, something in me clicked. This was real. The stakes, the stage, the flag we proudly wore across our chests. It was the kind of dream you didn’t allow yourself to believe in until you were already living it.

We didn’t just play, we won. Went completely undefeated. Game after game, Azzi and I came off the bench, a sudden burst of pace that threw off our opponents. While the starters set the tone, we rewrote it. Disrupted rhythm, changed the tempo. Where they expected fatigue, we brought fire. She cut, I passed. I drove, she created space. We didn’t need to talk, just read each other effortlessly. It was chemistry in motion, and it felt as natural as breathing.

By the end of the tournament, people noticed. They all saw the two youngest players out there syncing up like we’d grown up in the same driveway. But eventually, the medals were handed out, jerseys packed away and the lights dimmed on our short spotlight. Just like that, it was over and the moment in my hotel room, whatever it had been between us, it had stayed there. Pressed into the folds of that quiet night, never spoken out loud. Never picked up again. Then we flew home.

Summer blurred around the edges. Workouts, conditioning, long days under the gym lights. My legs stayed tired and my schedule stayed full. The only thing I had room for was forward motion. 

Azzi and I messaged a few times in between the chaos that the tournament had created. Nothing deep. Jokes. Reactions to Insta stories. One word check-ins that never led to anything. 

On my birthday, she sent a text: Happy Birthday :)

I replied: Thanks!

She didn’t text after that, so I let it sit. Then I let it - let her - go. Filed Azzi away in the back of my mind under almost. Not a heartbreak, not even disappointment. Just a soft, strange ache of something never really got to begin. A summer crush I didn’t even have time to understand while it was happening, let alone mourn once it passed.

But even so…

I remembered.

The knock. Her soft voice when she said my name. That flicker, brief but undeniable, that settled between us.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remember.

[sh4nksslvt]

A Place in a Giant’s World

After a grueling journey, you find solace in the curve of Loki's massive horn, discovering a softer side to the enigmatic giant.

yall when i tell u ds man is sooo damnn fineee~

loki x gn!reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, size difference, loki being a little shit, wholesome, ooc(?) a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff cringe, and akward © dollywons for divider word count: 2.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden haze over the jagged cliffs of Elbaf. The island’s terrain was as unforgiving as its reputation, with rocky paths winding through towering forests and steep inclines that seemed to mock your stamina. At just over five feet tall, you felt like an ant trudging through a world built for giants. Your legs ached, your boots were caked in mud, and every step sent a dull throb through your calves. Hours of walking had left you teetering on the edge of collapse, and the weight of your pack seemed to grow heavier with every passing minute.

Ahead of you loomed Loki, the infamous giant prince of Elbaf, his colossal frame dominating the landscape. At sixty-seven meters tall, he was a walking mountain, his presence both awe-inspiring and intimidating. His long, magenta hair swayed in the breeze, the twin braids framing his face neatly while the rest spilled messily down his back. Bandages wrapped tightly over his eyes, giving him an air of mystery, though you’d learned by now that he didn’t need sight to navigate the world with unnerving precision. His massive steps shook the ground, yet he moved with a grace that belied his size, each stride deliberate, almost performative.

Loki’s personality was as towering as his stature. Arrogance dripped from his every word, his sharp tongue weaving taunts and clever quips with ease. He reveled in trickery, delighting in outsmarting anyone who dared cross his path. There was a cruelty to him, too—a penchant for toying with others, pushing their limits just to see how far they’d bend before breaking. Yet, in the weeks you’d traveled with him, you’d glimpsed something else beneath the surface: a flicker of compassion, rare and fleeting, like a star obscured by storm clouds.

“Keep up, little mouse,” Loki called, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. He didn’t turn to look at you, but you could hear the smirk in his tone. “Or do you plan to collapse and make me carry you like some fragile trinket?”

You gritted your teeth, forcing your legs to keep moving. “I’m fine,” you huffed, though your voice betrayed your exhaustion. “And I’m not that small.”

Loki chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated through the air. “Oh, but you are. A speck, really. I could flick you into the next island with a twitch of my finger.”

You rolled your eyes, too tired to muster a proper retort. The banter was familiar by now, a strange rhythm you’d fallen into during your journey. You weren’t entirely sure why Loki had agreed to let you tag along—or why you’d chosen to follow a giant with a reputation for chaos. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was the way his rare moments of kindness caught you off guard, like finding a warm ember in a pile of ash.

The path steepened, and you stumbled over a loose rock, catching yourself just before you faceplanted. A frustrated groan escaped your lips. Loki’s steps slowed, and for a moment, you thought he might turn back, but he only tilted his head slightly, as if listening to your struggle.

“Pathetic,” he drawled, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Do humans tire so easily? Or is it just you?”

You glared at the back of his massive head. “I’ve been walking for hours, Loki. Not all of us have legs the size of trees.”

He snorted, a sound that sent a flock of birds scattering from a nearby tree. “Excuses, excuses. Perhaps I should leave you here to become bird food. They’d probably find you tastier than you look.”

Despite your exhaustion, you managed a weak laugh. “You’d miss me too much.”

Loki’s steps faltered, just for a fraction of a second, and you wondered if you’d imagined it. He didn’t respond, which was unusual. Normally, he’d fire back with some biting remark, but this time, he just kept walking, his massive hands swinging casually at his sides.

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The air grew cooler, and your energy was fading fast. You’d been traveling since dawn, searching for a rumored artifact said to be hidden deep in Elbaf’s mountains. Loki had his own reasons for seeking it—something about proving his cunning to the other giants—but you suspected he was also chasing the thrill of the hunt. For you, it was a chance to see more of the world, to step out of your small life and into something grander.

But right now, grandeur was the last thing on your mind. All you wanted was to stop moving.

“Loki...” you called, your voice weaker than you’d intended. “Can we… rest? Just for a bit?”

He stopped abruptly, and you nearly collided with the back of his massive boot. He turned his head slightly, the bandages over his eyes making it impossible to read his expression. “Rest?” he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. “You’ve barely made it halfway up this pathetic hill.”

You gestured at the steep incline ahead. “That’s not a hill. It’s a mountain, and I’m not built for this.”

Loki’s lips twitched, and you could tell he was fighting a smile. “Weak,” he muttered, but there was no real venom in it. He crouched down, the ground shaking as his knees hit the earth. Even crouched, he towered over you, his face level with the treetops. “Fine. Five minutes. Don’t expect me to coddle you.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue. Dropping your pack, you sank to the ground, leaning against a boulder. The cool stone felt like heaven against your aching back. You closed your eyes, letting out a long sigh. The sound of Loki shifting nearby was like the creaking of a ship, his massive form settling onto the ground with a low rumble.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of some unknown creature. You peeked one eye open, watching Loki as he sat cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees. His head was tilted slightly, as if he were listening to the world around him. The bandages over his eyes gave him an almost serene appearance, though you knew better than to trust that illusion.

“You’re staring,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.

You flushed, quickly looking away. “I’m not.”

“Liar.” He smirked, leaning forward slightly. “What’s so fascinating, hmm? My stunning good looks? My overwhelming charm?”

You snorted, despite yourself. “More like your overwhelming ego.”

He laughed, a genuine sound that made your chest feel oddly warm. “You wound me, little mouse. And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

“Friends?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve threatened to flick me into the sea at least three times today.”

“Details,” he said, waving a massive hand dismissively. “I threaten everyone. It’s part of my charm.”

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. Despite his arrogance, there was something about Loki that made it hard to stay mad at him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to know when you were struggling, even if he hid his concern behind a barrage of insults.

Your eyelids grew heavy, and you stifled a yawn. The boulder was comfortable enough, but the thought of lying down somewhere softer was tempting. Your gaze drifted to Loki’s massive form, specifically to the curved horns protruding from his head. They were enormous, each one thicker than your entire body, curling gracefully like the branches of an ancient tree. An idea sparked in your mind, born of exhaustion and a touch of delirium.

“Loki,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can I… try something?”

He tilted his head, the movement sending his braids swaying. “Try what? Don’t tell me you’re planning to climb me like some ambitious squirrel.”

You laughed weakly. “Not exactly. Just… trust me?”

He raised an eyebrow—or at least, you assumed he did beneath the bandages. “Trust you? That’s a bold request, coming from someone who can barely walk straight.”

“Please?” you pressed, giving him your best pleading look.

He sighed dramatically, the sound like a gust of wind. “Fine. But if you fall and break something, don’t expect me to play nursemaid.”

You stood, wobbling slightly, and approached his massive form. Up close, he was even more intimidating, his presence overwhelming in a way that made your heart race. You reached out, placing a hand on the smooth surface of his horn. It was cool to the touch, polished by years of wind and weather. The curve was gentle, almost inviting, like a natural hammock.

With a deep breath, you began to climb. It wasn’t easy—your arms trembled with fatigue, and the horn’s surface was slicker than you’d expected—but determination kept you going. Loki remained still, though you could feel his curiosity radiating like heat. After a few precarious moments, you reached the curve of his horn and settled into it, your body fitting snugly against the smooth, cool surface. It was surprisingly comfortable, the gentle slope cradling you like a bed.

“Well,” Loki said, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You grinned, letting your head rest against the horn. “It’s perfect. Like a giant hammock.”

He huffed, but there was no malice in it. “A hammock. You’ve reduced the mighty Loki, prince of Elbaf, to furniture.”

“Comfy furniture,” you corrected, closing your eyes. The exhaustion was catching up to you, and the gentle sway of Loki’s horn as he adjusted his position was oddly soothing.

For a moment, he was silent. Then, you felt a subtle change in his breathing. It slowed, becoming deep and measured, the rise and fall of his chest like the tide. You realized he was doing it on purpose, keeping his movements steady to avoid jostling you. The thought made your heart skip a beat.

“Loki?” you murmured, your voice heavy with sleep.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks”

He didn’t respond right away, and you thought he might ignore you. But then, softly, he said, “...Don’t get used to it.”

You smiled, letting the warmth of his words wrap around you like a blanket. The world faded, and you drifted into a peaceful sleep, cradled in the curve of a giant’s horn.

When you woke, the sky was dark, speckled with stars. The air was crisp, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of pine and earth. You blinked, disoriented, until you remembered where you were. Loki’s horn was still beneath you, steady and unmoving. You shifted slightly, peering over the edge to see his face.

He was awake, his head tilted slightly as if listening to the night. The bandages over his eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight, giving him an ethereal quality. His expression was unreadable, but there was a softness to it, a quiet contemplation you hadn’t seen before.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice low. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep through the entire journey.”

You yawned, stretching carefully to avoid slipping. “How long was I out?”

“Long enough,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You drool, by the way.”

“I do not!” you protested, though you wiped your mouth just to be sure.

He chuckled, the sound reverberating through his horn and sending a pleasant vibration through you. “Whatever you say, little mouse.”

You sat up, hugging your knees as you looked out at the starlit landscape. The mountains of Elbaf stretched endlessly before you, their peaks shrouded in mist. It was beautiful, in a wild, untamed way, and for a moment, you felt small but not insignificant. Loki’s presence grounded you, his massive form a reminder that even the smallest things could find a place in a world of giants.

“...Why do you let me stick around?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out before you could stop it. “I’m just… me. I’m not a warrior or a genius. I slow you down.”

Loki was quiet for a long time, long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, he spoke, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “You’re… persistent. Annoyingly so. And you see things others don’t.”

You frowned, unsure what he meant. “Like what?”

He tilted his head, as if choosing his words carefully. “You see me...Not the prince, not the trickster. Just… me.”

The admission caught you off guard, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest. For all his arrogance and cruelty, Loki was letting you glimpse something real, something vulnerable. It was a gift, one you didn’t take lightly.

“I think you’re more than just a trickster,” you said quietly. “You’re… complicated. And maybe a little kind, when you want to be.”

He snorted, but there was no edge to it. “Careful, little mouse. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

You laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet night. For a moment, the world felt perfect—just you, Loki, and the stars. You leaned back against his horn, content to stay there a little longer, and he didn’t protest. His breathing slowed again, steady and calm, lulling you into a sense of peace.

The artifact could wait until morning. For now, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

[yusilai23wonderland]

I didn't expect that one small scene from this animation could reflect so many feelings I've never been able to put into words.

Especially the song created just for her -

I think it already says everything.

Me:

"All the hidden parts of me -

the ones no one ever understood,

the thousand shifting faces -

it's okay.

Truly.

If someone out there could cry because of me,

then your tears are like my own.

You carry a part of me.

So I hope you don't cry anymore.

I'm okay.

And if my existence meant something to you,

then I hope that one day,

you'll be able to smile -

genuinely, joyfully -

because of it."

All those hidden parts of the heart, all the ways we go misunderstood….

I guess I'm okay now, because I have a sister who's kept a part of me alive.

So, if one day you remember that I existed -

I hope it makes you smile.

Truly. From the heart.

This character - and her sister -

they're just a small part of an animated story, maybe not even supporting roles.

And yet, everything they went through felt so much like me.

It was like a single punch, breaking straight through the heart of the person I've fought so hard to become.

At a precise moment, wake me up —

so I can face everything I was supposed to clean up first, all over again.

After all,

I made a quiet vow,

back when the month was still young:

"FACE UP TO"

And now, I know.

I no longer wish to live beneath the soft knives of quiet suffering. I refuse to let that relentless slicing gnaw at me from the inside. I don’t want to be tormented by that kind of slow, painful slicing.

No more. No more.

Let me meet the pain with open eyes.

[hekspiration]

Ehhh. *waggles hand*

At the end of the day, all disorders are part of natural variation. Which is not to say that natural=good. But neither is something statistically abnormal inherently bad or pathological. "It's only a disorder because of capitalism" is an extremely reductive, oversimplified way of making a much more nuanced point: that some forms of natural variation are unreasonably disruptive because of how rigidly our society is structured, and in many cases, there is an over-emphasis on pathologising and trying to "cure" forms of natural variation at the individual level instead of making our lifestyle less rigid. To put it bluntly: when lifestyle demands are so rigid that only a very narrow category of person can truly and consistently thrive in it on every level, and anyone who fails to thrive in even one aspect of it is labelled as having one disorder or another, then that's a sign of a problem with the lifestyle, not the individual traits of the people trying to live it.

My ADHD is disruptive on a number of levels and has severe effects on my quality of life, but this is a problem that can and should be solved at the level of addressing individual and systemic bias against neurodivergent behaviours, not (just) medicating me into some semblance of a neurotypical.

When a disorder would be far less disruptive if the majority of the population had it, because then society would be adapted to function around the limitations of the disorder (take something like red/green colour blindness, for example), it's a good sign that there's a lot of room for accommodation and adaptation on a societal level that's only missing because people can't be bothered or they're always clinging to the most efficient (read: cheapest) solution, even if it's one that throws a substantial chunk of the population under the bus. (And when you consider every possible trait on which "disorder" levels of natural variation exist - everything from sleep to mobility to food allergies - that's a LOT of people being doomed to function at suboptimal levels ostensibly for the sake of the "normal majority"!)

I reckon a lot of problems with sleep "disorders" could be solved by better housing, better housing quality (seriously: soundproofing tech. we have it), and more use of staggered schedules on every level, with more people hired to keep up the overall necessary level of activity. Stop and imagine for a moment how much better life could be if every street and apartment block was built to last instead of using cheap materials that need repairs every few years, if walls were actually as soundproof as walls can be, if trees lined every street to provide shade and natural protection against street noise and improve the air quality, oh, and if every apartment came with built-in blackout screens, because the need for quality sleep is universal, and excessive nighttime illumination has been shown to be a persistent cause of poor sleep quality - in everyone, not just night owls!

My own sleep quality took a severe dip precisely three months ago when the landlords of this house had all the windows replaced, and apparently the new windows are cheaper and worse, because I'm awoken by sounds from the street that never bothered me before (like car doors slamming shut on the parking spots outside). Naturally, as a tenant who has to put up or seek housing elsewhere, I have no recourse of any kind as long as the landlords are still technically within the letter of the law, and even complaining might get me evicted.

And yes, sorry, that's a capitalism problem....

one of the most enlightening realizations ive had was finding out that non-24 hour circadian rhythm people were a pretty large group and most of us have oddly similar cycles of usually around 28hr internal "days" and this masquerades as "insomnia" but if allowed to sleep and wake naturally we will just advance forward through time an extra 2-4 hours a day at a relatively stable pace. we can't go to school or jobs or even run errands on normal schedules without massive pharmacological and behavioral intervention. most of the people who have been diagnosed or figured it out themselves will report horrific, life-ruining disruption in their professional lives and terrible health from accrued lack of sleep. this disorder is most common in vision-impaired people which seems to suggest it's related to light cues. anyway just thinking about this as extremely loud yard work woke me up at 8am for the second day in a row

[lemmesayimyourbiggestfan]

could you write anything about the salesman 🙏?

game on - the salesman

the salesman x reader

word count: 1,6k

warnings: slapping, kinda fluffy

requests are open!

The first time he approaches you, it’s in the way a cat might approach a bird it doesn’t quite plan on eating - slow, casual, with an air of amusement that immediately sets your teeth on edge. He wears the kind of suit that makes you feel underdressed even in your best clothes, and he carries a briefcase like he’s heading to a boardroom, not a grimy subway platform. There’s a flicker in his expression as he stops in front of you, standing just close enough to invade your personal space without actually crossing the line.

“You look like someone who could use a little luck,” he says, and while the words should sound sleazy - or at least suspicious - they aren’t. He says them lightly, warmly, with the faintest arch to one brow that suggests he already knows how you’ll answer.

“I look like someone who could use about five hours of sleep and a new life,” you reply, not bothering to look up from your phone for too long.

“Do you have a moment?”

You eye him, wary. “Depends. Are you selling religion or real estate?”

“Neither,” he replies, entirely unbothered by your tone. “Just a game.”

He opens the slim black briefcase he’s holding and turns it toward you. Inside sit two brightly colored paper tiles - one red, one blue - square, folded, thick. Beneath them lies a stack of cash, neatly bound and far too real to be fake. He takes out the tiles and lays them on a nearby bench with the same reverence one might use arranging chess pieces.

“You throw your tile to try and flip mine over. If you do, you win 100,000 won.”

You look from the tiles to his calm, unreadable face. “And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t have the money to pay me back,” he says pleasantly, “you get slapped.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He nods once. “Very.”

You should walk away. You should tell him to go screw himself, report him, ignore him, something. But your job sucks, your apartment leaks, your life feels like a long hallway with no doors, and there’s something deeply, darkly tempting about the way he watches you - like he’s offering more than just a game.

And maybe you’ve had a long enough week to welcome a little chaos.

So you say, “Fine. Blue.”

He smiles. “A bold choice.”

He places the red tile down first and steps back. You crouch, take aim, and throw.

It hits with a satisfying crack, but his tile barely shifts.

He nods at you. “Looks like I win this round.”

You stare at him. “You’re not seriously going to—?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

And before you can move, his hand comes up fast and practiced and lands with a slap so precise, so clean, that you’re more stunned than pained. You stagger half a step back, cheek stinging, blinking at him.

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “You okay?”

You wheeze. “What the hell?”

He tilts his head. “Still breathing?”

“Barely.” You press a hand to your face. “Christ, do you practice that?”

“Only on weekends.” He gestures to the tiles. “Again?”

You lick your teeth. Nod.

The next round, you win.

He counts out the cash and hands it to you without hesitation.

You tuck the crisp bills into your pocket, the subtle weight of the money feeling almost surreal against your fingertips. The sting on your cheek has dulled to a faint warmth, but the adrenaline humming through your veins refuses to settle. He watches you with that same sharp, unreadable gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“Not bad,” he says, folding his tiles slowly, fingers deliberately precise, like he’s performing some private ritual. “You’ve got a decent arm. Could be dangerous.”

You glance up, eyebrow raised. “Dangerous? What, to you?”

He lets out a breath that’s almost a chuckle but not quite. “Maybe. Or just to anyone who’s not careful.”

You smirk. “So, you’re warning me. That I should watch my back.”

“More like your face,” he replies, voice low, eyes flicking to yours for just a second longer than necessary. You start to reply, but notice his fingers drifting toward his pocket, a business card half-emerging - then stopping, like he thinks better of it.

Your brows furrow but he only gives you another one of his spotless smiles and says: “See you around,” as he walks away, leaving you standing in the middle of the platform.

***

Weeks slide by, each meeting at the station folding into the next like the careful creases of his folded ddakji tiles. The game remains unchanged on the surface: you pick your tile, throw, win or lose, and occasionally, when the odds aren’t in your favor, you receive the sharp but measured slap - the same one that had startled you the first time, now a strange and familiar punctuation to your encounters.

But beneath the predictable rhythm, something imperceptible begins to stir.

You notice it first in the way he lingers a fraction longer after a slap, his hand dropping slowly, fingers flexing as if recalling the sting left on your skin rather than the impact he delivered. His eyes, usually so steady and unreadable, flicker just a moment toward your face, as if searching for traces of hurt that you hide behind a teasing grin.

Once, as you brush away a stray lock of hair from your cheek, his gaze tightens briefly, subtle enough to miss unless you’re looking for it - and perhaps, even then, it feels more like a flicker of something unnamed than guilt outright.

You make a joke about it one day, the banter light but edged with truth.

“Hey,” you say, catching him as he folds his tiles with that familiar precision, “you look like you’re nursing a conscience. Slapping people can’t be easy.”

He chuckles, smooth and low, and meets your eyes with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach them. “I’m a professional. It’s part of the job description.”

“Right,” you say, amusement sparkling in your tone. “Because everyone dreams of a career that involves slapping strangers.”

He shrugs, but there’s a softness now in the way his shoulders relax, a quiet vulnerability you hadn’t seen before. “Some jobs come with unexpected responsibilities.”

The teasing persists between you, effortless and warm, the kind of repartee that dances on the edges of something more intimate. His barbs are sharper, your comebacks quicker, and beneath the surface, the line between game and real connection blurs.

One damp evening, as the sky threatens rain and the station hums with its usual noise, he surprises you. Instead of setting out the ddakji tiles or opening the briefcase, he folds his hands on his lap and looks at you with something close to hesitation.

“You ever drink coffee?” he asks, voice casual but weighted.

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

He shrugs, but his gaze holds steady. “There’s a place nearby. Quiet. Maybe we could… go there.”

You blink again, caught off guard by the sudden shift. The game, the slaps, the teasing - all of it had felt safe in its own reckless way, but this? This was a different kind of risk. Your mouth opens slightly, then closes, and you hesitate a moment longer, then let that corner of your mouth tilt up, a spark of mischief returning. “Sounds like a dangerous idea.”

He leans back, that easy smile reappearing - one that feels more genuine, less guarded. “Dangerous suits you.”

You both laugh, the sound folding between you like a promise. As the first drops of rain begin to fall outside the station, you realize you’re not quite sure if you’re stepping into a coffee shop or something far more unpredictable. But somehow, for once, that feels exactly right.

You stand, pulling your jacket tighter around you, and he follows suit, briefcase tucked neatly under one arm. Walking side by side into the damp evening, the city noise fades into the background, leaving just the quiet buzz of a new game - one neither of you quite knows how to play yet.

***

The coffee shop is small, tucked into a quiet corner of the city where the hum of traffic softens to a distant murmur. Inside, the scent of roasted beans and warm pastries wraps around you like a familiar coat, the kind you didn’t know you were missing until you felt it. The low chatter of a handful of patrons and the clink of cups create a cozy backdrop that feels a world away from the stark brightness of the subway platform.

He takes a seat across from you, folding his hands on the table with a practiced calm that belies the faint tension you detect beneath the surface. His eyes catch yours over the rim of his cup, the usual mask slipping just enough to reveal something quieter, more vulnerable.

“So,” he says, voice easy but with a weight you can’t quite place, “how does it feel… to play for something other than money or a slap?”

You consider, tracing the rim of your mug with a finger. “Honestly? A little terrifying. But also… kind of refreshing.”

He nods slowly, as if that answers a question only he had been asking himself. “I thought you might say that.”

The conversation drifts easily after that, punctuated by small smiles and the occasional sharp tease. There’s an unspoken acknowledgment between you now - that this is no longer just a game of tiles and luck, but something altogether more complicated, more real.

As the rain taps softly against the window, you catch his gaze lingering on your face, the hint of guilt from before replaced by something warmer, more deliberate. When your hand brushes against the table, his fingers inch closer, barely touching and you see the silent promise in his eyes.

Game on.

[karaswnee]

König’s headcanons

[ NSFW Alphabet ]

[ König catching feelings for you ]

Personality & Psychology

1. He’s not shy—he’s hyper-aware

People mistake König’s silence for shyness, but it’s not insecurity—it’s control.

He’s always calculating: the exits, the threats, the tension in someone’s voice.

He speaks softly because he’s trained to kill loudly.

2. He has severe social anxiety, not cowardice

In a firefight? Calm, precise, brutal.

In a hallway with strangers? Palms sweating, shoulders tense, avoiding eye contact.

It’s not that he fears people—it’s that people have never felt safe to him.

3. He wears the mask for protection—emotional, not physical

Without the hood, he feels exposed.

It’s more than anonymity—it’s insulation from judgment and connection.

From being seen too clearly.

The mask lets him be a weapon, not a person.

Combat & Skillset

4. He prefers hand-to-hand combat over firearms

When he gets close, it’s over.

He’s trained to move fast despite his size—elbows, knees, chokeholds.

There’s something cathartic about being up-close.

Guns make it too impersonal.

5. He doesn’t enjoy violence—but he’s frighteningly good at it

He’s not sadistic.

He doesn’t gloat.

He kills fast, clean, efficient.

But when provoked or cornered?

That control slips, and something feral breaks loose—terrifying even to his allies.

6. He always apologizes after a mission

Not to enemies, but to his squad.

“Sorry if I scared you.” “Sorry about the mess.”

He doesn’t want to be a monster, even if he plays one on the battlefield.

Habits & Soft Details

7. He listens to classical music after missions

Heavy metal during prep, but after the carnage?

It’s Debussy, Schubert, or rain sounds.

He needs something gentle to remind himself he’s still human.

8. He reads historical nonfiction and military theory—but secretly loves fantasy novels

He can quote Clausewitz, but he hides dog-eared Witcher paperbacks under his cot.

He relates to broken knights and vengeful swordsmen more than real heroes.

9. He’s a closet romantic

He’d never say it, but König believes in soulmates.

In quiet love.

He fantasizes about gentle touches, making breakfast for someone, being held like he won’t break.

Relationships & Trust

10. He doesn’t trust easily—but he’s devastatingly loyal once he does

If you earn König’s trust, he’s yours.

Not blindly obedient—but deeply devoted.

Protective to a terrifying degree.

The kind of man who would burn down an entire outpost if someone hurt you.

11. He’s awkward with affection—but craves it deeply

He flinches at hugs—at first.

But over time? He leans into them.

Clutches a little too long.

Memorizes the weight of a head on his chest.

He never takes comfort for granted.

12. He’s afraid of intimacy for one specific reason

He doesn’t believe he can be gentle.

Not with his hands, not with his words.

He fears breaking something—or someone—just by existing too close.

That fear keeps him lonely.

Culture & Past

13. He grew up quiet in Austria—bullied for his size, not his strength

As a kid, he was too tall, too quiet, too weird.

That’s where the mask came from.

He learned to make himself small emotionally because he could never do it physically.

14. He speaks German when he’s hurt, angry, or dreaming

English is for missions.

German slips out when his brain’s unguarded—gritted curses, whispered prayers, or soft apologies.

15. He still visits his mother’s grave every year

Always alone.

Always in civilian clothes.

He leaves fresh-cut flowers and whispers what he can’t say out loud.

She’s the only person he ever told “I love you” without hesitation.

Bonus!!

16. In a non-military AU, he’s a mechanic or blacksmith

He likes the rhythm of metal, the structure of gears, the solitude of fire.

Quiet life, a garage in the woods, maybe a cat who lives in his workshop.

No masks—but still haunted eyes.

[birdy-bat-writes]

Secret Service Agent!John Walker x President's Daughter!Reader Headcanons/Drabbles

Summary: AU Headcanons where you're the First Daughter of the US and Agent John Walker fell into your life.

CW: fem!Reader, age gap(reader is 27-28 and walker in 33-34), smut, mentions of America? that counts a content warning actually

A/N: 18+ only, minors DNI. It's that time of year again when one of the many characters in the vast sea of fictional universes makes me feral enough that I write something, so, without further ado, hottie secret service agent John Walker :D Also, I made 2 moodboards because I couldn’t pick which one was better🫡😁 not proofread, so pls lmk if I left any errors in there, okay love you all!💕

Comments and reblogs are always greatly appreciated!! And feel free to share your thoughts or add on 😙💕💕

----

Agent John Walker is one of the President's most trusted security detail members.

He's sharp, precise, and he always has a plan, and everyone knows to follow it. His arrogance? Unavoidable, considering he’s constantly regarded as the best. You've heard of his stellar record in the Army, and after several promotions and a switch to the Secret Service, he was personally asked to join the President's personal security detail. You suppose that kind of praise would get to anyone's head.

You, on the other hand, are the First Daughter of the United States. Organized, composed, prim and proper like the Presdient's daughter should be. But you’re not the type to coast on privilege.

You're studying to become a lawyer, and you’ve worked for every opportunity you've ever had. Maybe that’s what caught John’s attention when he first met you.

He was assigned to your protection detail when you left for law school, a job he took very seriously.

It was not a smooth transition either; before the president assigned you to him, every client was easy and agreeable. You, however, didn't want a bodyguard, and didn't like being told what to do, nor did you like being forced to change your routines. You had a fire in you that rivaled even John's stubbornness. You butted heads and messed with each other until you finally had to make compromises for each other to maintain some ounce of professionalism.

Yet somehow, over the course of a year, “professionalism” turned into waking up entangled in your sheets and making breakfast together in the two-bedroom apartment your father insisted on renting for you two. John, of course, officially stays in the second room, with 2 guards stationed outside the main entrance.

He hasn't lost his teasing streak since you two got together either.

"If they catch us, I’ll just tell them you’re the one who couldn’t keep your hands off me."

It’s a secret, because it has to be. No one but the two of you knows. It's complicated but its worth it.

White House interns flirt with him SHAMELESSLY (can you blame them?) but you can’t exactly claim him as “taken.” Meanwhile, tabloids speculate about your dating life, pairing you with senators, ambassadors, or whoever else you’re seen with. You never correct them, even when it stings. And john hates seeing it, but when the doors close behind you two and you get to be together, it doesn't matter.

Its wholesome and sweet, bit also intense and risky.

John leaves notes in your files and classwork for you to read when you're in public. Sweet things like, "You look beautiful today."

He's also just generally flirty when no one's looking:

"Every time I see you in a room full of people, I’m reminded why you’re the only one who matters."

"If someone asks why I’m smiling, I’ll just say I’m enjoying the job. They don’t need to know which part."

He knows you like he knows his own mind. Every subtle change in your demeanor is like a flashing sign to him. When you have particularly harrowing arguments with your father, there's always an iced tea or cold drink at your desk when you come back, and hes standing silently, keeping his expression as neutral as he can when all he wants to do is hold you and tell you things will be okay.

He's also a dork. He still makes mix-tapes on CD's, and he made one for you! You suppose its better this way anyway; there's no digital footprint from his music streaming accounts to yours so you can freely play the cheesy, late-90's rock ballads he picked for you and think of him.

John’s protective, which most people chalk up to his role as your bodyguard. No one bats an eye when his hand lingers at the small of your back or when he steps in to dance with you at events under the guise of “assessing a threat.” But you know it’s more than duty, it’s personal.

And he’s the jealous type, too. He doesn’t let it show much, but you’ve learned to recognize the way his jaw tightens when someone stands just a little too close to you.

NAMELY CONGRESSMAN BARNES!!! He hates that guy.

For example, the gala where you danced with Congressman Barnes. The man was smooth, his charm teetering on the edge of inappropriate, and his hold on you just a touch too familiar. John stayed composed, but you felt his stare across the room, burning into your skin like a silent warning. When you finally stepped away, his hand was the first to meet yours, escorting you to the next dance with a quiet, “I needed to make sure everything was in order.”

Smut time? Smut time!

John has taken you out of events early and not even taken you to the car right away. After "saving" you from Congressman Barnes, you were whisked away into one of the Whitehouse's many rooms and pushed up against the wall.

He's strong, muscular, and much taller than you, even in your heels. You try to keep quiet for your sake and the sake of the guards you know are patrolling the hallways, but it's easier said than done when John's fingers are slipping under your gown and his lips are on your neck.

He knows you can't leave that room with a hair out of place so his hands are gripping your thighs, or covering your mouth.

"You’re gonna have to be quiet, princess. Unless you want the whole world to know who’s making you feel this good."

One hand holds you against the wall by your waist while the other works its way beneath the thin fabric of your panties.

He's slow and deliberate at first, taking in every subtle movement from your body, coaxing out every breathy whine and gasp. You see the wicked smirk playing on his lips before capturing yours in a searing kiss. It hot, its passionate.

Then rough, and relentless. You're gripping onto his shoulders like a lifeline. You're close and he knows it. He keeps his rhythm, deep and hard, and then he feels you come undone on his fingers.

He’s holding you flush against his body while you come down from your high, while you vision settles and the stars you were seeing a second ago fade. The first thing you see is the devilish grin on his face, he’s clearly proud of himself and you can’t help but blush.

"You’re mine, you know that? No one else gets to see you like this."

And when you get home, away from the prying and ears, he has you moaning, eyes shut tight while he fucks you senseless. "All those senators and congressmen eyeing you tonight… I hope they realize you’ll only ever scream my name."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep my hands off you when we’re in public? Let me make up for it."

Oh and quickies in the important buildings? Absolutely. He knows where all the cameras and blind spots are. He has security clearance for most areas, and most areas have a broom closet where you've hidden away when he's looking a little too good.

He likes this one black dress you wear when you want to get a rise of him. Maybe he wasn't paying enough attention to you yesterday, or maybe some secretary got a little too flirty with him, or maybe you were just bored. You paired it with a pair of simple heels and his coat and that did him in.

He locked the door to an office and no one saw either of you for an hour. You called it a lunch break.

He has such thing for you on top too. You swear you've never seen him as hard as he was when you straddled him in the backseat of a presidential limousine and made use of its tinted windows.

"Who would have thought..the ever-so-commanding Agent Walker who's tough, and intimidating, who's always barking orders, he's whimpering under my touch."

More than anything else, you get each other. He makes you feel seen, and you let him lower his guard.

It’s complicated. Messy, even. But at the end of the day, when it’s just the two of you, sharing quiet moments in secret, it’s worth every risk.

———

Guys, I lost my taglist, I’m so sorry🫠🥲 but please message me or comment to let me know if you want to be added to it! I’m going to go through some old fics and comments to see if I can find some of the users that asked to be on the permanent tag list.

[thevanillerose]

PROGNOSIS | YANDERE!ZAYNE x READER | LOVE AND DEEPSPACE

~ WRITING COMMISSIONS ~ ~ PATREON ~ ~ KO-FI ~ ~ NOVELS ~ Join my Patreon to get early access to my works, exclusive stories and free commissions!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators. Content Warning: YANDERE | Captivity | Drugging A/N: Zayne...if Caleb didn't exist I promise you would be my number one.

It had been thirteen days since you woke up in Zayne’s home.

Not the hospital. Not your own.

His.

You knew because the furniture was pristine. The couch too long for a man who never had guests save for you. Marble floors, clinically clean. You remembered seeing photos once in a news article—about the youngest cardiac surgeon in Linkon City. They’d mentioned his awards, but everyone had clicked to see the home. 

The private sanctuary of a man who never let anyone close. So many were so curious. What was the famous Dr. Zayne really like? Was he as cold as he outwardly appeared?

People like you were lucky enough to see him for who he really was. At least, you thought…

You hadn’t left the property since regaining consciousness.

At first, that hadn’t seemed strange. You were recovering, he’d said. You’d collapsed after a mission, he said. Your Evol had gone haywire, he said. 

He’d stepped in. Saved you. Monitored you personally since.

“You’re lucky I was there,” he’d murmured the morning after you woke, brushing a digital thermometer across your temple. “Anyone else might’ve missed the signs.”

He spoke with such quiet confidence—calm, reassuring, like the thick blanket he kept laying across your lap. And you trusted his words.

“This is the best place for your recovery,” he told you. “Controlled light. Air filtration. Quiet. And I’m always here, if you need anything.”

He made you tea that morning. Healthy and herbal, and always perfectly warm.

Today was the same.

He entered the living room at precisely 8:45 a.m., carrying a matte-white tray.

Two porcelain cups. A matching plate. Neatly sliced Fuji apples, seedless grapes, and a single candied plum cut in half—because he knew you could never eat the whole thing at once.

Zayne’s footsteps barely made a sound on the marble as he approached, his figure tall and composed in dark slacks and a grey vest, shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show a line of surgical scarring across his forearms. His glasses gleamed faintly under the morning light filtering through the towering windows behind him.

He placed the tray down on the side table beside your end of the sofa.

“Eat slowly,” he said, his voice mild but firm. “And drink everything.”

You nodded and murmured a thank you out of habit. You didn’t remember saying yes to staying here. But you must have.

Right?

At first, you’d thought it was kind of him—generous, even. You were too weak to argue. The apartment was beautiful. Aesthetic in the way hospitals tried to mimic but never managed: seamless, quiet, calm.

He had converted the guest bedroom for your recovery. Sheets in dove grey. The wardrobe full of soft clothes that fit you a little too well. A sealed medical cart built into the closet. It reminded you of Akso’s palliative wing.

Everything here was soft. Gentle. 

Inescapable.

You stared down now at the cup of tea he’d set beside you. It smelled like chamomile and something subtly metallic.

Lately, everything made you dizzy.

Not sick—just slow. Sluggish. Your head fogged over after two sips, and your muscles stopped responding the way they should. It had started on day six. Maybe seven. You couldn’t remember clearly anymore.

The fruit was already cut. The tea already stirred.

Everything here came…ready. Pre-packaged. Tailor-made for you.

“Zayne,” you said softly, cradling your arm. “It still hurts.”

He didn’t look away from the book he was reviewing across the room. “Which arm?”

You gestured vaguely, fingers brushing the inside of your left bicep. “Here. It’s been days.”

That was a lie. It had been aching since day one.

He looked up finally, gaze cool behind his glasses.

“You suffered a laceration during the mission,” he said, as if reading from your file. “It required a localized procedure. Internal, minor. No long-term risk.”

“...I don’t remember being hurt there.”

“You don’t remember much,” he reminded you. “Which is why you need rest.”

The tea sat untouched, but you forced a small bite of apple into your mouth. His eyes tracked the movement, but he didn’t comment further.

…

Later, when he left the room to take a call—quiet and professional, always about some research or board approval—you slipped into the guest bathroom and locked the door.

The mirror was fogless, and the counter empty. Again, you wondered if it was on purpose. How much these little details reminded you of a hospital ward. 

You rolled up the sleeve of your shirt so you could finally, properly examine it. There, on the inside of your arm, just where the ache radiated from: a small, nearly invisible scar.

No stitches. No bruising.

But when you pressed your fingers to it, something buzzed.

A vibration, faint. Mechanical. Alive.

Your stomach dropped.

…

That night, you poured your tea into the bathroom sink. Zayne didn’t comment at dinner, but you knew he knew.

When you laid down in bed hours later—still pretending to be obedient, still pretending you hadn’t noticed the red LED blinking faintly behind the wardrobe mirror—you heard his footsteps. As deliberate as everything else about him. 

The door opened, and he entered your room like it was his own. Despite your alarm, you kept your eyes closed, pretending to be dozing. A farce you hoped he’d buy.

There was the whisper of cloth being pulled away from your skin, and the sound of a handheld medical scanner beeping as it powered up.

Then his voice, low and quiet, not intended to wake you:

“Heart rate elevated…stress response detected…”

Pause.

“You didn’t drink your tea.”

Another pause.

“Still resisting.”

You felt a gloved hand brush down your forearm—stopping right where the ache was. Where the scar pulsed under your skin.

Then he sighed, and as he did, you realized just how close he must have been leaning over you. The exhale dusted your cheek, and you felt a nervous little chill as it occurred to you…

If Zayne wanted to…

If he really wanted to…

If he was that kind of man—

“You were doing so well.”

He stayed there a moment longer. Maybe watching. Maybe waiting for you to move. 

But you didn’t. You acted like you’d never acted in your life before, trying to stay as convincingly serene as possible.

Whether he believed it or not, you didn’t know. But eventually, the door hissed shut behind him, and he was gone.

Finally, your eyes opened, and trembling, you sat up against the perfectly plush pillows. In the glass of the wardrobe—barely visible in the dark—you saw a faint red light blink once.

Then again.

Steady.

Controlling. Like a heartbeat.

Like my writing? I can write for you! Check out my WRITING COMMISSIONS!

[namguys]

Hello! I just started reading your Nam-Gyu fics, and I love them! I was just wonder, would you be able to write a fluff fic where Nam-Gyu and the reader were dating before the games, where he used to be a better person, but they broke up because he started using drugs.

Then, in the games they didn’t really speak to each other much, until the hide and seek game. Maybe Nam-Gyu finds the reader having a breakdown and she thinks that he means to kill her. Maybe he starts to remember their time together before the drugs, and comforts her or something? Feel free to change anything, and no pressure to write it. Thank you :)

I’m sorry, i won’t kill you.

i love that idea!! I tried to keep it to fit your description as close as possible :D

———————————————————————

synopsis: Breaking up with Nam-Gyu before the games and then reuniting in the games, you avoid him like the pest until Hide and Seek/Hunter vs. Prey.

ft. f!reader x ex!nam-gyu

Trigger Warnings: Violence (NOT GRAPHIC), Drug use, Substance abuse, Toxic relationships, arguing, mention of murder (NOT GRAPHIC)

—————————————————————

You and Nam-Gyu were like a dream-couple. Never fought, loved each-other to the moon and back. literally. As you laid in bed, waiting for him to finish showering, you rolled over to his side of your shared bed. Not long after, he emerges from the steaming hot bathroom, a towel wrapped around his body. His eyes immediately turn to you, grinning ever-so-softly. "Just a second, pretty girl. I’ll change and then i’ll be there, okay?" His voice, ever so gentle, was like a melody to your ears. He sounded love-struck whenever you talked, and you could swear you saw little hearts in his eyes whenever you looked at him. You nod, scooted over and waited. Not long after he had changed, he laid down next to you, invitingly opening his arms. "C’mere, love." He muttered, waiting. Without hesitation, you scooted closer, right into his arms and feeling them wrap around you. "I missed you, y’know? Next time we should shower together." He pouted, burying his face in your hair. He loved the scent of your shampoo, after all. You nod, kissing his chin gently. "Yeah, we can do that next time. I missed you too, Sweetheart."

Well — That was *before* what had happened. Before he started taking drugs, to be precise.

*"All you care about are those fucking drugs! Do you even love me anymore, Nam-Gyu!?" You yelled at him, tears welled up in your eyes as you looked up at the man you once fell in love with, long before his drug problem started. Nam-Gyu’s cold gaze hurt as he stared down at you, pupils dilated and eyes bloodshot. Of course, he was high. Again. "Honestly?" he slurred, sounding annoyed. "No. I don’t. You piss me off, always clinging to me like some drugs are gonna kill me." He spat out those cold words like you suddenly meant nothing to him anymore. That’s what broke you. You snapped, the tears that you were so desperately trying to hold back spilling out of your eyes like a waterfall. "Then go! I don’t wanna see you anymore, we’re over!" You scream, desperate. You secretly hoped that he wouldn’t leave, but that’s exactly what he did. In one swift motion, he turned around, grabbed his jacket, his keys off of the table and left, slamming the door shut behind him. That was the last time you saw him.*

But now? now your situation was even worse. Your life couldn’t get any better, at least you thought so. You just joined a game where you could win a lot of money — just to find out it’s a life and death game, and your ex boyfriend is there, too. It made you feel sick to your stomach, really. You felt like throwing up when you remembered your last interaction before this.

You strongly decided against interacting with him. You didn’t need him, he was gonna betray you, anyway, you think.

Fast forward a few games, you were mentally done. This was all so fucked up. "'Hunter vs. Prey' what kind of shit is that?!" You thought to yourself, trying to open a door after running away from one of the red vests. You heard footsteps, that’s when you realized; Fuck. That’s the wrong Keyhole. You quickly look around, trying to find a way to escape before running off down a random hallway. You close your eyes, not wanting to look ahead or behind you — Until you collide with someone. A desperate and frustrated "Fuck!" followed by a groan was heard from the other person you bumped into. You open your eyes to look up at them, your suspicions correct — it was Nam-Gyu. He was a red vest. When you notice his vest, you scramble to your feet, slowly backing up. "Leave me alone, you sick, drug-addicted bastard!" You blurt out, scared. Was he gonna kill you? You feel yourself collide with a wall behind you. Just as you were about to take a run for it, a soft "Wait." was heard from him, as if he was predicting your moves. He stepped closer, putting a surprisingly comforting hand on your shoulder. "Darling, i-…I’m sorry, okay? I know, i fucked up, but…Fuck- i miss you, okay?!" Nam-Gyu’s voice sounded pleading, desperate, almost. He was never good with expressing how he felt, especially not while on drugs. He enveloped you in a warm, tight hug, burying his face in your hair, just like he used to. "I’m sorry, i won’t kill you, i promise."

———————————————————————

I just woke up and it’s already so hot here, this summer is gonna kill me 💔 anyway here’s your Fluff mixed with a little bit of Angst, i really hope you enjoyed it!!

[wibben]

IN VINO VERITAS — NANAMI KENTO

↳ Summary: When a mission shared between you and Nanami goes (un)expectedly awry, you're forced to help him overcome a strange illness... and confront feelings you've both kept buried.

↳ CW: smut, vaginal sex, creampie, sex pollen, mutual pining, coworkers to lovers, botany as body horror, semi-public sex, phone sex, improper handling of a cursed object

↳ WC: 17.2k

↳ AN: Well... this has been a dusty WIP for the last eon or so! Thank you again @nanamiweek, for giving me the little nudge I needed to crack at it and finally get it done. And... there will be more of these. Reader, you silly thing...

“Today’s forecast: blue skies, light spring breezes, and temperatures hovering in that sweet spot between sixty-eight and seventy-two—“

You turned the volume down on the news station. 

You were in too good a mood to be narrated at, and you didn’t need some cheery man in a pastel tie to tell you it was a beautiful day. 

You flung open your curtains like stage drapes, chest ballooning with your first real breath of the day and a grin to rival the sun.

It was your day off. Your first in what felt like a decade. You were alive, everything in your apartment was exactly where it belonged, and — miraculously, you scrambled to knock on your wood window-trim — there wasn’t a single cursed thing on the horizon. No wriggling shadows. No haunted hostels. Not even the devastatingly passive-aggressive ping from Yaga calling you in because “you’re the only one available… unfortunately.” 

For the first time in weeks, the sun was shining, your joints weren’t screaming, and your only obligation was to enjoy yourself. 

You floated from room to room in your ugliest slippers and an aggressively soft hoodie, misting every leafy child like a benevolent goddess with a spray bottle. The snake plant by the window got three full compliments. The ficus got a pat. The ivy got a warning — nothing personal, it was just time to reestablish dominance before it swallowed the bookshelf whole.

Outside, the breeze was tender, like the world had finally decided to be kind again. Inside, you were weighing the merits of ordering takeout versus venturing into civilization to seize the day.

Maybe Ginza. You could treat yourself to something unnecessarily soft, floral, and overpriced. You needed new shoes anyways, and you had a very specific dorayaki craving that the plasticky pre-packed itch-scratchers from the conbini just couldn’t satisfy anymore. 

You spun toward the bookshelf. The only thing missing from your perfect day was a new read — something indulgent and a little unhinged, with a cover so tacky you’d be embarrassed to crack it open in public. Maybe you’d even remember to pick up a new umbrella while you were out, since yours had apparently grown legs and buzzed off after the last rain— 

Or maybe it was just your phone buzzing. 

One long, vibrating circle across your coffee table. Then another. 

You watched it, and rather than dread you felt a delightful nothingness. Nothing could bother you or dampen your spirits today, because you were going to Ginza and you would get your dorayaki. 

“Heeellooo!” you sing-songed, wedging your phone between your shoulder and cheek as you carefully resumed tending your ivy. 

“Good morning.” 

You nearly dropped your watering can. 

You did have to scramble to keep your phone from tumbling into your pothos. 

“Nanami!” you chirped way too quickly. “To what do I owe the great honor of your call?” 

You couldn’t see his face of course, but you didn’t need to. You had the whole thing memorized. The precise way he pressed his thumb into the corner of his brow when he was tired. The slight downward curve of his mouth when something was about to annoy him — usually Gojo. Occasionally you. The smile he gave you once in Kyoto when you brought him the last sandwich from the market and pretended you weren’t watching him eat it on the train ride back. 

The point was: he’d called you. On your day off. And now your face hurt with the untempered brilliance of your cheek-paining smile. 

Maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten the day off too. Maybe he was calling because he was in Ginza already and thought of you, and maybe he was going to suggest lunch, and you’d say yes, and that wouldn’t technically be a date, but it also wouldn’t not be a date, and you’d have to find your cute pumps instead of your usual ratty work boots and— 

“Not much of an honor,” he crackle-popped the receiver with the drag of his sigh, “In fact, I apologize in advance.” 

Your watering can tipped slightly to the left, and a chilly autumnal breeze ruffled through your ribcage. 

You continued your rounds, but you were no longer skipping. A shadow loomed over the horizon, you tasted the blood in the water, and you felt the air pressure shift and pop your ears. The world had just tilted one fraction off center. 

You didn’t speak right away. If you didn’t ask, maybe he wouldn’t tell. You were deluding yourself, lingering in that limbo for as long as your slowly jangling and tangling nerves could take it. 

 As always, Nanami waited for you; and you, despite the intuitive wariness that urged you to bury the phone in a pot of soil, were tragically brave. 

“Alright… I’ll bite,” you said. “What’re you apologizing for? Did you use one of my espresso cups in the staff room again? Because I already told you I don’t mind, they’re there to share—“ 

“No.” There was a rattle on Nanami’s end, clinking iron buckles and pulled vinyl — a seatbelt. “Though I did have one this morning, thank you. The hazelnut was good.” 

Your stomach flipped. You beamed. Your plants turned toward an unsolicited sunny grin they did not earn. “Right?! I knew you’d like it.” 

“… I need you today,” he said abruptly. 

For the second time you almost dropped your phone. 

Water kept pouring from your bottle, soaking the same poor plant beyond reason before you remembered what your hands were doing. 

“I’m sorry?” You squeaked and tried not to breathe too heavily into your phone. How long have you longed to hear him say that? 

“My original work partner today is… unavailable,” he said calmly. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I’ve been left with little choice on the matter.” 

Oh. 

You narrowed your eyes at your reflection in the glass. 

To his credit, he did sound genuinely apologetic. You knew how fiercely territorial he was of his own time off — he treated it like scripture. Six o’clock sharp and he wouldn’t be caught dead on a weekend, and you respected that about him. Mostly because you wanted the same, and partially because the idea of him, hair down, reading on a balcony somewhere with a glass of scotch and a focused frown was unfairly attractive. 

You knew he wouldn’t impose if the circumstances left him any other option. 

Suddenly, the sky didn’t look quite so blue, and the pep in your step felt somehow embarrassing even in the solitude of your home. To save your own face, you suavely cocked your hip against the nearby bookshelf and you planted your alibi. 

“Oh, Nanami,” you said mournfully, already layering on the rasp, “I’d love to help, I would, but — ACK—“ you let loose the world's most theatrical cough, thrown in with a nasally sniff for good measure. “I’ve got this terrible cold. Just awful. I’d be a liability… and I’d hate for you to catch what I’ve got.” 

You coughed again, calmly striding to your thirsty monstera. “Been coughing up a lung all night.” 

Nanami was silent. 

Then: “Tsk.” 

You could picture the look of pity in the sound of him kissing his teeth, anticipated the mini lecture about keeping warm and drinking plenty of fluids, and maybe he would deliver you some tea after he wrapped up with work. You hadn’t quite given up hope on there being an ulterior motive for this call. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

You nodded pitifully with nobody around to see it. “I know…”

“… How many plants do you have?” he asked abruptly.

“Twenty three,” you answered on instinct. Then you blinked. “Wait. Why?” 

The stretch of silence over the phone had you checking to see if he’d hung up. 

The call timer kept ticking… he hadn’t hung up, and that worried you, because somehow within that silence, you could feel the slow indulgent tilt of his lip in that smile he hardly ever gave away, and never for free. 

“We’ve been parked outside and I can see you through your window.”

You froze. 

A single bird chirped outside. You think your ivy might’ve laughed the last laugh. 

You turned your head slowly, dread creeping up your spine as you stared past your breezy blinds. And sure enough — on the curb just off the street, gleaming black in the sunlight like a hearse sent to collect the corpse of your contentment, was a very familiar Tokyo Jujutsu High SUV. 

You stared at it. You knew Nanami inside stared back. 

You whispered, “Oh.” 

“Mhm,” came the reply, with the exact cadence of someone very pleased with himself. “We watched you dance around your living room for a while. Good rhythm.” 

You whimpered, shrank, and briefly considered hurling yourself through the floorboards and slipping like mortified goo into the heating grate at your feet. 

“I brought coffee,” he bribed, magnanimous and evil. 

“… From the staff room?” You asked, suspicious. 

“Of course not. I bought it. Detoured specifically.” 

Curse him and his foresight and kind gestures, you grieved, he wields them like a fucking weapon. 

“Two pumps of mocha—“ Nanami said. 

“—one cream,” you continued. 

“—and a sugar packet on the side, yes. I remember,” Nanami finished for you. The heat in your cheeks could’ve powered Tokyo. You loathed the oven coil warmth that sweltered beneath your skin at how his memory pacified you.

You squinted at your monstera like it might give you strength. It did not oblige. 

You yanked your curtains closed and stomped off toward your bedroom to the sound of Nanami’s indulgent chuckle humming through the receiver, a raging storm tearing through the path that had once been paved by spring daisies and lackadaisical joy. You pouted into your work shirt in thirty seconds. The socks were a war crime. You nearly cried as you hopped on one leg into your pants. 

You were out the door in five minutes. 

You took the coffee, and you didn’t say thank you. But you did sip it, and you did let it be known — via a very specific sigh — that it was excellent and correct. 

Nanami said nothing, but the amused sparkle in his eye was enough for you to curl up and sulk anyway. 

Misfortune comes in threes. 

You’d counted two already before noon, and if that old superstition held any weight at all — and in this line of work, everything did — then number three was sitting beside you in the back of a government issued sedan, silent as sin and radiating quiet doom like Tom Ford cologne. 

Thunder cracked above the car like bone, startling the world into stuttering stillness. It rumbled through your sternum, down your spine, and rattled the fillings in your molars. Lightning came in hot pursuit, blinding and brilliant, superimposing Nanami’s serene profile into your retinas. 

So much for spring breezes. 

The weatherman was a liar. The skies opened like something divine had been betrayed, and now rain poured in torrents, loud enough to deafen even the airiest thought in your head about how you really wished you had that umbrella right about now. It lashed the windshield with such force the wipers might as well have been twigs for all they could keep up.

Ijichi drove like he’d already made peace with death, his knuckles blanched white on the steering wheel as the car sloshed its way down what had once been a road but now resembled a minor tributary. 

You sat back and let the car pitch you with each wave of water, lips pursed, foam coffee cup cooling in your hands and rapidly losing the power to soothe. You wanted to blame Nanami. Really, really wanted to. He made such a good scapegoat with his suit and his moral compass and the way he’d shown up at your apartment unannounced with machinations to ruin a perfectly promising and well-earned day off. 

But he just had to bring you coffee and remember your order and say he needed you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You wondered if Nanami was secretly a master manipulator, or if he just knew how to read and play you most expertly. 

Now you’re prickly, bristling and jumping like a wet cat whenever a tree off the road nearly explodes as you pass it. 

“We won’t be able to see a foot in front of our faces,” you snapped, gesturing uselessly at the cascading wall of rain beyond the windshield. “And they expect us to exorcise a curse at the same time? And not die?”

“It’ll be indoors,” Nanami said. 

“And it’s only a Third-Grade curse!” Ijichi interjected. 

You and Nanami both turned to look at him in the rearview mirror. He faltered instantly, cowed. As he should. 

Because the last time you heard that phrase, a Second-Grade sorcerer had lost a leg, a young boy his life, and the building lost a roof. You both knew intimately how easily and often the supposedly simple jobs still go sideways. 

The car eventually slogged to a sluggish halt, tires skidding and hydroplaning as you rolled up beside what was presumably a botanical garden. It was hard to tell. The rain sluiced so fast down the window that the outside world blurred into impressionist chaos: glass and steel and spiny outlines of trees, all bent and warping under the weight of the storm. 

A lightning flash revealed it in full for a second in the gasps between atmospheric calamity — a vast glass dome rising like a lung from the landscape, sparkling before darkness swallowed it again. 

Then thunder came — long, close — and the whole vehicle shook down to its suspensions. 

“Are you ready?” 

You jumped.

Nanami had unbuckled, shifted across the middle seat, and was now looming over your shoulder — there, solid and warm and sudden. His voice landed against your neck. You didn’t breathe, and you hoped he didn’t notice how your eyes turned traitor before your brain could intervene, flicking downward, just once. The line of his jaw. His mouth. His breath still smelled like coffee, and his collar like rain fog and expensive laundry detergent. 

You turned sharply back to the window, nodding like your skull was on a hinge. 

You stared through the water-streaked glass. You did not acknowledge the ghost of his reflection there — his mouth level with your ear, eyes meeting the mirror image of your own. 

He reached past you, so close you felt his watch brush your arm, and grabbed the door handle. 

He stayed like that for an eternity (four seconds). Neither of you moved, and you barely found the lung function to breathe, boxed in as you were.

“Three,” he counted quietly beside your ear. 

“Two—“ 

“Wait—!” 

The door flung open with the howl of a banshee, and Nanami’s hand pressed flat to the small of your back and pushed, giving you no choice but to go. 

You hit the rain like a bullet hits water — immediately slowed, immediately soaked, your shoes slipping in the muck as you half-tripped, half-scrambled toward the blurry suggestion of a building. 

You collided with the glass doors so hard your teeth clicked. Then you were inside, the sound of rain barely muting inside the curved, dripping walls of the greenhouse. 

You turned just in time to see Nanami march in behind you, less a man and more a very annoyed and waterlogged gargoyle. His hair was flattened to his scalp, water trailing down his jawline. His glasses had fogged, completely useless. And yet, somehow, he looked considerably less miserable than you did. 

Which was frankly rather offensive and unfair. 

Your shirt clung to your torso like saran wrap. Your socks squelched. Rainwater streamed down your face and collected on your chin like you were trying to nourish the tile. 

“Yeah,” you panted, wringing out your shirt from the hem with a bitter scrunch of your nose at the deluge pouring between your feet, “no, this is great. Really. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my day, I really don’t know how you guessed.” 

“I preemptively apologized if you recall,” he said, removing his glasses to wipe them with a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket. How annoyingly convenient and sensible.

“Well I didn’t accept it, did I?” 

“If you focus on the job, we’ll complete it faster.” 

You made an offended noise that might’ve been vaguely humanoid as Nanami moved to walk ahead, shoes squeaking with embarrassing frequency. You glared daggers into the back of his stupid, perfectly-sculpted head. The nerve of him. The gall. 

Then, without a word, he shrugged out of his jacket.

And, looking somewhere above your head, draped it over your shoulders. 

It was still warm. Dry on the inside. Smelled like sandalwood, bergamot, and the inside of a linen closet. 

“I’m sorry again,” he said. 

Your mouth opened. Then closed again. 

Your entire planned tirade rolled over in your throat like a defeated dog and died on your tongue, buried tight behind the ivory coffin of your incisors. 

He kept walking.

You stood, dripping and quiet, while a single drop of rain raced from your lashes down your nose, collected into the bow of your lips and plinked down onto the lapel. You stared at the jacket like it was sacred. A token. A peace offering, at least. A precious cargo you were now obligated to carry to the ends of the earth. 

… Maybe there was some good to be found in the situation after all. 

Above you, the storm continued its tantrum as you skittered after Nanami. Thunder cracked and tumbled like boulders in the sky, lightning stabbed quicksilver flashes across the glass dome high above. It was like being inside a snow globe turned jungle— sealed off from the world, but not safe. You weren’t so naive to believe you ever really were. 

But when the path curved and the microcosm rainforest opened before you, awe eclipsed discomfort in the time it took for your eyes to widen.

You weren’t sure what to expect of a cursed garden. Maybe ruin. Maybe dead and withered roses and blackened moss, brackish ponds and algae-choked fountains, topiaries withering into gnarled skeletal hands. A cursed garden should look cursed.

But the garden was alive. Not just planted and maintained, but thriving — a riot of color and shape, texture and scent, all packed close in curated chaos and overgrown without intention. Every inhale was wet bark, loam, and crushed green stems, the sweet ozone of water clinging to petals like perfume gone all nectar-sweet and dizzy.

And the flowers. 

They spilled from hanging baskets in jeweled clusters — garnet reds, deep plums, electric sapphire blues. White blooms like starlight clustered in the shadows, flickering as you move past. The lilies by the pond gleamed like melted glass, their petals curling arrogantly as only things that knew they were beautiful could. You passed a sprawl of carnivorous pitcher plants, their throats slick and glistening, and they watched you with the patient air of things used to waiting. 

Leaves brushed your cheeks like the lightest of kid gloves, velvet and silk and gloss, trailing after you as if reluctant to let you go.

You shrugged Nanami’s jacket higher on your shoulders and breathed it all in.

Even the air moved differently here. Steam curled in low twining currents around your ankles, ghosting up in gentle spirals. Mist clung to the slats of the narrow wooden bridge you crossed, only to scatter at the touch of your footsteps.

You slowed at the trellis lining the bridge, fingers reaching out to instinctively trace the gloriosa lilies curling up the ironwork — flame-shaped petals twisting with crimson drama, greedy for the warmth the greenhouse backup generator lights provided. 

This place was beautiful. Unnerving. Exactly the sort of chaos you loved in a garden — the blur between wild and cultivated, nature just barely playing along with human expectations. 

Vines crept into the cracks of the cobblestone path like they belonged there and like they’d always been, pumping green veins through the stone. Your heart swelled with a quiet giddiness you tried to smother beneath even an iota of Nanami’s unmoved professionalism. 

You’d come back here. You had to. Preferably when nothing was trying to kill you. 

You crouched briefly beside a low-hanging plant, one you didn’t recognize immediately — its thick stem bowed under the weight of hanging blossoms shaped like chandelier glass. The petals were curled like calligraphy, a deep azure edged in violet, each bulb pointed like a teardrop seconds from falling.

You reached out. Brushed your fingertip along the edge of one petal. It was cool and slick, soft as satin, smooth as glass.

You smiled.

“We’re not here to sightsee.”

You jolted — hand still outstretched, fingers skimming the bloom that maybe, just maybe leaned subtly into your touch. Nanami stood just ahead, half-turned. His expression wasn’t harsh, but somehow he still managed to look like a sigh made flesh.

“I’m not sightseeing,” you protested. “I’m observing. For clues.” 

“You’re reading a plaque on Strongylodon macrobotrys,” he said dryly. 

You blinked down. 

Oh. So you were. 

You abandoned the jade vine with a flourish of wounded dignity, catching back up with him at the curve in the path.

“How’d you know that?” you asked, eying him suspiciously. “You got a pocket guide on rare tropical flora on you?” 

He didn’t look at you while he walked. 

“I briefly looked into the logistics of the average person keeping some of these at home.” 

He said it so simply that it took a second for the words to permeate your brain membrane, like pollen drifting down on still water. 

You blinked. Thought about it a little longer. Then filed the statement under unexpected things said by Nanami Kento, ranked by baffling specificity. There was a sizeable list. That one had cracked the top ten between surprisingly detailed knowledge of traditional Danish breadmaking techniques and casual explanation of how to launder money through a kombucha business. 

“Didn’t know you liked plants too,” you said, a little surprised and with a toothy grin that clearly fished for more. 

Nanami turned his shoulder, glanced at you over the rim of his fogged lenses, and his thin eyebrows crested in a way that could only be described as accusing. Like you had somehow missed something obvious. 

Then he looked away again. 

Up — toward the glass dome with its streaming veins of rain, as though the heavens might open and answer on his behalf or put him out of his misery. 

“Never mind that.”

And that was the end of it. 

You didn’t think much of it. That’s just how Nanami was — deliberate, reserved, frustratingly unreadable, and you had to pry out the seemingly irrelevant details of him until they were left gouged with the bite of his nails. A man built of reticence and regulation, who folded affection into dry commentary and precision coffee orders. You’d gotten used to it. You were fond of it. It hasn't turned you off yet. 

What you didn’t know — what you couldn’t have guessed — was that he’d read through six niche horticulture blogs and one lightly paywalled academic archive trying to figure out which flowering vine could survive an east-facing window with inconsistent sunlight and a tendency to be overwatered when you were stressed. 

He’d narrowed it down to three. One of them had been that one.

And then there you were, glowing under its shade like fate and smiling at it like it already sat in your home and had a name. 

Nanami said nothing, but he liked the way you’d looked at it. Maybe he would read another blog… buy the plant as a gift after all. *

Outside, the storm continued its tempestuous tirade. Water beat furiously against the glass like it wanted to be let in. Thunder roared and lightning crawled like a living thing through the pitch black clouds above. 

And inside, the plants grew quiet and strange.

Or maybe they’d always been strange, and now chastened by Nanami’s voice and steered back toward focus, you were simply starting to notice. 

Your tendency to anthropomorphize flora had never felt especially peculiar — what plant keeper didn’t talk to their orchid like a beloved, temperamental cat? But this, you understood implicitly, wasn’t projection nor was it mere sentiment. It was acknowledgment. 

These plants were watching you. 

Regarding you regarding them with the quiet intelligence of things that had been growing long before you arrived, and intended to continue long after you left. 

Long after you died, you figured. After the worms bleached your bones powder white, and your ribs made footholds for new roots to grow.

Some recoiled when you passed — deliberately slow, curling inward like sleepers disturbed and monks drawing their robes tight in silent judgment. Leaves turned their pale underbellies to the path, folding with the weary grace of old ballet dancers. Others, emboldened by your energetic attention, bloomed in time with your glance — petals peeling open like theatrically flattered yawns. 

Every step forward whispered behind you in the soft glide of something unseen through muffling moss. Bulbs twitched and blinked in the dark. Nettle-tipped vines bowed from the canopy like chaperones leaning in close, brushing against your hair like blind butterflies antennae. With every breath you took you expected one to reciprocate on your neck — wet and green and ancient as the earth, billowing peat and mire over your nape.

Orange pulled you off track.

Just ahead a blossom snagged your eye. The color of sweet peach flesh bloomed, hovering in a shaft of pale light along the path. It glistened too vividly for the lowlight above. 

It was far from the biggest or brightest thing here, but it was the most obvious.

You watched it warily the closer you came, sidestepped to give it a wide berth. But it didn’t move, didn’t twitch, just hovered.

Your blade moved first, silver-edged and cautious, compelled by curiosity you reached to poke one of the petals—

The bloom snapped shut with a belt-cracking switch. Sudden and whip-quick it reeled into the darkness so violently the air buzzed.

You yelped and stumbled back straight into something solid.

Nanami grunted and caught you reflexively.

One arm banded around your ribs, the other steady at your elbow. Warm palms, big hands, you flustered and reddened at the all-encompassing broadness of his chest against your spine.

You waited for the sigh. The clipped reprimand. Some variation of: “Don’t touch things like some feral, unsocialized child.”

 Hell, you kind of wanted him to scold you… only Nanami could make you feel shame and shamefully aroused in the same breath.

No rebuke came.

But he didn’t let go, either.

His hands stayed exactly where they were, even after you found your footing and stopped shaking. One palm spread across the damp fabric at your side while the other eased you forward, guiding you like a mockery of a man leading his lover through a garden where the only dangers were bees or an overpriced tour fee.

When he finally released you, it felt slow, like his hands were the last to realize you were no longer in danger. His fingers stayed briefly in the creases of your borrowed jacket, and you thought you sensed reluctance in how they lingered before letting go. But the warmth of his hands was still seared onto your skin.

You didn’t thank him. The moment itself and the frenetic energy of this biosphere felt tenuous enough that words would only rupture it.

So you glanced at him instead, surreptitiously through pressed lips and out of the corner of your eye, conveying without words how wrong things had begun to feel here. Not dangerous, exactly, but too aware; and therein lurked the hidden danger. 

It hadn’t declared itself. You hadn’t been jumped, no planty-beast exploded from the undergrowth nor barbed cursed appendage had shot out from a fern to wrap around your ankle and drag you into the dark — the absence of those things was exactly what troubled you. 

Curses didn’t lie in wait. Not like spiders spinning delicate webs and waiting for a footstep. They reacted. They struck. Their danger lived in immediacy — distilled, blunt instinct without forethought or fear. Evolutionary stupidity made them lethal. 

But this didn’t feel stupid. 

You recall going fishing once with your classmates, many summers ago, on a day so bright and careless it hardly seemed to belong to the same world as this one. The lake had been glassy and wide, ringed with reeds and dragonflies. The sun set itself firmly between your shoulder blades and burned there without malice, only a stinging reminder that the season was real and that you, for once, had nothing better to do. 

Some of your friends from that day are dead now. 

You stood on the dock, casting your line again and again as far out into the glittering water as you could throw it, your skin tight and clumsy with sunscreen applied too late. Nanami sat at the edge of the dock with his sleeves rolled and dropped his line straight down into the shadowy water. 

“How lazy, Nanami!” you’d teased him.

He’d only arched a brow, flashing a smirk he’d given away much more 

willingly back then. “Just smart. You only have to surprise the fish to get them to bite.” 

And by the time you understood what he meant, he’d already caught three fish and released them again, while your line stayed frustratingly unbitten. 

You eventually realized curses were the same. 

And this curse could not be surprised, because it had eyes on you from every angle. Slithering surveillance in its vines, tracking your movements, subtly shepherding you along to whatever ends it desired. It was aware in a way that made you increasingly uncomfortable in your dripping clothes…

It was no small fish. 

Your wet clothes felt complicit now — clammy and heavy, making it harder to turn quickly and run. If it wanted to make a move, you weren’t confident you could stop it. Not fast enough. 

A glade of white jasmine grew off the path. The blossoms glowed in the artificial blue light like spilled milk, eerie in their uniformity, heads turning in synchronicity like dusty attic dolls trained to track movement. You stared at them, a strange nausea bubbling in your belly— 

Then Nanami’s hand gripped your chin. 

You startled — but he turned your face firmly forward and leaned close, voice low, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“Don’t look.” 

So you didn’t. You kept walking, becauses curses didn’t like to be looked at, and the jasmine had started to stand a little taller and rattle their petals like a viper's tail. You didn’t think this garden full of breathing things should be provoked. It wasn’t ready to strike… and neither were either of you. 

So you walked with your eyes forward…

And you pretended not to notice the thing slithering just in your periphery that was making your head swim. The not-snake. A vine in a vivid, 

unnamable color — green but not green, blue but not sky. An alien shade that lived between wavelengths, the afterimage burned into the world by staring too long at something you shouldn’t have seen, the theory of a color more than color itself. It trailed in the gutter, tendrils keeping pace with your steps. 

It had no reason to rush. It already knew where you were going. 

You tried not to shudder as ferns brushed your calves and split before you like frigid ocean waters. The garden pressed in with growing boldness, no longer content to merely observe. Leaves densely draped across the stone path, and thorned branches creaked across the flagstones to form heavy barricades.

And ahead — lit soft and strange as a circus stage — was the new path they made for you. 

A trail bloomed out of the undergrowth, flowers glowing with bioluminescent suggestion. Petals opened to greet you, phosphorescent, beckoning. The air pulsed with perfume. 

It was too obvious. 

You scoffed and stopped short, planting your heels firmly into the damp stone, your breath bursting in billowing fog obstinate as any mule. The beauty of the path, of this whole place, made it worse — something this lovely had to be cruel. 

No forest offered up its heart so readily unless it had already decided what to do with you once you arrived at the final rib. To step forward would be to surrender the narrative, walking willingly into the jaw lined with hidden teeth that had unhinged itself just for you. 

“We shouldn’t follow that,” you said stubbornly.

“Until we find the main body, we have no choice.”

Nanami stopped long enough to look at you.

He was backlit by a pulse of seductive blue, the color of an electric bruise, and then deep rolling violet. A spasm of light rippled over his shoulders, catching the edges of his shirt in a brief shimmer and for a second he looked more nightclub than battlefield. Like a man who might stand untouched at a bar with a fuck-off aura, collar unbothered by curious fingers, catching your eye over the rim of a glass just to look away before you could decide whether to be annoyed or interested. 

You could almost pretend, maybe, that this was a garden rave. Jungle-themed. Exclusive entry. Population: two… or maybe three, curse considered. 

His head dipped, slow and deliberate, just enough for your eyes to meet over the seaglass tint of his green glasses. Light fractured emerald and viridian across the lenses. “You’ll guard my back, won’t you?” 

It wasn’t a challenge but an invocation of faith. Ritual born between companions who bled back-to-back often enough, and who walked into the dark together and hoped not to walk out alone. 

Still, the question stung a little. 

You tilted your head, your expression bland but pointed. “Did you hit your head?” 

Nanami raised a brow. “Just covering our bases.” 

“I’ve guarded your back through curses, cults, and one very agitated goose.” 

“That goose was broody.” 

“And I still didn’t let it kill you.” 

Nanami scowled at you and you scowled back. He seemed to weigh your conviction silently… then he snorted and shook his head. He might’ve laughed outright if not for where you were, and that was as good as it got. 

You could rely on each other — always.

He nodded once, satisfied. “Good.” 

You stepped into the monsters maw with your jaw grimly grit and your sword slick in your grip — whether from sweat or the plaster weight of the air, you weren’t sure it mattered… only hoping that you don’t lose your grip when the time comes for you to swing. Nanami’s fingers flexed around his blade, closing with creaking slowness like he already envisioned a throat in his palm.

Humming surrounded you both, but maybe it was always there. It buzzed, not unseen insects or sixth-sense prickling on your neck, but a very real pulse in the air that only got louder. Beneath your feet the stones and sprouts lit and dimmed, lit and dimmed, lit and dimmed, the circadian rhythm of sleeping titans guiding your feet deeper. Closer, and closer, and closer until the hedges parted like curtains drawn back to reveal an altar. 

And there it lay. 

A wild shrine to a primordial god, tended by hands as gnarled and ancient as its patron saint. It stretched across the clearing like a ritual remembered too late, forgotten and unfinished: a tangle of bloom and body, thick-stalked and high-spined, a reliquary left to rot in the gloom. The earth cracked to cradle it — roots bulged up through black soil, thick as limbs, ivory-veined and burrowing deeper into the earth's viscera. It breathed. Breathed. The mass at its center rose and fell with the stubborn appropriation of something that had not died properly, and perhaps never would. 

It pulsed like a heart, not clean; practiced, studied, a mimicry of learned behavior watched from buried coffins and observed from decaying chest cavities. You saw the thick cords cinching and flexing, a translucent sheath over them pulling taut with each contraction, then slackening with a faux exhale. The ground beneath you moved in time like a belly breathing under the skin — you planted your feet, pitched gently to and fro by the cardiac thumping. 

Petals curled like lips parting to speak — red as garnets and gore, slick as tongues. The color bleeds darker at the edges, dried-blood and rust, and gleamed wet at their coquettish blushing centers. The flesh of it — god, was it skin or was it plant? — was diaphanous and veined, each bloom appearing skinned from some creature still clinging to the memory of its name. 

A sheen stuck to its surface, beaded into drops that hissed when they fell, eating tiny holes into the grass. 

It shimmered, but only the way something poisonous can shimmer; the way oil gleams on water, or an adders back in the sun. 

It was beautiful in its macabre way, the sort that haunted ancient cathedrals long abandoned, where the only footsteps were malnutritioned rats and the air smells of old prayers. The splendor that belongs to bone — clean, white bone — picked dry by wind and time and calls to mind ribs as spires, skulls that smile even as they forget what they once were. 

You stepped forward. Once. Twice. You might’ve taken a third—

—but Nanami’s hand clamped around your shoulder and held. 

Then came the smell.

You sniffed the air again. You expected rot and decay, melting flesh, the sick-sweet stink of fermentation and apples rotted to their cores and riddled with worms. Some cloying perfume that would cling to your soft palate for days like mold in the lungs. 

But it smelled like laundry. Freshly pressed shirts and the hum of a dryer in the room over. Fabric softener layered over sandalwood and thyme, bergamot peel crushed between fingers, and the suggestion of citrus pith. It smelled clean, expensive, intimate in a covert way that didn’t boldly invite but felt tailored to entice you. 

You breathed in again, greedy. 

Maybe it was just the collar of Nanami’s jacket you were huffing — it smelled like his cologne. 

You went soft and sweet and fuzzy. 

Nanami’s chest expanded at your shoulder, you peeled your eyes away from the curse only to find his already on you. 

He smelled something else entirely. 

Shea butter and lavender — the scent that trailed you through hallways, folded in your wake like petals whirled in a coy breeze. Patchouli, orchid. Notes of that one perfume he remembered from the Kyoto train, and that he’d found stained into the lining of his coat when he returned home, and always made his ears a little pink when he walked behind you— 

It wasn’t like you to get distracted. 

That curious thought slammed through your skull half a second after your spine slammed the ground, your breath punched out in a startled, wet gasp when your wing bones hit the earth. 

The curse struck where you’d stood faster than the lightning that streaked above. Vines reared like vipers and slammed down into the dirt with the sound of snapping femurs, earth exploding in shrapnel of clay and debris. You choked, recovering in heaving gasps from Nanami’s arm flinging you clear of the impact.

Before you could blink the painful watering from your eyes, Nanami was already swinging.

Wet, ropey vines fell in thirds, twitching and spraying fluid that stank like sap and rot. It shrieked — a high, metallic wail that shook the canopy and rattled the glass over-dome like exploded cable, splitting the air with a clap of thunder that filled your ears with tin.

You tried to scramble upright. Grass slid under your palms, resisting your handhold with roots bucking and convulsing beneath the surface. Your blade was gone, skittering across the stones and flung god knows where. 

All you could do was watch with dawning horror. 

Nanami threw himself between you and the curse, an aegis of fury and resolve. The petals unfurled syrupy slow, revealing a luminous center — a dandelion bloom made of citrine, gleaming wet like gemstone and runny yolk and radiant as a newborn sun. 

Your lungs seized. Your mouth shaped his name.

He was going to die. You were so certain Nanami was going to die and be reduced to a fine red mist, cudgeled beneath vast spiny trunks or torn asunder by ripping roots and there was nothing you could do to stop it all because you couldn’t fucking stand. 

Nanami had already moved, read the ratios, and already pivoted his stance from defense to offense. 

It was reactionary in a way you’d never seen him before, all reckless compulsion and knee-jerk muscle memory. Not a sorcerer seeing a threat — but a fish, baited and hooked on the threat of harm to you, and Nanami struck not because of the danger — but because killing it had become inevitable the moment it lunged. 

He leapt past the thorns, past the writhing limbs that seemed to just miss with every lash. Geometry and purpose and spurred by determination, his breath didn’t so much as stutter when he drove his blade in deep, cleaving the glittering heart in two. 

And like that— 

It died.

No final shriek, no retaliatory flail, no explosion. Just stillness. 

Vines sagged like marionettes with cut strings, limp and lifeless. One by one the scaffolding stalks collapsed, slamming to the ground with bone-juddering thuds that shook the earth beneath your muddied knees then dissipated into grey ash. 

The petals blackened, curling in on themselves like burned parchment. Roots split and hissed and guttered out in ribbons of steam, but the heart remained. 

Split in two, broken and spilling its golden ichor into the shredded grass, it bled and bled and bled, and wetly thumped and thumped and thumped. Two hearts now in tandem, not one, doubling and deforming. And from that fractured core, the curse would sing its swan song. 

Nanami turned back toward you, chest heaving, steps sluggish and bogged down with relief. He’d barely taken a step when it rose — a second bulb birthed from the broken heart, a sickly green shoot straining upward on a thin, trembling stem. 

Not a heart at all. A womb. 

“Nanami—!” you shrieked, but it was already too late. 

He spun, half a step from safety — then vanished into a choking mushroom cloud of yellow. 

You moved without thinking, panic clawing up your throat, feet slipping on shredded turf and torn roots as you lunged toward the spreading vapor. Panic propelled you forward, blood whistled in your ears — Nanami, Nanami, Nanami, you couldn’t lose him, not him too — you were only half a second from flinging yourself into the mist— 

And then he stumbled out. 

You skidded to a halt, nearly dropping to your knees. He was alive. Staggering, coughing into his elbow, but alive.

His legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled into the grass. Nanami ground his forehead hard into the dew-damp ground. His shoulders heaving with ragged, wet breaths, choking on the remnants of the yellow powder that stained his lips marigold. 

You fell to his side, hands trembling, skimming over him, brushing debris and seeds and grass from his back — a nursing hummingbird in your palms and in your chest as you searched for wounds. 

No blood. No gashes. No visible injuries— 

—the yellow that coated him like chalk faded as it leached into his skin, absorbing into his bloodstream. 

You barely caught his hand snapping up between you, pushing you away with a trembling shove. He sat back on his haunches, eyes closed and teeth gritted in agony. Your stomach dropped in time with the beads of sweat suddenly streaking down his temples. 

“I’m fine,” he rasped. 

You watched, worry planting itself deep between your ribs, as he struggled to stagger upright. It took him far more effort just to stand than it had to even exorcise the curse. Nanami braced his hands on his knees, back to you, the muscles between his shoulders twitching, locking, visible beneath the sweat-soaked starch of his shirt. 

He took one step away from you. Then another. Then he pressed his forehead hard against the bark of a tree and clenched his fists until the tendons in his wrists popped. 

“Nanami, please, just… let me see, I need to make sure—“ 

He swatted blindly at your hands as they ran him over, skimming over his arms, his shoulders, checking for pain or breaks — but it was hard to tell when every little touch caused him to convulse like the bone beneath your fingertips had already been shattered. Everything hurt.

“Shit you’re burning up—“ you whispered when Nanami groaned, uprooted from deep in his aching throat when your palm cupped the back of his neck. You were already patting your pockets, frantic for your phone. “We need to go. I’ll call a ride—no, no, I’ll call Shoko, she’ll come to us—“ 

“No.” 

Nanami kept his forehead pressed to the tree and grunted his monosyllabic objection. 

He tried not to look at you. He didn’t think he could handle the visual, not when all he could smell was you stuck in his nose, embossed into his lungs like a monogram, and that alone was making the edges of his vision fuzzy. But despite his better judgment he risked a glance — only to feel his insides split around the ache planted beneath his diaphragm. 

Because there stood you — wide-eyed, wet, and worried — and that alone would’ve been enough to ruin him on any good day. 

But you stood there, draped in his jacket, the too-heavy waterlogged thing slipping dangerously off your shoulder and your hair plastered in wisps to your throat. And when his gaze dropped — fuck — your pants were soaked through and clung to you like they’d been painted on by da Vinci himself, translucent with rain and sap, outlining every devilishly divine line and curve. Your hips. Your thighs. The sweet, scandalous dip between your legs. 

He stared, shame coiling hot and feral in his gut. 

He hated himself for it, hated how nakedly he ogled you — but he couldn’t look away, his vision tunneled and hunger gnashed through his ribs like a wild dog. He wanted you. Wanted you in a way that should’ve made him blush and did make him ashamed. He could bend you over a tree branch, hang you up like laundry on a line and devour you. Tear the flimsy fabric under his fingers and bury himself inside you until you were more him than you— 

He ground his knuckles into the bark beneath him, welcoming the sting and the wet warmth when his skin split open and bled. Anchor yourself. Anchor yourself. 

You sidled closer, oblivious — one hand outstretched again and heartbreakingly innocent the way you might endear yourself to a scarred and scruffy alley cat… it was devastating. He nearly seized your wrist, almost dragged you down to him, could’ve buried his face between your thighs and drowned himself there, desperate for any relief from the heatwave boiling his brain. 

A low, wounded sound cracked from his throat when you grabbed his waist to feel up his ribs.

“Go,” he croaked. “I’ll… catch up.” 

“Nanami, no, just let me help you—“ 

“Now,” he barked and grimaced like the word had peeled the lining of his throat. 

“No!” you snapped back.

You knew this man — knew his maddening stubbornness and how he’d refuse doctors so as not to be an inconvenience, refuse the last seat on the train just to stand over you while you sat, refuse any kindness unless you forced it into his hands and bent his fingers around it. You weren’t about to let him kill himself here out of some sense of machismo masochism. 

“No.” You repeated. “You dragged me out here with you on my day off, fuck if I’m not dragging you back out with me, too.” 

You charged into his space and felt the way he tensed, rigid like you’d struck him and you prickled. “Oh, please,” you scoffed, “I’m not gonna hurt you. Just… relax. Let me help—“ 

You nudged his shoulder firmer this time, and were surprised when he gave, letting you ease him back against the tree. He sagged, wilted like a sad houseplant, his face flushing deeper even in the dim light and you heard the calloused scratch of his hand dragging up his jaw to cover his mouth with his chin tucked into his chest in shame. 

He wouldn’t look at you despite how close you stood. He wouldn’t meet your eyes even when you tried to duck and catch them. He prayed you wouldn’t look down below the belt.

You brushed his forehead and winced at the scalding heat beneath your touch. Unnatural. He’s boiling. You knew that something was seriously wrong, that time was likely of the essence, and that you couldn’t just stand there and watch Nanami succumb to some fast-acting poison, or wait until something cracked his ribs open and burst from his chest. 

You flattened your palm over his brow, brushing back his damp hair. But what were you supposed to do? Drag him kicking and screaming through the muck? Tackle him to the ground and find something to fix? Your rudimentary medical knowledge didn’t extend past basic tourniquets and Neosporin, and your growing panic would make even that difficult. 

A crack of lightning seared the sky—

—you squeaked and leapt out of your skin when his hand clamped around your wrist like an iron manacle.

Nanami shuddered, breath ragged, his lips parted as he pulled your hand to his face and turned into it, fevered skin branding your palm like it was salvation. His eyes fluttered shut, a broken groan tumbling loose from deep in his chest like an old house settling into its foundations. 

He felt your pulse race through your wrist, wild and unsteady. Fear? Concern? For him… or of him? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t parse the emotion flickering behind the wide mirror-balls in your skull, shock or scare or something else, it hardly mattered — how loathsomely selfish — when the beat of your heart seemed to stall his free-fall into the abyss.

“Nanami?” You whimpered. 

… So he chased it. 

His mouth dragged lower, lips tracing the paper-thin skin of your inner wrist where your heart materialized and leapt beneath his breath. His own stuttered and stumbled to match your hummingbird-beat rhythm. 

You trembled and your lower lip wobbled — he felt the crimson string between you draw tighter, both noose and leash around his neck. Nanami rose to meet it. His lips and teeth grazed your skin as he hunted that delicate blue vein up your arm. Closer, higher. His grip on your wrist tugged you up until your forearm was pressed high near his ear, his head bent low over your elbow where he finally stopped. 

He didn’t bite. He didn’t kiss. His breath billowed through flared nostrils, each exhale scorching hot where it blew across your skin. 

And when you trembled he trembled too — both poised on the same razor's edge; Occam’s, Hume’s, Grice’s, whomever the blade belonged to it was sharp and you both teetered in the stillness before blood-letting. 

What the hell is happening? you both thought in synchronicity, silent save for the sound of crashing breath and your own heart. Your face burned with a confusing mix of terror and untimely arousal. No, now’s not a good time to want to jump his bones, even if he’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive—

“Nanami.”

You tugged gently at your wrist — and your stomach lurched when his fingers tightened, squeezing the fine bones in your hand… and he growled at you. 

You froze. Unnerved now you gave a harder yank until he finally let go. You stumbled back, nearly falling, but his reflexes snapped quickly — he caught your sleeve, snared you like a hook. 

For a moment you dangled between escape and entrapment, his fist clenched in your borrowed jacket — but then his face twisted. Pain, conflict, a rawness ripped through him with a violence even you could feel in the winded gust of his breath. His brows knitted like cables and he let you go again. 

You staggered back. 

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” you pressed, but your confidence was shaken. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.” 

But you didn’t step forward again — you edged sideways, testing a new angle around him. 

He was watching you too closely, and definitely too intently. His eyes pinned you like a needle through soft flesh, locked down like a taxidermied beetle in a frame, tracking every shift and minor twitch of your fingers. Every time lightning shattered the sky you flinched… and so did he; like he was waiting, and ready, to chase you. 

Nanami was on fire. He could see the delicate throb in your throat, that tremble of your pulse hammering under your skin, the steady badump, badump, badump escalating into a frantic thud, thud, thud! 

Animalistically attuned to the vitality in your veins — god, he swore he could feel your heartbeat in the roots of his teeth.

When he touched you — he hadn’t thought you hated it.

You’d gone still and your breath caught but not in fear. Not only in fear.

He tasted the sweetness and wanting on your skin too. The same that fuzzied his tongue at night when his toes curled in his sheets and he muffled the shout of your name with his teeth buried in his knuckles while the other hand pulled him to ruinous orgasm.

You wanted him too. He knew it. Had always known it; subtlety didn’t agree with you when you’d blush so sweetly just from looking at him too long, or the cute way you’d sometimes twine your hair around your finger and sway back and forth when you needed help.

And that was the worst part, that you wanted him — trusted him. Because you weren’t scared. But he was.

He didn’t want your help. Couldn’t want it. He could feel it in his gut, in his bones, in the blood that pumped too fast and hot through his veins. It wasn’t a thing he could squash so easily as lust. It was need, feral and all consuming, and it burned through him like kerosene:

Take her.

Pin her.

Have her until it stops.

If he let you stay — or so much as breathed too deep in your direction — he would burn you alive. He’d grab you and drag you under and fuck the apology right out of his own mouth. He’d worship you like a man possessed and reduce himself to ash in the process like a sage wick.

But if he told you to run— 

If you did— 

Could he let you go?

When his skin barely felt like his own anymore and every nerve was wired to you and every breath he took made him hungrier—

If you ran…

Could he stop himself from chasing you?

He turned away from you like a mirror gone rotten, hoping to outrun the shape of the monster reflected there if only he moved fast enough. 

He would rather die than lay a finger on you. 

He pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw whole galaxies. Tried to remember his name. Yours. Anything good.

He tried to hold onto dignity… what little he had left — and so sought to preserve yours.

 His hand slipped down, quick and furtive, tugging at the front of his pants in a futile effort to adjust the shameful bulge printed in the soaked fabric. 

The outline of him pressed even harder against the inseam, snaking down his thigh and tented with humiliating urgency. As if he could just adjust this away. 

The fabric sucked tight to every inch of him, mortifying in its clarity, and all he could do was stand there, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut like willpower alone might magic it gone. It didn’t.

So he shoved through the foliage back towards the path without a word, stiff in every way.

“Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re going?” you yelped, immediately trotting after him. 

“Anywhere but here.” 

“Nanami, we’re rained in in a giant fucking bowl, there’s nowhere to go—” 

“Wherever you aren’t, then.” 

You scowled, glaring daggers into the tense set of his shoulders, but you still nipped at his heels. “Oh, so you’re fine enough to be rude now.“ 

He didn’t answer you. Didn’t look at you. Each step he took was more of a lurch, his gait impeded and uncomfortable, but he still tried to outpace what was clawing its way up — or down — his bloodstream. 

If being rude convinced you to leave him alone, to protect yourself from the hungry thing incubating inside him, then it was a small price to pay… and he would make it up to you when he could think straight.

Because the thing inside him — the grotesque force twining around his nerves, weaving into his blood, and implanting such indecent thoughts as bending you over the nearest stump and fucking you through the earths mantel — was gnashing its chains, and no amount of clenched fists or gritted teeth or good intentions was going to keep it polite. 

You grabbed his elbow, yanking hard. “Stop. Hey—stop. What’s your problem?” 

“Let. Go.” He warned.

“No,” you stood your ground. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.“ 

“Goddamn it—“ He jerked his arm from your grip with such force that it pitched you both off balance. A graceless flail — him stumbling back, you colliding into his chest with a thud that echoed between your ribs and his sternum. 

It was like before but more. The sickness in him hadn’t yet clawed its way fully into his brainstem, muscle memory prevailed. His arm cinched around you hard, a taut coil of muscle and bone crushing you against him. Reflexive at first — just like the first time, except he didn’t let go.

His hand fisted your jacket, pulling the fabric into trembling knots between his fingers and his head dropped low, nose buried in your hair like a drowning man clawing for driftwood, and— he moaned. 

Your palms splayed flat, rigid and useless against his chest. Some dim intention to extricate yourself flickered up, only to short out before it even began. You froze there, blinking up into the wet hollow of his throat, your mind flashbanged a bright white blank and your ears filled with static. 

“Mmph—Nanami, you’re crushing me—“ you choked, laughing reflexively even though your ribs were being crushed in the iron maiden of his embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, the words slurred and sloshing over his tongue. But he didn’t let go. You felt the silent quake of him trying to will his muscles to obey. They did — only partially. His grip faltered just enough to slide, the clench around your waist easing downward, fingers seeking lower, dragging across the damp fabric over your spine, cradling your sacrum with a possessive tremor. His hands flexed once, twice, nails scraping at the thin barrier of his jacket bunched between you. 

“I just…” His voice cracked — cracked, and the sound of it made him flinch. His jaw locked tight and he scowled like he could crush the shame between his molars, but it didn’t help. He was flushed and hot and miserable in a way that reminded him, with sick clarity, of being seventeen — exhausted and aching, hard at the worst possible time, praying for class to end so he could run to his dorm and jerk off in the shower with the water scalding.

But this was worse. He’s older now, a man now, and he was wound tighter, needier, more pathetic and vulgar in a way he’d never allowed himself to be even back then. He swallowed, thick and despairing.

“I’m sorry, but—I need…“ 

The words were drowned out in a crash of thunder so loud it left your ears ringing. 

You hardly minded the situation, circumstances aside. His arms somehow felt like the safest place in the world to fall into, and you let yourself imagine, just for a moment, this at any other time. 

Nanami folding you close outside your apartment door. Nanami brushing a chaste farewell kiss to your temple after a lunch snuck between work hours. Not like this — with humid mist numbing your scalp and adrenaline screaming through your veins that he’s dying and your heart drumming a tattoo of oh god, oh god, what do I do between your lungs— 

—and not with the undeniable press of that against the curve of your hip. 

Your breath hitched and you bit down hard on your bottom lip to stop the sound that wanted to claw free. You shifted instinctively, a minuscule movement — and there it was again. The friction, hot and undeniable, catching where his hips canted toward yours. 

You tried to convince yourself it was his phone, his keys, any mundane excuse. But you knew, and he knew you knew. His breath stuttered, caught raw and ragged at the top of his chest, and you swore you could feel the molten napalm of his mortification bleeding through the sodden fabric of his shirt and beating down on you — you had to wonder how he even had the blood to spare for his face. Still his hands clung tighter and wrapped in your jacket like he couldn’t bear to let you slip from him. 

“Nanami…” Your voice was thin, pitched an octave high, you tried for casual but it cracked in the middle. “Are you—“ 

He cut you off. “Don’t.” 

You peeled yourself back enough to look up at him and your heart thudded up into your mouth, twitching like a bloodied thing caught in your teeth. Every cell of you was aware, over-aware, of the warmth and want of him. A million blind butterflies tickled your belly with their antennae and you didn’t trust them not to swarm out of your mouth. You stared up, and he stared down. You saw the pollen stained on his lips.

His jaw flexed; his eyelids slammed shut like it pained him to keep you in his sights. 

Because you were too much. Too bright. Like a match held too long, burning down to blistered fingertips. A sun clutched selfishly in the crook of his arms that would not warm him — only crater through and leave him hollowed and smoking; but to be ruined by you would be a mercy. 

He was unraveling in strands of ash and soot, swimming in greyscale, like a monster that circled just outside the campfire’s reach, silent on its belly, jaws slack — waiting for the singing to stop, for the light to fail, before it would eat its way in. 

His vision tunneled, pulsed, pounded against the backs of his eyes and beat the color from his nerves. Even the flowers — those garish, cloying witnesses to the depravity that incubated inside him had stripped back to black blurs. But you held him sweetly… like a fist gripping the back of his neck and shoving him down into a forge. 

You weren’t touched by the haze, you glowed through it. A wound of color in a world rubbed raw with skin that dared to flush, and lips that dared to part, and eyes that looked at him not with fear but recognition. You stood against him like fire pressed to wax paper and didn’t shrink. You curled. 

He wanted to bite. 

He wanted to drag his teeth down your throat and see if you still glowed on the inside. He wanted to pull you to the ground and pant against your skin until the scent of you blotted out the rest of the world. 

He wanted to snarl at you for it. Or sob. Or grind against you until your marrows mixed. 

Because what else did monsters do when given a saint? 

Every throb in his pocket, the feverish, shameful weight of his cock pinched between his thigh and yours, dampened his briefs and felt like humiliation made liquid. It made him want to press his hips forward and rut himself into the first warm thing that yielded. 

Just need to come, he spiraled. Then it’ll be gone. Sweat it out, vomit it up like a bug. I’ll be better after that. 

He knew his binds wouldn’t hold. No ribbon woven from nonsense and nothing and impossible things: the breath of a fish, the sound of cats feet, the roots of a mountain, would withstand the sordid blaze in his body. 

He would break it. He would tear it with his teeth. 

He would eat the sun. 

She’ll help me, he thought. She always helps. Too fucking kind. She’d let me. She’d take it, anything I have to give her, all of it— 

He bit down on the impulse. He needed and hated and feared, all at once, and he would let you go, he must let you go— 

“I’m trying—“ he muttered, half to you, half bargaining with himself. “But I can’t—can’t think when you’re this close.” 

Your stomach flipped, a wild, traitorous lurch of something hot and heavy settling low in your belly that had been tucked deep beneath propriety and boundary and respect. But it had always been there, this want for Nanami. 

Buried under mission reports and busy nights — always so goddamn controlled, so infuriatingly put-together, even when the world around you both splintered at the seams and you were the half-cracked half-filthy reflection of it. How many times have you caught yourself staring, long after the danger passed, admiring Nanami — a statue, perfect in form, but carved from hollow geode? Not-cracked, but half-empty. Only just surviving. 

And you’d think: I wouldn’t mind helping him live. 

There’d be those times — an empty train tunnel, a mold-eaten library, derelict classrooms turned graffiti gallery with peeling walls — and you’d think: why not? Why not, in the dead spaces between dead things and curses and close calls, make something good out of the ruin? A quick fuck against crumbling plaster, indulge the hedonism that the mice and small creatures that live in those spaces adhere to, a desperate press of bodies just to live — to want something and take it, because tomorrow wasn’t promised. It never was. 

But you buried it deep, because you didn’t mind recklessly burning the candle at both ends, and he was Nanami. 

But with him curled around your body like he’d graft you to his liver given the chance, his arms pinning you to his chest but could so easily pin you to the grass instead… how do you smother that ember now? 

Your stomach swooped, peregrine-pitched in a wild nosedive straight to hell. You clutched hard at his chest, fingernails hooking into his leather harness. It was needy, but you couldn’t help it. You wanted this. 

“You should’ve said something sooner.” 

His laugh was sharp and bitter, a throaty bark that gusted against your temple. “Oh? And what, exactly, would you have had me say?” 

He scoffed, pitched his voice low. It didn’t sound much like him at all. “Should I have said: ‘Excuse me, I’ve got a raging hard-on, please stay back?’ or ‘I want to fuck you blind, kindly allow me a moment to compose myself?’” 

A laugh broke out of you despite everything, startled like pigeons into graceless flight and just on the edge of hysterical. “Jesus, Nanami—“ 

But his head dropped lower, nosing along your hairline to skate your earlobe. You shuddered, goosebumps erupting across your flesh as you wondered what other madness-induced depravities he might spill into your ear. He settled instead into the crook of your neck and groaned, long and low — you couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment, dismay, lust, or the warning creak of rusty hull hinges before giving way under tremendous force. 

Oh. You wanted it. 

“Would that help?” You asked coyly. 

He muttered your name in warning. Shook you once like he could rattle sense into you both… and held you tighter “Don’t. Don’t say that.” 

“I’m asking,” you pressed, turning your head enough that your nose brushed against his hair. He convulsed. “Genuinely.” 

“Would it help, Naaa-naaa-miiii?” 

You curled your voice around his name, more flirtatious than you’d ever dare normally. But it had the intended effect when his head reared back from your throat to stare at you. Lightning flashed, and in the brightness you saw the sweat beading down his forehead, the red flush bleeding up his neck that stained his ears and cheeks. 

Then he was kissing you. Greedy-mouthed, forcing the lip-lock before you could gather the breath to sustain it. 

Your hands sunk into his hair, scrabbling up his neck to scrape through that prickling blonde undercut and into the damp roots, tugging at his hair with his tongue inside your mouth.

It was messy — boyishly desperate like backseat-quickies at a mall, or those clandestine capers in the wee hours before the teenage curfew neither of you ever had. His canines sunk into your plump lower lip, and Nanami tasted the bloom of copper on his tongue. He groaned and took your resulting gasp to pour more of himself into your mouth like it was the only vessel that could hold him. 

You couldn’t breathe. You weren’t sure if you wanted to, when this seemed a much sweeter death than whatever may take you tomorrow or next year. But you yanked on Nanami’s hair, then parted down the middle and heaved a damp inhale of breath. You didn’t want to die yet. 

Nanami took the moment to look at you. His throat was tight and he drank in how desperate you looked. It wasn’t you who’d been afflicted, and yet you harbored something so much more potent than any pollen... and so did he. Desire, real and authentic. Affection, softer than he could offer you now. The belated realization clicked into place. 

He layered litanies of apologies between clicks of your teeth, with every twine of his tongue and dig of his fingers into the soft flesh of your body he imparted another. Blooming blue tulips planted beneath the nails carving cruel crescents into your flesh — he loathed how he damaged you. 

It should never have been this way, he thought as he ducked lower, circling his arms around your thighs, one hand shamelessly under your ass, and lifted you like you weighed two pounds. 

It should’ve been different, he thought as he stumbled forward. He mauled hot and heavy along your jaw and throat, anywhere his mouth could reach. Your head fell back and you whimpered, eyes cast skyward to watch the rain pound on the dome overhead. This was your world now, your jungle, and you were the animals in it. 

He fumbled you forward until his thighs hit the edge of something hard and wooden behind you. A gardener’s workbench — splintered, paint-stained, and the perfect height. His palms flattened on the table, caging you in with his body.

Your fingers flew to his shirt and yanked at his tie and collar, popping buttons and pulling threads in your haste to have him bare. Nanami’s teeth dragged along the shell of your ear, humid breath panting over your helix, only feeding the conflagrating inferno he’d kindled within you. And the sweetness on your tongue… 

You disconnected just long enough to shuck his shirt from his body, it fluttered down to the mud and you looked up at Nanami, dazed, light rippling strange. 

There was yellow on him. 

Smeared along his lower lip and brushed across one cheekbone. It passed from his mouth to yours when he kissed you again, a shimmer of gold imparted on your tongue that you accepted gleefully, like LSD swapped from one mouth to another in seedy nightclubs. You would not let him burn alone. You moaned into it, half-laughed against his lips when he nipped at the corner — you understood now. 

Heat flared and blossomed low in your belly, slow and syrup-sweet. Your skin tingled at every point of contact and you squirmed, needing more of it. 

“Mmmn—anami! ‘S’th’pollen—” you gasped. 

He grumbled something vaguely like: “Mmhm—“ into your mouth. Of course he already knew. 

He grabbed your thighs and shoved them apart, but you splayed open with ease, heels hiked up onto the table. Your pants were gone — ripped open, the wet fabric sheared from your body. You felt sweet pleasure throb between your legs, to not only be wanted but so utterly needed by him that all decency had fled and covered its eyes and ears. 

You were fuzzy and warm, your skin prickled and Nanami dropped to his knees — only briefly — tongue dragging a wet and hungry stripe up the seam of your soaked panties and let out a sandy growl. He traced the shape of your pussy once, twice, he sucked hard on the fabric and made you cry out, your fingers twisting in his hair when he abruptly stood. 

“Later,” he promised. 

He yanked your panties aside and gripped his cock — when had he even gotten it out? your head swam, you didn’t care — slick with precum and pulsing a furious purple, already lining up against you. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head and guiding your gaze downward like he wanted you to see it. 

“Talk to me,” he rasped, forehead pressing hard against your crown. “Don’t let me be selfish.” 

“I want you,” you pleaded. 

His hips snapped forward, spearing you open on his cock without fanfare or preamble, none of the pristine bedroom fantasy or lit candles. You howled, scrabbling at the rolling muscles of his back and he shushed you softly, the hand on your neck directed you into the crook of his to muffle your hiccup when he thrust again. 

You thought it should’ve hurt, but it didn’t. You felt stretched to the edge of your life and still you begged for more. 

Nanami’s jaw slackened, eyes glossy and unfocused, the scalding heat of you nearly buckling his knees. His nails bit into the table and he moaned into your ear in a way he distantly knew was undignified, but you only tightened around him and rolled your hips forward while he froze and recalibrated. 

“You—fuuu-aaa—“ he groaned and aborted the curse before it could form on his tongue, his body rewired. Then he moved, setting a brutal, unrelenting pace that jarred both of your bones. 

Your blood sang, sonnets sizzled in your veins as he dragged against you again and again, like Nanami had lit the match to the kindling the curse snuck into your blood. Every push of his hips jolted the table beneath you, rattling the rusted tools with every slam of his thighs against the edge. The pollen purred within you, satisfied and sated well before it could drive you to madness. The same could not be said for Nanami.

Every movement felt at odds with the next. He fucked you with an aggression that felt wholly departed from who you assumed Nanami to be, he pounded into you like he may die without it… you hadn’t ruled out that he still could.

Wood splintered and cracked under his fingers, brutally destructive just so the hand that held you could stay tender. It coiled in your hair, stroked you softly and smoothed circles behind your ear, and supported you when your spine arched so beautifully you would’ve toppled over without him.

A particularly hard thrust jolted the table and your heel slipped. You whined, but Nanami’s hand caught your thigh mid-slide. He adjusted you without breaking pace, hoisting your knee over his hip in one smooth motion and opening you deeper to his plunging cock. You keened and curled your other leg around his waist, digging your heel into the taut, dimpling muscle of his ass to spur him even deeper. 

You clenched around him instinctively, massaging him with the slick gushing of your cunt, and the way his cock jerked and the way the hiss punched out of his chest in a sputtering gale against your forehead felt like a reward. 

“Harder, Nanami—!” you sobbed, breathless and starving, tugging at his hair just to feel more of him when you dragged your lips over the thundering carotid in his throat. You nipped at his collarbone, his ear, lapped at the sensitive shell until he shuddered and bore down on you. 

He made a sound. You couldn’t tell if it was a choke or a laugh but, ever your servant, he obeyed. He snapped his hips into yours, sharp enough to drive you up the table with a startled, delighted cry. The next was rougher, meaner, like he sought to fuck you through the planks completely. You muffled your ecstatic hiccups and moans by biting his shoulder, grounding and soothing the itch in your games sated only by the firmness of his flesh. 

“Harder?” He breathed into your hair. 

He laid you back, one hand cushioning your head, the other bruising into your hip as he yanked you to the edge of the table and drove in deeper. He slipped down, buried his nose in your cheek and murmured. “Harder… okay. Harder? Is this harder?” 

You answered in the scrabble of your damp fingers in the gutters of his back, the flexing muscles carved up by your nails. You babbled curses that evaporated into pleas for more, every stroke of Nanami inside you devastated and shorted every neuron in your system. They snapped and sizzled and lit sporadically, galaxies swam behind your eyes.

Nanami’s precision was not confined only to his blade.

Every slam into you drove home the weeping head of his cock straight into the spot that reduced your brain to soup and static, knocking thoughts 

clean out of your skull to the applause of his soaked thighs smacking against your ass. You nodded, frantic as the nails that carved welts into his skin. 

“Wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he gasped into your temple. “Supposed to take you somewhere nice. Feed you… hold your hand. Tell you I—fuck—“ 

He should’ve taken you out first. Wined you, dined you, talked with you more, kissed you like a gentleman at your doorstep. Should’ve told you he fucking liked you. But he hadn’t, and now he was buried inside you, soaked in sweat and sin and rain and pollen, pounding into you like he’d perish if he stopped. 

But you were still smiling up at him, up at the quicksilver-lit canopy above whenever you flung your head back, your teeth bared to the heavens like you dared something to take this from you too. And you laughed between the cries that chipped from your chest, delighted in the ruining of you both. You welcomed the purple fingerprints tattooed on your hips. You relished the mercilessness Nanami took you with that you’d only ever seen from the sidelines with weapon in hand and with your lip secretly bitten between your teeth. 

Because you’d always known sorcerers don’t get forever. They barely got now. So you took what you could while you could, unlike he who rejected all those ephemeral indulgences as they came. But not this time. 

Because he wanted this. Nanami’s consciousness flickered, reeling deeper inward to the parts of himself the curse couldn’t steal. He’d always liked you, always been fond, he’d always privately held a candle for you and waited for you to notice. He called it respect. Retrospect called it cowardice. 

If he were better he would’ve founded a future on subtler hungers. The desire to see you smile over a note snuck into your purse, to be the one to light your face every day when he remembered your coffee order, to peel mandarins with his thumbs and offer you the slices, he’d hold your bag while you tried on coats you didn’t need because you’d just steal his anyway, and tell you you were beautiful without urgency gnashing at his throat compelling him to do so like an apology. 

You were supposed to have said yes to dinner first before he had you. He was supposed to have asked. 

And the worst part was that it was perfect, even like this. Even compelled by a curse, when his skin was so sensitive that he shook with agony with every buffet of your breath, he wanted you. 

And now that he had you, not gently or sweetly or after flowers or quiet dinners far away from the life you both lead, it felt like a theft committed by his own hands, and Nanami didn’t know how to reconcile how good it still felt. 

“Say it again,” he begged. 

“I wa-aaa-ant you!” You barely whimpered the words while he fucked the air from your lungs. 

You turned your head and he met your mouth like he needed to swallow the declaration, his tongue twined with yours and devoured every humid pant of breath puffed between you. 

You allowed him to use you. You thrilled with the knowledge that he did and you were helping. All the while Nanami kept trying to slow down, to hold back — to touch you gently and kiss you soft — but it always turned into grabbing and teeth. He cursed himself every time he thrust too hard or made you scream out too loud. 

He wanted to be better, and you never asked him to be. 

“Should’ve—hah!—taken you home. Would’ve made you breakfast. Let you sleep in my bed—I’d’ve stayed on the couch—“ 

His hand slammed onto the table beside your head and he bore down on you harder, his cock plowed into you frantically and with a tempo that had already begun to soak his thighs and turn the curled hair at the base of his cock dark. 

You mewled and writhed and begged, you looked at him with your heart in your eyes, and Nanami whimpered. He would’ve been embarrassed under any other circumstance, but under any normal circumstance he wouldn’t be here, and any regret that reality might inspire washed away with each moan he pulled from your throat. It couldn’t compare to the exquisite silk of your pussy, or the way you held onto him like you needed him, or how his balls drew up so tightly to his body that they’d begun to ache. 

The confessions cracked out of him in time with his hands skating down your calves. He gripped them and bent you in half, pressed your knees nearly to your ears so that your ankles rested on his broad, claw-scratched shoulders. 

“…Was going to kiss you on the train platform,” he panted, driving into you again. The angle made you feel him in your ribs and sprung shameless saliva to the corner of your mouth. “Was going to… gonna ask you to dinner next week—”

Nanami didn’t know if either of those were true, but god, he wanted them to be. He thought that they could’ve been, that good intentions could make up for this utter collapse of everything he thought you deserved. 

Your mouth dropped open in a raw, drawn-out moan. Your head tipped back away from him. He couldn’t bear it. 

His hand came to cradle your skull again, drawing your face back toward his; like holding you close might tether him back to time and sense. His forehead pressed hard against yours, eyes wide, glassy. Feverish. He saw it in your gaze, too — the same edge-of-the-cliff wildness. He wanted to exorcise this feralness from you both, he would set it right— 

Sweat rolled off his nose and landed on your cheek. You licked the next drop from his lip. 

He faltered. His brutal pace broke apart — sharp, erratic strokes as his hips stuttered against yours. His forehead fell to your shoulder and he growled your name into your skin, the syllables wrecked nearly beyond recognition. He wouldn’t last. 

The thing inside Nanami snapped taut — a final, fraying thread that gave way all at once, crashing with a violence that stole what little breath he still had. The thought of pulling out surged up like a scream, the responsible thing whispered the tiny kernel of coherence left to him, but it was inconceivable. Every instinct inside him recoiled from it. Unthinkable. He couldn’t leave your body. Couldn’t stop or finish anywhere else. 

He had to stay in. Had to finish inside you, or else it wouldn’t count. That was the shape of the madness now. The curse demanded its payment in gold and filthy glory. 

All he could do when his throat constricted and his spine bowed was stare at you, wrecked beyond reason, desperate — begging without words for understanding and permission you’d already given.

Your nails dug deep into his hips, pulling him deeper and dragging him home. 

“Pleasepleasepleasestay,” you whimpered, hot and humid against his cheek, your lashes suspended with tears. The sight of you like that, desperate with him, for him, unmade him. 

Nanami’s brow pulled tight with concentration, chasing the molten knot unraveling in his belly. It twisted and twisted tighter with every increasingly frantic thrust—

And then he came. He choked on his own tongue and sank his teeth into your shoulder to keep from sobbing your name; like it were some private, holy thing he didn’t deserve to taste. 

His arms crushed you to his chest and he rutted through each pulsing wave of his release, gasping helplessly against your spit-slick and heaving throat. You felt every hot rope of him spill, hips jerking with each contraction. 

He stayed buried until his whole body trembled with it and there was nothing left to give — and you followed him over. You tightened, sucking him and his spend deeper where it was meant to be, your functions hijacked to ensure optimal pollination. Your jaw hung loose and you panted, gasping and shuddering as you came in Nanami’s arms, every limb winding tight around him in a full-body embrace he was quick to return. 

Nanami’s voice broke apart in your throat — apologies, thanks, worship murmured and shaken into your skin between the flimsiest kisses to your cheeks and eyelids. You gentled him through it, fingers stroking through sweat-damp hair, whispering soft lines of praise and nothing-words down the length of his spine. 

You didn’t try to move. You wouldn’t have, even if you could. 

Pinned beneath him, sticky, raw and trembling, you felt a greater peace than you’d ever known. He was warm. He was alive. He was breathing steadier. 

Your fingers swept through his hair again, scratching gentle circles at the nape of his neck. You held him, because he let himself be held, too drained to resist your kindness. You would be selfish and clutch this moment jealously to your chest and hold it tight, because it may never come again. 

You were quiet when you finally whispered: “You okay?” 

He murmured in reply, the words muddled by the press of his lips against your throat. You think he nodded too. 

You could’ve stayed like that, snug and corseted to the table and still joined. 

Would’ve, if the shiver in his spine hadn’t given him away. It wasn’t pleasant, not the tremble of a final aftershock or an unwitting quiver from your soothing touch — it was a full-body quake that rolled through him like the thunder crashing outside, dragging a groan from the root of his chest. 

Nanami shifted and promptly froze. His breath caught and held, and you felt him bob and jerk between your thighs where his seed hadn’t even had the chance to cool. You shivered and felt that same warmth spread in your belly — roaring you straight back into reciprocity despite the overstimulated tremors that still quaked in your thighs. 

One time would not be enough. You pulled Nanami in to kiss you — content and resigned to your fate, happy to slake the thirst of the curse that compelled you both as many times as you needed to. 

You made it back to the path sometime before evening. 

Your palms were braced against the decorative iron fence that lined the water garden, slick with condensation and trembling under your grip with every sharp push of his hips. Nanami had you bent forward, forehead pressed to the crook of your elbow, trying to keep your voice even as you answered Ijichi’s twelfth panicked call.

No, you weren’t hurt.

Yes, the curse had been exorcised (mostly).

Yes, you were alive, and would likely remain that way until the roads cleared.

You could barely hear a word of his flustered assurances and apologies over the wet, relentless slap of Nanami’s hips against your ass and the low, rusty growls somewhat muffled between your shoulder blades. 

You thought maybe you told Ijichi to wait until morning… it would be safer for all three of you. You definitely remembered the moment Nanami nailed something so deep and perfect inside you that your vision went white around the edges and your half-formed sentences dissolved into a moan.

The phone hit the ground when you tried to cover your orgasmic cry with your hand. Neither of you reached for it again. 

You returned to the floor eventually, back to the bench you’d first ruined which barely still held upright. Nanami curled around you there for a while, forehead pressed to your nape, kissing your shoulders. 

Sometimes he shuddered and hoisted your thigh up over his hip and nudged the angry red head of his cock in again. Sometimes it was you who pulled him in, still greedy for the way he fit and begged for more. 

By the second hour he could kiss you without shaking. By the third, he asked “May I?” before entering you again. By the sixth, you were both soft with it, unguarded in the tender repetitions of how your bodies locked like freshly formed muscle memory. The gaps grew longer like the pauses between lightning and thunder, the storm — internal and external — grew distant. 

You’d slipped down onto the mossy bank beside the koi pond, Nanami half-draped over you and his brutally thick and red-scratched arm tucked protectively around your waist, his nose buried in your hair. He hadn’t moved in forty minutes. Neither had you. 

His heart beat slowed, no longer galloping in his chest. 

You traced lazy circles over the back of his hand, eyes half-closed. His other hand was still between your thighs, not moving, cupping your mound to keep what remained of him inside.

Eventually you would have to get up. You’d both rinse yourselves with a hose, pluck twigs and moss from your hair, collect what remained of your scattered clothing and your dignity; you’d find your phone and pray it still worked and call it a successful mission. 

But for now, you just let Nanami hold you and sleep. You didn’t rush morning, because with it would come reality, and you weren’t ready to return to it now that you’ve had this. 

There were far worse ways to die than in the mouth of something that worshiped you while it devoured. 

You finally felt like you’d lived.

The curse was declared Special Grade. Not Third, as the initial report had rather optimistically suggested. 

That was the conclusion both you and Nanami landed on — unanimously, unceremoniously, and with the unblinking eye contact that told Yaga not to press for elaboration. He didn’t. You were both unsettlingly united in your silence, offering only the vaguest consensus: it had incited erratic, potentially dangerous behavior in anyone it touched, and any future encounter with it should be treated with the same level of caution one might reserve for radioactive waste or a ticking bomb. 

And that it would be encountered again was the worst and most curious part. Because it refused to die. 

You’d both woken that morning to find the ground littered with soft pink bulbs scattered in the grass around your naked bodies like obscene confetti. It had propagated. Not vanished like a curse should — burned away by the exorcism and dissolved into ash — but spread. 

Spore-puffed and swaying gently in the breeze, those fuzzy seeds had taken root along the destruction wrought in yours and Nanami’s wake. Torn grass, split loam, splintered wood, the obscene clawed path your bodies had carved into the garden blossomed with pink witnesses while you slept. 

It was concerning enough to require a cleanup team which, naturally, turned out to be you and Nanami again; the only two people with any experience with the thing, as if that were a badge and not a fucking warning label. 

Nanami looked stone-carved through the whole meeting, posture rigid, jaw set. You still hadn’t even slept properly and it showed in the dark circles that bruised your eyes. Nanami only blinked back into motion when you offered, unequivocally, to go. 

Yaga nodded, satisfied. You’d return to work in a week. Enough time for your supposed ‘sprained ankle’ to heal. Nanami walked behind you out of the room, far enough to appear casual, but close enough to your back to subtly shield the tender limp that still hobbled your gait. 

“You got it worse than me,” you explained in the hall, already predicting and getting ahead of his dissatisfaction before he could voice it. “It makes sense. I’ll be careful.” 

Nanami grunted. Not disagreement, but far from enthusiastic. You slowed your stride just enough to let him fall beside you instead of behind. 

“I know you’re careful,” he said after a pause. And then after a longer one he continued, quieter. “I need you to come back.” 

You blinked and glanced aside with a smile. “That’s a little dramatic, isn’t it?” 

“It’s not,” he insisted. “Not after that.” 

The hall felt narrower somehow, or maybe you just walked closer together than before. Your shoulder brushed his, and neither of you shifted to make space. 

“I’m fine,” you said. “We’re fine. We’ve been through worse, and I have a whole week off first—“ 

“That’s not the point.” 

He stopped walking and gently touched your elbow, halting you beside him. His face was as stern as you’ve ever known it, but the concern was new. He was stern for you. You were a priority of his now. 

“I know,” you smiled, soft and sweet. “But I think you know why it should be me.” 

His tie was crooked. You reached out to fix it without thinking, fingers brushing the sliver of his throat and he didn’t flinch. 

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he said quietly. 

“You’re right, you don’t have to like it,” you agreed. You dropped your hand and let your fingers graze his knuckles as you turned. 

“But I’ll call you,” you grinned. “Even if I just stub my toe.” 

“I’d prefer if you didn’t stub anything.” 

You snorted and kept walking ahead. “Then I’ll call when I’m done,” you said over your shoulder, “so you can pick me up yourself. Make sure I’m still in one piece.”

You heard him sigh and hearth-fire warmth fluttered in your belly at the sound. It was fond, you could tell the difference now. “Thank you,” he murmured when he caught up to you. “I’d appreciate that.” 

He was like that now — trying not to hover or smother, even when everything in him clearly ached to. You figured he wasn’t above begging for it either if you denied him. You could see it in the way his muscles melted when you let him walk you home, how he lingered by your door like he was debating whether it would still be inappropriate to ask to come inside. 

He still believed he had something to make up for, despite your insistence that he didn’t — none of it was his fault, he wasn’t himself. But you let him carry things for you so he wouldn’t combust with the instinct to provide, walk behind you on stairs, keep pace even when you were limping from the soreness between your thighs — no matter how pleasant you insisted you found it. 

You let him show his affection by fireproofing your life. You didn’t think it was penance really, it was just Kento finally letting himself have something he wanted. 

That thought was what warmed you now, even more than the midday sun hammering relentlessly through the greenhouse panels above and bleaching the once dark world in gold and glare. You could barely see — every exhale fogged your hazmat visor from the inside out with humid claustrophobic air. 

You knelt anyway, slow and aching, fingers clumsy in your inch-thick gloves as you reached into the grass, plucking another bulb loose. It made no protest as you dropped it into the biohazard bin tucked under your arm where it joined twenty seven others. 

You snapped the lid of the bin shut with a clean, hollow click. Twenty eight collected, and one cursed seed line severed. Satisfaction unspooled through your limbs, rivaling the unpleasant wet cling of your suit suctioned to every drenched inch of your skin like a second rubbery epidermis. 

You peeled it down to your waist as you walked and tied the sleeves around your hips. The first lungful of real air hit like cold water, miles better than what you’d been cycling through for hours. 

You’d combed every inch of the place as thoroughly as you could from top to bottom. You peered into every branch, nook, and under rocks, you crawled through shrubs and slogged through the pond, startling the fish inside.

It was done. Cleaned up, secured, and like nothing had even happened here.

Halfway down the main path, right where the pond reeds ended and parted into a low dip in the earth, you found the straggler. 

Nestled in a shallow rut in the mulch, half curled beneath a dead leaf, was one last seed pod, the pink fuzz catching the sun like a guilty blush. Small, soft, stupidly innocent looking. A liar. 

You plucked it gently like it might bruise and cradled it in your gloved palm. It didn’t pulse, didn’t glow or hum or do anything ominous. It just sat there, quiet and perfect and deceptively innocuous if not for the faintest crackle of cursed energy flickering in its core. 

Of course, you knew better. 

You’d spent the entire day retracing the path Nanami had taken you down while under the control of the seeds predecessor. The exact path in fact where he’d torn your pants and bent you over a lichen-covered bench. Where he’d fucked you against the side of a smooth gum tree that splintered under your palms. Where he’d dropped to his knees in the dirt and pulled you against his mouth and begged you to sit and almost wept when you did. 

Every scuff in the dirt and broken branch and shred of cloth you found in your hunt made you blush. 

It should’ve been a disaster. You were prepared to be mortified. Instead… You actually had fun. 

The messy, reckless, potentially career-ending — kind of fun. The mud under your nails, bruises gone yellow in the shape of his hands, and a soreness you hadn’t walked off for three full days — kind of fun.

Laughter was plentiful in between — giddy and incredulous and feral from the high of it all, and when it was over, both of you returned to your rattled senses, stunned, and he’d pulled you close and told you the truth and you’d done the same. The flower had stripped you both naked and away from the boundaries you’d both clung to like cliff edges, but you came out better for it. 

Someday it might grow into something monstrous, a supernatural biohazard just waiting to erupt and wreak havoc over whatever place it took root in.

But today, it was just a seed.

And you couldn’t resent the seed for making your life a little better.

You looked over your shoulder. The path behind you was empty, no Nanami, no higher-ups scanning you for signs of moral degradation. 

You peeled open the seal on your suit pocket and slipped the pod inside. 

You already had orchids, foxglove, ivy, a whole collection of unlikely survivors you’ve lovingly coaxed into life. 

One more wouldn’t hurt. 

Not if you were careful and kept it contained, and not if, someday, maybe you wanted to feel that way again. 

The forecast was probably beautiful again. 

You wouldn’t know for sure. You stopped checking. 

The curtains were already open anyways, not by you, letting summer pour into the room like honey from a warm spoon. Light slid across the hardwood, touched the rug and kissed the walls. Your hoodie had more holes now, sleeves frayed to thready fringe, but was still soft and comforting even after too many washes. Your slippers had made it too — barely, and one had a flap that liked to catch on rug corners. 

You misted your snake plant with one hand and stretched until you popped with the other. The ficus got its usual pat. The ivy, still greedy, still trying to colonize the bookshelf and currently strangling a decorative candle holder, got another threat. But you’re more bark than bite these days. 

The deja vu hit you halfway through rotating your pothos. 

Your eyes darted sideways to where your phone lay on the coffee table, face-down and silent. For a moment you expected it to vibrate that familiar circle across the woodgrain and jolt your heart like a defibrillator, forcing you to leap half-dressed into whatever fresh hell to which you’ve been 

summoned. 

But it didn’t, and you smiled. 

The world would keep spinning — or not — with or without your permission. And you’d decided quite firmly that neither outcome was your responsibility today. 

The front door clicked open behind you, keys jangling a second before quiet footsteps padded inside — their cadence as familiar as the thump of the leather shoes being toed off in the entryway. 

“I thought we were out of coffee,” Nanami said by way of hello. “We were. And they just restocked the one you like.” 

You didn’t turn, still misting but now with a wider smile. “You didn’t have to go all that way on my behalf.” 

“I was awake.” 

You heard the rustle of a bag, the clink of two cups and the familiar glide of his jacket being hung neatly on his hook. 

Nanami passed behind you and pressed a kiss against your cheek. It still sent a spark down your spine like it was new. 

“There’s dorayaki in the bag,” he said near your ear, enticing and flirtatious. “Don’t touch the one in foil. It’s mine.” 

“Noted—” 

“—and don’t lie about it this time—” 

“I make no promises.” 

He hummed and settled off to your left on the couch while you reached for the last pot. 

It was cleaner than the others, the terracotta was still vivid, its surface clean and unmarred by scuffs or mineral streaks. The leaves were shy things, curled at the tips like closed hands, still young enough to be cautious. 

But they were changing. When you touched them they shivered, unfurling just for you. The red had started softening already, bleeding out to 

a more agreeable pink at the edges. 

It took root faster than you expected. Stronger, too. You already had to re-pot it three times. It refused to be small. 

But it would not outgrow this pot. You’d make sure of it. 

Still, as you glanced up at Nanami, his legs crossed, glasses low on his nose, his attention half on the book in his hand and half on you, always, you smiled. 

It could still be plenty of fun. 

As long as you were careful.

[pookalicious-hq]

super ultra modern girl... miya atsumu x reader

masterlist <3 synopsis: you built an empire—Hibi.co, a global brand rooted in community, creativity, and empowerment. you’ve been on billboards, podcasts, magazine covers. but this? this program for young female athletes? this is the most personal thing you’ve ever done. with the biggest stage of your career just around the corner and Japan watching, you don’t have time for distractions. especially not a certain golden-haired volleyball star who suddenly won’t stop showing up… tags: timeskip!haikyuu , swearing , ceo!mc, chappell roan coded, ROMCOM! word count: 9800~

a/n: Hey loves so in an ideal world everything lines up but unfortunately i wanted to make this fic in this day and age, lets say like, characters like mc, atsumu, sakusa, everyone who was originally born in 1996 is now born in 1998. And in 2025 they’re now 27 years old. That being said the current roster for both alders AND jackals are the rosters from 2018-2019.

The screen of her watch read 8:12 a.m.

More precisely: Monday, May 14th, 2022, 8:12 a.m.

Just beneath it, a soft buzz lit up the sleek company-issued display:

MEETING: 8:20 A.M. HIBI-SAN WILL BE ATTENDING.

Her stomach dropped so hard it bounced off her ankles.

The train lurched into Harajuku Station, its doors gliding open with all the calm detachment of someone not about to lose their job. She moved on reflex, shouldering past the suited salaryman beside her and launching herself onto the platform. Her tote bag caught mid-swing on someone’s elbow, nearly slinging her sideways, but she untangled herself with a breathless apology and bolted.

She didn’t need caffeine. Her pulse was already singing in her ears. Because Hibi-san was going to be in the meeting, and she was going to walk in looking like a gremlin pulled from a drip coffee machine.

She sprinted through the station, weaving through half-asleep commuters and dodging a delivery cart with a tray of steaming bread. Her shirt stuck to her back, humid heat already curling through the fabric—and as if that wasn’t enough, the top half of the button-up was still visibly stained from the oat milk latte she’d exploded across herself at 7:03 a.m.

Of course, on any other day, it wouldn’t matter.

Hibi-san was the kind of CEO who encouraged people to dress how they wanted. Patterns. Colors. Texture. Self-expression over polish. One of her most-quoted lines from an old podcast episode was: “No one thinks clearly when they’re dressed like someone they’re not.”

She’d once seen someone wear a silk dress and cowboy boots to a planning session. Nobody blinked.

But even in that freedom, there were rules. And rule number one?

Don’t be late. Especially not when Hibi-san is on the call.

Hibi HQ came into view just as her legs started to ache. The building looked less like a tech campus and more like something out of a luxury design magazine—five stories of curved glass and pale concrete, bathed in soft light that always seemed to hit just right. There were vines hanging artfully down the corners, planters spilling lavender and white moss, and the smell of fresh jasmine wafting from somewhere near the base.

This month’s front display was already swarmed with tourists: 

The HIBI logo, sculpted entirely from fresh-cut seasonal florals—peach ranunculus, soft garden roses, pale blue delphiniums—wrapped around a holographic butterfly projection that flitted through petals like some enchanted breeze.

She barely looked at it.

The only thing she could focus on was how badly she was going to stick out in a room full of stylists, editors, and strategists wearing soft linen blazers and custom heels.

Inside, the building smelled like cedarwood and cooled marble.

The floor plan opened like a daydream: wide archways, curved walls, digital art that shifted slowly along the corridor walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast golden light across the room. Overhead, matte brass light panels glowed in a shade specifically calibrated to mimic 9 a.m. sun. Everything felt intentional. Calming. Elegant.

She took the elevator alone. Finally, a moment to breathe.

As the doors slid shut, she adjusted her collar, trying and failing to fold it over the oat milk stain.

8:17 a.m.

God, please let her be late too, she thought.

Of course, she wouldn’t be. Hibi-san was never late.

The elevator glided upward with a soft hum. She tried to distract herself by looking at her own reflection in the brushed panelling, but it only made her stress worse. Her hair was frizzy. Her tote bag had left a red dent on her shoulder. Her lip tint was uneven.

And on top of all that, she was about to sit in a room with a woman who’d built a literal empire from scratch before the age of thirty.

No one really knew everything about Hibi-san—she was private. Composed. Classy. She’d only done a handful of interviews in the early years, and even those were legendary. Her voice was soft, clear, and a little playful. She made offhand jokes that somehow ended up quoted on Pinterest moodboards for years. Someone once said if she hadn’t built an empire, she could’ve been a comedian or a cult leader.

She had three degrees and a PhD. Business, computer science, and cognitive science—or something like that. Nobody could ever agree on which came first.

And yet, she wasn’t intimidating until she wanted to be. That was the scariest part.

She was... effortless. Like she knew what someone was thinking before they did. Like she didn’t need to raise her voice to make anyone want to be better.

As a completely irrelevant assistant, she’d only spoken to Hibi-san three times since getting hired eight months ago—and each time felt like she was being granted an audience with royalty. Not that she acted like royalty. No. She remembered names. She laughed. She asked if your little sister liked the internship you helped her apply for. She’d once complimented this random girl’s earrings, and she’d gone home and cried.

Because even with her success—even with her global press, speaking engagements, and full control of a top-tier company—Hibi-san was kind.

And that kindness was why being late felt like betrayal.

8:19 a.m.

The elevator doors opened onto the fifth  floor. She walked out into the soft hush of high-end silence. The hallway stretched forward in muted champagne tones and warm wood flooring, with frosted glass panels catching glimmers of morning light.

She turned left, pushed through the doors of Meeting Room A—

And instantly felt sixteen pairs of eyes lock onto her like lasers.

She smiled. Weakly. She did not slow down. Her shoes clicked across the floor as she hurried to the side of the room, where a second assistant had already laid out the prep documents.

The coffee stain felt like it had grown. The inside of her shirt collar was damp with sweat. Someone from HR made a small, pointed noise. Another exec raised a brow and looked at the wall clock, as if to say, Really? Again?

She ducked her head and opened her tablet, syncing to the presentation.

This room wasn’t cold or intimidating. It was filled with hand-painted mugs, pastel laptops, scattered matcha bottles, cold brews and colour-coded notebooks. The art on the walls was rotated monthly, chosen from submissions across the company's global employees. There were plants. Real ones. Growing in geometric terrariums that hung from the ceiling like soft, slow chandeliers.

But all of that still disappeared when she arrived.

8:20 a.m.

The wall screen flickered on with a single, crisp chime. The room slipped into an instant hush. Chairs straightened. A quiet murmur of, “Here we go,” rippled through the air.

The screen brightened—soft white bleeding into warm cream—before the logo appeared. HIBI. Calm. Controlled. Effortlessly poised, as if it held all the time in the world.

Then: A voice. Smooth. Confident. Familiar.

Your voice.

“Good morning, I hope you’re all doing well” you said, the corners of your lips lifting into a smile—the very woman everyone here would follow into battle without hesitation. “As of today, HIBI.co will be starting a new project.”

Two years later.

At 6:30 a.m., the sun started to slowly bleed into the night’s blanket of blue. It was that fragile moment—the edge between yesterday’s accomplishments and the quiet hope of a new day. This was your favourite time for morning jogs, when the world still felt soft and untouched. The streets were almost empty, save for a few early risers and the birds waking up to the first warm light. A lone squirrel darted across the sidewalk, and the cool air smelled faintly of jasmine and fresh earth.

You inhaled deeply, savouring the calm, your footsteps light against the pavement. It was a moment of peace, a rare bubble of stillness before the noise of the day took hold.

But, as always, that peace was shattered about thirty minutes in, right when your phone buzzed with that all-too-familiar ring.

The voice on the other end was sharp, impatient—a slick marketing exec who never seemed to tire of doubting your vision.

“Look, I don’t see how this is going to work without more concrete data,” he barked, immediately pulling you from the sunrise calm. No greeting, no respect, just an angry old man who couldn’t see anything past his own ego. “You can’t just throw money at ‘good intentions’ and expect investors to keep buying in.”

Your pace faltered for a split second, but you caught yourself. “Good morning to you as well, Kaito-san.” Your voice was laced with a thick layer of condensation. “I believe we’ve talked about this already. We’ve already shown growth. Hundreds of women were impacted. Events. A TEDx talk. Do you want the reports, or do you want me to remind you why this matters?”

His sigh was heavy, dismissive. “You’re passionate, sure. But passion doesn’t pay the bills.”

You clenched your jaw, the serenity of earlier already bleeding from your chest like the night sky had from the horizon. 

“Passion drives change. That’s the whole point.”

You turned a corner onto the narrow street that led to your building. The sunrise had officially traded in its softness for something warmer, now brighter, almost sharp. The kind of light that left long gold streaks on car windows and turned the sidewalk into a low, simmering stove beneath your shoes.

The air was still cool in the shade, but your skin had started to gather a slick sheen of sweat. You reached up, pulled your cap off, and shook out your hair, fingertips pressing into your scalp, trying to will the frustration out before it stuck to your spine.

Your feet hit the pavement with rhythmic slaps—faster now, more impatient. The cement still held the chill of night in some places, but patches of it were already warming beneath the early sun. A stray cicada buzzed from somewhere in the bushes.

And then Kaito-san kept talking.

“With this new camp, or workshop, or... whatever playdate you’re calling it,” he said, voice smirking, “the investors aren’t going to be thrilled unless there’s at least one male athlete involved. Ideally two. Balanced optics: two women, two men.”

You stopped walking.

Not because you were shocked—he’d pulled this kind of nonsense before—but because you needed a second to exhale. To let the heat from your body settle instead of spike.

“It’s not a playdate,” you said, voice steady and flat. “It’s a professionally structured, research-backed workshop designed by athletes, for athletes.”

“That may be,” he said, with the easy smugness of someone who’d never had to second-guess his own authority, “but the demographic data shows—”

“The data you’re referencing is outdated and doesn’t apply to the target audience,” you cut in.

You stepped back into motion, the gravel under your running shoes crunching lightly as you moved.

“This is a female-led initiative. It’s meant to create space in an industry where women are still routinely talked over, ignored, or… shoved aside for optics.”

You reached the front of your building just as the sunlight crested fully over the rooftops, bathed in warm gold, sharp light bouncing off the glass like a flashbulb.

“We are not going to dilute that mission for a sense of performative balance,” you said. “If we do bring in male athletes, it’ll be because they understand what the space is for—not to appease people who think inclusion means equality at the cost of intention.”

He made a noise like he was gearing up to argue again, but you’d already keyed in the security code.

The building door clicked open, the cool blast of air conditioning rushing to greet your overheated skin like a sigh of relief.

You stepped inside. Closed the door behind you.

“Now, Kaito-san,” you said, calm and final. “If you'd like those reports, I’ll have Akaashi send them over this afternoon. Otherwise, I suggest you catch up.”

And before he could say a word, you ended the call.

You stared at the black screen of your phone for a long second.

Kaito’s voice still lingered somewhere in your head, oily and loud and always so sure of itself. The kind of man who never reads your proposals but still has critiques. The kind of man who’d never started a damn thing in his life but somehow thought he was qualified to question yours.

You took a slow breath.

No. You weren’t going to let a greasy old executive with too much cologne and too little vision ruin your morning.

You were a Hibiya for fuck’s sake .

You built a global brand with your own two hands. Graduated with three degrees before the age of twenty-five. And somewhere in between building a company, speaking at conferences, designing tech systems for communication, and running leadership seminars, you’d somehow managed to earn a PhD in Human Interactions and Strategic Design—because if there was one thing you understood better than any of them, it was people.

And more importantly: how to build something that actually mattered to them.

You exhaled, the tension in your spine easing just a fraction as the elevator doors slid open in front of you. You pressed the button for your floor and leaned against the side panel, letting your head rest back against the cool brushed metal.

This month—this month —you were about to launch the most personal, most ambitious part of the entire Hibi initiative:

An in-person training camp and workshop for young female athletes.

Not just a one-day event. Not just a donation and a social media post.

An immersive, multi-week experience. A space with real mentorship, physical and emotional training, guest speakers, recovery specialists, financial coaching, and even psychological prep for competing under pressure. The kind of thing you never got to see growing up, not once.

A space where girls could learn how to win—and what it meant to win on their own terms.

You’d been planning it for two years and dreaming about it since you were 15. Pulling resources. Building partnerships. Studying athlete burnout and dropout rates across different prefectures. Even the location had been chosen with care: accessible, safe, community-centred.

It wasn’t just a workshop. It was infrastructure. Something that might outlive you.

The elevator chimed softly as it reached your floor.

You stepped out, unlocked the door to your apartment, and let it close behind you with a dull click.

And then—without bothering to kick off your shoes—you let your bag drop and slowly lowered yourself to the floor.

The hardwood was cool against your back, the only thing not warm and spinning.

You stared at the ceiling, arms splayed out, phone still clutched loosely in one hand.

God. You were exhausted.

Not from the run. Not even from Kaito, really.

But from the everything of it. The constant push. The need to prove this thing you were building wasn’t just about your name or your face, but about creating something that would still be standing long after you stopped showing up in meetings.

And the part that got to you?

You were actually doing it.

Every single day, you were doing it.

You stayed on the floor longer than you meant to.

The smooth hardwood was cool against the overheated skin on the back of your arms. Your ponytail was starting to stick to your neck. One shoe had half-fallen off. You were still holding your phone in your right hand, like you might toss it across the room if Kaito’s voice echoed in your head again.

And then— click, click, click.

Small footsteps. Then a pause. Then, heavier, deliberate ones behind them.

You didn’t even lift your head. Just closed your eyes.

Dango got to you first.

You felt the warmth of her fur before you heard her huff, that familiar breathy uff she made whenever she found you lying down like this. Her massive Samoyed body plopped down beside you, shaking the floor ever so slightly. A puff of her snowy coat spread across your chest as she nudged her nose into your jaw and exhaled like she understood everything.

You smiled weakly. “Hi, baby.”

A second later, the sharper, quicker taps of claws on wood returned.

Maru.

All black. All attitude. She skidded a little as she reached your side and didn’t hesitate—she climbed right up onto your chest like a queen scaling a defeated enemy. Her tiny, warm body settled on your sternum, tail flicking once, then curling around herself.

She let out one short bark. Not concerned. Just as annoyed as a weiner dog could be.

You didn’t even open your eyes. “Love you too, Maru.”

And then—

A soft, unimpressed meow.

You cracked one eye open and tilted your head just enough to see the kitchen counter.

There she was.

Winnie. Or, more often, Poo.

Her light brown fur shimmered gold in the sun filtering through the east-facing window, and her soft folded ears made her wide eyes look even rounder than usual. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared, like she was judging your entire existence from atop the marble.

She didn’t come closer. She never did when Dango was lying down—she knew she’d be smothered by love and fluff within seconds, and she acted like she was above said act. Instead, she tucked her paws under her belly with the elegance of a well-fed shrine cat and blinked slowly at you, her tail thudding lazily against the counter behind her.

You were surrounded by warmth. Alive. Safe. Loved.

And still… there was something pulling at you. Not bad. Not empty. Just… heavy.

Your muscles had long since cooled down from your jog. You could still taste the last of the sports drink on your tongue, could feel where the edge of your waistband was digging into your hip. The adrenaline from the call had drained completely, leaving you in the shape of yourself but just slightly too tired to move.

And yet.

Even here, even like this—you knew it was worth it.

You’d built this. All of it. From scratch.

At twenty-four, you’d walked across a stage in heels that didn’t fit and accepted your third degree.

At twenty-six, your brand exploded into global markets.

At twenty-eight, you were about to launch the single most meaningful program of your life.

An in-person training camp and workshop for young female athletes.

Not a half-baked brand partnership or a glorified ad campaign. A real thing. Designed for growth. Made for girls who needed guidance, training, rest, and confidence. Girls who deserved more than what you’d had at their age.

You’d pulled in data from dropout rates and injury recovery timelines. You’d studied the mental health impact of competitive environments and built a curriculum that wasn’t just about performance, but about staying whole while doing it.

This was what you wanted since you played in that old run-down court. Since you first learned how to set a ball in the non-profit club your dad founded.

And this was what you got.

And still…

A small ache pressed at the back of your ribs, quiet but persistent.

You thought about your best friend since undergrad. Always calm, always two steps ahead, always knowing when to check in and when to give you space. All those qualities that lead you to hire him as your manager.

Akaashi had finally made it official with his boyfriend.

They’d been together almost two years. Quietly, then openly. You were happy for them. You were. Truly.

But a few weeks ago, he’d sent you a picture from some beachside restaurant in Okinawa—chopsticks in one hand, cocktail in the other. The corner of the photo had caught his boyfriend’s hand on his wrist. Just a thumb, a little curved smile, a casual touch.

And something about it had hit you in the gut. Not jealousy, you gave him the vacation for their anniversary. Not even envy, you wished Akaashi all the best in life, he deserved it..

Just… the feeling.

That tiny, lingering question: Is this all I get?

Because you had love. You had people who admired you. A national team. Respect. Purpose. You had dogs who followed you from room to room. A cat who sat in judgment and still chose you every night.

But sometimes—when the work ended and the sun came up and there was no one to eat breakfast with— You wondered.

Was this the life you were supposed to want?  Or just the one you knew how to build?

Maru shifted on your chest, letting out a tiny grunt.  Dango sighed, rolling into your side and tucking her chin over your shoulder like a bear.

Winnie blinked again from the counter.

You stared up at the ceiling.

And slowly— very slowly—you let your free hand drift up to rest on Maru’s warm little back. Your fingers curled into her fur as your eyelids fluttered closed again.You were here. You were tired. And still—

You weren’t done yet. And when your phone buzzed in your hand, screen lighting up with a familiar name, you didn’t even lift your head.

Maru’s butt was firmly pressed into your cheek. She had jumped up with all the grace of a sack of flour and miscalculated her angle, which led to the unfortunate reality of her bak end planted directly on your face. You tried to nudge her gently, but she only grumbled, circled once like she owned the place (she did), and settled on your sternum like a princess atop her throne.

Meanwhile, Dango—who had approximately the spatial awareness of a couch cushion—had decided your body made a perfectly acceptable dog bed. You could still breathe, barely. Her full weight stretched across your torso like a warm, fluffy avalanche. Her snout rested on your collarbone. She sighed, deeply, and drooled a little.

You gave up. One hand reached upward from the chaos and tapped the green button.

“Morning, Keiji,” you said, voice muffled by fur and defeat.

“Morning,” came Akaashi’s voice—smooth, even, unmistakably polished. You could hear the faint clack of keys in the background, the signature rhythm of him working. He was probably already seated at his favourite café with his laptop open, headphones in, doing three things at once.

“You sound like you’ve been steamrolled,” he added.

“I was,” you mumbled. “By Dango. And misogyny.”

“Ah,” he said without missing a beat. “Two sides of the same coin.”

You sighed through your nose. Dango shifted slightly and tucked her head deeper into the crook of your neck, clearly intent on making this a long-term stay. Maru, for her part, had begun to twitch in her sleep, one paw jerking every few seconds against your ribs. You were 85% sure she was dreaming of fighting god.

“Anyway,” Akaashi continued, casually over the sound of more typing, “I was going over the meeting notes and something interesting came up. Do you remember that random assistant girl? The one who always had a new coffee stain every time she walked into a room?”

You blinked at the ceiling. Winnie, from her perch on the kitchen counter, stared back at you with those folded Scottish Fold ears and an expression of withering judgment. She flicked her tail once. She knew better than to get close when Dango was in full-body cling mode.

“Oh my god,” you said slowly. “Yeah. Wait—what was her name…”

A pause.

“…Suzuki Ayame,” you said finally, pushing yourself up halfway. Dango let out a groan but didn’t move. You wiggled your hips, and Maru slid to the side with an offended grunt. “She had that cat with the permanent angry face. You remember? The one she brought to Zoom once by accident?”

“She named it after her ex,” Akaashi said calmly. “Which is probably why it had that face.”

You snorted. “Right. What about her?”

“She just sent over a document and a pitch deck. Potential athlete profiles for the training camp. Notes from yesterday’s meeting, with expanded logistics for invite criteria. It’s good. Like, scary good. It’s structured like something you’d make.”

That snapped you out of your fog.

“She did that?” you asked, propping yourself on your elbows now. “I knew she had potential. That’s amazing.”

“She also colour-coded the whole thing,” Akaashi added. “Which is how I know she’s a little unwell.”

You hummed. “Our kind of unwell.”

The warmth only lasted a moment. The earlier phone call leaked back into your chest like a draft under a locked door.

You rubbed your face with one hand and let the other stroke Dango’s soft fur. “Well. We might need her deck more than we thought. I just got off the phone with the greasy fuck—”

“Saito-san?” Akaashi guessed instantly.

“Bingo,” you muttered. “He wants ‘balanced optics.’ Two women, two men. Said no one’s going to fund a ‘female-led fantasy’ unless we make room for the men.”

There was a pause on the other end.

Then: “Does he know the name of the program is literally HER Game Plan ?”

You groaned. “I said passion drives change, and he said passion doesn’t pay bills. So, no. He’s never known anything in his life.”

Akaashi sighed like someone who had been carrying the weight of the patriarchy since birth. “I guess we’re going to need a new strategy. I’ll be at yours in an hour. We’ll go through Suzuki’s list and see if we can keep the integrity intact and satisfy the misogyny.”

You let your head fall back onto the floor with a low thud. Above you, Winnie blinked slowly, like she couldn’t believe she shared a home with you.

“I’ll shower,” you mumbled.

“Please do,” Akaashi said. “Respectfully.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, now fuck off before I fire you..”

“Too late,” he said, the faint sound of a screenshot clicking in the background. “I already quit when you threw your popcorn at me last Friday.”

The line went dead.

You let your arm flop to the floor and stared up at the ceiling.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Shower. Then fuck them all up.”

Dango finally rolled off you with a satisfied groan, plopping to the side like a weighted blanket sliding off a bed.

Maru stretched, sneezed dramatically, and hopped down with a little thud-thud-thud of toenails on the wood floor.

Winnie remained on the counter, tail flicking, judgment absolute.

You pushed yourself up, slow but determined.

Time to rise. Time to fight.

Time to fix the world you loved and hated.

By the time you emerged from the bathroom, skin fresh and glowing from a quick rinse and a mint-scented mask, Akaashi was already seated on your couch like he owned the place.

Pooh—Winnie, but only when she felt like listening—was curled comfortably in his lap, tail tucked around her paws like royalty. Akaashi hadn’t moved an inch. One arm rested along the back of the couch, the other held your iPad with surgical precision. He looked like a man casually solving world peace before 10 AM.

You blinked. “What did you bribe my cat with?”

He didn’t even look up. “Nothing. She just respects me.”

“She doesn’t respect anyone.”

“She respects herself. And by extension, me.”

You sighed, padding back into the bathroom. “You’re getting a face mask.”

“Can I have the cucumber one—”

“Yeah, hold on. I’m not used to being the assistant here.”

You returned with the container and slapped it gently into his palm. He took it with the resigned grace of a man who knew resistance was futile.

Ten minutes later, you were both seated at the kitchen island, iced coffee in hand and matching green face masks on like a two-person spa summit. A document was open on the screen between you, color-coded, terrifyingly efficient.

“She sent this just now?” you asked, scrolling through Suzuki Ayame’s newly expanded pitch deck.

Akaashi nodded. “I told her about the investor issue. She had the draft done in ten minutes. Sorted by sport, availability, social relevance. Agent contacts included. Media-friendly profiles are marked in blue.”

You blinked. “Remind me to give her a raise. And a coffee. And possibly my job.”

“She’s your child,” Akaashi said. “Emotionally speaking.”

You smiled but didn’t answer, already drawn in.

You’d already chosen your female athletes. Amanai Kanoka had been a no-brainer. Beloved, outspoken, consistent. The second—Shōko Hirugami, an up-and-coming libero—was lesser-known, but fierce. You remembered reading her open letter about league harassment late one night and knowing immediately: Her. She’s ready.

Now came the hard part.

You scrolled past swimmers, track stars, a fencer with 2.5 million followers and a glossy PR team. Then—

Motoya Komori. Libero. EJP Raijin.

You paused.

“I know that name,” you murmured.

Akaashi leaned slightly toward the screen. “EJP. He’s their libero. Underrated, but solid.”

You nodded slowly. “No, I mean—I know of it. The team.”

Akaashi’s fingers stilled on his mug. “Probably because he plays with Suna Rintarou.”

That name lodged itself into the moment.

Your old neighbor.

You hadn’t thought about Suna in—god, how long? Not since your move to Tokyo. Not since he helped carry your final box to the cab the summer before university. You weren’t close—not close enough to call, or text, or update. But there’d been familiarity. Years of growing up across the street, grabbing each other’s takeout by accident, being stuck on the same train platform in the middle of a snowstorm once, silent except for the way your shivers matched.

Just enough to know him. Just enough to still keep tabs on what people from high school were doing.

You always did. Not because you missed them, necessarily. But because it helped to know where you came from. You knew exactly who worked where. Who got married. Who moved abroad. Who quit volleyball. You were sure they knew about you , too.

Still, that didn’t mean you were going to start calling people out of the blue.

You had a schedule. You had a company. You had, arguably, too many pets.

And yet… your eyes lingered on Komori’s profile a second longer than they needed to.

Just long enough to wonder what it would feel like to bring a piece of “then” into “now.”

By now, you and Akaashi are still seated at the kitchen island. Your coffee’s watered down with melted ice, Winnie’s tail is flicking across your screen, and Maru is chewing on the corner of a pen you’re absolutely going to forget was in her mouth.

You’ve already skimmed through Suzuki’s athlete list. Rejected every name. You’re not ready to compromise—not yet.

So instead, you pivot.

“Let’s move on,” you say, rubbing under your eye where the last bit of mask has flaked. “Show me the press kits.”

Akaashi’s already on it. He pulls up the media folder Suzuki compiled for the HER Game Plan rollout.

There are mockups for digital billboards. Sneaker collabs. Quotes overlaid in soft color gradients. A tagline in Hiragana that melts your heart because it’s from your first-ever pitch deck. The one you made in a café at 2am on a rainy Thursday night.

You smile. Quietly.

“She really did all this overnight?”

“She’s terrifying,” Akaashi says again, nodding with affection. “I might leave you for her.”

“Good. Maybe she’ll listen when I say I want more peach in the gradient.”

You both scroll in silence for a beat. Then, something new catches your eye: a press lineup sheet—simple, clean, marked “ENDORSEMENTS / MEDIA PARTNERSHIPS – TENTATIVE.”

“Oh,” Akaashi says. “That one came from our PR team. They’re working with the campaign photographers. Thought it might help get more traction if we had a few male athletes publicly supporting the program. Non-participant features only.”

You nod. Makes sense. Visibility was always part of the strategy. You skim the list.

Keita Yamamoto – Olympic gold swimmer

Hiro Akiyama – F1 racer

Ryusei Shurou – Track + Field champion

Atsumu Miya – Pro volleyball setter, MSBY Jackals

You blinked.

Then swiped past.

“Anyone confirmed yet?” you ask, like the name meant nothing .

Akaashi doesn’t even look up. “Just the swimmer. Everyone else is still in talks. They’re filming something low-stakes. B-roll. Interviews in support of the program. No one’s joining the team.”

“Right.” You nod again.

You don’t ask about the last name on the list.

You don’t mention that it’s been years.

You don’t say you’d seen his face a few months ago—on a poster, outside a gym, while you were walking your dogs.

You don’t say he hasn’t crossed your mind since.

You really don’t say that, because it might not be true.

So you say nothing.

And swipe to the next page.

A week and a bit later.

The morning air was crisp but soft, the kind of early spring light that made the city feel like it was holding its breath before the day fully woke up. A faint breeze kissed the edges of your cheeks, carrying the smell of early blossoms, clean concrete, and a hint of roasted beans from the café three blocks back. Osaka in the morning had always felt different—quieter than Tokyo, softer at the edges. Familiar. Grounding.

You looped the leash around your wrist and guided Dango and Maru down the quiet sidewalk, sneakers tapping against the smooth pavement. The leash tugged once as Dango stopped to sniff a pole, her thick fur catching the sunlight like powdered sugar. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth in lazy contentment, the picture of joy. Maru, by contrast, was chaos in a compact frame—her black coat sleek against the cool air, stubby legs moving at double speed as she darted ahead and circled back like a tiny, chaotic moon orbiting her favourite planet.

The city was still rubbing the sleep out of its eyes. A jogger passed on the opposite side of the street. A delivery truck unloaded boxes into a bakery. A sleepy businessman yawned from behind the wheel of his parked car.

You reached the corner where the traffic light hung lazily overhead, its red glow spreading across the pavement in a warm wash of colour. The three of you stopped. Maru sat with exaggerated patience. Dango panted quietly beside you, her eyes half-lidded in bliss. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your windbreaker and tilted your chin up, watching a bird trace invisible arcs across the sky.

That’s when you heard the hiss of the bus brakes behind you.

You turned your head.

A bus rumbled to a stop just across the intersection, the side panel glinting in the light. And there it was.

Your face.

Clean, calm, smiling in that way you’d perfected—not performative, just true. You were dressed in a soft white blazer, the peach-and-rose Hibi logo embroidered at the collar like a quiet badge of pride. Below it, in flowing type:

HER game plan: Empowering Japan’s Next Generation of Female Athletes

You stared at it for a long moment. Not with shock or disbelief—you’d approved this very campaign a month ago—but with that quiet sort of awe that always caught you off guard when you saw the thing you built existing without you. Still moving. Still spreading. Still working.

It felt like being seen and held, all at once.

You smiled. A breath of pride uncoiled gently in your chest. It wasn’t the kind of pride that puffed you up—it was quieter than that. Warmer. Like looking at something that had once only lived in your head, and now lived out here, on metal panels and crosswalk signs and the side of a city bus.

Your phone buzzed softly in your pocket. You didn’t even need to check it—your notifications had been nonstop since dawn. Another retweet of the workshop announcement. Another article pinged to your press folder. Another message from a mom in Fukuoka thanking you for helping her daughter find her confidence again.

You let the bus pull away, its wheels echoing through the narrow street. The advertisement blurred into the backdrop of morning, but it didn’t really leave. Not emotionally. Not for you.

Because lots of things had been leading up to this moment.

HGP wasn’t just a side project anymore. It wasn’t a sweet little initiative your brand took on for good PR. It was a full arm of your company now. A movement. A promise. A living, breathing ecosystem built around belief— your belief that every girl deserved a space to play, grow, and lead.

From the outside, people saw a well-oiled machine: Posters in public transit hubs and parks. Sponsored subway ads. Carefully curated social campaigns. Short-form videos with athletes sharing why it mattered. Billboards beside the highway into Tokyo. A pop-up installation in Shibuya that played voice memos from girls who had attended last year’s mini camps.

And through all of it, your face. Your voice. Calm. Welcoming. Determined.

Clips played one after another like a documentary waiting to happen.

“Hibi-san’s initiative has already reached over 10,000 participants nationwide,” said a news anchor from a popular NHK broadcast. “And with the training camp launching this month, expectations are high for a new era of female athletes to emerge.”

“The camp isn’t just about physical training,” another podcast host said, voice animated with excitement. “It’s mentorship. Leadership. Self-worth. It’s building communities. And let’s be honest—it’s setting a precedent."

“There’s nothing like it, at least not in Japan,” said a teenage girl in a TikTok with over 3 million views. “It’s not a program, it’s a reminder. That we matter. If I could give Hibi-san a kiss on the mouth, I totally would!”

And then came the real numbers.

You’d already confirmed your final two female athletes: two volleyball stars who shattered scoring records, one a libero, one an outside hitter. Together, they represented resilience and power in its most human form.

The workshop was being held in Osaka, yes—but you were covering all travel costs. Planes, trains, buses. Whatever it took to get them there. Meals were covered. Accommodations provided. Mental health professionals and career mentors were on standby.

The entry? Donation-based only. Whatever participants could afford.

And any profit you did make?

100% going back to the same communities that raised these girls in the first place.

You kept walking.

Dango pressed against your leg. Maru trotted ahead with her tail held high.

As you reached the edge of the block, a little girl passed with her mother. She glanced up, looked at you, and then looked back at the poster on the telephone pole she’d just passed.

Her eyes widened slightly.

You gave her a small smile.

She grinned.

A moment later, your phone rang again.

It was almost time.

The press conference was later that afternoon.

Lights. Cameras. Questions.

The moment where your final vision would meet the world’s scrutiny.

And you were ready.

You rarely got nervous anymore.

Not after years of boardrooms and keynote stages, not after shaking hands with sponsors in glass buildings or locking eyes with critics who underestimated you. Not even after launching HGP and watching it morph into something real—something loud and living and too big to contain.

But today felt different.

This wasn’t your first time speaking in front of a crowd. It wasn’t even your fiftieth. But it was the first time every thread of your work, your vision, and your heart had been stitched into one clear, singular thing.

You stood near the side of the stage—out of spotlight, but very much seen. The room buzzed with movement and chatter, velvet-roped and softly lit by overhead rigs. Investors in pressed suits moved beside teen athletes in their best sneakers. Sponsors in pencil skirts stood beside university students in hoodies. Reporters shifted with pens hovering, but none of them were writing yet. Everyone was simply orbiting.

Orbiting you .

This wasn’t a press conference. Not yet.

It felt like Barbie Land. But the kind you’d always imagined growing up: all women, all energy, all style. Everyone here had something different in their hands—a mic, a camera, a water bottle, a clipboard—but the thing in their eyes was the same: belief.

You glanced down at your heels—yes, those heels. The soft blush Louboutins you’d worn so many times they’d finally started to mold to your feet. It was a quiet power, walking into a room in stilettos that had survived both a TEDx stage and a coffee spill in front of the Minister of Culture. They didn’t hurt anymore. Not because they were soft, but because you weren’t.

Today, you wore an ivory-toned pantsuit with double-breasted buttons and subtle embroidered detailing at the cuff. It was something between a blazer and a cape—the kind of silhouette that moved when you walked. Underneath, a thin peach blouse made of the softest silk you could find. Your earrings were gold, shaped like little abstract flames, and your hair was twisted up with an effortless, lived-in polish. A look that said: I built this. Ask me how.

Akaashi stood beside you, wearing a dark slate blazer, soft white shirt unbuttoned just enough to whisper expensive taste, and navy tailored slacks. He looked like he belonged in an editorial spread and a budget meeting at the same time. His left hand held a tablet displaying the event itinerary. His right—currently wrapped around your spare lip balm—tapped lightly against the screen as he scanned notes.

Reporters floated in and out of the conversation bubbles forming around you. A woman in red lipstick and an HBCU sweatshirt shook your hand and told you her niece cried when she got accepted into the program. A man from Tokyo University asked if he could schedule a lecture with you next semester. A teenage volleyball player asked if she could hug you. You said yes.

And still, the room kept folding in around you. So many faces. So many women. For a moment, you felt like the air itself was holding its breath.

A familiar voice cut through the soft chatter like a warm blade.

“Oi.”

You turned just in time to see a tall figure stride into your corner of the room like he owned the air. Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, pants pressed, lanyard slung around his neck like an afterthought. That signature shock of dark, wild hair was unmistakable.

Kuroo Tetsurō.

His grin stretched just before he slung one arm around Akaashi’s shoulders in a casual, practiced motion.

“Keiji. Still not tired of saving the world one agenda at a time?”

Akaashi let out a small laugh, the kind that lived somewhere between fond and exasperated. “Somebody has to. Good to see you.”

“You too,” Kuroo said, giving him a quick once-over. “You look like a CEO’s right hand.”

Akaashi arched a brow. “I am.”

Kuroo gave a low whistle of approval, then turned to you with that same easy charm. You extended your hand and offered a polite smile.

“Kuroo-san. Good to see you again. Thank you for all your help.”

He took your hand with a firm, respectful shake. “Please. Just Kuroo. You’re the one doing the heavy lifting. I’m just here to smile for the cameras and talk about how much I care.”

You smiled. “You do it well.”

Kuroo gave a small bow of acknowledgment. “I do love pretending to be important.”

Then he glanced sideways at Akaashi. “How’s Kotarou?”

The change in Akaashi was instant.

His posture remained straight, but the faintest pink bloomed at the tips of his ears. He adjusted his sleeve like it owed him something.

“He’s well,” he said simply.

Kuroo grinned wider, catching the shift immediately. “Still yelling about protein powder and jumping off things he shouldn’t?”

Akaashi paused. “...Probably.”

“Oh—” Kuroo snapped his fingers like he’d just remembered. “When can I come around to test out the new bouncy castle? Bo just said he got one last week and I’m dying to try it.”

You blinked.

Akaashi turned his entire head. “Sorry, he did what ?”

“Yeah. Said it was ‘for recovery.’ And also because the parkour video he saw made it look fun.”

Akaashi closed his eyes for a long, pained beat. “He’s going to break his ankle again.”

Kuroo shrugged. “I told him I’d supervise. Which really just means I’m gonna record it.”

Akaashi muttered something that sounded a lot like “I’m dating an idiot” under his breath.

Kuroo just laughed and clapped him on the back. “You love it.”

Your smile widened. “I’m assuming this is normal?”

Akaashi sighed. “Unfortunately.”

“Bokuto’s got the energy of a golden retriever in a monster truck,” Kuroo added. “But he means well. And he’s been talking about your program nonstop since he saw the flyers. He keeps trying to convince me to apply with him.”

You tilted your head. “He knows it’s for young girls , right?”

Kuroo grinned. “Doesn’t matter. Said he wants to ‘cheer everyone on from the sidelines like a motivational tree.’”

You blinked. “...A motivational tree.”

Akaashi just sighed again, quieter this time. “That tracks.”

Kuroo chuckled and glanced down at his watch. “Speaking of motivational trees—I’ve got to go say a few things into a microphone. See you out there.”

He gave you a parting nod and headed toward the stage, clipboard now tucked under one arm.

You watched him disappear into the wings.

The hum of the room returned. The weight of it. The eyes. The stage lights beginning to flicker into position.

Akaashi turned to you just as Kuroo disappeared into the wings.

Without a word, he pulled your favorite lip gloss from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to you like it was a ritual. Familiar. Unspoken.

You blinked at it, then him.

“You’re terrifying,” he said quietly. “In the best way. Now go fuck them up.”

A laugh escaped you—small but genuine. The gloss clicked shut as you passed it back, your smile painted sharp.

“I will.”

He gave a little bow, hand over heart. “I never doubted it.”

Then you stepped away, your heels moving silently over the velvet flooring toward the side of the stage. You could feel the gravity shift. That particular stillness before being seen.

Beyond the curtain, Kuroo’s voice carried into the room, smooth and confident as ever.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for being here on behalf of the Japan Volleyball Association, and most importantly—thank you for showing up for our girls. For the future of sport in this country.”

A brief pause. Some cheers. Scattered applause.

“We’ve had the privilege of partnering with one of the most innovative and impactful minds in community development—someone whose vision has redefined what it means to empower the next generation, not just through sport, but through structure, education, and belonging.”

You could feel your breath slow. Shoulders draw back. Not from nerves, but from intention.

“HER Game Plan has already made waves across the country,” Kuroo continued. “And what you’ll hear today is just the beginning.”

He glanced to the wings. Right at you.

“So without further ado—please welcome the founder and CEO of Hibi, the architect of HGP, and someone who makes us all believe a little more in what’s possible—Hibiya-san.”

Applause thundered through the hall.

The lights came up.

You stepped forward into the spotlight, the soft murmur of the crowd settling into an expectant silence. Your heels clicked steadily, grounding you in the moment. The lights warmed your skin, and the energy in the room thrummed like a pulse.

You smiled gently and began.

“Not many people know this, but I grew up playing volleyball—not with the powerhouse schools at nationals, but with backyard nonprofit clubs. Places where kids learned the game because someone cared enough to teach them. Where passion had to fill in for resources we didn’t have.”

The screens behind you flickered to life, showing grainy footage of kids practicing on cracked courts, coaches shouting encouragement, and laughter echoing under fading sunsets.

“I always wished for more. More access. More opportunities. More belief that girls like me could belong in sports without having to fight every inch of the way.”

You paused, letting the weight of that wish settle in the room.

“After years of study, struggle, and building Hibi, I finally have the resources—and the community—to complete that dream. HGP isn’t just a program. It’s a movement born from those early courts, from every girl who ever wanted to play but didn’t know if she could.”

The screen shifted to photos of the program’s early days—community workshops, smiling girls in bright jerseys, volunteers high-fiving.

“This past year, we’ve touched the lives of over ten thousand girls across Japan, from rural towns to bustling cities. We’ve provided training clinics, mentorship sessions, leadership development, and most importantly, a sense of belonging.”

You stepped to the side as the next slide appeared—a detailed graphic of the upcoming training camp’s layout.

“This training camp, launching next month in Osaka, will be the largest and most comprehensive part of HGP so far. It will be a week-long, multi-sport event designed not only to improve athletic skill but to foster leadership, confidence, and resilience.”

Another slide showed maps and schedules.

“We are covering transportation, accommodation, meals, and all necessary materials for every participant. No girl will be turned away for financial reasons.”

Your voice softened with conviction.

“We want every participant to feel safe and supported. That’s why we’ve partnered with security professionals and local authorities to create a secure environment. Medical staff will be onsite 24/7, and every athlete will have access to mental health resources and counseling.”

The crowd nodded appreciatively, some taking notes.

“We are planning for this to be an annual event, with hopes to expand to other regions next year. Our ultimate goal is a nationwide network where girls can come together, train, and uplift each other year-round.”

You paused, scanning the sea of faces, then smiled brighter.

“This is more than a camp. It’s a home. A foundation for a future where girls don’t just participate, but lead. Where they rewrite the rules of the game—not just on the court but in every aspect of their lives.”

The room fell into a hush, breath held.

“And that future starts here. It starts now.”

Applause swelled, growing louder and more fervent.

You nodded gratefully, a quiet pride warming your chest.

You took a small step back from the podium and offered a composed smile.

“Thank you all for your attention. Now, if you’d like to ask any questions, the floor is yours.”

The moderator—your usual clipboard-wielding gatekeeper—stepped forward near the side of the stage. Her eyes scanned the crowd quickly, poised to select who would get the microphone.

The room hummed with murmurs, the shuffle of feet, and the low buzz of eager reporters and camera crews inching forward, ready to capture every word.

The moderator’s voice cut through clearly and politely:

“Let’s start with the gentleman in the navy blazer, third row.”

A tall man with sharp glasses rose and adjusted his mic.

“Ms. Hibiya, how do you plan to measure the long-term impact of HGP? With so many programs addressing similar issues, what makes yours sustainable?”

You nodded, steady and warm.

“We’re using a comprehensive tracking system that follows participants beyond the camp—monitoring their academic, athletic, and personal growth. Partnering with schools and community groups builds ongoing support. Sustainability is about relationships, not just numbers.”

The man nodded, jotting notes.

The moderator moved on:

“The woman in the red scarf, back of the room.”

A reporter smiled sharply.

“Some critics say programs like this exclude male athletes and deepen gender divides. Your thoughts?”

You inhaled smoothly.

“HGP addresses historical inequities, creating space for girls to lead and thrive. It’s about equity, not exclusion, and part of a broader vision for inclusive sports.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the room.

The next question came from a younger man near the front:

“How is this program funded long-term? How do you keep it accessible?”

You smiled proudly.

“All participation is by donation. Every cent goes back to the program. We’re growing sponsorships and revenue streams—like merchandise—to sustain it without burdening participants.”

Then the tone began to shift.

A middle-aged man with a smug grin stood, the microphone passed to him.

“Ms. Hibiya, this focus on women’s sports is admirable, but what do you say to concerns that it undermines traditional team dynamics? Aren’t some of these ideals a bit… radical?”

You met his gaze evenly.

“Progress often feels uncomfortable until it becomes the new normal. Our goal is to expand opportunities, not divide.”

Another voice, a woman this time, chipped in with a skeptical edge:

“Do you think girls need special programs? Isn’t sport about merit and skill, regardless of gender?”

You nodded thoughtfully.

“Merit and skill are crucial, yes—but access and encouragement are just as important. HER Game Plan fills gaps where girls have historically been discouraged or overlooked.”

A younger reporter, voice dripping with condescension, asked:

“With all this responsibility, how do you balance your personal life? Surely, success in business and leadership means sacrifices?”

Your smile tightened but remained professional.

“Balance is personal and unique. What matters is commitment to the mission. I believe passion and purpose fuel success, regardless of the sacrifices.”

The room’s energy thickened, a few whispers fluttered.

Finally, a man in the back, voice loud enough for all to hear, leaned into the mic:

“Ms. Hibiya—when do you plan to marry? Surely all this work will have to wait for settling down and starting a family?”

The room shifted. A few startled gasps, a nervous laugh or two.

You lifted your chin, eyes sharp and calm, voice firm but polite:

“If you’d please respect the reason why we’re all here today and only ask questions relating to the current project and the betterment of Japan’s female youth, we’d have a much more productive conversation.”

A ripple of murmurs followed, some nods, and a few sheepish glances as the moderator stepped forward to steer the session back on course.

You inhaled deeply, the spotlight warming your face, the weight of the room pressing in—but you were steady, unshaken.

The room’s atmosphere softened in the wake of your firm rebuke, the tension melting away like a slow, steady exhale. The moderator’s eyes swept the crowd with new intention, as if catching the unspoken shift in the room’s energy.

A small hand hesitated, then rose near the front. The girl looked barely sixteen, her cheeks tinged with the delicate flush of nerves and hope. When the microphone was handed to her, her voice emerged quiet but clear, steady despite the weight of the moment.

“Last question for today,” the moderator announced, her tone gentle, inviting calm over the restless murmurs.

The girl took a breath. “Ms. Hibiya, thank you for creating this program. My name is Aiko, I’m training to be a volleyball player, but sometimes it feels like I don’t belong—that I’m too small, or… not good enough. Do you really think programs like this can help girls like me?”

Your chest tightened in a way that was equal parts warmth and fierce determination. This was why you poured everything into HGP—because of moments like this, where a girl dared to hope.

You smiled softly, stepping down from the podium and leaning in slightly, lowering yourself to her level. The spotlight’s harsh glow softened here, the distant murmur of the crowd dimming to a comforting hum.

“Absolutely,” you said, your voice gentle but unwavering. “This program is for girls just like you. Size doesn’t matter, experience doesn’t matter. What matters is belief in yourself, in your dreams, and in the community around you. You belong here. We’re here to build that space where every girl can grow, learn, and find her strength.”

A ripple of applause spread through the room, and you caught glimpses of nodding heads, smiling faces—some young, some old—touched by your words.

Straightening, you turned back toward the microphone. The warmth from the audience wrapped around you like a steady fire, energizing and grounding.

“Thank you all for your thoughtful questions and for sharing this time with me today. HER Game Plan is more than a program—it’s a promise to build a stronger, fairer sports community for women across Japan. I am deeply honored to take this journey with you.”

As you stepped away, the room’s buzz slowly returned—cameras flashing, whispers turning into conversation—but you were already moving toward the wings.

Backstage, Akaashi waited quietly, calm and steady as always. When your eyes met, a small, proud smile curved his lips. Without hesitation, you crossed the short distance and wrapped your arms around him, the tight embrace full of relief, gratitude, and shared triumph.

“Thank you,” you murmured into his shoulder. “For everything.”

He squeezed you gently, voice low and sure. “You carried this. I’m just here to remind you how brilliant you are.”

The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the warmth of the moment, and for the first time in days, you allowed yourself a breath—a pause in the storm.

Today was just one victory in a long journey. But it was yours.

It was the fifth video sent to the group chat since the press conference aired. Atsumu hadn’t even opened the last three. The TV played some half-watched documentary in the background, but his phone wouldn’t shut up.

Kou-kou [9:41 PM]: LOOOK AT KEIJI OMG 😭😭😭

Kou-kou[9:42 PM]: also the camp is literally PERFECT for us

Chibi [9:42 PM]: RIGHT?? i was watching it live!! her speech?? Unreal

Kou-kou [9:42 PM]: shoyo we HAVE to go

Omi  [9:43 PM]: Please don’t go.

Chibi [9:43 PM]: why not?? it’s for a good cause

Kou-kou [9:43 PM]: cause you’re scared of strong women

Omi [9:44 PM]: Because it’s for YOUNG GIRLS. Unless you’ve been deceiving us this whole time, I’m sure you two aren’t the target audience.

 Kou-kou [9:44 PM]: okay real but we should still go

 Hinata [9:44 PM]: fr atsumu say something!! get us an invite!! 

 Bokuto [9:45 PM]: TSUMU WAKE UPPPP

 Bokuto [9:45 PM]: keiji says omis right and it is for girls but i thik he just wants to be surprised!!!1!11

 Omi  [9:45 PM]: I don’t think Akaashi-kun would appreciate this surprise.

Atsumu finally let his head fall back against the couch cushion, a long sigh dragging out of his chest.

They weren’t going to stop.

He glanced down at the latest attachment.

A still of the press conference— You, standing at the podium. Confident. Poised. That same determined look he remembered from that one time in high school… just a lot more polished now.

He hadn’t even realized you were the face behind the whole thing. He wasn’t sure how he felt about realizing it now.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

And for some reason, he played the video.

a/n: hey its also been a WHILE. sorry, uni prep is kicking my ass i'm so scared but whatever. as always hope you enjoyed and love you all so much <333

[anghraine]

J and I kicked off Pride month by watching The Search for Spock, and concluded it with the obvious TOS choice of "Amok Time," and I have a bunch of thoughts about how TSFS and "Amok Time" feel the most deeply interconnected that the movies ever get with TOS which I'm still articulating to myself.

Despite the rambling, there are a lot more parallels and points of connection than in this post, but: I think both "Amok Time" and TSFS are very good ensemble pieces with sympathy and understanding for the vast majority of the cast, whether they're our particular heroes or not. They're the opposite of the kind of story where you can't choose a side because everyone is so unlikable that you're more Team Meteor Destroying Everyone than anything else. Instead, I tend to feel very Team Everyone watching both.

With "Amok Time" in particular, I feel for T'Pring's desire to have a consort rather than be one and to, uh, not be legally designated as property and compelled to have sex with someone she doesn't want and who also doesn't want her in his right mind. I feel for how much she and Spock are hardly even real to each other beyond the memory of their minds being forcibly locked together at seven years old—they don't know each other, not really. And I love her implacable logic and apparently genuine sense of honor at Spock's acknowledgment of how logical she is, as well as her fantastic style. T'Pau comes across as largely reasonable and deserving of the respect she receives despite everything, and is just this incredible force of personality (Kirk fanboying her is all the more charming because we can see why he would!). You even feel for Chapel's yearning, although her reluctance to take no for an answer and Spock's rage over it dwindling as the pon farr escalates are distinctly unsettling.

Meanwhile, Spock's desperate hope that he could indefinitely delay the fulfillment of his comphet child marriage, and his absolute misery and fury as his agency and most basic preferences are stripped from him? Damn, it all hits like a truck (maybe especially as a lesbian raised in an intensely homophobic, conservative subculture where I experienced immense pressure to subsume myself in het marriage, but even without the personal comphet experience, it's so clear that Spock hates every moment of this). And Kirk's careful, observant, rational attempts to make sense of what's going on with Spock are great, but what really makes this a fantastic episode for him is his response afterwards, once he does know. He shifts to an absolute prioritization of Spock's welfare—keeping Spock's secrets, making the choice to torch his own career, and facing down death against the advice of everyone including McCoy, as long as it means Spock lives—that's just spectacular.

The broader circle of friendship and loyalty around Spock is very much emphasized in both TSFS and "Amok Time," and profoundly heartwarming in both. Bones in particular is put in circumstances in both stories that seem precisely tailored for Maximum McCoy Misery, and he's an absolute champ about them beyond anything that could reasonably be expected. The episode and the film are actually very fun ensemble pieces in general, enjoyable moments for Sulu and Uhura among others as well, and close attention to pre-existing dynamics like Spock's established rejection of Chapel for "Amok Time" and the maturation of David and Saavik by TSFS. All the relationships are framed as significant.

But TSFS and "Amok Time" also go to a lot of pains to identify the relationship between Spock and Kirk as qualitatively different from every other relationship in either narrative. These other relationships are no less important than they would be otherwise, but Spock's relationship to Kirk is sharply distinguished from them in both stories, treated as this fundamentally different thing in both intimacy and obligations. Neither "Amok Time" nor TSFS can explain why Kirk and Spock's relationship is Just Different. But neither story can ever shut up about it, either.

Kirk's and Spock's towering sense of duty to each other in life or death, beyond what either could feel for any one else, is marked in both stories—absolutely essential to both, in fact. Both stories emphasize that other people who know them professionally and respect them, but aren't super close, find their known relationship as close friends and a command team grossly inadequate as an explanation for the extreme, singular intensity of this sense of obligation. Komack and Morrow aren't unreasonable; Kirk provides no real justification or reasoning for his motives or actions, only assertions of his duty, because of course there is no justification or reasoning as a professional or (in the framing of the narratives) even really as a friend that could truly explain the dynamic here. There's no possibility of putting it into words in some socially appropriate way. This is only reinforced by both narratives aggressively veering away from classing Kirk's affection for Spock in with the more comprehensible affection of others for him, and instead singling out Kirk's role in Spock's life as unique, over and over and over again, in large ways and small.

So the separate particularity of their relationship, their motives, their obligations, their unswerving loyalties, their emotional devastation at losing each other, and ultimately, their ecstatic joy at the restoration of one another, is just this omnipresent thing woven through both narratives, never explained but constantly acknowledged. The fact that Spock's other relationships are deeply important in "Amok Time" and TSFS as well, just in a fundamentally different way, doesn't undermine the absolute centrality of his relationship with Kirk; it only reinforces it.

In a way, I'm reminded of my OTP tag for them—#otp: closer than anyone in the universe—which comes from Kirk's insistence in the TOS series finale that Spock is closer to him than anyone in the universe and intimately knows his mind. I mean, it's a searingly romantic thing to say (to the point that they had to transplant Kirk into a woman's body to get away with it, lbr), but it's actually less so if nobody else in the universe matters all that much to them. Instead, other people do matter very much; this is made quite clear throughout the series, most conspicuously with Bones, but with others as well.

Kirk and Spock's relationship to each other eclipses all other relationships not because those other relationships are unimportant, but because their relationship with each other is so central, so intimate, so profound, that even genuinely close, pivotal relationships with other people pale in comparison. Neither of them really has any competition on this level, despite their mutual propensity towards seething jealousy. Spock's towering centrality to Kirk is only reinforced by Kirk genuinely caring about other people, too.

And I feel like "Amok Time" and TSFS essentially work to insist this is true of Kirk's role for Spock, too. Spock cares about other people and is surrounded by people who care for him. He is loved. His relationship with Kirk isn't special because no one else cares about Spock, or vice-versa. But no one cares for them in the way they care for each other. In both narratives, we see that Kirk has a completely unique role in Spock's life because he loves Spock in a completely unique way—passionate, self-sacrificing, admiring to the point of adoration, yet companionate, thoughtful, and teasing—that transcends every other relationship Spock has. And in both of these stories, we're never allowed to forget what they are to each other, and not to anyone else.

[gothcowgrrl]

𝑫𝑬𝑿𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑫𝑹

DR. VIENNA BARDOT. 〝 the profiler. 〞

Vienna Bardot is the youngest member of Miami Metro’s Homicide division — something that isn’t immediately obvious, given her composed, almost clinical demeanor. At just 25, she holds dual credentials as a forensic psychologist and behavioral profiler, her intellect far outpacing her years. Though officially brought in to consult on complex homicides, Vienna has quickly become a quiet fixture in the department, hovering at the edges of crime scenes with a notepad and unreadable expression.

She doesn’t talk much — just enough to make her presence known. It’s not shyness. It’s calculation. Observation. She listens more than she speaks.

But Vienna changes when she’s in front of a suspect.

Where most shrink under fluorescent lights and police pressure, she comes alive. Her quiet exterior sharpens into something surgical. She speaks with chilling clarity, dissecting a criminal’s mind like it’s a textbook, her voice calm, even gentle — but every word hits like a scalpel. She knows exactly where to poke, exactly how to make someone unravel.

To most of the team, she’s a bit of an enigma: brilliant, polite, and a little unsettling. But to Dexter, Vienna feels… familiar. She doesn’t laugh at the dark humor in the office, she doesn’t flinch at blood, and she navigates human interaction like it’s a second language. She’s not hiding a dark urge — but she is hiding something. Perhaps not a secret, but a truth: she sees the world differently.

In another life, she might have been Dexter’s reflection. Instead, she’s becoming the one person he can’t quite figure out — and maybe the only one who could ever come close to figuring him out.

DET. JEFFREY D. MORGAN. 〝 the detective. 〞

Jeffrey Dean Morgan has been with Miami Metro for over a decade. He joined young — twenty-four, sharp, determined, and a little reckless. Now at 38, he’s seasoned but not jaded, respected without being intimidating. He’s the kind of detective who’s easy to work with and hard to rattle, known for keeping his cool even when the case doesn’t.

People like him. He’s personable, approachable — charming, if you ask around. Not the kind of guy who needs to talk over everyone to be heard. He knows when to crack a joke and when to shut up and work. He gets results, and more importantly, he does the job right. No shortcuts. No ego.

He first noticed Dr. Vienna Bardot not because she stood out — but because she didn’t. Quiet, precise, always thinking. She reminded him of someone who’d walked into a room already tired of it. Young, but sharp. Reserved, but not insecure. She didn’t try to impress anyone, and that alone caught his attention.

They work well together — despite the contrast in style. He breaks the ice; she reads the room. He asks the questions; she watches the answers unfold. There’s a rhythm there, even if neither of them says it out loud.

He’s aware of the gap between them. In age. In experience. In how they move through the world. But he doesn’t make it a thing. He treats her like a colleague — one he trusts, one he listens to. Everything else… it’s just under the surface. And he’s in no rush to name it.

Because with Vienna, it’s not about grand gestures or clear lines. It’s about patience. Time. Trust.

And that, he understands better than most.

a dr where i allow myself not to mask at all? giggles n kicks feet! i’ve always loved dexter because, although i don’t think it’s confirmed, it has some real good autistic representation (for me anyways). also, yes jdm is my s/o ONCE AGAIN… i can’t get over this man.

[heyitsme-ana]

So much of the Grace siblings is about control and how they deal with that!!! Every time we see Thalia in the original series, she's a step away from losing control — she nearly had a breakdown flying Apollo's car, accidentally struck Percy with lightning at Capture the Flag, almost gave in to the call of power and killed Bessie, kicked Luke off a cliff. She feels things so deeply all the time and there's never been anyone or anything to teach her how to deal with that. She had no mentor (except Chiron, for a very brief time and frankly I don't think he counts), no structure of any kind, no official training (again, besides that brief period between Sea of Monsters and Titan's Curse) and she's fifteen.

I absolutely think Thalia knew how close she was to losing control at any given time and it scared her. You know who else had big feelings and dealt with them very destructively? Her mom. You know who else got lost in anger and used powers to hurt people? Her dad. Joining the Hunters was a decision made almost entirely by fear, mainly of herself and what she could do. It wasn't just freedom from the prophecy, it was freedom from herself and the person she could have become if there was no one to keep her in check. Thalia was a minute away from snapping exactly because there was nothing holding her back — so she went and found herself a leash.

Jason, on the other hand, has never know a life where he was even given the chance to lose control. He was born and raised a perfect soldier, and perfect soldiers are obedient and loyal and only angry when it serves a higher purpose. The structure was so rigid and the discipline so hard that there was no space to make mistakes before he was whipped right back into shape by either instructors or the gods. He's a weapon to be wielded and that means he has to be sharp and precise and only strike when and how someone else tells him to. If Jason is afraid of losing control, it's not because he knows what he can do when he's not holding back — it's because he doesn't.

Jason's full potential is an unknown factor. He never explored it, was never allowed to do that or had the opportunity to see what it was like to lose control of himself. The leash has been so tight for so long that he doesn't know there's other alternatives. A wolf born in a cage never has reason to imagine he's trapped, he's never known what a forest feels like.

Thalia knows exactly what being free from these shackles will mean to her, so freedom is too tempting. Jason doesn't even know the shackles are there, so freedom isn't even a possibility.

I once said in passing that Jason is a muzzled wolf, I stand by that and I'd go as far as to say Thalia is as well. This about it, think about their feats in comparison to Percy and Nico's. They aren't weaker than them, I'd say they've shown that they're capable of the same strength but they don't, because something or someone is holding them back.

Jason's been muzzled since he was three years old, and personally? I think Thalia tightened the straps on her own binding.

[fish-with-more-eyes]

[ids in alt]

doodles as i try to figure out how to draw these lads ψ(._. )> ichi and desscaras have such delightful hair to draw (as does everyone, but they're my favourites and i'll probably barely get to show it bc they'll get filled in solid black)

[ingravinoveritas]

This weekend, I went to a pop culture/comic convention in my area to see a few friends, and had an interesting experience. When I was first walking from the parking lot to the convention hotel, a man I'd never met or spoken to before came up to me just before I got to the doors. I was initially wary, as I've encountered more than a few creepy/pervy men at this convention in the past. But what he said to me, very politely, was: "Excuse me. Are you one of the movie stars?"

I can't emphasize enough how much this came out of nowhere. I also don't know what gave him the idea that I was a movie star, maybe other than what I was wearing (a purple sequined dress, a silver cross necklace, and blue/white/red slingback peep toe heels). But the question pleasantly took me aback, and after I said that I wasn't one, he added, "You're dressed so nice. You look beautiful." Which also was unexpected, and after I thanked him for his very kind words, he wished me a good night as I continued on in to the hotel.

My point in mentioning this is that there tends to be a very specific idea of what/who a "movie star" is or looks like, and not in a thousand years would I categorize myself in that way. But I think maybe looks/external beauty are only one part of it, and the rest is confidence--surety of self, and how you move through the world. I have more confidence now than I have had any previous point in my life. I know who I am, and I think I'm finally understanding how that affects people's perception of me.

So yes, that was just an interesting little moment and probably one of the highlights of the weekend. (The other was running into a David cosplayer who had on David's purple-green fuzzy sweater and purple Doc Martens (see below), a kilt for a character in Sandman, and a face tattoo and snakey eyes for Crowley--three cosplays in one!) Good Omens really is everywhere...