#these are how the items i look in my head

[whatsverstappeningnow]

how f1 drivers react

to girlfriend!reader wearing a necklace with their race number on it (some slightly suggestive lines included) (requested)

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

The sun shines in through the kitchen window in golden strings of light. It's a quiet day at home, with no plans till the afternoon and no need to hurry there. Still, you've already dressed yourself in a new summer dress you've bought. The material flows down over your hips, swishing as you turn in the mirror and then as you walk from your bedroom to the living room to show Max your chosen outfit. But you dress isn't the only new item you're wearing.

You'd bought it secretly. A suprise. One you hoped he'd love.

Max spots the necklace right away, his gaze flicking from your eyes, to the dress and then landing on it with a sudden, knowing smirk curling at his mouth. From where's he's sat on the couch, he leans in just a little, elbows on his knees and head resting on his upturned hand. His voice low and teasing as he speaks.

“Well, well, look at you,” he says, voice thick with amusement and something a bit more dangerous.

"You like my new dress?" You ask, giving him a quick spin, hands in the air for a moment and then settling on your waist. His gaze lingers over you with careful precision.

"Not the only new thing you've got on," he muses, tilting his head to the side slightly, "Where'd you get that?"

"Ordered it," you say simply, as if it were nothing at all, as you readjust the necklace chain.

“Careful, schat. Trying to make sure no one forgets who you belong to, huh?”

He stands, slowly, holding your gaze. He stalks towards you, one hand reaching out to hold your waist, the other fingering the chain of the necklace, his eyes lingering on the number and then dragging up to meet your gaze.

You catch the challenge in his eyes and flash him a grin in return. “Maybe I just like the idea of having you close, all the time.”

The teasing in his expression softens in an instant. His fingers gently brush the pendant as he looks at you, eyes warm and serious now.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice softer, “I like the sound of that.”

He pulls you into a quick kiss, no dramatics, just the softnes of quiet love, then he lets his forehead rest against yours.

“You don't know what you do to me,” he whispers into the small space between the two of you, his eyes resting closed like he's still processing the necklace and the dress. It's barely any distsnce at all, yet it feels like a mile. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips.

"I think I've got some idea." You smile. He does too.

lando norris

He notices it while you’re lying beside each other on the couch, limbs tangled up together in a familar way, and watching some random movie you're only half paying attention to. It's background noise more than anything. You couldn't care less though, just being with Lando was enough to make you relax.

It's about halfway through the movie, with some museum scene plays across the screen, when he notices the new shiny necklace hanging around your neck.

“Wait—hang on. Is that… is that my number?” His voice, though scratchy and slow from tiredness, goes up slightly as he speaks. The little queaks of excitement in his words make you smile.

You can only nod, biting back a smile, desperate to see his reaction. You'd bought the necklace on a whim a few nights ago and were lucy it had arrived while Lando wasn't home. The fun was the suprise of it, after all.

He stretches forward for the remote, sat on the coffee table infront of you two, and pauses the movie dramatically.

“You love me.”

You blink, a small laugh bubbling in your chest at his sudden and sombre declaration.

“I mean, yeah, obviously—”

“No, no. This is serious,” he says, grinning from ear to ear like an madman, all teeth and dimples. “You got a number four on your chest. That’s, like, actual dedication.”

You raise a brow, amused. “It’s just a necklace.”

“Just a—?” He gasps, scandalised, hand to his chest and all, like you’ve personally offended him. “That’s my number. You realise what you’ve done, right? You’re basically branded now.”

“Branded?”

He nods solemnly, though his eyes are still sparkling with excitement. “Yup. You wear that out and people are gonna know. Like, know know. I won’t even have to introduce you anymore. They’ll see it and go, ‘Ah, that’s Lando’s girl.’”

You can't help but laugh now, full bellied and joyful, and he grins wider as he hears it, if that’s even possible.

He tackles you into the cushions, kissing your neck with soft pecks. “Next step: matching tattoos. Just saying.”

"Lando!" you cry out with a huff of amusement, knowing he's entirely joking.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding..." His quiet for a moment, then looks up at you again with a cheeky grin. "Unless..."

"Lando, no. If you want everyone to know you’re mine, I have a few other ways in mind..." Your hand reaches out to his collarbone, then traces soft lines up to his neck and jawline. Your touch is hot and familiar, slow and intentional. You can see him swallow hard as you do it.

"Oh, yeah? Maybe you could show me them. Just to make sure we're on the same page, love."

oscar piastri

Coffee dates with Oscar are a constant in your life. There's a small shop around the corner from his place that you love to visit on quiet, sunny days. When the sun rose that morning, seemingly shinning brighter than normal, and with a particually joyful sparkle, you knew it was a coffee date day.

It was the perfect time to show Oscar your new piece of jewellery.

He notices the necklace while you’re talking, halfway through a sip of his coffee, eyes slipping from your gaze to the number hanging around you neck. The unexpected, but not undesired, sight causes him to do a double take.

“Wait…” he leans in, interupting your sentence, though you don't mind. You only smile softly as he squints slightly, slowly taking in the sight infront of him, then blinks up at you with slight disbelief. “Is that... 81. My number?”

You nod just once, a little shy, and pick up the charm that dangle from the end of the chain, holding it closer for him to see. He leans in to meet you halfway. But before you can say anything else, a deep blush spreads across his face. He cheeks go an adorable shade of pink as you watch the cogs turn in his brain.

His mouth opens like he has a joke ready, but nothing comes out except a breathy little laugh.

“That’s… kinda cute,” he mutters, eyes still fixed on it like he’s really trying to quickly process all the implications of you going outside wearing his number so casually. “But, like, uh, cool cute. Really cool.” He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

When you smile and say it’s because you like having him close all the time, he looks down, shaking his head with a small, dimply smile. The blush on his cheeks remains, though he looks less caught off guard than before.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he murmurs, his hands reaching out to hold yours across the table. Then under his breath, he adds, “Will you wear it to the race next week? Please. Even just under your jumper.”

You agree, of course. You hadn't bought the necklace to hide it away, and you tell him as much. Your words just make him smile and pull you hand closer towards him to plant a gentle kiss to your knuckles. Then it's your turn to blush, squeezing his hand with a smile.

And when you do wear it the next week, proudly walking into the paddock hand in had with Oscar, his smile is brighter than any coffee date day sun has ever been.

carlos sainz

Carlos, the gentleman that he is, loved to plan spontaneous dates. One more occasions than one, what you thought was going to be a quiet night at home had turned into the romantic night out. Candles on resturant tables, hands holding your and taking out the chair for you, the whole deal. Which was how you once again found yourself picking out a fancy outfit, wit no idea which resterant you were going to.

It was sweet of him, though you did wish you had a little more to go on than just wear something pretty, not so hard you you, yes? to go off of while trying to pick your outfit. Settling on an old favourite outfit, you slipped into it with ease, only calling Carlos in when you realised you needed help zipping up the back. Upon hearing his name, he pattered into the room obediently, already dressed in his dress shirt and pants, look perfectly put together.

"Gorgeous, cariño," he whispered into your ear after doing as you asked, "Anything else you need, my love?"

With a barely concelled smirk, you went over to your jewellery box and pulled out your new necklace.

"Help me put this on?" you asked innocently, walking over to him, placing it delicately in his hand and turning around, patiently awaiting his reaction.

“¿Qué es esto?” he asks, his voice light and breathy.

You smile, though it's more of a smirk than anything, but don't turn around. “A little something I got, it's new.”

“Number fifty five?” he says, fingertips ghosting along the back of your neck as he put it on for you, then settling his touch onto your hips to admire your outfit in the mirrors reflection, his head resting on your shoulder. “Dios mío, I’ve turned you into a fangirl, hm?”

“I've always been a fan.”

His brows lift, amused and smug, head tilted slightly to the side. “Of me? Or just the accent?

“Mostly the arms,” you quip, resting your hands ontop of his.

He laughs, pulling you closer and pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “That’s permanent, right? Not just for today? Because I kind of love seeing my number right there.”

“So everyone will know I'm yours?” you joke, voice light.

He kisses your temple, voice low. “Sí. I like it that way. I'm yours. And you're mine.”

alex albon

He’s on his way out the door, backpack on and car keys in hand, when he finally notices it hanging from your neck.

You had it on all day and waited patiently at breakfast, then on your walk together, then through lunch, and then while he was getting ready to leave your apartment. for him to notice, but he simply hadn’t. The whole day. That was, until now.

You we're glad he finally had, you would have hated to have spoiled the fun and justed showed it to him yourself after going through all the trouble of buying it secretly and hiding in in the back of your pjamama drawer.

Oh, well. At least he had spotted it before leaving, now the fun could begin.

His mouth drops open into the perfect little ‘o’ shape as he stares at the little shinny 23 hanging down from around your neck. His eyes are glued to the necklace, one outstretched finger pointing at it.

“Wait, what is that?”

You smile, and wave your hands around it with fluttering fingers. “A new necklace. Nice, right?”

He squints, then closes the front door softly and steps closer to you. “Is that my number?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.” You smirk, and tilt your head slightly to the side, trying to hold in your laugh at the stunned, suprised look on his face.

He dramatically clutches his chest, standing right in front of you now. “Too late. You’ve turned me into a puddle. I've melted.”

Then he leans in, eyes glowing with mischief as his hands reach out to grab your upper arms. “Just promise me one thing. Please?”

His voice drips with glee.

“What?”

“If someone, some guy, ever comes up to you in public... ask for your number or something, you better point to that necklace, and then say my name. Clearly. Loudly. Alex. Alex Albon. 23. Got it? Yeah?”

You roll your eyes, laughing at his bright smile. “You’re unbelievable."

“Unbelievably lovable, yes. Hence you having my number arounf your neck.”

You could only laugh harder at his smug expression and mock dramatic tone. After pressing a soft kiss to his lips, you reply, "You're so stupid. Truly.”

"Stupidly in love with you? Definitely."

"You're lucky I love you too."

"Luckiest guy in the world, I know."

charles leclerc

You'd been wearing it for a few days already, under jumpers and high necked shirts. it felt like a little secret, a constant reminder that Charles was with you even when we wasn't actually next to you. You weren't exactly keeping it a secret, per say, but you hadn't yet put it on display.

He notices it at the most random time, while you’re brushing your teeth, hair up, wearing one of his old shirts. The collor of the shirt, well-worn and stretch, dipped over your collarbone and revealling the shiny little necklace you were wearing under neither..

He squints, rubbing his eye from tiredness, or maybe slight disbelief. “Sixteen?”

You nod around a mouthful of toothpaste, toothbrush sticking out one side of your mouth, the edge of your lips curling up into a small smirk.

“Mon dieu,” he mutters, half teasing, half stunned, coming to stand behind you and wrapping his arms around possessively around your waist. He rests his weight onto you, curling into your warmth. “You’re more sentimental than me.”

You spit, rinse, and smile, Charles never moving from his place behind you. It's a purely domestic scene, a moment that reminds you how comfortbale you exist in eachother's orbit. “I wanted something cute to remind me of you. Something to keep with me when your away.”

He watches you through the mirror, soft eyes watching you move with a tired ease, hands pressing comforting circles into your hips. A constant warm presence. “You should have told me, I would loved to buy it for you. You deserve many pretty things, chérie.”

You lean back into him, letting his body mold to yours. You fit perfectly into eachothers embrace.

“I didn’t need you to buy it,” you murmur, reaching down to toy with the charm. “It felt more special this way. Like it was mine to choose.”

He hums into the crook of your neck, nose brushing softly against your skin. “Still,” he says, voice low and a little hoarse from sleep, “I would’ve added matching earrings. A whole Charles Leclerc collection.”

You snort, turning around to look him in the eyes, hands reaching out to hold his face between your palms. “I don’t need anything else. Just you.”

His expression shifts, tender and quietly overcome. He presses a slow kiss to your lips, then you forehead, and pulls you against him. “You have me. Even when I’m not here. Especially then.”

There’s a pause. A quiet that isn’t awkward or heavy, just full of feeling. He looks down at the necklace again, then back at you with a soft smile, one you only ever see when he's looking at you.

Charles sighs, breath warm and ticklish against your skin. “Sixteen looks good on you,” he says eventually. And those simple words hold within them a hundred different meanings you can't wait to dream about all night.

"I'll have to wear it more often, then," you say simply, and the words make him smile even wider.

lewis hamilton

You and Lewis had gotten to the truly domestic era of your relationship. You had keys to each other’s apartments, and you knew you could let yourselves into each other's spaces. So when Lewis texted you, saying he had work to do at home, but you were welcome to come and sit with him while he did it, exist in his orbit for the afternoon, you were soon letting yourself in his front door. Any chance to spend time with Lewis was an opportunity you took, escpeccialy given his busy schedule.

Lewis notices it the second you walk in, even if you don’t realise he’s looking. He’s lounging on the sofa with his laptop resting on his lap, reading something, probably reviewing data notes or one of the endless supply of emails he recieved, but the moment his eyes flick up and land on your necklace, all his focus slips away from him.

He closes the laptop slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, subtle and calm. The kind of smile that makes your chest ache with warmth and familiarity. Lewis' smiles had a way of making you feel whole.

“That’s for me?” he asks gently, nodding toward your necklace. His voice is quiet, curious. His gaze lingers on the number, just visible beneath the open collar of your shirt.

You glance down, fingers brushing over it self-consciously. “I thought it suited me,” you say, only half teasing.

He stands, putting the laptop on the coffee table infront of him, and crosses the room with unhurried ease.

One hand comes up to cradle the charm between his fingers, his thumb gliding over the number as though memorising it by touch.

“It suits you better than me,” he murmurs, a hint of joking in his tone, eyes lifting to yours. "I’m flattered.”

"Flattered?" you said, giggling slightly at his word choice.

"Well, yeah. A pretty girl is wearing my number, how else should I feel?" He lets the necklace fall back against your skin, then adds with a little smirk, “Might need to get something with your initials now. Y’know, to keep things balanced.”

You smirk, letting your hand rest on his chest. “What, like a bracelet? Property of...”

“Necklace. Tattoo. Your name embroidered on my socks... I’m not picky.” He shrugs and sighs dramatically, clearly enthralled by his own joke.

You lean into his embrace, shaking your head as he pulls you into a sweet kiss, his arms wrapping around you with familiar ease and comfort.

“You’re such a sap,” you murmured into his hoodie, resting your head on his chest as you speak.

“And you’re mine,” he said, grinning down at you, hand lingering on your lower back. “So I think we’re even.”

george russell

It’s a lazy Sunday morning spent at your usual breakfast spot. Just off a main road, the quiet atmosphere was the perfect place to unwind and relax on a slow morning. You were dressed casually, sunglasses pushed up on your head for look more than necessity, and your new favorite necklace catching the light and resting around your neck. The necklace, more than anything, you hoped he’d notice.

You slide into the booth across from him, pressing a kiss to his cheek first before sitting down, dropping your bag and stretching your arms out in front of you with a sleepy smile. You hadn't arrived together, George having to go to an extra early meeting and you prefering to sleep in on such a gorgeous morning. But it made it the perfect time to show off the new addition to your jewellery collection.

George doesn’t say anything at first, but you watch as his eyes widen slightly as he spots it. Instead of immediately reacting, he takes a slow moment to sip his coffee, watching you with that knowing look that makes your stomach flip.

Then, with a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, he tilts his head and says, “You’re really trying to make this obvious, huh?”

You glance across at him, shrugging and feigning confusion. “I don't know what you mean.”

He gestures toward your necklace with his half-finished coffee. “The whole ‘I’m madly in love with a certain F1 driver’ energy you’ve got going on with that necklace.”

You laugh, resting your chin on your upturned hand. “Maybe I just thought it looked cute. Favourite number. Totally nothing to do with you, sorry.”

“Mm,” he hums, matching your posture with his head on his own hand and leaning towards you slightly with a growing grin. “Or maybe you just wanted the world to know you’re taken.”

“Think it's working?”

“Oh, definitely,” he says, eyes gleaming and a light edge colouring his words. “But now I’m going to have to step up my game. Watch out. I might start wearing your initials. Embroidered. Everywhere. Just to make sure everyone knows I'm definitely off the market.”

You snort at his dramatics, but match his teasing tone. “George Russell, turning up to the paddock with my name monogrammed onto his fireproofs? Oh, the scandal!”

He grins, and laughs as he leans back in his chair. “You think I won’t?”

You roll your eyes and sigh, but you’re blushing now, and he can see it. He reaches across the table to tap your necklace gently with one finger and intertwined your hands with the other.

“It looks good on you,” he says, voice quieter now, sincere, like it’s a secret he doesn't want the rest of the room to hear. “I like knowing you carry a little piece of me around with you.”

Your smile softens, the moment suddenly feeling much softer than before. “I always do. Not just the necklace.”

He grins, like he’s won something more important than a race. “Still getting the monogrammed suit, though.”

“You’re such a menace.”

“A menace in love,” he says proudly, then flags down the waiter like nothing's happened.

taglist: @verogonewild

(comment if you would like to be added!)

[twilightsumu]

Taking What’s Not Yours 

Pairing: S. Gojo x AFAB!Reader 

Synopsis: Based on the song Taking What’s Not Yours by TV Girl! Satoru is obsessed and you're moving on. 

Warnings/genre: nsfw, smut (mdni), riding, Gojo being obsessive, crude language, cursing, angst/no comfort, no happy ending. 

a/n: Congrats on 2k my sweetest @prosypepper! This just came together so easily and I couldn’t be happier with it! My first Gojo piece ugh, I hope you guys enjoy it! :) 

Word Count: 1.7K

The sun is streaming in just the perfect amount — it’s not bothersome and quite warm. As warm as the empty space next to him. The smell of your vanilla perfume is still floating above his head. He wishes he can breathe in, so hard, that it stays etched into his nostrils. 

His eyes are still closed, his hands roaming the empty side of the bed. Gripping and grasping the warmth, at the reminder. His fingers carefully, but casually searching and prodding like the end of a fishermen’s line. And like a fish to a worm, he wants to gaslight himself and believe he felt a tug. 

His cerulean eyes shoot open battling the brightness with the sun. His hand grabs the culprit of the pretend tug — your earring. The one he gifted you for your nine month anniversary, two hundred seventy six days ago. 

He moves to sit up, the sheet flowing with his naked waist. The headboard is cold and harsh as he leans on it — sleep kneading into the muscles of his back. He still smells your vanilla perfume. 

He studies the diamond earring, twisting it in his index finger and thumb. The sunlight flinging off it and creating pretty kaleidoscope shadows on the blinds in front of him. 

He lets out a sigh — he tries to have it come out smooth and content, as if you’re behind the door listening. Watching him. But it’s rushed and desperate — the true emotions that’s rushing through the sunbeams and into the bed, crowding your spot. And you’re not here anyways.

He turns away from looking at how the sun kisses your side and turns to his bedside table. He closes his eyes, his hand not gripping the earring on the knob of the little dresser.

He knows what’s in there. No one else does. Only the little parts you leave for him to hold on too. Like the trinkets a child keeps on their bedroom desk over the years. They look at them with love and governance as the days and years pass on. Ignoring the dust, sometimes forgetting the stories that come with it.

He slides the drawer open — a pair of your panties, those red lace ones that he knew that you knew he loved. A hair tie, some strands of hair tied into it. A copy of the book you pretend you read but you were using it as a conversation starter the first time you guys met — neither of you caring about whatever the fuck Thomas Pynchon was writing about in Gravity’s Rainbow. Your glasses case, you actually texted him about it after the breakup and he lied saying he didn’t know where it was. 

Whenever you come back, he’ll be afraid you’ll finally snoop through these little parts of him and see what he’s been holding close to his chest. And now, the earring that’s dropping its ways and getting accustomed with the other items of this little shrine he’s made just for you. 

In case you wanted to come back. Or not, he’ll have a place to look for you — right here in the privacy of his room with the sun shining and remnants from last night still treading softly on his body.

You: Hey! Did I happen to leave an earring at your place? 

Gojo: Not sure. I’ll look for it! 

You: Thank you! No big deal if you don’t find it :)

You: Hope you’re good 

Gojo: Perfect actually :) 

You’re moving on top of him — your hands on his chest, your hair covering the side of your face, your mouth open — letting out the softest hum of a moan. The head of his aching hard dick sliding between your wet folds, stretching you just right. Your pussy clenching on to him like it is trying to keep you two connected, taking away Satoru’s job. 

You let out a louder moan that dances along with his strangled groan. The smell of vanilla and sweat filling the air. He thinks he hears the contents of his shrine drawer ratting a bit. He could even taste the desperation that is coating his tongue dry. 

You roll your hips once, teasingly. He gives you a sharp inhale and tight grip of your hip in return. 

“Toru,” you whine. Your eyes shutting shut. Your hands pressing into his chest a little harder. The sounds of your slick coursing the room as you grind your hips down on him harder, finally meeting the base of his cock. His ears prick at the sound of his nickname comfortably tumbling from your plump lips. 

He wants to throw his head back in pleasure. He wants to be one hundred percent in this moment. God, he wants to so badly. But the new shiny necklace delicately placed on your chest, swaying and bouncing everytime your hips leave and meet him. The chain swinging like a pendulum right in front of his face. It is the only thing he could pay attention to right now. 

You’re moving slow and deliberate — like you’re making sure every slow motion gives him full access to this foreign object on you. Each drag and lift of your hips made him twitch inside of you. His fingers digging bruises into your skin — out of pleasure and the nagging reminder of the new piece of jewelry. 

The moonlight harshly shines on it, making sure he sees it. He thinks he could take out a magnifying glass and figure out just what this necklace means to you right now. He’ll ignore your questions and stares. Like how you ignore his feelings when you come over just for sex. 

He wonders if he could quietly slip it off later and bring it to its home — along with the other little bits of you. The same ones rattling in the drawer to the side of your connecting bodies. 

Your tits bounce with every drop, the way your thighs clench around him, the way you arch just slightly when he hits that soft spot inside you — he’s cataloging it all. Like the necklace is putting him in a trance and reminding him that this shouldn’t be happening. So he has to remember, he has to take notes. 

You’re not his. 

But he’s yours. You just don’t want him to be. 

You ride him harder and he finally shakes off the necklace from the forefront of his brain and meets you halfway, hips lifting to thrust up into you with reckless force. His hand moves from your thigh to the curve of your ass, gripping roughly, pulling you down on him even deeper. It’s messy, frantic now — like neither of you wants to take it slow anymore. No more pretending. He’s fucking you for an answer and you’re fucking for your own pleasure. 

Sweat beads at your temple, pressing your baby hairs to your forehead. The slap of skin-on-skin fills the room, along with the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies connecting just right. His name spills out of your mouth like a broken prayer every time you slam down onto him. Maybe the necklace has put you in trance as well. 

A shaken hand drifts upward — not to stop you, not to guide you — just to touch. He wants to skim your collarbone, flutter his thumb on the scar on your shoulder blade. Instead, his fingertips ghost over the chain as you fuck yourself on his cock like you don’t care what it means. Like it’s just sex.

It’s not just sex to him. 

Like that isn’t just a necklace to him. 

Or those little trinkets aren’t just trinkets, but actual threads that keep you knitted to him without you knowing. 

He closes his eyes, pulling you down harder. Skin to skin. The necklace pressing into his chest as well. 

If he can’t take it physically, he’ll make sure he’ll feel it. So that maybe you guys could compare later down the road. 

It’s late evening. The sun is sinking down below the trees, like it’s trying to hide away from the stares of everyone around it.

Satoru is sitting on his couch, not in comfort. He can’t really say how he’s feeling, he just is not comfortable. 

Especially as he stares down at the box of his own trinkets in front of him. 

A T-shirt of his. 

Sunglasses he only wore on dates with you. 

His favorite Digimon shirt. 

Three different blindfolds. 

His high school yearbook. 

And to laugh at him as he stares in despair — a framed picture of you two. 

Which was taken three hundred twenty two days ago. 

You dropped off these things earlier. A harsh, but gentle reminder (you do everything gently and he wonders how) that you’re not together anymore. 

That his things should not be parading around your space. Your face was soft, your lips curled in a slight pout. Your eyes skipping from his and looking behind him into his house.

He wondered if you developed some super power that allows you to see through things. He quickly shifts in front of your gaze. 

“Do you have anything of mine?” You whisper. And he wants to bring you closer, make you say it again. He wonders if he’ll lie. 

“No.” He stated plainly. He didn’t lie, those things apart of his shrine for you is his. His heart beating so fucking fast, he knows that you hear it. Maybe you also received super developed ears that could hear his heavy breathing, his heart beating, the shrine shaking at this very moment. 

Maybe you heard the exact moment when you knew this would be over. Leaving him in the silence that comes when the love of your life moves on. The silence that only people who are stupid enough to believe in forever hear — as it drifts from the trees of the days that you knew the other person was in love and the quiet whispers of broken promises after sex. 

An unbearable silence. 

“Okay,” you stare up at him. “Well, if anything comes up. Just send it to me. Yeah?” 

Satoru stares at you. Wondering if he could send his heart in the postal — would it be too bloody? 

He just nods, wanting you to leave. He’ll look at the framed picture. Feel the earring. Maybe sniff those panties. 

“Bye Satoru,” you huff. Turning away, the only person the sun isn’t afraid to have it watch it's ever slowing descent into the dark. 

And you walk off, taking his heart with you. Shoving it in the pocket of jeans he wished you left here. 

Both of you being little thieves in the name of heartbreak. 

© twilightsumu. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarise my work.

[moon-ttokki-x]

Helloo

I'm here to ask something like a little too sad? I really like those scenarios. Like members reaction to 9th member's attempt to suicide? But like one of them(Minho or Jeongin) accidentally come to bathroom and see her? It's a little sad but I like those ones. Maybe even add a relationship between her and Chan?

hi~ i love sad requests . . . the sad ones are some of my favourites too, and hopefully this will help someone feel better <3

butterfly - (ot8!skz x 9th member fem!reader)

pairing: ot8!skz (mainly lee know) x 9th member fem!reader

summary: butterflies; the symbols of hope, growth, and recovery.

genre: idol! au, 9th member!au, fem!reader, su*cide attempt, graphic descriptions of self-h@rm, mentions of blood, cvtting, bandages, depression, alienation, mentions of blades, razors, sharp items, mentions of eating and drinking, mentions of fainting, passing out, blood loss, lee know referred to as 'minho' in this fic, bf!chan, please proceed with caution, and remember that you're not alone <3

a/n: this hit a little close to my heart, so i'm hoping this might help some of you who are struggling . in no way am i romanticising any of the heavy and triggering topics in this fic, so please skip if you are uncomfortable . my dms are always open if you'd like to talk . be safe, my loves <3

skz masterlist

The world is grey.

Greyer than you remembered; you thought you'd been getting better. You thought you'd learnt to feel the sunshine warming your skin again, remembered the way you found your mouth curving into a smile randomly. Embraced that familiar feeling of a happy buoyant bubble in your stomach.

Apparently not.

You're not sure how you feel right now. Distracted, angry, dull? Nothing seems to light you up, not even the deepest rage or the best news. Everything simply hit your crumbling shield and absorbed. Like pouring water on a sheet.

The patch simply darkened and sunk, drying but becoming more saturated with sadness every single time. And it felt heavy, heavier than you ever thought it would feel.

You can't taste the food on your plate; the noise of the members laughing and bickering around you seems to fade into the background, the soundwaves passing through as if you were simply a ghost.

A numb ghost sitting at the dinner table with a fork in one heavy hand, rather than a valued member of Stray Kids having dinner with the rest of her group. The atmosphere of the familiar dorm is foreign, unusual.

Like a hotel room rather than your home.

You scrunch your hands and rub your fingertips over your thighs, feeling the raised tissue of old scars bump in smooth, small dunes under the pads of your fingers. You feel the denim of your jeans rustle with the movement, the fabric rough and once-comforting. Now it just feels itchy.

Jisung shouts right in your ear then as he argues with Changbin across the table, and you don't even flinch. It simply passes over your head. Even if you wanted to, you can't find it in yourself to be annoyed at him. At least he's happy.

Is this normal? Am I overreacting?

Surely it can't be fake if you feel like this. But-

Your eyes lift themselves slowly and land on Chan. Previously, you couldn't look at him without a blush tinging your cheeks and the familiar view of a red rose in your mind's eye. The memory of his confession was always one that made you giggle, sometimes at inappropriate times.

Like when JYP fell over on stage and you were laughing because you remembered Chan doing the same thing, falling, and the image of his lovely face accompanied by his cheesy pick-up lines and warm hands came to mind.

But you don't feel like smiling now. Not like you did then.

You're both in the settling-in stage of your relationship; as always Chan has proven to be the best partner anyone could ever ask for. He's never let you down, carried you through the tough times, held your hand and wiped your tears. He knows how you've been feeling, but after a while, out of worry, you began to keep it secret.

And you felt bad. You did. Really.

Because he deserves to know. Deserves to know so that he can help you, kiss it better like he always has. Because that's just how he is, and how he's always been.

But he also deserves to be kept in the dark. Deserves to be able to continue with his life, be a leader and a producer and everything else without worrying that one day your feelings will take over and you'll disappear.

Because right now, that seems like the best option. Surely things will be easier for him, for all of them, if you took yourself out of the equation.

What would it feel like, you think. To drown, to accidentally slip and fall, to walk into the road without looking, to feel the chair leave the soles of your feet, to cut too deep on accident, it would all be an accident, Chan, it was an accident, I'm okay, I promise you'll be okay, everything is okay, I promise-

The fork clatters out of your hand. Nobody notices, the din of the members covering it up. Chan is almost on his feet opposite you, giggling and laughing and trying and failing to quiet the group. He doesn't notice when you begin to stand, then hesitantly sit back down.

None of them do.

It's not a secret that sometimes you need to be alone; the guys understand that you need time to yourself every now and then, when your head gets too loud or the members yell too much. All you have to do is stand up and leave, and go and lie down, tell them that's what you need right now.

Of course, that isn't always the case. Sometimes you just want to be alone, and not because they're being too loud or rowdy. You want to be alone because being around these happy people puts you in a state of disconnect so brutal and numbing that you can't stand to look any of them in the eye.

That's not what's happening right now. A mad impulse rises, a dangerous little thought pops into your head, and begins to simmer in a rather sinister manner in the back of your mind.

You swallow thickly. Your throat is dry. The now-flat soda you were previously sipping did nothing to quell the dryness. Your windpipe feels scratchy and your stomach bubbles in apprehensiveness, but you ignore it and steel yourself.

You turn your head to the left, feeling your neck creak; you've been still for so long- and look at Minho. He's grinning past you, watching as Changbin almost flies at Jisung over the table, clearly unaware of the hollowness rooted in your stomach, no, your whole being.

In every fibre of you-

"Minho," you say, hardly a whisper. His gaze meets yours, and even though he's still smiling and his gaze is not intense, joy dimmed faintly as he takes in your ghostly pallor- you still feel yourself shrink under it. Like an underwatered flower in the hot, baking sun.

"Yes?" He says. You feel Chan turn his head slightly in your direction, and your heart lurches unpleasantly. He's listening in, clearly in concern, but it makes you irritated. Unreasonably so.

"I'm gonna go lie down," you say, not acknowledging Chan as he fully turns to face both you and Minho, the chaos in the background forgotten.

Minho's eyes meet Chan, and his eyes gaze back, asking a silent question.

Is she okay?

Minho nods faintly and smiles at you, placing a warm hand over yours. You fight the urge to wince at the contact; it feels wrong, and all you want to do is shake it off. You exhale slightly as he removes his hand.

"Sure," Minho says gently. "Go ahead. I know we're being noisy."

You nod and force a weak smile before pushing your chair back. No one looks at you, save Chan stealing a glance as you stand up, but it feels like getting up in front of a crowd. You almost throw up over the table.

Excusing yourself from the group, you turn and leave the room. You trail a hand along the wall of the corridor, your knees strangely aching as you take the stairs upwards. Guilt and a mad sort of happiness take over your being and you move faster, almost driven by the manic feeling. Your body feels foreign and alien, possessed almost.

Entering your room, you shut the door as carefully as you can, and swear. No lock. You forgot about that.

Well, there's the bathroom... But it's bright in there, and you won't be able to see what you're doing in the dark either.

You gaze thoughtfully around the room, your brain going faster than it has in weeks. Your LED lights are on; the ones Hyunjin gifted you for your birthday are set to a gentle purple glow, casting soft violet hues over the bed and shelves. His smiling face appears in your mind and you push it away before you can get distracted.

The bedroom will do.

You avoid looking in the mirror as you pass it by, opening the door to the bathroom and rummaging in the drawers, not bothering to turn the light on. You know this routine well enough.

You pull out a pack of tissues, crumpling it in your hand, and reach under the top of the drawer above it. You move your fingers side to side until they catch on a piece of metal, hidden under a strip of tape, and pull it out. The tape dangles and you carelessly push the drawer shut.

Reentering the bedroom, you sit down at the foot of the bed. Shimmying off your jeans, and then taking off your shirt too, you set them aside to avoid any stains. Not that it matters anymore. They'll find you here with the razor blade still in your hand. You tug at the strap of your bra, trying to relieve the sudden tension stuck between them.

You're really doing this.

Because it doesn't matter, right?

Right?

No, you shake your head firmly, tears building in your eyes, stubborn and despondent. This is for the best.

Your eyes scan your thighs. Looking for the unscarred skin, the parts of you that are still smooth, still clean, not too-far-gone, not rough around the edges, not crumbling, not breaking, not you-

It stings a little the first time. Your breathing becomes shallow as you watch the skin. Nothing wells up, and you can't see the first slicing impact of it, the lighting too low to be able to see anything much. Nothing happens, so you do it again.

And again. And again.

The mad impulse takes over.

You draw your hand in messy, deep, harsh lines across your thighs, quick and brutal, and when you look down, your fingertips are stained in blood. So is the blade, and both thighs are a mess. It aches, but it feels so, so good.

Like greeting an old friend, like embracing someone you thought you'd seen left behind. It burns and the wetness of tacky blood sliding down your legs feels... nice, almost. Familiar, definitely.

Your breathing becomes even more shallow, coming in quick, short gasps, your eyes scanning the skin, moving to your arms, drawing long, deep slashes, welling with blood, spilling like the tears in your eyes, tacky and slippery and iron-smelling, black under the light.

The air smells like blood. It's cloying and you breathe yourself in, gruesome in the best way.

Your hands are sticky and drying with the faint sheen and splotches of scarlet, and when your eyes meet your wrist, you pause.

Just for a second.

And then you raise your hand, the blade sticky and red, smeared and slippery between your shaking fingers. A salute, the colour of finality staining your fingertips, wet, raw, real.

You smile as the tears slip down, soaking your cheeks. Squeezing your eyes shut, taking a last breath, and bring your hand down.

Down...

You feel the deep bite of the blade, hear the slight scrape of it, push it deeper, and rip sideways. As hard as you can.

Gritting your teeth, your eyes squeeze even tighter closed and you lift your hand and rip into the soft skin again and again, determined to draw every drop of blackened scarlet out of you, stain your body, stain the floor.

Then a rustle, a flash of light, a tackle to your curled figure.

You smell faded cologne and the world tips sharply sideways. The blade goes flying and your head hits the wall, dull, not enough to knock you out but enough to stun you.

You blink as a warm weight settles over you, emerging from a dazed stupor, frantic and shaking and gasping, and your eyes meet Minho's, welling with violet tears under the artificial light.

"No," he gasps, crying. A sob rips from his throat. "No, Y/n, why- Y/n, oh, fuck-"

You don't say anything, heart pounding, watching as Minho lifts a hand, stained in scarlet, shaking, distressed, cradling your arm. You think you're wearing a sleeve over your arm before you realise the sleeve is wet, and it's not a sleeve of fabric at all, rather a stream of wet, tacky blood.

Dark and deep. White peeks at the edges of the cut, stinging under the coolness of the movement of air around you.

You don't move, but Minho does. He pulls you upright, into his chest, gasping and gulping for air like he's the one bleeding out.

His scream for Chan chills your heart, chills you to the bone.

"Chan-hyung," he shouts, voice breaking, almost a scream. He screams it over and over again. He sounds like a child more than anything else.

You can't see anything, face buried in Minho's shirt, but you feel the back of your head being cradled, eyes drooping, and Minho's tears begin to drip onto your face as he leans over you, holding you like a precious item, fragile, breakable. He looks terrified, but you feel calm, strangely so.

He's shaking, and the sound of thumping footsteps and shouts of concern, not just one set of them, but multiple, thunder towards you, assaulting your ears like a shower of dull bullets.

Light floods the room, blank and yellow and foreign from a lamp in the corner, and Chan's hands are on you, and when you look across, Jeongin is on his knees at the doorway, wailing, Hyunjin and Seungmin at his sides, the rest of the members a horrified, terrified cluster of bodies behind them. You hear a thud and see Felix fall, then more shouting, someone rushing into the bathroom, noise and crying and gasps and-

"Y/n," Chan gasps, phone to his ear, shaking, tears slipping down his cheeks. You can't feel his warmth, or maybe his hands have gone cold. "Y/n, you'll be okay. Stay with us. You're gonna be fine, baby, I promise..."

You let yourself relax in Minho's shaking arms, stare up at the ceiling. His sobs sound nothing like him. Having never heard him cry, it's strange to finally hear his misery. It sounds soft, breakable, almost unreal. It makes you smile.

The world screens out to black.

Minho's prominent sobs fade into the background.

.

It still hurts. Sometimes.

But only sometimes. Like a bruise that you forget you have, it only stings when you push too hard, knock it against something.

The wound is healing. So are your thighs.

But it still hurts. Just like the memory.

You'd woken in a dazed stupor in the hospital, doctors and nurses and the members and the staffs' faces all blurring together in white flashes, smelling faintly of iron and disinfectant.

Two weeks later, you were back home. The cut wasn't actually that bad. Just bled a lot, made a mess. But not enough to...

Anyway.

The memory, the stinging pain of the event floats faintly around your head like a cloud, filled with rain but unsure whether to pour it all out. You still feel dazed, numb, but not as much as before. Guilty, definitely, but never more loved.

You wonder what would have happened if you'd actually followed through with it. Because deep down, you know that you didn't really want to die. Leave everyone behind, escape entirely, hand your pain over with shaking hands to those you knew. But part of you is still reeling, shaking, frantic inside, when you remember how you felt.

Upstairs, alone, numb.

While your members, unknowingly laughed and bickered on the level below. You wonder what went through their heads when they heard Minho's screaming, saw you almost lifeless, a half-dead, scarlet mess in his arms, saw Chan's shaking hands and the dull light of his phone as he called the ambulance. Felix fainting, the thud of his knees hitting the cold hardwood. Jeongin's devastated wailing.

You hear the sounds of it all, expressionless, barely-alive, but so, so real.

The thin tip of a pen slowly pulls you back to the surface. Makes your skin tingle on the inside of your arm, the sensitive skin around your wrist that you somehow managed to avoid in your distress. That vital vein.

You look down.

Minho's hair brushes against your cheek as you peek at your arm; you can feel the soft tip of the black pen in his hand poking lightly at the skin.

"What are you drawing?" You say softly.

He doesn't reply, too focused on the black lines flowing out of the pen. They're a little shaky, and he's careful not to touch the bandage wrapping your wrist, but you can tell he's clearly invested in leaving the drawings over your arm. You can't see what it is yet.

Chan comes over then, sitting down quietly on the couch next to you. He sets a cup of tea on the table, and you feel the familiar, warm weight of his head on your shoulder, nestling in the crook of your neck. You both watch a tendril of steam rise from the cup, curling and fading into the air in soft, white wisps. The scent of heated chamomile fills the room, and you smile as Chan inhales deeply.

His hand finds yours, resting on your knee, warm and dry and calloused. You feel the steady, solid weight of it over your own, his fingertips brushing your knuckles as he glances at your left forearm.

"Whatcha doing, Min?" He murmurs.

Minho responds with a hum, a little squeak that makes you smile. He sounds like one of his cats. He pulls back, capping the black pen with a smile of satisfaction.

"Do you like it?" He says, clearly proud of himself. Chan chuckles, leaning in to get a closer look at his drawing.

You smile back. It's small, but it's real, genuine. So is the slightly-smudged butterfly on the soft skin of your inner forearm.

"Yes," you say, touching it gently. "I do."

a/n: okay well now i'm sad . div by @webc00re

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[strawberry-bubblef]

hi! this is my first time requesting to you so I hope this isn't too much to ask but can I request on the housewardens + Jamil who has a s/o telling about their past, who survived as a victim of human trafficking and has a branding tattoo on their neck that they hide and finally showed it to them(like those lines we can see on our items or products, idk why they're called) and can you pls make it angst to comfort 🙏

I hope my request isn't too much to ask you but my advance tsym if you made this 🫶

Housewardens+Jamil X human trafficking survivor!reader

Warning: Human trafficking (mentioned), trauma, survivor's guilt, implied PTSD, branding/tattooing, dissociation,dehumanization, ends in comfort and support.

Riddle Rosehearts

It started with the wind.

You were sitting outside in Heartslabyul's rose garden, long after most students had gone to bed. The wind was soft tonight, brushing over the treetops and weaving through the hedges like a whispered lullaby. Riddle had come out to find you, his coat over one arm, wearing that concerned look he got whenever you were out alone too late for his liking.

“You should be sleeping,” he said gently as he approached. “You’ll catch a cold.”

You offered him a small smile. “I know. I just… needed air.”

Without asking, he draped the coat around your shoulders and sat beside you on the bench. He didn’t push for more. Riddle had learned, over time, that when you needed to talk, you would. That silence wasn’t always something to fix.

So he just sat there with you, your knees brushing slightly. Quiet.

After a long stretch of listening to the breeze, you finally spoke.

“Can I tell you something?”

He turned toward you, already nodding. “Of course.”

You picked at the edge of his sleeve where it rested over your hand. You weren’t quite sure how to begin. So you didn’t look at him when you said it, just kept your eyes on the night sky.

“I have a tattoo,” you murmured. “On the back of my neck.”

Riddle tilted his head slightly. “Alright…”

“It’s not decorative,” you continued, voice softer now. “It wasn’t my choice.”

You felt his attention sharpen, though he stayed quiet, letting you go on.

“I don’t really show it. Most people don’t know it’s there. But sometimes I forget it is here too. I forget until someone stares, or until I see it in a mirror and-”

You stopped. Took a breath.

“You know how there are those lines on packaging? Like a barcode? That’s what it is. That’s what they gave me.”

Riddle froze.

You glanced at him then, half-expecting shock or horror but instead, he just looked… pained. Not at you. For you.

His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “Who…?”

“It was years ago,” you said, not wanting to go into the details yet. “I was younger. Vulnerable. I got taken, not here, not in this world. Another one. I try not to think about it too often, but it’s always kind of there, in the back of my mind.”

You gave a soft, almost bitter chuckle.

“They treated people like items. Like things to be bought and sold. And the branding? It was a way to keep track of us. To remind us we didn’t belong to ourselves anymore.”

There was a heavy silence between you.

“I escaped eventually. Got help. Got out. I’ve come a long way since then. I’ve healed a lot, I think. But… there’s always this part of me that wonders if people would see me differently if they knew.”

You looked down.

“I guess I’m telling you because… you matter to me. And I didn’t want to keep hiding. Not from you.”

Riddle was quiet for a moment longer, then reached for your hand.

His fingers were a little cold, but steady.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said simply. “That must have taken so much strength. I can’t imagine what you went through, but I’m here now. I want to be someone you never have to hide from.”

His grip tightened gently, grounding.

“And just so you know,” he added, voice firmer now, “Nothing about that mark changes how I see you. It doesn’t make you less. If anything, knowing what you’ve survived..what you’ve endured,it makes me admire you more.”

You felt your throat close slightly, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Sometimes I still feel… stained by it. Like I’ll never be entirely clean.”

Riddle’s brows drew together, his voice soft and unwavering.

“You were never dirty to begin with.”

You blinked, not expecting that.

“You were hurt. Taken. But never wrong. The people who did that to you were wrong. And it’s over now. You’re free.”

A long pause.

“If you ever want to show it to me,” he added carefully, “you can. But you don’t have to. That’s yours, and no one else’s.”

You hesitated, then slowly reached up, brushing your hair aside.

“I’d like to,” you said. “If that’s alright.”

He nodded once, seriously, then shifted behind you slightly. You lifted your collar just enough to reveal the thin, black lines etched at the base of your neck,sharp, clinical.

For a long time, he didn’t say anything. You didn’t feel watched. You felt… witnessed.

Then his fingers gently grazed the skin beside it ,not touching the tattoo directly, just close enough to say I see you. I’m here. I’m not turning away.

“I won’t pretend this didn’t happen to you,” he said. “But I promis—no.I swear it,as long as I’m with you, you’ll never be treated like a thing again. You’re a person. You’re important. You’re mine ,not in a possessive way. Just…”

You smiled faintly. “Like family.”

He nodded.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a light kiss just beneath the mark, not claiming, not romantic, just grounding.

You closed your eyes.

The wind whispered through the garden again. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like it was passing you by. It felt like it was carrying something away.

Maybe the weight.

Maybe the fear.

Maybe a piece of the past that you were finally ready to let go.

Riddle sat with you a long time after that. He didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t rush you to move, or speak again, or be anything other than what you were in that moment.

Alive. Healing. Loved.

And for the first time in ages, the mark on your neck didn’t feel like a scar.

It just felt like skin.

Leona Kingscholar

It was a lazy afternoon in the botanical gardens, the kind where the sun filtered through the glass in gold beams, pooling warm light on the floor. Leona had claimed one of the quiet hidden corners, all mossy stone and climbing ivy.He was half-asleep with his head in your lap, his arm slung over his eyes like usual.

He always liked the silence, but you’d come to learn it wasn’t the same kind as yours.

Leona’s silence was a defense, a way to keep the world at arm’s length. Yours, sometimes, was a shadow, something that grew around the things you didn’t speak about.

You ran your fingers gently through his hair, slow and repetitive, grounding yourself as much as him. You weren’t sure why the thought came to you just then. Maybe it was how still he was. How safe it felt.

You hesitated.

“Can I tell you something?” you asked quietly.

Leona grunted, shifting his arm slightly. “Hn. You’re talkin’ already.”

“I mean… something real. Something I’ve never told anyone here.”

His hand slid down enough for one eye to peek out at you, sharp, attentive, now fully awake.

“You’re serious.”

You nodded.

He sat up slowly, stretching but not leaving. He leaned back against the wall beside you, one knee up, resting an arm on it. Waiting.

You looked at your hands. “I have a tattoo on my neck. It’s hidden, most of the time. Not many people know about it.”

Leona blinked once, then arched a brow. “You wanna show it to me?”

“Not yet. I want to explain first.”

“…Alright.”

“It’s not a choice tattoo,” you said, voice soft. “It’s a brand. Like the ones they put on products. It looks like a barcode.”

You watched his reaction carefully. He didn’t move but his eyes narrowed. Not in judgment. In calculation. In the kind of anger he saved for things he knew were wrong.

You continued, voice steady.

“Back in my old world, when I was younger, I was taken. Trafficked. Sold like a thing. Treated like something people could own. The brand… it was their way of marking me. Like I was inventory.”

Leona’s jaw tightened.

“I got out eventually. And built something new. But the mark,it never really left. It’s a part of me. Even now. Even after everything.”

There was silence. You didn’t fill it. You didn’t need to. You just waited.

Leona exhaled slowly, then leaned his head back against the ivy-covered wall.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “a lot of people look at me and see a second son. A spare. Someone who’s got everything and does nothing. They don’t see what’s under it.”

You blinked at the sudden turn, not sure where he was going.

“I’ve been called a beast. A failure. I’ve had expectations shoved down my throat and kicked off every pedestal they threw me on. But nobody ever tried to strip me of my basic right.”

He turned his head, looking you in the eye.

“What they did to you,that wasn’t just cruelty. That was erasing. Trying to turn you into something you’re not.”

You swallowed hard. The truth of that hit somewhere deep.

“I still have nightmares sometimes,” you admitted. “There are days when I forget it’s not happening anymore. And even though I know it wasn’t my fault, some part of me always feels… marked.”

He studied you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached out,not to touch your neck, but to lift your hand gently into his own.

“I can’t undo it,” he said quietly. “And I won’t pretend I understand what that felt like. ” He turned your hand over, thumb brushing your palm. “But this stays yours. All of you does. No one else gets to claim it.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’ve been scared to show it to anyone. Not because of what they’d think… but because it still feels like something I have to hide.”

“Then don’t show it yet,” he said simply. “Or show it when you’re ready. Not for anyone else. Just for you.”

You hesitated. Then, quietly, you reached up and pulled your collar down slightly, revealing the lines at the base of your neck.

It was quick. You didn’t let it linger.

But when you looked back at Leona, his expression hadn’t changed. No horror. No pity. Just that heavy, grounded stillness he only showed when he was fully present.

He leaned forward a little, brushing your hair gently back into place. “Doesn’t scare me,” he muttered. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, “But if anyone looks at you sideways for it? I will make them regret it.”

You laughed.Alittle surprised, a little teary. “That’s… oddly comforting.”

Leona smirked faintly. “Good.”

He leaned against your shoulder after that, warm and solid, the way he always did when words weren’t needed anymore.

And for once, the mark on your neck didn’t feel like something to hide.

It felt like something you had survived.

And someone was there to carry it with you, not take it away, but honor it. Honor you.

Azul Ashengrotto

The lounge was quiet after hours,the kind of quiet that only came when the last customer had left, the last glass was washed, and the only light was the soft glow of enchanted lanterns. Azul had let the mask drop hours ago, slumped on the velvet couch beside you, his sleeves rolled up and his tie undone. He looked like a boy instead of a businessman, which, in a strange way, always made it easier for you to breathe around him.

He had his glasses off, eyes closed, head leaning on your shoulder.

“This is nice,” he murmured. “No deals. No disguises.”

You nodded slowly. You’d been thinking. Turning something over in your chest like a stone that was almost smooth but still sharp around the edges.

“Azul?”

“Mmm?”

“There’s something I’ve never told you. And I want to… if that’s alright.”

His head lifted immediately. He looked at you, really looked at you,searching your face for anything he should brace for. “Of course. You never have to ask.”

You hesitated, then looked away toward the empty bar, your voice steady but low. “Back in my old world… I was trafficked. Human trafficking. For a long time.”

Azul’s breath caught, the kind of quiet inhale that was barely there but unmistakable. He didn’t speak. He just listened.

“I was young. I don’t even remember how it started- just that one day I wasn’t a person anymore. I was a product. And they branded me like one.”

Your hand lifted, touching your neck instinctively, where the brand still lay, hidden most days beneath collars or scarves. “It’s still there. Like those barcodes you scan on packages. Except this one was on me.”

Azul’s hands curled slowly into fists where they rested on his knees, but he didn’t interrupt.

“It took a long time to get out,” you continued. “And longer to accept that it was over. I still struggle with it. The nightmares, the shame, the part of me that forgets I’m safe now. That thinks if anyone sees the brand, they’ll look at me and only see that.”

You finally turned to face him again. “That’s why I hide it. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while. Not because I wanted you to fix it. Just… because I trust you.”

Azul looked stricken. Not at you,never at you but at the idea of that kind of suffering, that kind of cruelty. His expression was unreadable for a long moment, and then very quietly, he said, “May I see it?”

You hesitated. Then, after a breath, nodded.

With a small movement, you tugged the collar of your shirt down just enough to reveal the brand,a faded, etched pattern of lines and numbers, still unnervingly clean and functional in design. Like it had never been meant for a human.

Azul stared at it. Not like he was disgusted. Not like he pitied you.

But like he was seeing something sacred,not the mark, but the weight of it. What you’d lived through. What you’d survived.

And then, without speaking, he reached up, carefully, and pressed two fingers to the space beside it. Not directly on the brand, just next to it. Like he didn’t want to touch the wound but wanted you to feel he was there.

“I can’t believe someone would do this to you,” he said finally, his voice trembling slightly despite how calm he tried to sound. “That they thought they could strip you down to something so… so empty. That they thought you wouldn’t fight your way back.”

You watched him quietly.

He lowered his hand, folding it with the other in his lap. “I’ve always wanted power. Influence. A name people respect. Because when I was small, I didn’t have any of that. I thought if I got strong enough, clever enough… I’d never be helpless again.”

His gaze met yours.

“But even then, I was just fighting ghosts. You… you looked them in the eye. And survived. You’re not weak. You’re not broken. And whatever that mark was meant to say.. It doesn’t get to define you anymore.”

You felt the words settle in your chest like a gentle weight. Not heavy,grounding.

“I don’t want you to see me as a victim,” you whispered.

“I don’t.” Azul said immediately. “I see you. The whole of you. And I’m grateful-so grateful that you trust me with this. That you’re here.”

You leaned into him, forehead touching his. And for a long time, neither of you moved.

Later, when the lanterns had dimmed further and Azul finally pulled a blanket around both of you, he mumbled sleepily against your shoulder, “You don’t have to hide anything from me. Not the mark. Not the memories. Not the shadows.”

And he said it like a promise.

Like a contract without conditions.

Because this time, you weren’t alone.

You were seen.

And you were safe.

Kamil Al Asim

It started with a question,innocent, like most things with Kalim.

“Hey! When we’re back from break, do you want to come to Scalding Sands with me? My family’s hosting this big celebration and I thought maybe you’d want to meet them!”

He beamed like he always did,excited, full of sunlight and life. The kind of joy that made people forget to look past it, to the parts of him that were observant, grounded, steady in ways most people missed.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Kalim…”

Something in your voice made him pause. His grin faltered not out of offense, but out of quiet concern. “Too soon?” he asked softly.

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Kind of.”

You both sat down on a shaded bench in the courtyard, away from the crowd and sunlight. A place where words could sit between you without being exposed.

Kalim leaned back, letting you take your time. He was good at that. Listening without pressing. Waiting without fidgeting. He only looked at you with that warm, open patience of his.

“I’ve never told you this,” you said after a moment. “And it’s not because I didn’t want to. I just didn’t know how.”

Kalim’s face didn’t change. He didn’t brace or worry. He simply listened.

“In the world I came from, I was trafficked. For a long time.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Still.

“People treated me like a thing. Branded me like one, even. "

You paused and hesitate slightly before speaking again. "..I still have the mark on my neck. It looks like a barcode, like I was just… inventory.”

You swallowed, heart tight. “I’ve hidden it ever since. Even here. Even around you.”

Kalim didn’t flinch. His eyes were full, soft, and very, very, very sad.Not for himself, not out of pity. But because you were someone he loved. And he hated that someone had hurt you like that.

You looked down at your hands. “I’m not telling you because I want you to fix it. I’m not broken. I just… I wanted you to know. The reason why I flinch sometimes. Why I get quiet around certain things. Why I don’t like showing skin around my neck.”

There was a beat. Then Kalim’s hand, warm and gentle, reached over and settled lightly atop yours.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

You looked at him ,surprised, maybe.

He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was smaller. Deeper. “Thank you for trusting me with something that important. I know that wasn’t easy.”

You stared at him for a moment, the emotions tightening in your chest loosening just a little.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” he said softly. “It’s wrong. All of it. You deserved love and freedom and safety, not to be treated like that. But I’m really, really glad you’re here now.”

You felt your throat tighten, but his hand didn’t let go.

“I don’t care what they tried to make you feel like,” he added, more firmly now. “You’re not a thing. You’re not something that can be marked or owned or priced. You’re you. And you’re incredible.”

You breathed out slowly, and Kalim smiled again, a little brighter. “If it ever feels like too much, like the memories are creeping in, you can tell me. Or not. We can just sit and talk about stars, or play a game, or dance. But you don’t ever have to hide around me.”

A long silence passed. Then, voice quieter than before, you asked, “Would you… would you like to see it?”

“..The brand?”

You nodded.

Kalim didn’t hesitate. “Only if you want to show me.”

You slowly reached up, pulling your collar to the side, exposing the lines burned faintly into your skin. They were cruel in their precision, manufactured, sharp, deliberate.

But Kalim didn’t look at them like they were ugly. He looked at them like they were something you lived through. Not what defined you, but what you had overcome.

“Okay,” he whispered after a moment. “Okay. I see you.”

He reached forward, gently,asking permission with his eyes. When you nodded, he touched your shoulder lightly. Not the mark. Just the space near it. A grounding touch.

“Thank you,” he said again. “For being here. For surviving. For still being you.”

You closed your eyes.

For once, the mark didn’t feel like it was burning through you.

For once, you felt held, not physically, but emotionally. Anchored by someone who saw all of you and still smiled, still reached for your hand.

Not because he didn’t see the damage.

But because he saw you, whole and living, in spite of it.

Jamil Viper

It wasn’t the kind of thing you planned to say. You didn’t sit down one morning and decide Today is the day I tell Jamil.

But that’s how these things go, isn’t it?

The conversation had started casually,something about plans for the winter holidays, your answers coming slower than usual. Jamil had noticed. He always noticed.

“You’ve been… quieter than usual,” he said, setting down the dish he’d been preparing with practiced ease. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t respond right away. Your hands were clenched a little too tightly in your lap. Jamil wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face you fully, brow slightly furrowed, not with annoyance but concern.

“Is it something I did?” he asked gently.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You hesitated, then laughed once, dry and small. “That’s actually part of why I wanted to tell you. Because you’ve been so… safe.”

He tilted his head, curious, waiting.

You looked down, then at him again. “Jamil… there’s something about my past I haven’t told you.”

He said nothing. He didn’t rush you, didn’t ask the wrong questions. Just waited, present and listening.

“I was trafficked,” you said softly. “When I was younger. For a long time.”

Jamil didn’t speak. But you saw his body subtly shif, tension coiling in his shoulders, not at you, but at the idea of someone hurting you. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“They branded me,” you continued. “On the back of my neck. Like I was just another object on a shelf.”

You looked down, voice tighter now. “I know it’s not who I am. But it’s still there. I’ve spent years hiding it. Even here. Even from you.”

Silence again.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, maybe discomfort, maybe sympathy that felt too heavy. But Jamil just sighed, slow and deep.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That that happened to you.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t hollow. Just steady. Grounding.

You looked at him, and he met your gaze without flinching.

“I know what it’s like to be used. To feel like your life doesn’t belong to you. It’s not the same, I know that, but… I understand more than you might think.”

Your chest felt tight. His words weren’t designed to compare pain, just to show he understood how betrayal can linger in your bones. How even when you're free, some part of you still feels like you're chained to a past version of yourself.

“I don’t want your pity,” you said after a beat. “I just want you to know. I’m telling you because you matter. Because I don’t want to keep hiding parts of myself from someone I love.”

He nodded once. “I get it.”

There was a long pause, then he asked, with absolute care in his voice, “Do you want to show me the brand?”

You nodded, slowly, cautiously. Then reached back and tugged at the collar of your shirt. The mark was still there, faint but readable, a barcode etched into flesh. Nothing about it was artistic or symbolic just clinical, cruel.

Jamil’s jaw tightened ever so slightly.

He reached up slowly and rested his hand on your shoulder, just beside the scar.

“I see you.” he said. “Not the mark. Not what they did. You.”

Your breath trembled in your chest. You blinked quickly.

“You’ve survived something most people couldn’t imagine,” Jamil continued, voice low. “And you’re here. You still love. Still laugh. Still fight to exist. That’s not weakness. That’s strength.”

You managed a small smile, your throat still tight.

“I won’t pretend I know how to fix it,” he said. “But I’m not going anywhere. If you ever need space, or silence, or grounding, I’ll be here. On your terms.”

You nodded, and he leaned forward just slightly, brushing his forehead lightly to yours.

“No one gets to own you ever again,” he said.

And in the quiet after his words, with the sun warm through the windows and the smell of cumin and cardamom still in the air, you realized something:

He didn’t look at you like someone broken.

He looked at you like someone whole, still healing, still burning, still fighting and worth every second of the wait.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil had always admired control of one’s appearance, one’s surroundings, one’s narrative. But what he admired more, secretly, were the quiet moments when someone chose vulnerability. Not performative openness, but the trembling, real kind. The kind you didn’t rehearse.

It happened on a late afternoon, the two of you tucked in his dorm room. He was seated at his vanity, removing the last remnants of stage makeup from a photoshoot. You were behind him, curled on the chaise, reading something you hadn’t actually absorbed for the past ten minutes.a

Vil glanced at your reflection in the mirror, brows lifting just slightly. “You’re somewhere else,” he said, voice gentle.

You didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He nodded, not pressing. You loved that about him ,he never demanded you speak. He let you arrive at your own truths, your own time.

“I want to tell you something,” you said quietly, folding the corner of the page. “Something real.”

Vil turned on the stool, his expression softening. “I’m listening.”

There was a pause. Then you took a breath. “I was trafficked.”

His spine went straight in attention.

You continued. “It happened when I was younger. I was taken and… used. Sold like something you’d find with a price tag. It lasted years.”

His face didn’t change, but his hand tightened ever so slightly where it rested on his knee. That was all you needed,not a big reaction, just to be seen.

“They branded me,” you said. “Like I was a product. The kind of lines you’d see on an item in a store.”

Vil’s voice was quiet, but sure. “Where?”

You lifted the back of your collar and tilted your head forward, revealing the faint mark burned into your skin, clinical, dehumanizing. You felt air brush against it, and then silence. He didn’t rush to touch it. He didn’t try to look too long, either. He gave you space.

“I spent a long time hiding it,” you admitted. “From everyone. Even myself. I thought if no one saw it, I could pretend it wasn’t there. But… you deserve to know. Not because I want you to fix me , but because I don’t want to keep hiding from someone I trust.”

Vil’s eyes held yours, steady and full of something you couldn’t quite place, not pity. Not sorrow. Something warmer.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

Your breath hitched slightly.

“I know you didn’t tell me this to be praised,” Vil continued, his voice a soft hum. “But it does take immense strength to say what you just said. That strength… is beautiful.”

You blinked, startled by the sincerity. He didn’t say it like someone trying to be poetic. He said it like someone who saw your scars and still thought you were the most breathtaking thing in the room.

“I don’t see you as damaged,” he said. “And I don’t want to erase what you’ve been through. That’s not love. I want to walk beside you, knowing what paths you’ve taken to stand here now.”

You felt yourself soften. Like you could finally exhale. Like maybe, just maybe, this moment wasn’t something heavy anymore. Just real. Just yours.

Vil rose from the stool and crossed the room, not reaching to touch until you nodded. Then his hand cradled the side of your neck not near the mark, but near your jaw, fingers warm and sure.

“You aren’t a product,” he whispered. “You are art. Living, healing, radiant art.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, and he held you there, neither of you speaking for a while. The sun dipped low outside, casting long shadows over the floor and for once, those shadows felt safe.

No stage. No act. Just you.

And the one person who looked at your truth and called it beautiful.

Idia Shroud

You didn’t plan to say it. Not that day, not that way.

But it was late, the kind of late where the quiet of Idia’s room made your thoughts feel louder. Blue light casting slow shadows, and you were both sitting on the floor in the mess of blankets and pillows you'd built over weeks of sleepovers-turned-permanent.

He was rambling about something,patch notes, maybe, or a theory about a boss fight — when he glanced over and paused. “You're zoning out again,” he said gently. “Brain battery low?”

You smiled a little, tired. “Not really. Just… a lot on my mind.”

His posture curled in a little, cautious. “Uh… I mean, no pressure to info dump, but I am listening. If you want.”

You looked at him.You'd come to know his tells: the nervous tug at his sleeves, the shift in his voice when he was trying to hide how much he cared. And he did care. That was the whole reason you were ready to say something.

“I’ve never told anyone at NRC,” you said slowly, “but I think I want to tell you.”

The flicker of blue flame dimmed for a second as he straightened slightly. “Okay.”

You took a breath. “When I was younger, I was trafficked. For a long time.”

He didn't move. Didn’t flinch. Just stayed very, very still, flame softening in color.

“They treated me like I wasn’t a person,” you said. “Just something to be owned. Sold. Used.”

Idia’s expression twitch before trying to get his composure back.

“They branded me,” you added. “Here.”

You reached up slowly and pulled your collar aside, revealing the faint, barcode-like tattoo just at the curve of your neck. It had faded with time, but the shape was unmistakable. A mark made to strip you of identity.

He didn’t stare. Didn’t say a single word.

Just… reached out, hesitantly, like you were a rare artifact that deserved reverence not because you were fragile, but because you were important. He didn’t touch your neck, only let his fingers hover nearby, letting you guide him.

You smiled softly. “You can touch it.”

His fingertips brushed your skin, careful and warm despite the slight tremble. You could feel the heat of his presence more than anything else.

“I wanted you to know,” you said. “Not because I need fixing, or pity. Just… because I don’t want to hide from you anymore.”

For a long moment, there was only the hum of his computer fans and the quiet pulse of LED lights.

Then, in a voice quieter than you’d ever heard him use, Idia said, “That was real-life final boss level. What you survived. And you're still here. Still you.”

You laughed, and something wobbled in it. “Yeah.”

His voice broke a little as he added, “It makes sense now. Why you flinch at certain sounds. Why you always need to see the exit. Why you freeze when someone touches your neck without asking.”

You nodded. You’d always thought you were hiding it well. Of course he noticed.

“I’m so proud of you .” he said, and it wasn’t performative, wasn’t big,it was just honest.

Then he looked down at your neck again and added, “I hate that it happened to you. If I could backtrack time and delete the whole damn timeline, I would.”

You touched his hand, still resting near your neck. “I know. But I’m not broken. Just… healing.”

He smiled ,a rare, quiet smile. “Well, you’re way cooler than any character arc I’ve ever seen, just so you know. And if anyone tries to make you feel like less than you are… I will hack their soul. Figuratively. Unless-no, never mind. Figuratively.”

You laughed again, for real this time. “I believe you.”

You curled up beside him, forehead against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. Holding you like you were something precious, not fragile. Something meant to be protected not pitied.

That night, he didn’t say much else. Just stayed close. Quiet and warm and real.

And in that safe little pocket of the world, under flickering blue lights and piles of shared blankets, you felt like yourself, no longer a product, no longer hiding. Just you.

And for once, that was enough.

Malleus Draconia

It wasn’t planned.

You’d gone out walking with Malleus again, as you often did on nights when your thoughts wouldn’t settle. There was comfort in the quiet of the campus after dark, the flicker of fireflies, the distant rustle of trees and in the presence of the fae prince beside you. He never demanded conversation, never filled the silence with small talk. He let you exist beside him, gently curious but never invasive.

Tonight, though… your silence felt heavier.

And he noticed.

“You are quiet, child of man,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “Quieter than usual.”

You hesitated. “I’m thinking. But I guess that’s obvious.”

He smiled faintly. “You know I do not require explanations. Yet I welcome them, if you wish to offer.”

There was a pause. You looked up at the sky,a thousand stars watching silently. Malleus stood beside you, tall and still and waiting. You had always wondered how he made the world feel so slowed down, so breathable.

So you spoke.

“I was trafficked. When I was younger.”

There was no reaction of horror, no gasping intake of breath. Just stillness. The wind suddenly shifted stronger through the trees.

“For years,” you added, voice quieter. “I was passed around. Bought, sold. It wasn’t… violent all the time. But I was treated like an object. Like I didn’t have a voice or a will.”

“I see.” Malleus said quietly.You could've sens that he was trying to keep his cool but the shift in the air betrayed him.

You exhaled slowly. “They gave me a mark. A brand. Here.”

Your hand went to your neck, that spot you always kept covered, even in your sleep. “It looks like a barcode. Or a product label. Just something to keep me catalogued.”

“May I see it?” he asked, gently.

You nodded, and slowly pulled back your collar. The night air touched your skin as the mark was exposed,faint now, healed long ago, but still there. Still real.

He didn’t reach for it. Didn’t crowd you. Malleus only gazed at it, a furrow between his brows.

And then, after a long moment, he asked, “May I speak freely?”

You nodded again.

“I do not understand the cruelty of humankind,” he said, voice low and heavy. “To mark a soul as a possession… to reduce a living being to a commodity… it is beneath even the foulest of our kind.”

You smiled, a little bitter. “It took me a long time to believe I was more than that.”

“You are,” he said, with a certainty that startled you. “You are light forged from shadow. You have carved your own existence from the ruins left by others. That is power, (Y/N). And no brand can steal that.”

Your breath hitched.

Then, softly, you asked, “Do you think… they’ll ever see me as someone whole? Not just someone surviving?”

His eyes met yours, green glowing gently in the moonlight.

“They may not,” he said. “But I do.”

That was the thing with Malleus. He didn’t overpromise. He didn’t say it would all be okay, or that the pain would disappear. He offered something better: honesty, reverence, and unwavering presence.

“I am proud of you,” he added, voice almost a whisper. “Not as one might be proud of a soldier or a survivor but as one is proud of a star that endures through storm, refusing to be dimmed.”

You felt yourself shake, just a little. Not from fear but from the sudden release of tension, of years spent hiding and hoping to be seen.

He stepped closer,slowly, giving you time and cupped your cheek with the gentlest touch. His thumb didn’t brush the brand, didn’t touch it at all. It lingered near your temple, grounding you, letting you decide how close was safe.

“You do not have to hide any part of yourself from me,” he said. “Even the scars they left behind. I will not look away.”

You pressed your forehead to his chest, heart beating hard beneath your ribs. And for the first time in a long, long while… you believed you were more than the mark on your skin. You were not what they made you. Not anymore.

Malleus’s arms wrapped around you carefully, protectively, not to fix, but to shield.

And under the stars, you let yourself be held.

Whole.

English is not my first language !

[rampagingpoet]

I'm currently planning to run The Halls of Arden Vul, a massive megadungeon. I think anon should take a look at the map of Level 3.

This is admittedly one of the largest levels of one of the largest dungeons ever made, but it should be clear from the many loops and branching paths that there is no one "next room". There's always somewhere else to go and something else to do. So what if yiu reach a dead end? Just go back and try somewhere else.

Or look at how many secret door there are. So what if the party misses most of them? They'll probably find one.

Oh but what if they're after sometging specific that's behind a secret door? Well that's covered in the room keys! There's multiple clues in different parts of the dungeon that point to various cool secrets. Even if you don't Find The Thing on the first try, before long you'll find a lead on The Thing.

Posting the map itself under the cut to avoid spoilers:

One of the closest thing the module has to "quest items" is even on this floor! It's in one of those secret rooms. Off the top of my head there's at least two leads to it elsewhere in the dungeon: an ancient note mentioning the treasure and its rough location by name, and a red herring where someone looking for a different treasure thinks it's nearby.

So no, you can't get stuck just because there's a secret door. And the nextvroom is just whichever room you go to next.

I mean that approach to dungeon crawling is all fun and games until the adventure grinds to a halt because everyone failed to read the DM's mind to find the secret door to the next room.

Leaving aside that I still think "reading the DM's mind" is an incredibly bad faith way to describe it. If there's something that makes your adventure completely dysfunctional if the players fail to find it, why are you making it secret in the first place????

Like by virtue of making something hidden or secret, you're introducing the possibility that the players will fail to find it. So the first thing you should ask yourself before you put a secret in is "am I okay with my players not finding this? does the adventure still work if they don't find it?" and then if the answer is "no" then you. just don't make it secret. Easy as that.

Like personally I think if at any point your dungeon has only one available way for the party to make progress you probably already fucked up a little bit. But if you decide to make their one way to move forward *secret* you're kinda just actively shooting yourself in the foot, regardless of whether you're using perception mechanics or not. Because with perception mechanics the same situation can just as easily turn into "the adventure grinds to a halt because everyone failed their Mother May I Use My Fucking Eyes To See What's In Front Of Me check to find the secret door"

[mysteryshoptls]

Malleus Draconia Shared Lines

Tutorial: Were you... the one who called for me?

Level Up 1 / Buddy Level Up: Mm, this does not feel terrible whatsoever.

Level Up 2: How is it? Do you notice a difference?

Level Up 3: Your dedication should be rewarded. Heh.

Level Max: So, this is what diligent studying reaps me... Heh, this is the first time I've ever felt a change within me. I may need to reevaluate my estimation of you.

Vignette Level Up: You do not fear me. I am beginning to fear losing this fearless version of you.

Spell Level Up: Hmph. Do you truly think... that this is enough to change me?

Friendship Level Up: I cannot believe that there would be someone out there who would invite me like this… Wait. I wasn’t barging in uninvited, was I?

Friendship Level Max: I suppose it’s not a bad feeling at all to have such gentle hospitality like this. Right now, I am in a fantastic mood. Fufufu, if you have any favor you wish to ask of me, now may be the time to do so.

Uncapped: Heh, heh. You should ask more of me. For you, I'll gladly oblige.

Groovification: This is a rather good feeling. ...What is with that look? Of course I have moments of good cheer.

Lesson Select 1: Let me know when it is time to change classrooms. ...I-It's not as if I've been left behind...

Lesson Select 2: You should select whichever class you wish. I truly don't mind any of them.

Lesson Select 3: For me, they are all the same.

Lesson Start: I shall fulfill my duties as a student.

Lesson Finish: Time passed in the blink of an eye.

Battle Start: You called for me?

Battle Won: Humph, not bad. Make sure you invite me next time as well.

Trouble 1: You wish for us to reconcile? I believe they should know their place, instead.

Trouble 2: Hm? Did something happen?

GIFT CALENDAR 2023: “How will you be spending the day?” It’s chilly today. The best thing to possibly do on days like this is to warm my room and enjoy some frozen treats. Perhaps I’ll invite Lilia and the others later. Fufu… I suppose it’s not a bad thing to be the one making preparations for them once in a while.

Birthday Login Message 1: You remembered my birthday? I’m surprised to receive well wishes from someone other than those from my country. I thought I had tired of birthday celebrations a long time ago but… I am starting to get the feeling that this will be a delightful year.

Birthday Login Message 2: Ah, it’s you. What is it you need of me? …You wish to eat lunch together? You wouldn’t happen to be asking me because it is my birthday today, are you? …I surmised as much. What a splendid idea. You certainly know how to fill me with joy. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.

Birthday Login Message 3: Each time we’ve run into each other since the day began, you’ve wished me happy birthday… What exactly is the purpose of that? Oh, you are simply wanting me to feel the depth of your well wishes? It seems birthdays are quite the special event for you. Then, I suppose I shall have to bestow many blessings upon you when it is your birthday, as well.

Birthday Login Message 4: So, you’ve come to wish me a happy birthday. You certainly know no fear, it seems. Most people are too frightened to even say one word to me… If the people of Briar Valley were to see this, they would be quite taken aback. Heh, I don’t mean it as a rebuke in anyway. I only am reminded once again about what a strange human you are.

Birthday Login Message 5: A birthday card for me? Well then, I’ll have to read it thoroughly when I return. At the moment, I was planning on heading out on an outing as part of the Gargoyle Studies Club activities. I am hoping to find some gargoyles in a ruin that I have never set foot in before. It would be a shame to lose the card there, wouldn’t it? Sebek and Silver will be joining me on this excursion, and they were also carefully preparing what items and food they should bring along. I’m sure this trip will be much livelier than usual.

Requested by Anonymous.

[amrluv]

TATS ON YOUR ARM ( 🌿 ) —

tlou!au!daniela avanzini x fem!reader

— stormy weather seems to finally reap good things for once. when a route becomes too dangerous in the rain, daniela gets holed up in an old building with her patrol partner

( genre ) fluff & suggestive

( warnings ) immune dani (never explicitly stated), dani is basically ellie, mentions of death, mentions of blood, mentions of violence, kissing, not proofread (i never re-read my stuff unfortunately)

( words ) 1.9k

( #! ) tryna find a way to bring my hyperfixation into everything

heavy rain seemed to muffle gunshots as infected's bodies fell nearby. your horses raced through the blurry landscape, seeking dry shelter as eagerly as those riding them.

sophia swore up and down that the ride would be easy. an easy trail, nice weather, barely any infected. the universe seemed to have thought differently, however, as rain began to pour not even an hour into the commute. at first, it seemed bearable. daniela and you'd dealt with rain so many times—a few drops wouldn't kill you. then it got harder. then thunder struck in the distance. now the two of you were racing the impending flood.

"shop on your right!" daniela shouted out, shooting a stray runner who charged at her. directions changed as the horses began to run towards the shop, heading straight towards its closed doors. boards blocked the windows, the words 'closed for now' spray painted on one on the further right. tall grass and leaves sprouted near its entrance, splaying out across the exposed brick. above the door rested a sign. the words were barely visible, too overgrown to be fully read except for the words '& pharmacy'.

you hopped off your horse, jogging towards the door. there was a small chance it would even open, but it never hurt to try. with a push it opened at a surprisingly quick pace. you walked inside, leading your horse in with you. "it's open!" you yelled back towards daniela who lacked behind.

the inside matched its abandoned exterior.

plastic containers littered the floors, mixing in with the dirt and grime on the uncleaned wood. shelves were empty, only a few items left on them—definitely all expired food. it was dim inside, the only light showing through the cracks in the barricades and the open door. the place had been raided, no doubt happening close to outbreak day.

you moved through the open building, tying up your horse near the cash register. "good girl, sunny." you cooed, placing a few gentle pets on her head before deciding to venture off in the building.

water dripped on the floor as you moved, looking for anything valuable in the messy aisles. barely anything remained; anything left was just useless to you. maybe there was something, anything, to keep you entertained as the storm rolled over.

"oh shit."

daniela's voice rang out in the, mainly empty, space. your head quickly spun to find her, spotting her standing in a doorway. her back turned to you, only able to see her flattened brown curls and oversized jacket. "someone was living here."

her words made you perk up.

"what?" your question came out quick, your feet suddenly pulling you towards the door.

the room was exactly as how you'd imagine it. a makeshift bed lay in the corner, pillows and a blanket messily thrown over it. among the clutter were notes and pictures scattered in the mess. it would've seemed like a homey room—a place someone could've called home if it were not for the lingering question of 'why did they leave?'. you didn't want to know that, though. not now, at least.

daniela was quick, already shrugging off her jacket and tossing it in a random corner. she moved around the room, plopping down on the mattress like she lived there. she looked up at you, face blank as she spoke. "sit."

the simple command sent a shiver through you for whatever reason. you discarded the sopping wet jacket you wore, a chill running through your body as the wind that seeped in hit you. daniela looked up at you, her eyes unreadable, yet unwavering. as you sat down across from her, she took her gun out from its holster—fingers gliding over the safety lock to click it into place. your eyes stayed trained on the action, watching as her lean fingers moved over the weapon.

"so.. what's the plan?" her words snapped you out of your daze. she placed the gun down on the concrete floor, eyes never leaving yours. "plan?" you repeated, questioning what she meant.

"are we just gonna stay here until the storm rolls over, or do you have a better idea?" she reiterated, leaning back. her back hit the wall, hands splayed out in her lap. she looked so casual yet so.. enticing. you swallowed the lump that suddenly appeared in your throat. you hadn't even given it much thought. really, there was no logical reason you two would leave. it was pouring outside, and even if you began to consider it, thunder struck in the distance. "yeah, let's wait here for now." you reached near your belt, pulling the walkie talkie that rested there into your hands. "i'll keep this on just in case. maybe they can somehow reach us."

as you place the walkie talkie down, you don't miss how daniela's eyes moved to watch your hands, eventually moving up your arm and towards your face. "how long do you think we'll be stuck out here?" she inquired, her voice barely above a whisper.

a sigh left your lips, shrugging before you answered. "i don't know. could be an hour, could be six."

you couldn't even remember the last time you were alone with daniela for more than 10 minutes.

ever since you came to wyoming 4 years ago, you rarely saw her, even if you arrived in town around the same time as her. she always hid away, immersing herself in whatever new interest she could find. it always seemed to change every other week, but nobody ever pointed it out. the first time you two properly met, however, was because of sophia. she was your friend who was coincidentally dating daniela at the time, so it wouldn't be a shocker to anyone that she would try to get you two to become buddies. you noticed a lot about her during that formal meeting. the way she seemed guarded at first but softened around sophia, the way she awkwardly stood and watched while others spoke, the way she kept on avoiding eye contact with you. daniela tried to present herself as a tough and intimidating individual, but she just seemed awkward and almost dorky when you actually got to know her.

sophia and her broke up 4 months ago, but you maintained whatever semblance of a friendship you had prior with the two of them. sophia still hung out with you—she was like that. close with everyone. daniela barely spoke to you that first month after her break up, but ended up coming around to you after a while. you couldn't tell why. it wasn't like you were very close prior; her suddenly speaking to you again was odd. especially since she'd hang around you, acting nonchalant despite having actively sought you out.

and now.. now you two were forced to spend time together. how convenient.

you let out a long breath, eyes flickering down to your outfit. blood splatters. fuck. your clothes were freshly washed and now they were ruined. the once deep purple shirt you wore was tainted with the blood of the infected. all because of this goddamn storm.

daniela wasn't in much better condition either, but she didn't seem to mind. in fact, she didn't seem to care about anything but you in the moment.

by the time you finally looked back up at her, she was already looking at you—her gaze roaming over your hands, your legs, your face. that look alone was enough to make you gulp. it was intense, like a predator studying their prey, except she wasn't ready to pounce. she just rolled up her sleeves and-

there it was—the tattoo.

your eyes caught on it immediately, pulling your attention away from her obvious staring. laying beneath her loose long sleeve was a tattoo that covered most of her forearm. the black ink stood out from her otherwise untouched skin. leaves were drawn onto her arm, similar to the ferns you'd spotted around this area. laying within the detailed plant was an animal. a moth, perhaps? or maybe it was a butterfly? you never asked her; you don't think anyone has. the detailed artwork decorated her skin, pulling more focus towards her. it was intricate and well-drawn, as if it was done by a professional. but there were no tattoo artists in the town, so how in the hell did she get that done?

"your tattoo.. what is it?" you asked, eyes never leaving the design. daniela's eyes snapped to yours, following your line of vision to her shooting arm. "it's, uh, just some stupid idea i had. really, it's just some leaves and a moth." she brushed it off, trying to appear cool and composed for you. it was the truth.. mostly.

you hummed at her answer, nodding along. "it's nice." almost hesitantly your hand came out, reaching towards her arm. cold fingers touched her skin, tracing the outlines. daniela's heart banged against her chest, feeling her skin begin to heat beneath your fingertips. you'd leaned in closer, close enough that she could see every detail of your face up close. close enough to study you, close enough to feel your body heat.

"who did it?" daniela could barely register anything you were saying by this point—your words falling on deaf ears. all she could focus on was the tingle she felt when you touched her. "um, it wa- well, cora did it." she managed to choke out.

your fingers finished tracing the design, stilling on her skin. your gaze lifted from the tattoo to her face, seeing her flushed cheeks. it was cute, you would've commented on it had it not been for the way her eyes dropped down to your lips.

her intense, yearnful gaze remained on the feature, imagining how it'd feel against hers, how it'd taste, how soft-

you lifted your hand, cupping her jaw with one hand and bringing her view back up to your eyes. you matched her, gazing back at her with a similar intensity. subtly, your thumb came out to trace the corner of her lips, feeling the plump flesh.

she couldn't take it anymore. another second without her lips on yours and she would've gone insane.

daniela quickly captured your lips in a quick kiss. she hadn't even prepared to do it—she was just getting too impatient. as soon as her lips met yours, she second guessed herself. maybe you were about to reject her. maybe you were just teasing her. the thoughts alone made her pull back before you could even react, staring back at you with wide eyes.

she prepared herself for the worst. maybe you'd smack her in the face, calling her an asshole for even trying to make a move on you. or maybe you'd just scold her. but instead she found your lips on hers again, locking in a messy, yet still somehow passionate, kiss.

you cupped her cheeks in your hands, pushing your body closer to hers to deepen the kiss. the kiss was sloppy and uncoordinated but still managed to send butterflies straight to your stomach.

you pushed her back firmly against the wall, moving to sit on her lap. her hands came down, resting on your waist to steady you. daniela's hands snuck under your shirt, feeling the soft heat of your bare skin on her fingertips.

"daniela, come in. this is manon, over."

the crackle of the walkie talkie filled the otherwise silent room. "ignore it." you mumbled against her lips, tongue poking out to lick her bottom lip.

"this is important, where is your location? we're able to send someone out to get you." the talking paused, seemingly going silent over the other end. "don't ignore me, over."

you groaned, pulling away from her lips. you turned your head, looking at the discarded walkie talkie that sat on the other end of the mattress. "fucking manon.."

[meo-juice]

katuski bakugou headcanons ✩࿐࿔

⋆˙⟡ — author's note: about time i wrote for this motherfucker. i could probably write a part 2 of just katsuki headcanons but i have requests and some one-shots to get through. enjoy your bakugou!

⋆˙⟡ — cw: swearing, he throws up (it'll make sense i swear), i go hard on him but i love him I swear to god.

⋆˙⟡ — word count: 646

⋆˙⟡ — dividers are by @hyuneskkami!

starting off strong, he either sleeps completely naked or completely clothed, socks and everything.

he really needs glasses but would rather die than wear them. the last pair he had was from when he was like 12 and he will ONLY wear them when his head starts to hurt from squinting while he studies.

also had braces as a kid, he takes exceptional care of his teeth. his skin is very acne prone but he has a secret stash of pimple patches and skin care.

snores. snores SO bad. he has a deviated septum and sleep apnea. deathly combo.

he also has one singular pillow on his bed and sleeps with just a sheet because he runs hot.

he has a secret tiktok so he knows what the hell the goons™ are talking about.

he really does enjoy hanging out with everyone (most of the time until denki starts his shit.)

he is super intuitive and picks up on every little thing. mina did her hair differently, ochaco was more talkative in class today, izuku's shoe is untied, dumbass.

he is a listener, not a talker. he just soaks everything up like a sponge. when he gets close with someone and they have serious conversations, he's there to listen.

his book bag is super unorganized, but he knows where each individual item is.

he also owns a lot of clothes (mostly sent by his parents) but switches between like 4 t-shirts and 3 pairs of pants regularly.

he reprimands his friends for drinking soda but will chug an energy drink everyday like it's nothing. his favorite is alani but he wouldn't be caught dead.

bro so has a peanut allergy. like don't even try to argue.

he also never eats breakfast even though he knows he should, he just doesn't have an appetite in the morning.

we all know he gets sweaty as hell but we can't ignore how stinky bro would be. i know his BO would be crazy. he also still hasn't given up the axe deodorant.

his phone is always cracked beyond hell because he refuses to get a phone case. he doesn't use headphones if he actually listens to music because he says they make his ears ring bad.

speaking of which, tinnitus is part of the reason he has trouble sleeping sometimes.

mina got everyone little embroidery floss friendship bracelets and he still hasn't taken it off because he "keeps forgetting to."

he's one of those people that hasn't seen ANY movies or shows. kaminari and sero are like "the FUCK you mean you haven't seen the godfather???? jaws, you've seen jaws."

"no."

"nightmare on elm street?"

"no."

"man what the fuck have you been doing with your life." kami and sero shared a look of sorrow. "we're not mad bakugou just disappointed."

they soon would force katsuki into weekly movie nights to culture him.

he eats extremely well, but can FUCK UP a whole bag of takis.

part of the reason he goes to bed so early Is because actually just loves laying in bed. like, he'll do that thing were he starts to kick his feet and get excited when he lays down all comfy but then realizes what the hell he's doing and composes himself.

he gets carsick really easily and has forced sero to pull over multiple times so he can throw up on the side of the road.

"why was it so red." kaminari asks in fear.

"shut it. takis. drive, soy sauce."

he dozed off in class ONE TIME. there are multiple pictures from multiple angles and everyone's phones which have been edited with various objects in his open mouth.

his friends will find any excuse to continue to edit the photo and bring it up as a reaction image over text or directly to his face. they will find any excuse to troll him.

⋆˙⟡ — disclaimer: these characters do not belong to me! all written works are my own (meo-juice). please do not repost my work on other sites or apps than tumblr. thank you!

[mothinked]

Well, at least Abby hadn't thrown a punch to her gut out of reflex or something. Perhaps it was the chance of it being Lev rather than Ellie that stayed her hand, or it was just the natural instinct of never being able to let one's guard down entirely. They were children of the apocalypse after all. Ellie quickly glazed over Abby's reaction after reading the other woman's body language as non-threatening. "The water's great," she commented, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "Could've gone swimming with us." If they did stay longer than a day or two then Abby's mind could change. She eyed the cannister, now standing with her hands in her pockets. "No, but thanks. Just figured I'd take it out since we're staying a while... Good haul." She dipped her chin to indicate the items Abby had compiled. Her eyebrows pinched together in thought then she added, "Y'know, I think there's canned food somewhere inside... Plastic storage bin. I remember having some before and not taking much with me."

When Abby mentioned fishing, Ellie's expression turned sheepish. "Uh, got kinda sidetracked." She turned to look over her shoulder at the young man in the distance, his form haloed by the glow of the evening sun. Lev lifted an arm at them which she responded to with a casual salute. "He... reminds me a lot of my son. Easy to talk to, eager to learn. Loves animals." The corners of her lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, melancholic. "And somehow, he helps the time go by a little easier out here," she admitted. She figured Abby knew that best. Green eyes drifted back, landing on the flip lighter in question. A nod. "Sure." Conversation was easier than it used to be. She'd go hours at a time without uttering a word to Abby. But it wasn't a hostile silence; they preferred to keep to themselves with Lev as a buffer. Ellie never thought she would reach a point where speaking to Abby would stop feeling like pulling teeth, one yanked out per word. They... actually got along pretty well, her and Abby.

Ellie seemed to be mulling something over as she watched Abby at the pit. "If you don't want coffee, there's always whiskey." An invitation being tentatively nudged toward Abby. Another olive branch to add to their growing pile of nice things they had done for each other since Wyoming. She would let Abby sit with that. Their conversation was ended there, a single nod given before she turned and headed in Lev's direction. The dog lifted his head to watch Ellie's departure but lowered it to his paws soon after, opting for Abby's company now that he was tuckered out. Ellie could be seen joining Lev shortly after. Words were exchanged. While they waited on a bite, Ellie tugged her cap free from her pocket and shook it out before placing it on his head to keep the sun out of his eyes. He seemed touched by this by how he looked over at her with a smile visible on his face. Gratitude was felt by both parties in that moment.

It was the most relaxed Abby had been in quite a while. For a landscape that hours ago she had been hating and couldn’t wait to be rid of it, this felt like a little slice of paradise. It was a nice switch up from pure desert. Didn’t beat the beach and the overall beauty of the island but it beat the freezing snow storms of Jackson and the scalding heat of pure Vegas desert. A day of trekking under the scalding sun had left her physically wiped and in that lounge chair right now was the first time that day she’d been able to just sit back, take a breath, and be still. She would be even ore grateful when the temperature started to drop as the day made it’s exit. The sun was still setting over the horizon and soon it would be a thing of the past. No doubt the moonlight would look gorgeous over the water but she would have to hold out for a couple more hours before the sight could be admired.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Her chest rose and fell slowly with each breath and her eyes remained closed, even as she picked up the soft sound of approaching steps. Whether it’s Lev or Ellie at this point, it doesn’t matter. If they were ready for her to get things up and running, she would do so but admittedly she wasn’t expecting the touch on her shoulder. The contact, no matter how minimal, makes her eyes fly open and she sits up straight in the lounge chair. Talk about startling. It’s clear Ellie didn’t intend to do so so she quickly shakes it off and offers a quick nod. “Yeah, I’m good. Just relaxed.” Though she hadn’t fallen asleep, there was a grogginess about her that emphasized just how relaxed she had been.

Her eyes fall to the canister on the chair and an eyebrow cocks upward. “Did you want me to make some? Can spare a filter but I haven’t started boiling any water yet. I can get started on the fire too,” she mumbled as she put in the effort to push herself up and off the lounge chair, being careful to not step on Jack. Leaning over, she gave him a couple of quick scratches behind the ears. Abby wasn’t much of a coffee drinker but sometimes it was a decent pick up me. Tonight likely wasn’t a night she would indulge. At the rate her exhaustion was picking up, she was fixing to get the best sleep in a long while. “How’s the fishing going?” she asked and glanced over in Lev’s direction where through the darkening sky she could make out his figure on the pier and the rod he held, cast out into the water.

There wasn’t a ton of shit to clear out of the firepit. The grate that was on top of it had kept any big debris from blowing into it over time. In no time, she had it cleared out and was working on expertly stacking up some of the freshly cut logs and kindling she’d collected. Digging into her pocket, Abby fished out the lighter Ellie had loaned her and quite quickly had the kindling lit up and the beginnings of a fire starting to come to life. “Thanks for this,” she motioned to the lighter and set it down on the arm of the chair near the coffee canister. The woman waited a few minutes to make sure no adjustments were needed to the logs before placing the grating back in top of the pit. It was a small one for now, just something to keep warm while the temp dropped and when the time came for water boiling and cooking, she could get something more substantial going.

[uniquethingtastemaker]

Woooooow, you're getting fed today. Here's a whole cut section from Rook x Observant Reader. This was one of my early, early drafts. While it's not the angle I ultimately chose, it's well thought out

Context: This is in the middle of your first canonical meeting with Rook when you and Clown Crew are trying to sign up for VDC. He just revealed his uncanny ability to memorize things, including personal information

“You have a good memory. Do you know everybody’s name and height?” you ask.

“Oui, as I said I like to be prepared for any situation,” Rook reiterates with a deadly smile.

You ignore the warning sign and press forward. 

“The names and class I can understand, but where did you get our heights?” you question.

“I can tell just by looking at you,” the hunter answers.

Your eyebrows raise in surprise. 

“That’s a specific skill,” you comment. “Is there any benefit other than fact-checking people if they’re lying about their height?”

“I learned it to help narrow down and estimate the length of someone’s gait. However, I can call out a lie of that kind when I see one,” the vice leader replies, amused.

“That’s resourceful,” you admire. “Are the Leech twins the same height?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Non, Monsieur Malfeasance is one centimeter taller than Monsieur Mastermind. Those are two of my other favorite subjects to watch. They’re so interesting.”

Frowning, you decipher the names. 

“Monsieur Mastermind is Jade, but what does malfeasance mean?” you question.

“It’s the fancy word for wrongdoing,” Rook provides.

“Yeah, that’s an apt nickname for Floyd,” you agree before leaning in.

You ask the question you’ve been wanting to ask since the beginning. “Where did you get your hat?”

Rook looks up, touching the object.

“I made it myself,” he reveals with a smile. 

You perk up with a tilt of your head. 

“Can I see it?” you request innocently.

Rook relinquishes his hat with a dramatic bow. “Oui, it’s a délice you’ve taken such an interest in me, [Y/N].” 

You giggle, taking it into your hands. You’re glad he understands your desire to learn more about him. He’s interesting.

You refocus on the hunter’s accessory. It’s surprisingly soft and smooth. You run your thumb along the leather, observing its trim and stitches. The belt buckle is shiny, and the white feather is big and fluffy. The entire item is made with high-quality materials. It makes you wonder…

“Did you personally source the materials?” you inquire. “You said you were a hunter after all.”

Rook’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oui, I did!” He grins. “I’m impressed you made the connection. Most people don’t.”

His emerald green eyes sparkle, fascinated. You glance away with a satisfied smirk. 

“This is an ostrich feather, right? What animal did you use for the leather? Did you make the leather yourself?” you bombard.

He drifts closer to you, answering with ease. 

“Oui, that’s an ostrich feather. I used deer skin. I dried and tanned it myself,” he responds. 

“It’s a work of art,” you comment, before placing the hat on yourself. “It’s well-made and comfortable. It has a nice weight, too. How long have you had it?”

Rook watches you model his hat. His gaze follows you with the narrowed eyes of a hunter. 

“I’ve had this one since I joined Night Raven College,” he explains.

“Have you made any others?”

“Oui, I made the hat that goes with my dorm uniform,” Rook replies with a small and fond smile.

“Is it from the same hide?” you question, still feeling and touching the hat. 

“No, but it is still deerskin,” the hunter answers.

Leona butts in, “He didn’t even make it at the same time. He transferred to Pomefiore halfway through his first year. It’s the only good thing he’s ever done.”

You’ve been watching Rook this whole time. The hunter’s face flickers, displeased at the reveal of personal information. It’s for a split second. It’s gone so quickly that you doubt it was there. However, with one glance at Leona, it’s confirmed. He has a smug and pleased look in his eye. He wanted to gain a negative reaction from the hunter. You file that information away. 

Rook comments, “I do not regret my decision to follow Roi de Poison, but I miss watching you closer while I was in Savanaclaw.”

“Well, I’m grateful I don’t have to sleep with you in the dorm,” Leona retorts. 

It takes a second for Deuce to whisper to you, “Roi de Poison?”

“Vil,” you translate without a second thought.  

“[Y/N], you're most astute, quick, and clever! With my hat, I’m sure you’ll be able to impersonate me in no time.” Rook claps his hands, delighted.

You take his direction. You imitate him, giving a flourish similar to Rook’s when he introduced himself.

“Je m'appelle Rook Hunt, the self-proclaimed Le Chasseur D'Armour. I'm honored to make your acquaintance,” you act with a wink.

You decide to be bold. Bowing, you pull off the hat and hold it to your chest. You grab the hunter's hand and kiss it. You straighten, donning the accessory once more. You take a step back, pleased with your performance. 

“How did I do?” you ask with an eager grin.

Rook wastes no time or words to drown you in praise.

“Magnifique! Beaute! 100 points!” He bursts out, grabbing your hands this time. “The added detail of the kiss was merveilleuse. You could pass for me anytime. You are truly incroyable.”

You smile at his enthusiasm. How can you not? His energy’s infectious.

“The only thing I need to do is get accepted into Pomefiore and then we can trade at any time,” you joke.

Rook looks at you with a glimmer in his eyes. 

“We can solve that,” he tells you, slipping off his blazer. “As the Vice Leader of Pomefiore, I can make you a temporary member. I can’t take the crest off my jacket, so we’ll trade accessories and personas for the afternoon.”

Excitement bubbles within you. You bite your lip to keep the smile off your face, but it doesn’t work. You haven’t had this much fun in a while. You’ve always been fond of plays, musicals, and acting, but haven’t gotten to talk with someone with those interests. You love your Clown Crew, but they weren’t the type to participate in improv. Although, you’re sure their personalities would get them a spot. You match the hunter’s movements, taking your blazer off, and holding it out to him.

“My blazer definitely won’t fit you, but keep it to make sure I come back to give you your items back,” you answer. 

“Oui, I will,” he reassures, draping your jacket over his forearm. “Roi de Poison would scold me for an atrocious fashion violation. However, I will risk it for the joy of such a beaute and radiante person. I’ll take extra precautions to avoid Beautiful Vil’s wrath.” 

Rook gives you a wink as you put on his blazer. It’s too big, but you don’t mind. It smelled like fresh rain. 

“You smell nice,” you comment, “It smells nice, but you don’t wear cologne, right?”

“Oui, I don’t,” he confirms with an interested smile. 

You give a sage nod. “It would give away your position as a hunter.”

Rook hums in agreement. He watches your movements. 

“When and where do you want me to return it to you?” you ask. “Or will you find me?”

“You’re catching onto my habits well, Trickster. I’ll be able to find you,” Rook confirms.

You perk up. “Is that my nickname?” 

The huntsman laughs. “Oui, a special one just for you.”

You grin. 

“Alright see you later—” you start, before pausing. “Do you like hugs?” 

Rook’s cat-like eyes narrow in delight.

“Oui, I would be more than happy to receive one from you,” he replies, before murmuring. “Such innocent prey coming into the arms of a hunter.”

You prove him wrong by pouncing. The wind knocks out of him as he makes a sound of shock. Rook recovers in an instant, chuckling.

“You’re full of surprises, Trickster,” he says.

You pull away.

“And you’re full of secrets,” you tease quietly. 

You giggle, pull away, and sweep out of the room.

"Bye, Rook!" you tell him.

Your friends soon catch up. 

“That was disgusting,” Ace emphasizes when you’re out of earshot. “Next time, warn me when you flirt with a guy.”

“I didn’t know that was your type,” Grim grumbles. “He was weird. He looked like he was going to track and stalk Leona. I don’t want to be next.”

“I’ll keep the attention off of you,” you reassure.

He gives you a wary glare with a scrunched-up nose. “I don’t like him.”

You shrug. “I do. He’s interesting, talented, and more importantly, he let me borrow his hat. He’s entertaining. Besides, I think he’s hiding something.”

Deuce leans in closer, interested. “What do you mean?”

“There’s some stuff that’s off about him. Why does he know everybody’s heights at a glance? That’s not something a normal person would know, even if they were a hunter. He also tensed up when Leona revealed he was from Savanaclaw. I don’t think he likes personal information being revealed despite knowing a lot about everyone else."

“Huh, I didn’t notice that,” Deuce says.

“Yeah, because you’re dense and not in love with him,” Ace snarks. “Is that why you were trying to get close to him?” 

“No, it’s just a bonus that he’s a little mysterious. It adds to the appeal,” you reply.

“I was hoping for the impossible,” Ace grimaces.

You pat him on his back in sympathy.

(Interesting first take! Compared to what I have now, this version of Rook is way more open. The Reader is also much more excitable. Ultimately, I like the official version, but this is adorable. I hope you like it as much as I do... probably more because you don't have the official and giant 40k fanfic at your disposal lol

(The sentence variety isn't as engaging as it could be, but it's good enough. Plus, I have a headache. rip. send me get wells lol... still going to work on Riddle's Dreaming of You fanfic despite the pain lol

(Tell me what you think!)

[viktorarcanedeservesbetter]

whimsy jayvik drabble???

pls <3

Viktor loved the farmers market.

It was his favorite thing in this little grassy land town, besides the fact he and Jayce were accepted into the population with no question at all. The market reminded him of early Zaun, of being carried on his mother's and father's back, as they shopped in the small stalls of the lanes.

When he got older those trips died, both due to their increase in workload and the increase in enforcers, and he hadn't realized how much he missed it.

This shopping trip wasn't for anything important. They had enough seeds and small plants in their garden for herbs and vegetables, their chickens had been producing enough eggs, and Betsy gave them enough milk to make butter and cheese.

So, this was what Jayce liked to call a "sweet treat" trip.

One of the first booths was a little pottery sale, bowls, plates, pots. Viktor stopped, shouldering his tote, and picked up a small bowl. It was cute, made from clay and painted in blues and greens. With a start, he jumped, and held up the bowl to Jayce when he realized what shape it was.

"Jayce, look!" He said, holding it in front of his partner's eyes. "A turtle bowl!"

Jayce took it from him, rolling it in his hands. "Cute," he decided. "What would we put it in though? We only have one set of keys, and we put those on a hook."

Oh yes, their key hook, which they'd also found at an antique store. Whenever you hung something, it would lower the mechanism, and a cat would pop out! Jayce had refurbished it to be like new, turning the cat from rusted white to orange. He said it matched their personalities.

A million different uses passed through his mind. Coins, nails and screws, ticket stubs from their trips to the theatre, all other small things. They had a ton of stuff lying around they could put in the small bowl.

"We could use it for things, Jayce!" He argued. "We have many things lying around that could fit in it."

Jayce looked at him from the corners of his eyes. "We could always organize our things?"

Viktor blinked at Jayce.

Jayce blinked back.

His partner turned to the owner, handing over the bowl. "We'll take this." Viktor beamed, wrapping his hand around Jayce's elbow. His partner kissed the side of his head, then leaned, plucking up a teapot. "This one is fun," he said, showing it to Viktor. "Elephant."

It was fun. It was bright blue, molded into the shape of the animal, with the nose acting as the spout and the head as the lid. Two large ears stuck out from the side. It matched none of their dinnerware. Nodding, with an even bigger smile, Jayce handed the teapot over.

"This one as well."

They watched as the woman running the booth beamed, wrapping the item in newspaper and tying it up gently. She slid her card into one of the folds, then wrapped it in a large cloth, tying up the ends. Jayce handed her a wad of cash.

"Thank you!" She smiled, as she traded the items for the money. "By the way, the cloths I wrapped your things in have many uses. I use them as napkins, I wrap breads in them, I use them to decorate. They're scraps from my quilting."

Viktor carefully placed both at the bottom of his tote, placing his own protective cloth he kept inside over them. He watched as she calculated their change, handing over the rest of the bills, and nodded at them both.

"Do you sell quilts as well?" Viktor asked. "I quite like your clay, as you can see."

"I only do commission work," she told him. "My address is on my card. I run a shared shop with a few other creators. You can stop by any time and place an order for a design. Takes me two weeks to a month."

Jayce pocketed the rest of their money back in his wallet, dropping it in his own bag as he wrapped an arm around Viktor's waist. "We will certainly stop by this week. We're needing a new quilt for the winter. Do you do any design?"

"I try!" She said. "I've done dragons, chevron patterns, swirls, suns and moons, you name it! If I can find the fabric, I can do it!"

"That is wonderful." Viktor stepped aside with Jayce, allowing more people under the tent and into the booth. "We cannot wait. Thank you again!"

"You're welcome!" She waved, as he and Jayce walked down the path again. Jayce leaned into him, smiling, and rubbed his back up and down as they passed multiple soap and candle booths. That was Jayce's no for today-they had three baskets full and did not need any more.

"What kind of quilt were you thinking?" Jayce asked him. "I kind of want something celestial. Stars, planets, the like."

Viktor hummed in agreement. "It will look nice, I think. Perhaps we can find fabric for her, if she uses outside sources. Maybe real constellations."

"Won't match anything in our bedroom, though."

Viktor nudged him gently in the ribs, grinning when Jayce peered down at him. "We just bought a turtle bowl and elephant tea pot," he said. "Neither of which match the flower plates we have been using or the marble-green tea cups."

"Yeah," Jayce said, lifting his scarred hand to press a kiss to his knuckles. "You're right."

[captonite]

Whose. Coat. Is That?

Supernatural | Humor + Fluff | Chaos Ensues

It started off like any normal Tuesday.

Rain outside. Old rock on the radio. Sam elbows-deep in lore. Dean threatening to throw the coffee machine out the window because it dared to beep twice.

Then the bunker door creaked open.

“Hey, I’m back!” came Chubs’s voice, casual as anything.

Both brothers turned around.

And froze.

Because there she was — Sachi “Chubs” Winchester — standing in the entryway in a full-length tan trench coat.

Not just any trench coat.

Cas’s trench coat.

Sam blinked. “Is that—?”

Dean stepped forward, brows low, voice flat. “You wanna tell me why you’re wearing Castiel’s signature wardrobe item like you’re about to go fight the Leviathan army?”

Chubs blinked at them like they were insane.

“It was cold,” she said simply, shrugging the coat tighter around her shoulders. “Cas said I could borrow it.”

Dean made a noise. A strange, mangled noise that might’ve been jealousy or rage or maybe the last breath of a man watching his little sister commit heaven-level blasphemy.

“Cas gave it to you?”

“Not gave,” she said. “Lent. Relax.”

Sam’s voice pitched up a whole octave. “You’re wearing Cas’s trench coat. On your body. That’s like—like—holy relic behavior.”

Chubs squinted. “You guys are being weird. It’s just a coat.”

Dean sputtered. “It is not just a coat! It’s Cas’s coat! The one he never takes off! The one that smells like ozone and beeswax and inexplicable guilt!”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Did he put it on you himself?!”

“Not everything is sacred, boys,” she said dryly.

“Oh my God, he did.”

Dean pointed an accusatory finger. “Did he do the shoulder thing? The protective drape thing? Cas loves the protective drape!”

Chubs bit her lip.

That was answer enough.

Dean made the noise again. Louder.

“You’re being dramatic,” she said, brushing past them. “He literally said, and I quote, ‘You are cold. Take this. I don’t require warmth.’ And then he gave me the coat. Like a normal person.”

“He is an angel of the Lord,” Dean hissed.

Sam was frozen in place. “Does that make her—are they bonded now? Is that how this works? Is she his trench coat wife??”

“STOP.”

Cut to ten minutes later.

Dean was pacing the hallway, muttering to himself.

“Coat. Gave her the coat. Just handed it over like it was no big deal. Next thing you know he’s giving her his blade and a holy tablet and a key to Heaven.”

Sam was sitting on the couch, notebook in his lap, but he hadn’t turned a page in five minutes.

“She smiled when she put it on, man. And she looked all cozy. Like a divine librarian.”

Dean groaned. “She looked small, Sam. Small and precious and—Cas knows that.”

Sam dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Me neither.”

“I’m having an actual crisis.”

“Should we call a meeting?”

“With who?! Cas is the enemy now!”

That’s when Cas popped into the bunker.

“Hello,” he said. “I sensed some distress.”

Sam and Dean both pointed at him like dramatic courtroom lawyers.

“YOU.”

Cas blinked. “What did I do?”

Dean was already up in his face. “You draped her.”

Cas tilted his head. “She was cold.”

“You lent her your trench coat!”

“Yes.”

“That’s basically angel marriage!”

Cas blinked. “It is not.”

Sam squawked from the couch, “Is she bonded now? Do we have to ask her to smite things? Is she gonna start glowing?!”

“She’s not bonded,” Cas said slowly. “She was shivering. I gave her warmth. It’s a basic act of compassion.”

“Compassion is a gateway drug!” Dean shouted.

Cas blinked. “You two are unusually emotional today.”

“You let her wear the trench coat,” Sam said, eyes wild. “It’s like watching her put on Dad’s jacket.”

“She is not John Winchester.”

“She’s our baby, Cas!” Dean shouted.

At that moment, Chubs wandered back into the room — still in the coat, eating cereal.

Everyone stopped.

Dean pointed again. “LOOK AT HER.”

Cas tilted his head, eyes softening slightly. “She looks… safe.”

“NO SHE LOOKS LIKE A TINY WAR GENERAL,” Dean barked.

Sam nearly sobbed. “Why does it look good on her?!”

Chubs just blinked at them all. “I’m never giving it back now.”

Dean groaned and faceplanted into the arm of the couch.

Sam muttered something about trench coat custody agreements.

Cas sighed. “I’ll just get another one.”

---

Two days later, Sam walked into the war room wearing one of Chubs’s oversized hoodies.

Dean was already there — in her pink fuzzy socks.

Chubs walked in wearing Dean’s flannel and Sam’s beanie and Cas’s new trench coat.

They all froze.

Then sat down like nothing happened.

Dean handed her the syrup.

Sam asked her about the hunt.

Cas, sitting across the table, said softly, “You can keep the coat, Sachi.”

She smiled.

And somehow, everything was okay.

Even if the Winchesters were still secretly spiraling.

[sysig]

Let’s Geckin’ Gooooooo! (Patreon)

[crewofthegoldrush]

a dragon a pigeon natalie dormer and pikachu get some freakin sleep

she/her for all*

[omtai]

i really wonder what makes customer think that when you put on a polo shirt with the store’s logo that that makes you all-knowing and all-powerful. I am being paid ten bucks to be nice to you. Give me a break

[maranull]

trying to get into the dlc with my caster/ice-bonk build and i. am. struggling. mohg isn't even that hard of a boss, cause at the first phase he literally just gives you full cast-a-tiny-moon time with he's playing latin math and in the second he generally lets you ran away so you can cast comets at his face

i even resorted to the tryhard flask setup and i still mess up the spells and flasks at points. also. i keep getting locked in animations and i can't fucking move. game. pls. let. me. roll-cancel.

I AM STRUGGLING

how do pure casters keep track of everything, i'm in awe of y'all