#this was almost a sae concept

[wttcsms]

hey which pro athlete is freaky enough to fuck you from the back and film it; not just that, but with your okay, he’s posting it online. the video goes crazy the minute it gets posted; the sight of his thick cock ramming into your wet cunt has the internet mesmerized. all anyone can really see beyond that is the way your back is arched, sporting his jersey, his number on full display. everyone in the comments is begging for a name, thinking you two are amateur porn stars. the video (and you) becomes immortalized as “[team name] girl”. during a sports interview, the journalist is asking him if he’s aware of the video and the uprise of sales in his jerseys (from other hopefuls who wanna sport his jersey and leech off your notoriety by recreating ur video; no one is as good as the original obvi). he just grins at the camera and says “yeah. im familiar with it.”

[narcjsistx]

𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐇𝐂𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 | sae, shidou, rin (part two)

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

— sae itoshi

✶ Sae seems like someone who actually likes to wear bracelets, rings or necklaces, but can't wear them often due to the matchs he plays, where he would risk breaking them. going back to the basic concept, his gifts would probably be matching jewelry, especially rings... so, in case you were someone who wears them and rarely takes them off, he would try to do the same thing. during matches he would hang the ring on a string that he would put in his pocket or around his neck, kissing it before starting the match or squeezing it after scoring a goal

✶ I don't know exactly why, but beyond the canonical fetish for the ass, I see him as someone who would aim to have a partner with well groomed hands, like nails with polish, smooth and without calluses. he's not a big fan of PDA, the only thing he would do is hold your hand and occasionally leave a prying kiss on the back. in private he is certainly more open, and one thing he loves is massaging his partner's hand; it's a gesture he now makes almost unconsciously

✶ Sae didn't have instagram until he met you, you practically forced him to create an account! he resisted his manager telling him to do the same for a long time, but for you it was only enough once. he just put a profile photo, you had to do it for him the bio and some highlights, about past or future matches. a few days later you opened instagram and noticed that his account had a highlights that you hadn't created, entitled "her": you opened it and there were some photos of you, the ones that Sae considered most important (even if he loves them all). needless to say, your heart was about to explode

what would he post on socials ↓

✶ as a child he may have thought about it a bit, but after joining ReAl he didn't have the time to think about it again. he wouldn't mind having a family sooner or later, but probably after winning the U-20 world cup. two children would be fine, possibly a boy and a girl. he just knows that in some way his children would remind him of him and Rin as lil kids

✶ jealosy level: 5/10

✶ flirtiness level: 7/10 (let's specify, ABSOLUTELY NOT in public, but in private maybe he would indulge in some jokes)

✶ pet names: "amor" / "y/n" / "pretty"

—————————————

— ryusei shidou

✶ even if it doesn't seem like it, Shidou is relatively a normal person as a boyfriend... is there a concept of personal space? not that, but otherwise it's normal. the only "flaw" he may have is that he must CONSTANTLY have his hand touching you when you're together, whether it's a hand on your thigh or an arm around your shoulders: he simply needs to feel you. PDA is no big deal for him: he want to kiss you in front of everyone? he will do it, whatever the cost. if you say he can kiss you after winning a game and it's live nationally, why can't he do it in front of his group of homies?

✶ Shidou seems like someone actually very deep, or at least that seems to be described in some parts of his character sheet. Late night chats are literally the level of mental intimacy he hopes to achieve with his partner... he's someone who doesn't sleep much, so he has a lot of energy and hardly gets tired even after hours of talking. You and him tightly hugging on his bed, lights off and just everything that goes through your head... doesn't everything seem perfect?

✶ you know very well that every time he has a match he makes comments that, let's say, put him in a "bad light", or in any case make him seem less interested in you. before being with you he didn't mind saying things like that on the field, and more or less the same thing has remained since you got together as a couple... BUT THERE IS A BUT! every time, once the game is over and above all won, he makes sure to run to you before even celebrating with his teammates: whether you are in the VIP area or not, he will come to you to kiss you with all the passion he has. let's say he uses his method to reconfirm to the people that he is happily taken

what would he post on socials ↓

✶ GET MARRIED AND HAVE MANY CHILDREN AS POSSIBLE? YEAAAAH. no okay maybe not like that, but on the issue of children he doesn't lie... certainly with the career as a striker he has, he has no problems with money, and therefore with maintaining kids. let's say that for marriage it's different... he doesn't find any sense in it, in reality, he only sees it as something superficial: if he loves you and you know it, why have such a ceremony?. so let's say it's 50/50: he would do it if you asked him but at the same time he wouldn't mind not being married

✶ jealosy level: 1/10 (he trusts you too much to even think about it)

✶ flirtiness level: 10/10

✶ pet names: "doll" / "darling" / "love"

—————————————

— rin itoshi

✶ Rin hides under his serious and calculating gaze a boy who simply needs to vent after everything that happened with his older brother. Before being together as a couple he would never have expected to be able to cry in front of someone, but with you it was all quite natural: it took months and a lot of patience to show him that you really cared about him and that you wanted him to feel comfortable with you, but in the end he let himself go and was finally able to tell someone what not even he himself could explain. he'll never admit it but he believes that was the moment he realized how important you really were to him, and how much he simply wanted someone who could understand him

✶ He has a sort of fetish for seeing you in his clothes: it doesn't matter if the clothes are tight, big or the right size, just seeing you in that black sweatshirt of his or in his PxG uniform is enough to send him into crisis. he can't even explain to you why he likes it so much, but the fact that you're wearing something that smells like him is definitely a valid reason. you once surprised him by showing up at one of his matches wearing a jacket with "rin" written on the back, and we can say that he appreciated it to the point of having to prove it to you in some way: that time the match ended 9-0, goal all marked by him

✶ He may be one of the best if not the best, but after finishing the practice he simply needs to rest with you next to him, even more so if the coach was more unpleasant than usual or he simply did a lot of things wrong due to distraction (which is impossible considering it's Rin). Whether on the couch after cleaning himself or in the shower, while you rub shampoo into his hair it doesn't matter, he just needs to feel your presence

what would he post on socials ↓

✶ as a child he often saw other children playing at being married, but he was never actually interested, also because on the one hand it disgusted him to think of having to be tied to a person forever and kiss them on the mouth. as he's grown up he's changed his opinion, he's definitely the marriageable type and he'd actually like to get married as soon as possible: what's the point in leaving you legally free if you've stolen his heart?. let's say that he has a fairly positive opinion about children, he just knows that they arrive after a certain amount of time after marriage: he would like to have two girls... growing up as one of two brothers, both boys, he knows how boys are more problematic than girls

✶ jealosy level: 6/10

✶ flirtiness level: 3/10

✶ pet names: "y/n" / "love"

[rindreamery]

like a fever, i ache for you.

how intensely the blue lock men yearn for you. featuring: itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, michael kaiser 𝜗𝜚 content: suggestive

note. drove myself insane while writing this actually 🧍🏻‍♀️WHEN WILL IT BE MY TURN

itoshi rin sees you in every daydream.

every time rin closes his eyes, you’re there— it’s as if the image of you is permanently burned into the space behind his eyelids, like a never ending dream. (yet, he never wants to wake up from it.) the mere sight of you makes his heart burn and his head spin, and that desperate feeling of wanting you bleeds into his fingertips that makes him reach for you in his sleep. you trap him in his own mind. it feels as if you consume his every thought and occupy the space of every moment he’s awake. you’re a distraction, but one he can’t seem to get enough of.

when he blinks, you’re there, and everything blurs together. he starts to lose sense of where you end and he begins— you’ve become a part of him.

the concept of you even begins to seep into his passions, into his goals. rin thinks of you when he’s on the field, and he can’t deny the rush of adrenaline that shoots through his body at the thought of you cheering for him. he’s hooked to the feeling, he needs more. the thought that you’re only thinking of him too at that exact moment— watching him, holding his dreams close to your heart— that you’re both thinking of each other. connected. it’s a dream that drives him to try even harder.

because you’re not just a distraction anymore; you’ve become his sole focus.

during his next game, he plays with the image of you patiently waiting for him at the entrance of the tunnel. so when he catches his breath after a hard match, his body on the brink of collapsing and covered in sweat, it’s not the sweet taste of victory that revives him. it’s not the cheers of the crowd, praises of his name falling from their lips, that brings him back to life. no— it’s the thought of you. close and real, hand pressed against his chest as you lean in, with your warm skin pressing against his own as you whisper into his ear, “i knew you could do it.”

he knows he'll dream of that feeling from now on too, of your breath against his ear. he can’t escape you— but he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to.

itoshi sae searches for you in the crowd.

without fail, sae’s eyes will always gravitate towards you— even in the chaos of the stadium, even when you think you’re lost in the blur of the people surrounding you. his eyes always seem to find yours. when he finally catches sight of you in his jersey, it’s hard to miss the way his gaze sharpens with intensity, his eyes darkening in a way you’ve never seen before. it’s electric; the only word that could describe the feeling he gets when he sees that you’re staring back at him with the same intensity.

something about you— the way you proudly wear his jersey, and the look of pride that swims in your eyes as you look at him— awakens something deep in him.

sae feels a satisfaction he's never quite felt before you. it’s a possessive and all-consuming feeling. like his ego is inflated to its limits and makes him uncharacteristically greedy for you. his thoughts become filled with the need to become the center of your world, to stake some sort of claim on you so no one else can. (he wants his teammates to see what he comes home to every night.) this feeling that makes him want to throw away all rationale, and before he realizes it, it's this feeling that has him walking over to you before the match even begins.

he doesn't care for the alarmed look on your face as he rips your (his) ring off your finger. around the two of you, shocked gasps fill the stadium, as he loops your ring into his necklace. but they become lost in the background, and his focus is on you. "look at me," and when he brings his necklace up to his lips, your ring now dangling by the string, his eyes never leave yours. there’s an almost dangerous edge to it now— his eyes gleaming possessively at you.

he wants you to think of this moment, to embed it in your thoughts, and crave for him the same way he craves for you.

nagi seishiro can't stop staring at your lips.

light pink lip gloss looks the best on you. it’s a thought that clouds nagi’s mind every time he sees them. the way its glossiness catches the light, making the soft pink of your lips stand out and give it a subtle, irresistible fullness. they’re so plump, inviting, that it becomes dangerously intoxicating. (it must be on purpose, he often thinks, because you smile every time you're applying it on.) he doesn’t care if you notice the fact that he’s unable to fight the urge when his eyes flicker towards them— like it’s impossible to tear his eyes away from them— he wants you to notice.

they’re just so alluring, yet troubling, the way it gets his heart pumping in excitement.

the jealous part of him wants to be the only one to see you like this. because there’s just something about the way you react to him, something about the look in your eyes when you catch on to his wandering gaze. he’s entirely drawn to the way your breath hitches just a little when his eyes flick down to your lips, and then back to your eyes. and the way the corner of your lips pulls into a little smirk at this, eyes focused on his, as your tongue teasingly drags across the gloss to get a taste. his mind becomes overcome with thoughts of you— what would they taste like? would it be something fruity, like strawberry? or maybe something even sweeter, like birthday cake?

but you never give him the satisfaction of knowing, and it pulls him in even deeper. you push away from him, every time, and it’s maddening. it’s always with the same sweet smile and playful glint in your eyes, that you tell him, “it was nice talking to you.” then you’re turning around, leaving him behind.

nagi’s left wondering what it would be like, to see if that sweetness on your lips tastes as inviting as it looks.

mikage reo thinks of you in every song.

with every beat, every lyric, with every tune that floods reo’s ears— there you are, vivid in his mind, as if you were woven deep into the addicting melody. it’s as if the lyrics were written with you in mind, and he’s forever stuck thinking of you. his heart burns for you in the songs that you send, and he clings to every playlist you share. he imagines you in these lovesick songs— having you in his arms, intertwining his fingers with yours as you dance slowly to the tune— like his mind is desperately trying to tell him something he’s still too afraid to say out loud. it’s a silent confession, words he can never bring himself to say out loud, spilling from the speakers instead.

he plays the same song on repeat; he wants to keep hearing your name in the lyrics, and to feel the ghost of your presence as if you’re right there with him.

but as silent as his affections are, reo doesn’t want his desperate longing to be one-sided. he wants to worm his way into your every thought, invade your mind, the same exact way you had done with his. he wants you to see flashes of him when you hear a familiar tune, to smile to yourself whenever you realize it’s his favorite song playing in the background of a random store.

so reo pours his heart into a playlist for you. "these songs remind me of you," and to him, it’s enough. he hopes you can hear everything he feels in the space between the lyrics, to read between the lines of the words as they dance across your screen. every song is a dedication to his love for you. to him, it’s a love letter he can never bring himself to write but can’t help and send. he doesn’t want to speak it out loud— this playlist, with a strange mix of soft longing and quiet desire, does the work for him.

it’s a playlist of his soul’s quietest confessions, and he hopes you can hear how much his heart longs for you.

michael kaiser is haunted by thoughts of your touch.

kaiser doesn’t know when it started— the obsession, the craving for you, the fervent need to feel your skin on his. maybe it was when your fingertips grazed his hand as you passed him a water bottle, lasting for a second at most, but sending sparks flying across his skin where you touched. or maybe it was when you put your hand against his back, palms pressed firmly into the planes of his muscles, as you guided him out of the way (because he was blocking you, but he chooses to ignore that detail.) you’re his manager; you’re simply doing your job.

but he’s started to find himself stuck in the fantasy of your touch— imagining the way your fingers would trace over his tattoos, or having them run through his hair as you brush it out of his face.

and his breath always catches in his throat as he imagines the sensation, having to swallow at how dry and constricted his throat becomes. he thinks of the warmth of your hands, the way your fingers would subtly dance on his skin, and he shivers. he imagines that you wouldn’t rush—no, you’d take it slow. you would let it linger, and maybe he would press his hands over yours to trap it there. just to savor the feeling.

his fantasies of you could never compare to the real thing, though, he realizes one day.

he’s sat on the bench in front of you, tense with heightened sensitivity. the surface of his skin feels like it's on flames from your words, “your tattoos are so pretty,” and from the way your index finger trace over the inked vines that wrap around his arms. his stomach starts to form tight coils as your fingers travel up and up— at the feeling of your thumbs grazing his jaw as you brush his hair out of the way to look at the blue rose — and he’s sucking in a harsh breath as he tries to keep himself grounded. to keep himself from losing his mind. and when you pull away, he can't ignore the emptiness the washes over him.

his heart is greedy and insatiable; he's never satisfied. now that he’s gotten a taste of what it feels like, he finds himself wanting even more of you.

© rindreamery, 2024

[ph4ngz]

i need isagi, bachira, nagi, reo, chigiri, kunigami, shidou, sae, rin & barou x fem! reader (all separate) doing it raw for the first time?? pls pls pls pls pls

DOING IT RAW || BLUE LOCK

MMMMMM *feral noises.*

ISAGI YOICHI

"You're... y-you're on the pill, right baby?" he asks as soon as his tip meets the soft, slick outline of your entrance. His eyes are clenched shut, nose scrunched up as he does everything in his power to focus on the unfamiliar sensation of real pleasure, no bullshit condom, just pure skin on skin with his favourite girl. "Oh, shit..." he moans out loud, his features twitching and contorting in ecstasy. He's loving every second, finally able to experience every detail with his jolting, excited cock. "G-God, I-... oh~ t-tight!" he cries out quietly, attempting to control his volume as his head rolls back. Every so often, he repeatedly slides his sensitive cockhead back and forth over your puffy clit, relishing in the way it feels to mix each other's arousal together before recklessly jostling it inside once more. "Why... how... are you so fucking good?~ ah-"

BACHIRA MEGURU

"Wait, I thought it felt good already... now it's gonna be even more delicious?~ oh, wow. You're tooooooo good to me, my girl~" he'd cooed against your soft lips when you'd suddenly told him to fuck you without protection. Bachira couldn't care less if he's got a condom on or not. As long as you're having fun, he'll cum his brains out anyway. Even untouched. "Soooo, ya like it? What gets you off, huh? Is it that you can feel it pulse inside you?~" he asks playfully and oh so shamelessly, poking his tongue out as he rests your legs on his shoulders. "Bachira Meguru~ d-don't be so... so lewd..." you whimper towards the end of your sentence, the way his pelvis grinds against your gooey pussy to drive his cock in deeper making your eyes roll back. "Huh~ what, you embarrassed? Hehehe, oh— mmmh, don't be silly, you're the one who's getting my dick wetter by the second."

NAGI SEISHIRO

Oh, he's all for it. All you had to do was mention the mere concept of it and he was hauling you into his lap with that pretty, blank stare of his. "Wanna do that now." he's murmuring into your ear with all the focus he can conjure up going toward the strength of his big hands, already trying to remove your pants without ripping them. "Ohooooo," Nagi whines deeply into your shoulder once his fingers get wet whilst slipping your panties aside, "you're so wet, I wanna stick it in. Can I please...?" he asks lazily, dragging his lips across your skin so sensually, slowly. "Knock yourself out." you grant him permission with a shared dreamy stare, not entirely knowing what you're getting into until he's slipping himself in immediately, balls deep within seconds. "Hhhhh... hhh- I love youuuu~" he's moaning and sighing so slowly and it's almost making your ears twitch to hear more. "Condoms are such a hassle, o-oh... never wanna go back~"

MIKAGE REO

"We can do it raw, right? Can we do it raw?" a few strands of purple fall in front of his eager eyes as he holds an unopened condom between his fingers, already so worked up by the mere thought of pushing his needy cock in without some stupid condom preventing him from feeling the thrill he needs. Reo is ready to toss it behind his shoulder at the drop of a hat, and you don't think he even saw you nodding until a split second after he threw it away... "Fuck yeah, I'm so ready for this right now... you ready sweetheart?" he doesn't even wait for you to answer before he's spreading your cute cunt with his thumbs, intently watching his pink tip squeeze past your slicked up folds. "Oh my fucking godddd-... been waitin' for so long~" you hear him groan as he squeezes your thighs tightly. Every inch of his hard dick feels like it's on fire due to the way your hot arousal is coating his sensitive skin more and more, no pesky condom in the way.

CHIGIRI HYOMA

The little smirk on his gorgeous face when you tell him... hehe. "You're being for real, yeah? Okay, just... just c'mere, I'm not waiting around." he drags your body into his, grinding his clothed cock into your ass from behind, huffing impatiently like a spoiled brat. "You're letting me bang you raw..." a pearly white smile graces his face, he looks proud that you're finally letting him do this. Eyebrows bowed in pleasure, he watches his perfect tip squish between your folds and gather some of his sparkling precum on the way inside. His eyes are rolling back every five seconds, so sensitive and vulnerable under the influence of your wet cunt, especially now that there's no protection. "W-Woah, I'm— hhhhholy shit. Don't move, I might cum on the spot~" he warns you with a pornographic whine, pushing his hair back so he can get a clear view of your pussy trying to keep him all inside. "...I can go as fast as I want to as well, mm?~"

KUNIGAMI RENSUKE

Ugh, he's doing his best to act like he doesn't give a shit. "Yeah... fuckin' sure, we can do that. Won't make much difference." he said. "Again... I need more- more~" he growls and sighs now. So stubborn, but you love it. How his hair somehow becomes more messy due to how fucking turned on he is, how he keeps trying to stop his frown from faltering every time you clench on his ruthless huge cock. He's already fucked his cum further into you twice, clearly not able to get enough of the amplified pleasure that comes with being allowed to release all up inside your velvety pussy for the first time. "Did you get even t-tighter or something...? Fuck, fuck— ugh~" he pounds into you hard enough to bruise, his huge breeder balls smacking against your ass whilst a growing streak of white dribbles from your abused hole each time he bottoms out. "Jesus, fuck! H-Hah~" he's almost got tears in his eyes, the sheer euphoria seeming to be strong enough to puncture his pride.

SHIDOU RYUSEI

This guy wants it. He fucking loves it. He pressured you into this, after all, knowing well that you were rather paranoid about unprotected sex no matter how bad you wanted to experience him raw. "Oh, baby... please? C'mon, you gotsta' loosen up a little to have more fun with me~" he roughly placed a hand over your forehead to thoroughly stroke your hair back, making sure you felt like you had nowhere else to look besides his own, unnerving eyes. "Or you could let this big, raw fucking cock do that for you..." he'd offered lowly, a certain seriousness in his tone that you just couldn't shake as his nose almost touched yours. And so here you are, his unforgiving length buried deep within your guts. You swear you can feel his heartbeat inside of you, his erratic breathing and whining almost confirming your suspicions. "Gonna let me do this, yeah?~ ah, this feeling is fucking perfect I swearrr..." Shidou groans with a twisted, dirty grin when he makes you nod eagerly for him, "oh my god... can feel all of you, hah, ah- shit."

ITOSHI SAE

"I won't refuse." is what he responds with when you snatch the condom wrapper from his hand and toss it to the bedroom floor. "Mm." Sae grunts softly when his bare and pulsating cockhead squeezes its way past your glistening, pretty entrance as both of his hands massage the flesh of your ass. If it were any other girl he was slowly dipping his cock into right now, they wouldn't think he could notice any difference at all. But you're not any other girl, you can sense him preventing his blunt nails from damaging your asscheeks, hear the sound of his throat closing up to prevent an outright whine, feel his fat dick trying to jump within the sultry contracting of your walls. "G-Go, all of it~" you demand sweetly, reaching your hands back to hold his own and tug him in. His breath shakes once his tensing balls touch your clit, the sensation of his solid length pressing the very limits of your insides without a layer of latex separating you causing a hardly controlled "yeahhh..." to escape from behind his gritted teeth.

ITOSHI RIN

God, he's trying way too hard. Acting as if he's not falling to bits right before your misty eyes, as if he's not on the verge of fucking drooling like a rabid animal at the way your hot slick connects the very end of his perfect cock to your throbbing entrance with a clear string. "...'re you ready?" he asks in that breathy, addictive voice of his whilst impatiently sliding his tip up and down between your soft, slippery lower lips. Please, please, please is what he's chanting inside. "Green light." you respond with a strained and sexy moan muffled by your forearm, feeling him trace a circle around your clit, a cooling drop of pre-cum latching onto it once he pulls back to position himself. It's when the first few inches of him are surrounded by your heat that he struggles to let go of his breath without holding it again. "Whew- Alright, fuck..." Rin pants slowly, his tough guy act starting to crack uncontrollably under the power of your perfect cunt.

BAROU SHOUEI

He said nothing when you agreed. Just pulled you in for the roughest kiss you've ever had. And suddenly, you're being bounced like a rag doll on his horse cock, every vein as prominent as ever along your fleshy, sticky walls. "Never show me a condom again." he grunts into your neck, his big hands gripping your perfect body with a steel grip like he could lose you if he let go. "I wanna fill you up... wanna fill you up with my cum- agh~ hhhnnggh..." his voice is deep and grumbly, vibrating against your skin as he bites a little to show some restraint. The manner in which your walls are spasming around his raw, long cock is making it increasingly difficult to keep himself in check. "Damn it, please... don't make me lose control of myself..." he pleads lowly, his huge arms holding you in position and bouncing you harder on his fat dick. "H-oh my-... good, good girl."

|| || || ||

[lalunanymph]

your stepbrother just can't resist you anymore — itoshi. r

flirty!reader, pining rin, heavy stepcest sorz, conflicted emotions, forced orgasms, almost getting caught by parents trope, humiliation, dirty talk, pro-player!rin, rin is 22/ reader is 21, i wrote this completely blasted and came twice to it i fear

Rin never thought he would take this too far. 

He was known to be meticulous, and calculative—a man made out of stone. On the field, off of it.

Fans chanted his name, and newspapers exalted him as the latest football legend. But, it did not change the grinding tension he felt whenever his reflection shone back his dark eyebags and pinched frown—a symptom of overworking himself too much.

Through it all, however, Rin always prided himself on being a smart man. 

That is, until he met you. 

His new stepsister.

You fit every stereotype of a stepsister Rin had heard of from his horndog colleagues. 

Pretty, with a too wide smile. Eager and ready to be his friend. 

He hated to admit how those cheap, sleazy pornos Shidou would mass share in their group chat had a grain of truth in them. 

If they didn’t, he wouldn’t spend his entire time avoiding you, hoping you never noticed how the hairs at the back of his neck stood whenever you passed by smelling of vanilla and sin. He would try to at least give you a hug, not tense everytime you so much as brushed your arm against his. 

The idea of self-hatred was not a foreign concept to Rin.

He had spent countless hours comparing himself to Sae, wondering if he would ever reach the pinnacle of such greatness.

His destroyed ego had been remade too many times to count. And he was starting to suspect you would be his final undoing. 

“Rin-nii.” 

Your soft voice jolted him from his thoughts. He turned the TV down, trying not to let his stare linger on how the shadows from the dimmed blue light threw the curve of your collarbones into sharp focus. 

Both your parents were out of town for the weekend, and you had the house all to yourself. 

Rin lived on his own in a penthouse somewhere in downtown Tokyo, and he rarely came home unless his father called him to have dinner together with his new stepmother and stepsister. 

There was no reason why he should even be here on a Friday night in the first place. 

Plus, with Sae still in Spain, he had no one to turn to as a buffer, and the onus of suffering fell on him to return your unsure smile with a half-hearted nod.

“Do you want to have dinner?” you fiddled with your fingers, and he hoped to whatever deity above tasked with listening to his pathetic ass that you hadn’t noticed the heat dusting his cheeks. 

“Sure,” his voice came out steady, almost bored. Just the way he always sounded. 

Rin’s practised poker face was handy when he had to sit opposite of you, pretending to be absorbed in his plate of udon while you struck up sparse conversation here and there. You talked about work, your colleagues. Sometimes, you brought up your mom and how happy she was on holiday with his dad. 

His father had told him how you were raised by a single mother for your entire life and never really had a family to rely on. This would be the first time you had male figures in your life—and you never failed to express your gratitude at how easily they took you in.

“Ah, ka-san sent me some photos of the seashore,” you mumbled wistfully, picking your phone from the table and scrolling through your gallery with a fond smile on your face. “Isn’t it beautiful?” you shared the screen with him and he reached out to steady your hand, accidentally grazing your fingers. 

He pulled back slightly, mumbling an apology. 

“It’s fine,” you beamed, stowing your phone back into your pocket. “How’s practice?” 

This was the reason Rin absolutely hated you. 

How you could feel his touches but never responded to them.

Was he the only one cursed to feel his heart doubling in size whenever you so much as looked at him? 

Rin wished he could pull back your tall curtains to uncover the orbit of your thoughts—if they were even a millimetre close to colliding with the idea of him. The nuclear reaction was enough to get his mind reeling, and the tightness of his breath and the front of his shorts was enough to snap him back to reality.

“Fine,” he muttered curtly, standing up abruptly, the back of his chair hitting the wall.

You physically recoiled back, and for a second, there was a shadow that passed your pretty eyes, one which you quickly put out when he turned his searing gaze to you.

“Okay, Rin-nii,” you whispered, and your resignation crushed his soul. 

Nice going, Itoshi. 

You slipped on a smile, taking his plate to the sink before he could protest. He couldn’t tell that your hands were shaking, chest crumpled almost to your ribcage with the cold sting of rejection.

“You…” 

His soft voice rose above the clanging of your thoughts, and you stopped scrubbing. Turning to him, your raised brows spoke of honest intentions to hear him out. Unfortunately, Rin was unsure of what else to say, and you waited for your older brother to break the awkward ice. 

The parting between his two lips which revealed his white teeth, zig-zagged through your pulsing thoughts, goading you to crash into him. 

Your shoulders fell from your ears, and you stopped in mid-motion. Cold water ran down your wrists like tears from a crack in heaven, calling you back into the light. But, you ignored the righteous siren.

Those teal eyes, framed with thick lashes and desperation slowly inched up your bare thighs, right to the crease where your cotton shorts was caught in between an affair with your plush thigh and the enticing slope of your—

Rin flinched and spun on his heel, darting up the stairs as quickly as his toned legs could bring him. 

You watched after him, frozen in one spot, fighting the current of disbelief and disappointment threatening to tear you apart. 

The fleeting glimpse of warmth that ignited within the chambers of your lower belly was extinguished by the cold harsh truth: your step brother absolutely hated you. 

Swallowing hard, you turned back to your hands that were starting to prune from the water.

You switched off the tap, drawing your hands out of the sink basin and letting them fall to your side, breath coming out in stuttered puffs. Not caring how a tiny puddle was forming under both your arms. 

Rin snapped back awake to the sound of thunder crashing above his ceiling.

Like the heavens were rioting against the sins plaguing his thoughts, he twisted to this side, trying hard to squeeze his eyes close and allow his mind to drift off. 

Another clap of thunder, and Rin swore he felt a cold draft brush his arm.

The bed dipped behind him, and he jumped, a strangled yelp escaping his throat, ready to fight off whoever dared to interrupt his sleep.

When the whites of your eyes shone in the half-darkness of his room, Rin calmed down enough to exhale noisily, fisting the sheets to still his rapidly beating heart.

“What are you…?” 

Rin trailed off, anger dying in the back of his throat when the shape of you adjusted in the dark. He first noticed the dip of your shoulders, bare under black spaghetti straps. Following the curve of your collarbone which led right into the trap of your cleavage, he couldn’t help caress your soft skin with his heated glance. 

“You can touch them.” 

He blinked, and the whites of your eyes suddenly became more vivid even as the night darkened. The shape of your mouth was coming into focus, his retinas gathering enough light in the pitch black room to illuminate the soft flesh-tone pillows he wanted to bite down on in his frustration. 

The owlish blinks and stuck silence was cut off when you reached for his hands, pulling them into your lap. Rin felt the heat of your thighs seep into his skin, and a low gasp spilled past his defences. 

Lucky Rin, the man who could score even in an unfair match, couldn’t believe if he was dreaming or not when you guided him to slide his palms up your thighs, your touch loose around his wrists. Your night dress hinged off your hips, and he briefly casted his glance to the darkened triangle in between your thighs. It fell back in place, hiding your most vulnerable part like a hasty curtain catching him right in the act.

But, when his larger palms encased your breasts, both of them curving nicely into the concave of his trembling grasp, your nightie’s betrayal was quickly forgotten. 

“Fuck,” Rin whispered despite himself. You were softer than he imagined. “Is this real?” 

It took him a second to realise he had asked that question out loud like a fucking loser. 

Your chest vibrated noiselessly with the buried sound of a laugh. “I can’t believe it either.” 

He flexed his wrists, wishing he could close his fists around such delicate flesh. His grip waned, and he felt like he should drop his hands before this got too weird, when you stopped him with a soft sigh. 

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” 

The shadow of disappointment in your tone, the way your syllables fell flat against your tongue like a limpid towel made a shiver of contempt flash hotly in his chest.  

Taking control over the voices screaming in his head, Rin firmly squeezed your tits, hearing your gasp of surprise and ecstasy rebound across the room. 

“Such a fucking eager slut.” 

Those words slid past the curlicues of his tongue with an ease of deadly poison, each word slowly bringing you up short.

“What—”

“Shut up,” Rin glowered, feeling the stiffness of your excitement between his fingertips as he twisted and tugged on your nipples through the sheer silk. “You seriously interrupted my sleep for this?” 

He yanked you closer to him, your body sprawling open like a chest of precious scrolls above his own. Your hair fell into your face, and your scalp’s sensitive skin cried out when he tugged it back with one hand, forcing you to reveal the truth. 

“Only little sluts try to seduce their nii-sans.” 

The harsh collision of his hot breath and the stinging slap of his palm on your ass made you come up short. Your cry was smothered by his tongue pillaging past the barriers of your mouth, forcing it wide open for him to devour the softness of your sudden shock. 

You barely kissed him back when Rin rolled you onto your front, pushing your face into his pillows. Something hard and insistent was pressing down on your thigh, and you shivered when you felt him reach in between your bodies to yank his shorts down. 

“Begging like a bitch in heat—I’ll show you what desperation truly looks like.” 

“Rin—hah!” 

Another hot slap landed on your skin, this time in between your upper thighs. It seared through your flimsy bleats and protests, crawling up your throat as strangled cries when you felt him shove his hands through the gap of your legs, cupping the heart of your desire right in his palm. 

Two thick fingers parted the wet seam of your folds, finding the flushed pearl which had the power to make you agree to any transgression. Those digits twisted it slightly in between their callous grab, flicking, rubbing and tapping on the fleshy dome with feral insistence. 

You cried out, and a large hand slammed over your open mouth. 

“Shut up,” he whispered, fervently, like he suddenly remembered that the walls have ears. “Our parents, they’re…”

Rin trailed off when the stony silence from his parents room down the hall finally hit him. Like someone had thrown cold water over his unbearably hot impatience, it dissolved into greasy pits of lust which opened up right to the darkness winking at him.

Begging him to choose her. 

“... not here.” 

“Yes,” you whispered, and Rin didn’t know if your shunting hips brushing his aching cock was intentional or not. “T-They’re on holiday, remember? We’re all alone.”

The way you said those last three words—the breathy rejoice of this simple truth—made Rin lean his entire weight into you, the warmth of his breath brushing the shell of your ear feeling like the world’s most beautiful electric shock. 

“Good. We don’t have to be quiet when I fuck you.” 

You were tossed onto your back with barely any grace, and Rin raked his hot stare down the planes of your body at the same time his veiny, outspread hands made their way down towards your hips. He pulled back the flimsy red hem which had so cruelly denied him the pleasurable view of your pussy, baring your glossy folds to him.

“Wet already, little sister? I would’ve never expected this from you.” 

He drove his thick fingers back to the sacred promise of your heat, using your own desire as a lube to take him right down to the knuckles. Your sharp squeal filled him with a masculine pride no goal ever could.

The feel of your warm walls, sucking him in and lovingly keeping him there like nobody had ever done in his whole life, made Rin feel like he could win 20 World Cups in a row. His nostrils flared and he curled his fingers in a seductive motion he once saw a pornstar do. Your arched back and tiny squeal almost made him smile.

“How long have you waited for this?” he whispered, loud enough in the quiet of your heaving breaths. “How long have you waited for me to fuck you?” 

“As long as you’ve waited,” your returning whisper, pushed through the scarlet haze his fingers were eliciting in your body, caught him off guard. 

“As I’ve waited?” 

You nodded sluggishly, half-lidded gaze heavy with emotion when you whispered:

“Since the first day I saw you.” 

Him, in a weathered jersey, coming back from practice while both your parents stood side by side, a cinder block about to explode his entire world while you were seated behind them—hidden from his sights. You were only twenty when you first met Itoshi Rin, but you knew you would love him for the rest of your life. 

“A year ago,” the ghost of his laugh in the crook of your neck made the patch of skin it caressed explode into tiny sparks. “I hated you the first time I saw you.”

As he spoke, he started to increase the speed of his fingers, using his thumb to put constant pressure on your aching clit. Sometimes, he would rub a few circles into it, drawing out your torment and causing your legs to jerk.

“R-Rin—”

“You reminded me of everything wrong about my parent’s marriage. You were my father’s failure right in front of me. I wanted to hate you so much.” His voice quavered, and his fingers stilled inside you. He pitched forward into your neck, covering his powerless side with a muffled sigh right into your throat.  

“But, I could never hate you.” 

Despite how wrong everything was, his words were right. Rin never hated you or your silly laugh or your insistence in making sure he was comfortable around you. Maybe he never hated you at all, just the upheaval in his life that followed along with you. 

He couldn’t blame you for that. It wasn’t your fault that your mother’s love had severe consequences on his upbringing. 

“Never?” you brought him back to the ground with your quaking question. 

“Hmm,” Rin hummed, in a half-answer to your longing. “We’ll see about that.” 

Those fingers were back to bring you towards the edge, ready to have you spilling out your deepest release and desires for him to taste on his tongue.

Rin curved one arm around you, holding you to his chest while his leg instinctively hooked around your thigh, drawing it right to his side and keeping you open to his plunging fingers. 

The hand protectively curved around your shoulders was the same one which pushed your neckline down, revealing your sumptuous breasts topped with heavy, hard nipples right into the chilly room air. 

He eyed how those nubs stiffened and perked under his watchful gaze. Rin couldn’t resist the temptation to pinch them around with his thumb and forefinger, relishing at how such a simple action could render you breathless and arching your back. 

Your hips swayed like a wave threatening to break over his entire wrist, while he skillfully rocked your world with timely strokes and tugs. 

The wet sounds coming from between your legs and spilling from your mouth painted an entire map of your release—the hitch in your breath, the gasping quiver of his name, your pitchy squeal which broke off into a pathetic whine. 

Rin let your body find her release from its shameful tether, those watchful, beautiful eyes never taking off from your undulating hips and flushed chest. 

While you were easing down from your high, he prised your legs apart, resting in between them and thumbing the raw, angry red head of his neglected cock. Your small fists crumpled around his white sleep shirt, the tilt in your waiting hips and the hungry look in your eyes undoing his patience. 

He fisted the base of his cock, giving it a few strokes. Rin was no amateur, but he wasn’t exactly as experienced as the other players. A truth he would take with him to his grave—his ego always needed to know that he was the best.

In your arms, you proved to him that he was worthy of your visceral reactions. 

You gasped out his name when you felt the tip breaching past your rippling walls. It was an exquisite stretch your toys or fingers could never give you.

Rin set a pace which had your tits jiggling freely with every heavy slam of his hips into yours. He hadn’t bothered to fully remove your nightie; something about how the hem was haphazardly draped across your thighs with the full reveal being where his cock was currently churning your insides, and the lewd way your breasts were revealed to his starving eyes from your hastily pulled down neckline, added a layer of wickedness to this already sinful affair. 

He devoured your flushed cheeks with a debauched sneer.

You turned your face away into the fluffy pillows to muffle your groans, but he pried it back to his impatient gaze. Wrapping a hand around your throat, he kept you pinned to one spot, held in place like how a prey would be frozen in fear from a starving predator’s gaze. 

“I’m fucking you so well, huh, Y/N?” his gritted scoff warmed your blood, making it sing in your ears. “You’re taking me like a champ.” 

“Stop,” you whispered harshly, tightening your hold on his loose shirt. “You’re being m-mean—” 

Your protests died as a choked moan when he wrenched your thighs off the bed and hitched them over his broad shoulders. Rin wrapped his arms around your legs, lifting them off slightly from the soft mattress with his sheer strength.

This position deepened his strokes, and coupled with your shaky circles on your clit, it had you right at the edge. 

“Rin… Rin-nii…”

The featherlight whisper of that honorific slammed into him like a tidal wave. 

Rin picked up the pace, the slick sounds coming from your pussy intoxicating him with everything about your presence; your airy moans, the glossy tears in your eyes, how you scrunched his shirt in your hold as if he would float away if you let go. 

You clawed at his chest, scrambling to grip his dark green locks and the back of his neck to draw him closer. Your legs were fully in the air, the deep rut of each sweet plunge in and out of your eager, twitching hole a shameful sign of your surrender to Rin. 

“Say it again,” he growled, the snarl on his face both terrifying and arousing. “Call me that again, little sister.” 

You wasted no time in succumbing to the darker instincts tainting the air tonight.

“Rin-nii… nii-san… please fuck me good…”

He grasped the doughy softness of your hips, sinking his nails into the welcoming flesh to take more and more until you were crying for him to stop. Rin was selfish with many things, and you were not the exception. He wanted to own your every sniffle, sob and moan. Every exhale of pleasure you released was consumed to feed his ego. 

You belonged to him and only him. 

That thought alone could’ve brought him to his knees, and it nearly made him lose control over his own body. 

The teasing darkness, beckoning him into her disastrous embrace, called out his name in a slurry, seductive moan which sounded awfully like your own voice.

“Rin-nii! I-I’m close!” your choked whimper made the red fog in his mind thicken. There was a finger hovering right over his trigger button, held back by his rapidly corrupted morals.

He couldn’t cum in you, you weren’t on any protection, he would get you knocked up, your parents would kick him out, he would be a disgrace—

“Rin-nii, inside,” you hiccuped, slipping your hand right onto your mound; using your index and middle finger to pry your nether lips further apart so he could see the glistening chokehold of your folds clinging around his cock. “I want you to cum inside.”

Those words barely left your spit-soaked lips when a well of warmth filled you right up to the brim. Rin’s guttural groan was primal, muffled into your shoulder. 

You welcomed his weight on top of you; pushing his cock deeper and pressing on a spot which had you seeing stars and releasing all over his twitching length. 

“Rin…” your soft gasp reverberated through his ringing ears. He shivered when you scratched his scalp, the pleasurable itch running down his spine. 

There was nothing else uttered between you two. Sleep came like a feathered down blanket over your consciousness, dragging you into the dark from the sound of his jagged breathing. 

Your stepbrother was right in between your thighs, eating you out for breakfast. 

Rin and you had woken up in a mess of limbs and dried cum, and rather than forcing normalcy after a night where the biggest boundary was crossed, you both continued to fall deeper into each other’s trap. 

“Rin-nii…” 

He had only fucked you twice, and yet, Rin was already feeling a possessive need to keep filling you up if only to hear you airily breathing out his name. 

His tongue slid through your folds, sampling your flavour with the patience of a man starving for his next meal. 

Your back was pressed to the expensive marble counter, and your fingers were yanking on his locks. 

“Mhm!” your teary hitched breath made him throb right in his sleep pants. 

Rin played with your clit, using his tongue to flick the flushed pearl and sucking around the greasy bud until your legs shook around his ears. 

Your nails sank into the underside of the counter, and he didn’t have to glance up to know that your face was crumpled in pure ecstasy. He could sense it in your hips—how they swayed like poetry in motion, spelling out his name and claim on you.

He flattened his tongue to let you slide your soaked folds over it as you struggled to find sweet friction; risking a peek up at you through his lashes. Your head was thrown back, the morning sun haloing your hair. Rin had seen a few women in the pinnacle of their own pleasure, but never one as breathtaking as you. 

Your moans were strained around your need to remain quiet, even as both your parents were still on holiday. He noticed your hand moving to cover your mouth in his periphery, muffling your moans behind a wall of flesh. 

Rin grunted; he couldn’t let you get away with this.

He retracted the pink muscle of his tongue back into his mouth, kissing your clit as a sweet consolation to his change of mind.

“Let me hear you,” he ordered, observing how you pried your teary gaze from the ceiling to the man right in between your legs. 

“Rin-nii,” your broken whisper stirred none of his sympathies. 

“Our parents aren’t home, so let me hear you,” he kneaded your hip with one hand, swollen lips pulled into an uncharacteristic smirk. “Unless… you don’t want to cum as badly as I thought you wanted to?” 

Your breathing hiked, and you tightened your hold on his hair. 

“N-no… m’wanna cum around your tongue…”

He sucked your clit into his mouth, using his lips to massage and roll the tiny bud. Sadistically enjoying how you flinched and tossed your head back to cry out his name. 

“Then let the neighbors know who’s eating you out s’good,” he growled into your flushed folds. “Let them know who this pussy creams for.” 

His words hit you like a freight train.

Running you down the tracks straight into madness, you let Rin order you around, control your reactions with his straitlaced dominance and encouragement to let go for him. 

You gasped, preened, cried out and moaned his name, calling him Rin, Rin-nii, Rin-Rin… 

His name sounded gorgeous wrapped in lust—your lust.

The sound of a car on the driveway knocked you back to the ground in shock, and from your stance in the kitchen, you could look out the window onto the front porch. Your parents were stepping out of the car, a few hours early from their scheduled arrival, lugging suitcases and joking around.

They couldn’t see you from the kitchen window’s heavy tint, but they were just a few feet away. 

“Rin,” you tugged on his hair harshly, begging him to ease up. There was a puddle of spit and juices gathering on the floor, right above where his mouth was still insistently connected to your clit. “Rin, t-they’re here—”

Those large palms caged your hips to the corner of the island, holding you down so you couldn’t squirm away.

“R-Rin!” 

“Cum first,” he muttered roughly, licking up and down your seam to tease you from clit to hole. “Cum on my tongue first and then I’ll let you go.” 

“No!” you whisper-shrieked, thrashing about, trying to push him off you. He stubbornly held on, pinning you to the edge of the counter with one arm, easily pushing his free hand through your thighs and plunging two thick fingers into your well-teased pussy. 

You gasped out loud, back arching.

Footsteps echoed down the gravel walkway, getting closer.

“Rin—”

Your toes curled, and the room started to spin. It felt like your entire skin was covered with flames licking every inch of your body—the biggest ember burning right where Rin was insistently eating you out. 

Despite every nerve that was drenched in horror, the coil in your belly never stopped tightening, thrilled by the possibility of being discovered.

“Rin,” you were sobbing at this point, whether in fear or ecstasy, you had no idea. Your body was in a raging battle, your self-control razed to ashes.

“... wonder how Y/N and Rin are…”

Your parents were just right behind the door, their voices breaching through your foggy mind.

They were a few feet away from opening the huge mahogany slab and finding your older brother on his knees, pleasuring you. 

Dad would freak out first. After all, he had explicitly told Rin to be nice to you—but he hadn’t anticipated how well the younger Itoshi would treat you.

Your mother would cry. She would curse you out for ruining the first family you ever had. 

And Sae, your other brother… 

The thought of your older nii-san and the disdain shining in those detached teal eyes (so similar to Rin’s yet so different) if he was the one to stumble upon the both of you, was the final push your body needed.

Flames licked your entire body, the world falling off its hinges. You crumpled to the floor, in time for Rin to catch you, his fingers furiously pumping in and out of your drooling cunt, squeezing you dry from the pleasure. 

He was frantically lapping at your clit, drinking up your juices, more of them splattered onto the floor. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, kissing and tonguing your folds as you shuddered and creamed around him. “Fuck, so good, so good—”

The lock clicked, and the front door creaked open.

The elder Itoshi found nothing amiss in his house when he stepped in, his new wife trailing behind with their luggage and souvenir bags. 

His teal gaze swept over the spacious kitchen, and the only sounds in the house came from the living room where light was spilling past the archway. Someone was watching TV. 

“Is Rin here?” his new wife asked, always excited to see one of his boys. He hummed, tossing his keys onto the console table and shrugging out from his jacket. 

“Beats me. He comes and goes when he pleases—”

“Tou-san?” 

Sanjiro paused, recognizing his son’s voice calling from down the hall. 

“Rin-Rin?” 

Both parents ambled towards the light source, rounding the corner to find Rin scrolling listlessly through the channels, still clad in his sleep shirt and pants with a cushion fitted snugly in his arms, nestled right on his lap.

He peeled his disinterested eyes from the screen to assess them. “How was your holiday?” 

Your mother spoke first. “It was great! The weather was so good. How has Y/N been? She mentioned you stopped over for dinner yesterday.” 

Rin’s expression barely changed, only a flicker of recollection behind those impassive eyes. “Oh. Yeah, I did. I stayed over in my old room—it was too late to drive. I hope neither of you minded,” he added as an afterthought.

His stepmother, always there to reassure that he was always welcomed in their new house, stepped into her hostess role. “Of course not! This house is as much yours as ours.” 

Never mind that this luxurious double-storey once belonged to his biological mother and father. 

Recognizing that his new wife might have overstepped with this careless slip, Sanjiro cleared his throat gruffly. “So, did you at least try to be nice to Y/N?”

Before Rin could reply, he was cut off by a chipper: “Yes, he was!”  

You drew all three of their attention, bouncing down the stairs with an effervescent grin plastered on your face. You were ready for the day, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt, hair damp from a shower.

“Rin-nii and I watched some horror movies last night and he made fun of me the whole time, did you not, nii-san?” 

There was a crack in his son’s composure—a look of annoyance that made Sanjiro want to chastise him when Rin spoke up, surprising the older man who could faintly make out a teasing lilt in his boy’s tone.

Which was completely unusual to hear coming from his sullen, withdrawn son. 

“Hard not to when you can’t even handle a jumpscare… little sis.”

said i would never write stepcest yet here i am oopsie anyway every reblog and (nice) feedback helps us manifest our own rin-nii bless

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Hello,

I have a writing prompt for Michael Kaiser (Blue Lock): Kaiser gets into a pr relationship with an actress and they eventually bond and fall in love.

I think he would have a hard time because of his feelings of worthlessness, but this guy has so much potential, I swear, I love him so much.

If you want to go for a "dark side of Hollywood" type of concept, imagine: a young girl who was raised under the pressure of becoming "the perfect star" and surrounded by the chaos of the industry (Idk, the movie Black Swan comes to mind, or the typical representation of Marilyn's life, something along the lines). I think he could bond with someone who is in a similar mind space as him, but who externalizes it differently, remaining kind and such. He definitely needs someone who is empathetic and can see through his insecurities, and I really like the concept of two characters who are hurt helping each other heal.

If you don't want that much drama, scratch the idea of a hurt oc. Think about someone with an "entrepreneur" mindset: someone ambitious, confident, and level headed, who (again) is empathetic and would call him out and help him grow (I'm thinking about sae, but emotionally competent lol).

You don't really have to go for any of this though, it's just meant to get you inspired to write something for my boy Kaiser. I hope it's not too much. Also, there's no rush at all!!

Thank you in advance. I hope you have a good day 🩷

Synopsis: Michael Kaiser is like a rose, and you are the songbird he cannot bear to lose.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 6.8k

Content Warnings: fake dating trope, implied/referenced abuse, call me tabito karasu the way i assassinate kaiser’s character in this, open ending, relationship dynamics many would consider���interesting…

A/N: hiiii anon ty for requesting!! i hope that i wrote kaiser in a somewhat satisfactory way 😫 this is my first time writing for him so idk if i got him right 😓 also i have NO idea why but for some reason i decided to write this in the present tense which i literally have never done?? so if it sounds off that’s why 💔 i’m so sorry i really don’t know what possessed me SKDJFSHKL

Additional: part of my 500 follower event! see the event description and rules to make a request of your own.

It’s hot and like a bruise, your first phone call with Michael Kaiser. He’s that brand of aggravating and just shy of painful to speak with; morbidly, you wish for the conversation to manifest as some kind of actual injury, perhaps on your upper arm, so you can poke at it until it is tender and blooming. But of course, that sort of thing isn’t possible, so you amuse yourself by tapping your fingers against the counter and considering what you might eat for dinner.

“Did you hear me?” he snaps when you do not respond to his proposition immediately. He speaks with an accent, clipped and short, lending severity to his words even when he’s saying nothing of note. “Miss L/N. It’s in both of our best interests to cooperate.”

He’s not wrong about this. It’s the only reason you’ve stayed on the call for as long as you have — it’s in your best interest. It’s the same for him, too, and the thought almost makes you laugh, because who would’ve expected your interests and his to ever align?

“Of course I heard you,” you say, twisting open your bottle of water, taking a sip and idly wondering if he can hear an accent when you speak, too. It’s difficult for you to notice your own, but maybe to him, you sound as odd as he does to you. “You should learn patience, Mr. Kaiser. Such a heavy request you’re making of me, and yet you demand my answer immediately?”

He huffs. “It’s not something you need to dwell on.”

“It might be,” you say, though it’s not at all. Your mind was made up the moment he asked; everything after that has been nothing more than a ploy to irritate him. You’re good at that, at irritating people. Michael Kaiser is not an exception.

“Miss L/N,” he says again, something like a darker version of pleading creeping into his tone. “Your answer. Now.”

“Well, you already knew before you asked, didn’t you? Naturally, I’ll do it,” you say. “It’s a mutually beneficial partnership. Though I expect you to really try your best, Mr. Kaiser, or else it’ll all be for naught.”

“I could say the same to you,” he says.

“Between the two of us, who is the actress?” you say, chuckling when he is silent. “I am sure that I will be convincing. It’s you who I worry for. Hiding your true feelings has never been one of your strengths, has it? Or you wouldn’t be speaking to me at all.”

“Shut up,” he says after a moment has passed. “I doubt your acting skills are anything to brag about.”

“I know you’ve watched my movies,” you say, and when he doesn’t refute this, you beam. “Have you really?”

“Only because someone I know suggested I should,” he says. “If I want to love you, then I have to understand you. That’s what he told me.”

“And what did you think?” you say.

“I thought that I don’t plan to love you at all, and then I told him as much,” he says, the force of his eye roll transmitting even over the phone. You’re not sure if he’s acting deliberately obtuse or if he really thinks you care about this inane conversation he’s describing, but either way you sigh, because his answer is so telling of his personality.

“I was talking about my movies,” you say.

“I don’t prefer the genre,” he says, and then he’s hanging up with a promise to call you later, if he is so inclined. He doesn’t tell you not to call him, but you feel like he implies it, so you vow to set your phone aside and pay him no mind for the rest of your evening.

I’m dating Michael Kaiser, you type in the body of your email to your manager, who you are certain will be so delighted by this news that he will combust spontaneously upon hearing it. You want to type it again, this unbelievable turn of events, so you do. I’m dating Michael Kaiser. Then you delete the repetition, reverting it once again into a formal email, instead of a giddy celebration over an event which should not prompt giddiness or anything resembling it.

It’s a relationship meant to salvage his ruined reputation and boost your career in one fell swoop, and so it’s a relationship that can only work if it’s formed between you two in particular. He, who is a foul-mouthed soccer prodigy, known better for his crass treatment of others than any actual skills he may possess, and you, a rising star who will do anything to be famous and are already of a serviceable status to be seen with him.

Despite your burst of excitement, the prospect of dating Michael Kaiser isn’t actually a thrilling one. The rumors of his horrid demeanor aren’t rumors, and you know this well, albeit through secondhand accounts. Cruelty is the way that he operates, his so-to-speak basal mode, and because it is so intrinsic to his being, you do not fancy that he will deviate from that malicious rule, even for you.

But you are accustomed to a false existence. Donning a facade and masquerading as a person who you are not is the only thing you are good at, are good for, and this time is no different than every other. You will put on the mask of a woman who is loved by Michael Kaiser, who has tamed that mad emperor and turned him into her sweet pet, and you will once again fool the world into believing you.  

He’s doing an interview today. You’re only aware because he texts you right before and tells you to turn on the TV to a channel you’d never choose if you had a say in the matter. But you’re intrigued and he refuses to explain further, so you do as he commands and find yourself watching as he reclines back in a leather armchair and smirks at the host, who’s clearly nervous.

She’s pretty, her hands shaking but her expression serious. You’ve never seen her before, which means she’s new. Of course, that’s not a surprise; only someone very inexperienced or very stupid would invite Michael Kaiser to their show, and she does not seem to be particularly stupid, so her affliction is the first. 

“Um, Mr. Kaiser, it’s a pleasure to have you with us,” she says, like she cannot quite believe that he is actually there, or like she is afraid of what he might take offense at, or some combination of the two.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” he says, all roguish and self-assured, which is such a contrast to his typically surly demeanor that you have to commend the girl for keeping her composure.

They speak at length about his soccer career, throwing around words you do not understand and do not care to. It’s so boring you almost power down the television and tell him you think as much, but then the girl clears her throat, her face turning a comical shade of red as her fists clench the paper she’s been reading off of.

“This last question is from our viewers, but it’s personal, so if you don’t want to answer, then it’s not a problem,” she says, squirming in her chair, probably hoping he does not humiliate her. It will be bad for her career if he does, even if by now everyone knows what kind of person he is.

“Go on, then. I feel like we’ve built a rapport here, so I don’t mind it as much if it’s from you,” he says. It’s a perfectly packaged sentiment. His PR team must have tortured him into this new persona. You try to imagine it — it’s definitely a humorous thought, picturing the Bastard München representative slamming Michael Kaiser’s face into a bowl of water for every snarky comment he makes. Unrealistic, though. They would never risk compromising his performance like that.

“There’s rumors that you’re seeing Y/N L/N, the actress. A source who claims to be close to you both mentioned it online, and people can’t stop talking about the possibility. Neither you nor Miss L/N have addressed it, though, and our viewers were hoping you might…?” She cringes back, already preparing for one of his tirades, but he only smiles genially and winks at the camera. You remind yourself to tell him later that he’s laying it on too thick, even if you are enjoying this new character that he’s playing up for the sake of it.

“Y/N L/N? I’m shocked that you think I’m handsome enough to date someone like her,” he says. Your phone buzzes — it’s your manager, crowing about how impressed he is with your ‘boyfriend’ and his presence of mind. 

“So it’s a no?” the interviewer says, almost hopefully. He’s mysterious when he shrugs, mysterious and more than a little coy, as if she’s flattering him and he’s too shy to accept the praise.

“If Miss L/N ever deems me to be worthy of her, then it’s a yes in a heartbeat,” he says. It’s an excellent setup for his redemption, and the girl plays into it so beautifully that you tell your manager to send her flowers or some chocolate at the earliest possible opportunity.

“I think that you’ve shown yourself to be an excellent candidate today,” she says.

“Have I? I’ve really been trying to prove myself,” he says. Dreamy sighs ripple through the live studio audience. Someone whistles. It’s all very romantic and fairy-tale-esque, although he is far from being any kind of prince.

“You’re doing great,” the girl assures him. “I’m sure that, if Miss L/N is watching, she’ll have no choice but to be smitten.”

“If she’s watching? Oh, the thought didn’t even cross my mind,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. You shouldn’t have doubted him and his audacity; he’s fallen into the role as if he were born to play it. “How embarrassing. I’ve just confessed to her on live television without even knowing if she’s interested…”

He’s actually blushing. You are doubly awed — he’s a natural-born talent. It’s a shame that he’s devoted to soccer; he could make it out like a bandit in the acting industry.

“No, no, don’t be embarrassed. How could she ever reject someone like you?” she assures him. How, indeed! At the moment, you are so pleased that you could kiss him. He’s better than any co-star you’ve ever had to work with, in that he is making your job exponentially easier instead of exponentially more difficult.

“If she really is watching, then I can only pray she heard you say that part,” he says, waving in greeting, presumably at you. “Hello, Miss L/N. I really admire you, so if you find me at all agreeable, then I would quite like it if you would say yes to the date I’m going to ask you on.”

He’s made the world swoon and your social media mentions triple. People are begging you to say yes, to give him a chance, to see how he has changed. They want to live through you, and you will let them.

When he calls you, you tell him you were thrilled by his performance. This causes him to shoot back that he finds you insufferable and condescending, to which you say that it’s what makes you and him such a perfect pair. Then you recite an address, and he asks you what you’re going on about. You answer that it is the place where you will have your first date, and then you hang up before he can respond, just so that you can deny him the chance to do it to you first. 

Cameras flash in your faces as you enter the restaurant your manager has booked a reservation at. Michael Kaiser’s arm is wrapped around your waist, and it’s nauseatingly domestic, the kind of scene that would be the cover for one of those coming-of-age movies your agent loves booking for you. You wait for the frantic sound of camera shutters to slow, and then you tug on his sleeve.

“What is it?” he says. It’s quiet enough that no one else can hear, which is why it’s devoid of any warmth, but you are unruffled.

“Your tie,” you say. “It’s not crooked, but we will pretend that it is, and I’ll fix it so that there is something sweet to accompany the tabloid articles that will come out tomorrow.”

Your hands reach for his neck, and he does something you do not comprehend — flinching back, he shakes his head. When he realizes he’s done this, he grits his teeth, like the anger can make up for the temporary weakness. You do not press the issue, merely furrowing your brow and gazing up at him, doing your best to ensure that your eyes remain soft, so that the exchange is not misinterpreted by the parasites around you.

“No,” he says. “Do something else, but leave my tie alone.”

“Alright,” you say. It’s not sensible for you to argue, and anyways it doesn’t matter much what you are doing, as long as you are doing something. Humming to yourself, you adjust the lapels of his jacket. The cameras go off again. You pretend like you do not notice, like the world consists of only you two, and then you interlace your fingers with his, allowing him to drag you into the restaurant behind him.

It’s your turn to be interviewed. You’re wearing a dress, your legs crossed at the ankles — it’s demure and practical and prevents anyone from leering at you, so it’s been a habit of yours for quite a while. The interviewer is female, though, which calms you a bit. She’s older, around your mother’s age, and the wrinkles on her forehead remind you that you should call your parents and arrange for them to meet your doting boyfriend.

“Miss L/N, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am to finally meet you!” the woman says. You think her name may be Anne, but she hasn’t introduced herself to you yet, so you’re not certain.

“You are too kind. If anything, it’s an honor for me to be here,” you say. The audience really likes that, when you are humble and shy and so darling. It’s palatable and easy for them to digest, or that’s what your manager tells you. 

“Tell us about your upcoming projects,” she says after giving you the appropriate amount of praise for your charming personality.

“I’m currently shooting a new romantic comedy, but I’m afraid it’s all very hush-hush, so I can’t say too much about it. I think you all will really enjoy it, though, and I’m looking forward to the day that we can discuss it at length,” you say. 

The conversation goes on like that for a bit, but you know she’s going through the motions because she has to, not because she wants to. There’s only one question she cares to ask, but if she just talks to you about your boyfriend and not your own accomplishments, then she’ll be blasted online as an anti-feminist. You hear quite frequently that this is akin to suicide in the world of marketing, so you can’t blame her.

That doesn’t stop you from having some fun. When she’s exhausted every possible avenue of questioning you about your future plans and past successes, you make as if you’re going to stand up and leave. Panic leaps across her face, and you snicker.

“We’ve spoken at such length about my acting career. You can’t possibly have any more questions about it, hm? You probably know more than my manager does!” Your attitude is balanced out by the joke. The audience laughs. It’s a fine line that you walk, but if you do not have the chance to act sharper every now and again, you believe you will die — internally if not externally — so you take such risks when you can justify them to yourself.

“You’re dating Michael Kaiser now, aren’t you?” she says. It’s a rancid curiosity she hides with a motherly type of concern. You brush off your legs, recross them, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I am,” you say. You don’t have to play the games that he did; you both are established now. Official. A bona-fide couple. Anyways, it’s more appealing if you are outright with it.

“How has that been? You’ve really made a difference in that young man’s life, it seems,” she says.

The best way to lie is to tell the truth. “Yes, I suppose I have, but he has made an equal difference in mine. He is as good for me as I am for him; truly, I never understood what it meant when my parents called each other their ‘better halves’ until we met.”

In an hour, there will be thousands of posts online about this. If Y/N and Michael break up, then I don’t believe in love anymore! Maybe soulmates are real! Couple goals! These are the kinds of captions you are anticipating. The two of you will send screenshots to one another and laugh about how gullible the world is, and then you will strategically plan which comments to like and posts to favorite so that your message goes through. That’s the extent of your relationship with him, really, at least when the two of you are alone. The detachedness makes things much easier than they otherwise would be.

“There’s a popular theory going around that the two of you have had a secret wedding already. Is it true? Am I speaking to Mrs. Kaiser at the moment?” she says, eyes glittering like a vulture’s. She’s ready to pounce on any hesitation, any brief indecision that you might show, but you have spent more time in the spotlight than in your own parents’ home, so you don’t even waver.

“Marriage! I think we’re a bit too early in our relationship to be considering such things, and a bit too early in our lives to be rushing into major decisions like that,” you say. “If and when the time comes, you’ll be the first to know, but it won’t be for a while.”

It won’t be at all, actually. This relationship is not going to last for more than another month. Once the buzz surrounding you two dies, you and he will quietly split. It’ll be as if you never met in the first place.

Your phone rings as you’re leaving the studio. The caller ID says that it is Michael Kaiser, and the thought that he was watching your interview in the same way you watched his makes you feel odd.

“Hello?” you say.

“I’m not gonna marry you. Never-fucking-ever. If you’re expecting a ring, then put it out of your mind.”

“I wasn’t,” you say. “How else would you have liked me to answer that question?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Neither of you hang up on the other — you don’t think you can summon the wherewithal to, which is out of character for him but typical for you — though you both also don’t speak any further. He stays on the line while you drive home, breathing softly like he is sleeping, but you are sure that he is not. The point of it is lost on you, but then you drive into a tunnel and the call ends on its own, so it’s moot anyways. 

Your parents are excited to meet Michael Kaiser. They’ve read up on him extensively, watched all his interviews and even his game highlights. Your mother calls you the night before just so she can gush to you about how handsome he is, how you’ve really done well for yourself this time around. Her approval is nice to have, though superfluous, like a luxury soap or perfume. 

Your father is the one who suggests you all go golfing. You don’t know how to play, and neither does your mother, but you recognize it’s his attempt at connecting with who he thinks is your boyfriend, so you accept. You’re not sure if Michael Kaiser knows how to play golf, or really anything besides soccer, but he is game enough to come that you suppose he must.

It’s warm out, the sun beating down on your father’s brow as he lines up the ball with his club. Michael Kaiser stands on his left, and you think he’s somehow beautiful in this lighting. Not beautiful how your many attractive coworkers are, but in a manner which is distinctly him and therefore utterly irreproducible. His body is lean and graceful, his hair shaggy and gold, though he’s dyed the tips blue in what you’re sure is a statement. The shade matches his eyes, and also the inked roses on his neck. You have long ago come to the conclusion that the flowers are also a part of that same statement, but you have yet to discover what that statement might be. 

“He’s an improvement from that last boyfriend of yours,” your mother says, leaning back so that she can pour the last few drops of soda from her empty can into her throat. You and her are sitting together in the golf cart, seeking refuge in the shade of its plastic roof, sharing the drinks that your father had bought for himself and forgotten about the instant he stepped onto the golf course.

“He is,” you say. That’s not an exaggeration, nor is it something incredible. Your last boyfriend was an old classmate of yours who loved your celebrity more than he loved you. Michael Kaiser doesn’t love you, either, but he is honest about it, and you do not love him back, so there is no resentment between you and him.

“I like the way he looks at you,” your mother says. There’s a hiss as she opens a new can of soda. It’s a vice, but whenever you remind her of it, she dismisses you. She wants to have fun while she’s on this earth, apparently. Maybe drinking five cans of soda in one sitting means her life will be shorter, but life without soda isn’t worth living anyways, or something like that. The reasoning is stupid, but you know she is loyal to it, so you have to accept it. “It’s refreshing. So gentle. You’ll be talking to someone else, and he’ll just be staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re his.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you say. 

Your mother is about to say something else, but she is interrupted by a loud whoop. Michael Kaiser has hit a hole-in-one, and before you can tell him to stop embarrassing himself, your father is cheering, throwing his arms around him and calling him son.

“Your father likes him, too,” your mother says. 

“Oh, he needs to stop that! I can’t believe he’s making things so awkward,” you say, getting up to reprimand him before realizing that there is an entirely foreign sheen to Michael Kaiser’s eyes as he rests his chin on your father’s shoulder. He is not quite smiling, but it is a close approximation of the expression, and when your father ruffles his hair and says that it may have been beginner’s luck but he’s proud regardless, the curve of his lips becomes deeper.

You don’t understand, but you don’t need to. You may have facilitated it, but the moment belongs to him, and your presence is as unwanted as it is unnecessary.

You sit back down and take a sip of your mother’s soda. She grins knowingly and says that you look like you are in love, too. You don’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so you hum noncommittally and say that you might be.

You are growing fond of Michael Kaiser. It isn’t a slow realization — actually, it hits you very suddenly one day. He hands you a bouquet of flowers before opening the passenger door of his car for you. You ask him why he’s brought you peonies instead of roses, and he says it’s because he despises roses. It’s such an absurd answer and he says it with such a straight face that you have to cough in order to disguise your choked laughter. 

“Those must be some other kind of flower, then,” you say, pointing at but not touching his tattoos, at the delicate petals which fold over his pulse, azure and bright and silky. 

“No, those are roses,” he says, his knuckles growing white on the steering wheel. Normally, you wouldn’t ask further, but today you want to prod at his bruise of an existence, so you turn the music down and hug the peonies to your chest.

“But you despise roses,” you say.

“It’s a good reminder,” he says. “No flower lies quite as well as a rose does.”

That is when you are certain that you are partial to him. It is an unavoidable fact and also a treacherous one, but true notwithstanding. 

You put the peonies in a vase of water when you get home that night and hope they never die, although you know that they will be gone within the week. It’s how time works. The peonies will die and you two will break up and you’ll have nothing but a bare kitchen counter and thoughts of his intricacies to remember him by. 

There are no paparazzi around on the night when he wraps your hands around his throat. You are alone with him, sequestered away in the living room of his mansion, a bowl of popcorn shoved between the two of you while a movie plays in the background. This seclusion defeats the original purpose of the relationship entirely, but you sense that that original purpose is no longer fully applicable, so you do not refuse when he calls you and demands you come.

There’s a blanket tossed over your legs, the brilliant colors of his soccer club’s emblem faded from repeated washes. It’s warm, and if you were not busily eating most of the popcorn, you’d pull it up around your shoulders. As for Michael Kaiser, he’s facing the screen, his hair tied back in a knot, a pair of glasses resting on the bridge of his nose and reflecting the visage of the lead actress as she laughs. You observe him as you snack. You’ve seen this movie before and didn’t really like it, so you’re not missing much. He’s more interesting by far.

“I know that woman,” you say, so that he has to acknowledge you.

“Hm,” he says.

“She’s a jerk,” you say. 

“Sounds like your kind of company,” he says. You scoff, because he’s not wrong. He keeps watching the movie, and you keep watching him, until a thought occurs to you.

“Can I call you Michael? Even when it’s just us two,” you ask. He purses his lips. The actress screams. Her character has just died, but the scene is poorly shot and even more poorly acted, so it’s not as heart-wrenching as it should be. You would’ve done better, but your agent doesn’t want you taking any gory roles, and your manager agrees. In his professional opinion, it’ll ruin the doll-like persona you’ve spent so long cultivating. He’s probably right. It’s hard to adore a doll once you’ve watched it die so gruesomely.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing another mouthful of popcorn, the salt lingering on your tongue long after the popcorn itself is gone. “Michael.”

“Yes?” he says.

“Nothing,” you say. “I just wanted to say your name.”

“Okay,” he says. “Y/N?”

He’s never called you that in private. Of course, when you’re out and about, he must refer to you with such familiarity, but in private you’ve never been anything but Miss L/N. It’s a change but a good one. You don’t want to ever be Miss L/N again. Not to him.

“Yes?” you say.

“I’m trying to watch this movie,” he says. “It has high ratings, so be quiet and allow me to finish.”

“It’s shitty,” you say, yawning and leaning back against the mountain of pillows you’ve created for yourself. “Overly gratuitous with its use of fake blood.”

“Right, because that’s a cardinal sin,” he says dryly.

“Sorry, but it’s hard to enjoy films when you know how they’re made,” you say. He picks up the remote and pauses the movie. You blink, because that’s about the last thing you expected from him. Then he turns the TV off entirely and you realize you’ll probably never be able to predict what he does next, so you should stop trying already.

“I know how movies are made,” he says.

“Did you have a secret acting career you never told me about?” you say. It’s a joke, but you also wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true. He’s taken to performing like a fish takes to water, and every day you tell him he should quit soccer and devote his life to cinema because of this uncanny skill.

“Not me, but my mother was an actress, and my father was a director,” he says. 

“Was?” you say.

“Maybe they still are,” he says. “I don’t know. We’re not on speaking terms.”

“Why not?” you say. He takes your hands in between his, and you can make out immediately that his instinct is to hurt you, to press his fingertips into your wrists so hard that they leave marks. It’s to his credit that he fights back the urge, fights it back and arranges your palms against his carotid arteries. His jaw clenches and his pupils dilate as he waits for you to realize; when you do, you rip your hands away for fear of wounding him further.

“Don’t pity me,” he instructs you, unpausing the movie like nothing happened. “And don’t ever bring it up again.” 

Now that you have his permission to refer to him only by his name, you develop a strange fascination with saying it. He’s amused by your new fixation, answering you in a lilting tone every time you call for him.

According to him, you are like a small nightingale, always warbling, always happy, fluttering around beside him and changing his mood for the better. Well, if you are like a nightingale, then he is like a dog, and you tell him as much when you are sitting across from him at a coffee shop.

“A dog?” he repeats, his face pinching. He’s just taken a swig of the black coffee he always orders, but you know his disgusted expression isn’t a symptom of the beverage’s bitterness. “Take that back.”

“Not in a bad way,” you say. Your own drink is sweet, so you sip on it slowly to prevent a stomach ache. “I’m not calling you pathetic. I just mean that you are amiable and lively. It’s a compliment.”

“It’s not who I really am,” he says. “Have I deceived even you? Amiable? Lively? Remember why this entire scam began in the first place — because I am neither of those things.”

“Right,” you say. “A peacock, then. Terribly vain and entirely alluring.”

He relaxes and raises his cup to his mouth again. He’ll be up late tonight, he always is when he has coffee, but it never stops him from drinking it. “That’s better.”

The reminder that whatever you have with him is not real stings more than it should. You throw away your drink almost untouched, which does cause him to raise an eyebrow, but thankfully he refrains from commenting. It’s a relief, because you don’t even know how to explain it to yourself, let alone him.

He walks you to your front porch and waits with crossed arms as you fish for the key in your purse, shoving it in the lock once you have it in your grasp. His farewell when you open the door is stilted and abnormal, so you stop him with a hand on his arm before he can go.

“Michael,” you say. You’ve never said his name like this before. It comes from a place raw and deep within you, a place that you are certain is purple and black like a wound. You say it like you love him, and you think it must be because you do.

“Yes?” he says. It’s the way he always responds to you, his voice like a song, a small smile on his ordinarily strict face — though today, he is not smiling. Instead, he is frowning, like he has come to an understanding that he would have rather not reached.

“Never mind,” you say. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” he says. He drives away, his car disappearing around the corner, leaving you standing alone in the still-open doorway and wondering how you will survive the day when he disappears permanently. 

You’re not sure what it is about him that makes pretending difficult, but suddenly, it’s a struggle for you to maintain your aloof front. You find it disconcerting, that he has taken this aspect of your identity and rendered it entirely null and void; it’s even more disconcerting that he has done it unwittingly and unsympathetically. If you loved him any less, you would hate him, because he has stolen who you are and left you blind and fumbling, but you fell for him, and the way you landed broke something fundamental, so that it is impossible for you to get back up. 

“I think that I love you,” you say. You are on his couch again, and there is a movie playing again, which is all too similar to a past scenario that you think about when you are lonely. Tonight, it’s some soccer documentary that you find so tedious you are driven to irrationality. 

He drops the glass of water in his hands; you reach out and catch it before it can spill, setting it on the table in front of you. 

“What?” he says. You shrug.

“I love you,” you say again, and you’re flippant about it because you’re not telling him in the hopes he loves you, too. In fact, you know that he does not, so you are using him as a confessional; after all, the minimum he owes you is sharing the burden of this sin.

“There’s no one around,” he says. “You don’t have to lie. It won’t gain us anything.”

“It hasn’t gained us anything in a long while,” you say. It’s true — your relationship isn’t trending anymore, and most of your dates are in locations where you will not be recognized. 

He stands up. The documentary continues as he paces, and a referee blows a whistle while he tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls. You stay on the couch, your eyes following his erratic movements, your hands folded in your lap.

“No, you don’t,” he says.

“I don’t what?” you say.

“You don’t love me,” he says. He wants to sound callous, you are sure of it, but the effect is lost on you. He sounds more lost than anything.

“But I do,” you respond. “Who are you to tell me I don’t?”

“Don’t,” he says. “Stop it. This instant.”

You laugh incredulously. “Do you think it’s that easy? I wouldn’t feel like this in the first place if it was.”

“Why?” he says. He’s still pacing. It’s like watching a tiger in a zoo. You want to study him, but he demands your attention in a different way. “Y/N. Why me? Why at all?”

“The reasons don’t matter, do they? I can tell you, but they won’t change anything,” you say, shrugging. “If you find yourself in the kitchen, bring water back for me. I’m thirsty.”

“Drink mine,” he says, pointing at the cup you had narrowly saved from disaster. “And quit your avoidance. Tell it to me plainly. Why?”

“Because you are you,” you say once you have drained half of his glass and your tongue is not quite as papery. “It’s a series of things; there’s not just one concrete reason. You hate roses and only drink black coffee. My mother thinks you’re handsome and my father is convinced you’re a golfing genius. You are a dog but also a peacock and then again an emperor. Don’t ask ridiculous questions and expect me to answer them when I cannot.”

“I’ll hurt you,” he says. “I’ll hurt you, Y/N, and I don’t — I don’t want to. You’re the only one who I don’t want to hurt, so just give up. It’s for the better if you do.”

“You won’t,” you say. “I don’t think you can.”

“Of course I can,” he says. “It’s the one thing I’m capable of. The only way I know how to love someone is by hurting them. I’ll do the same to you if you let me, and if you’re telling the truth, then you will let me.”

“Because I love you?” you say. “You think I’ll let you hurt me because I love you? For shame, Michael. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Please,” he says. It’s a word he’s never said, not to you and not in his life. Its weight hangs before you, pulsating in the air like it’s tangible. “If I love you, I’ll destroy you. And then you’ll leave, and it’ll destroy me.”

It’s a selfless desire that he’s disguising as a selfish one. You’re good at pretending, but you’re not good at telling when others are. That much is obvious, because if you had any talent at the latter then you would’ve seen that he’s loved you for as long as you have loved him, maybe longer. He loves you and so he’s urging you to flee, to destroy him before he can do it to you first.

“Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, huh?” you say, exhaling and finishing off the rest of his water. “Listen to me.”

“No,” he says. His obstinance is endearing, but you throw a pillow at him instead of cooing like you want to. He catches it and tosses it back. It lands beside you with a thump. You pat it for emphasis.

“Yes,” you say. “I love you.”

He plugs his ears with his fingers. “Nope.”

“I love you, I love you — hey, I know you can hear me!” you say.

“La la la,” he shouts over your voice, sticking his tongue out petulantly. “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you!”

“You’re cruel,” you say. “I won’t deny it. I know who you really are, Michael Kaiser. You possess cruelty in spades, but it’s in the way that a rose does. You have grown malice like thorns so that no one may come near your heart, and you think these thorns will tear me apart when I extend my hand past them. What you aren’t accounting for is that I have done so already. I have reached your heart and still I am intact. Now, what is there to cause me harm — a mere flower? But a flower can’t cause anyone harm, least of all a person such as myself. You can’t, or more importantly you won’t. I believe that you won’t.”

He stares at you. The soccer team in the documentary still playing behind him scores, and the crowd roars in approval. You stare back at him and wait.

“I hate roses,” he finally says. “I hate them a lot. They’re the worst kind of flower.”

“I don’t know about that,” you say. “I quite fancy them.”

“They prick your fingers,” he says.

“Not if you are gentle,” you say. “Not if you understand them.”

He buries his face in his hands. “Go home, Y/N.”

You do as you are told, flagging a taxi and shivering while you wait for it. You wish for things to be different, but the amount of unfulfilled wishes you’ve made outnumber the stars in the sky, so you add this one to the list and vow to move on.

You have no desire to leave your bed the next morning, but you are also hungry, and your hunger wins out over your despair. You muster up the energy to roll out of your sheets and trudge downstairs, but you are miserable as you do so. You are utterly miserable, and the fact that you are only worsens the feeling, trapping you in an endless kind of loop.

When you enter your kitchen, you are surprised to see a pot of flowers sitting innocently on your counter. You didn’t put them there, so you should feel afraid, but they’re roses, and they’re the same arresting shade as the sky, so you don’t. You only grin, slowly and then all at once as you begin to giggle helplessly.

There isn’t a card or an explanation provided, but you don’t need either. You already know who they are from.

[ilguna]

☼ lovestruck, lovesick, lovelorn pt3 (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; it turns out finnick has a lot of pent up thoughts that he’s having a hard time showing properly. at first, it seems like he can’t get enough time with you, then he begins to retreat back to his original demeanor, the one you know the best.

warnings; swearing, death mention, torture and strangulation mention, prostitution mention.

wc; 4.5k

notes; highly requested!!

part one, part two.

--

While District Thirteen seemed to be perfect by the way it was described to you, it has got to be one of the more frustrating places you’ve had the displeasure of visiting. You understand their concept of total equality to ensure fairness, but with it being taken to this extreme—you’re being driven up a wall.

To start, there’s no such thing as individuality, it’s basically a crime to suggest it. And it’s becoming a difficult pill to swallow with each rejection. You come from a Career district, one that’s known for its diversity. As you were growing up, especially in your teenage years, you were taught how to stick out just enough to make heads turn.

You’ve been using it to your advantage for years now, mainly in the Capitol. You tend to tone it down at home, because there’s no reason to stir the pot and draw attention to yourself when you’d like peace and quiet. It’s almost crazy how quick people jump to conclusions when there’s nothing going on.

It’s almost the same here. With how secluded Thirteen is from the rest of the world, all it took was you and the three other victors arriving for conversation to begin. You can’t remember how many times you were stopped your first time out of the hospital by curious minds.

Anyway, in Thirteen, you’re not allowed to wear anything besides the grey jumpsuit they’ve provided. Unless, of course, you’re a patient in their hospital. Then, you get to wear one of their itchy white gowns you also can’t take off. It took hours of begging the nursing staff for them to finally relent on the rule. And the best they could do for you was the jumpsuit. 

At this point, you’d give anything for a simple outfit. As well as a meal that isn’t pre-portioned based on your age, height, weight and muscle mass. There’s been countless times where you’ve asked Greasy Sae to give you a bigger portion on your tray, only to be told that what you have is what you get.

It doesn’t matter who you talk to, everyone refuses to believe you when you tell them you’re still hungry. They’re so set on trying to take away free will, they forget you’re not used to living this way. It’s not normal to have your entire day’s schedule printed on your forearm for you to follow by the hour. It’s weird.

They didn’t have you start with a schedule as soon as you arrived, though. After being rescued from the Capitol alongside Johanna, Annie and Peeta, you were immediately taken into the care of the hospital. Almost a month later, they still haven’t fully released you from their custody.

It might have something to do with your adjusting period, and the fact they’re comparing you to the other three. With Annie, she was able to communicate they didn’t harm her, so she was given the option to leave the hospital first. As for Johanna, she’s the same person she’s always been, the aggression just threw them off, so they kept her for a week longer than they should’ve.

As for Peeta, he’s on the extreme end. Upon seeing Katniss, he tried to kill her, which put the doctors under the impression that not everything is what they seem. That’s why they insisted on keeping Johanna until Haymitch could confirm that’s just her personality.

When it comes to you, the bright lights of Thirteen’s hospital were almost identical to the ones in the Tribute Center. They had you strapped to a chair underneath a big light in the middle of the room. It was shining directly into your eyes, all hours of the day. The only time you got a break from it was when you’d pass out from the lack of oxygen.

It took some convincing, but eventually the doctors got through to you that you are safe in their care. All lights in your room were promptly changed from white to yellow, and then they were either dimmed heavily or off completely from then on. 

As soon as you started showing signs of normalcy, you were given the option to wander the hospital wing. And when they wanted to start implementing you into their way of life, they tried to give you one of those arm stamps. You followed it for… maybe the first three days before Katniss told you it’s a bunch of bullshit.

You didn’t care for it much after that.

Honestly, that might be one of the main reasons why they continue to keep you in the hospital, instead of moving you to one of their pods, like they did with Finnick and Katniss. Apparently, they were both kept here for a while following the arena rescue. Finnick couldn’t function properly from the shock, so he wasn’t in any shape to be making decisions about his care.

The same goes for Katniss, just worse. Haymitch caught you up on her behavior, because you were curious about how she was compared to Finnick. From the sounds of it, the weight of everything that had happened hit her hard. Including the fact Peeta was no longer around for her to fiercely protect, he was in the hands of the Capitol.

You can’t imagine how painful it was for her to get Peeta back, only for him to be unrecognizable. In the few times you’ve talked to him recently—because he doesn’t have a violent reaction when he sees you—you can tell by the way he holds himself that there is something severely broken in him. 

He does not have the same softness he used to. The Capitol was successful in breaking him. 

Peeta seems to be getting better over time, though. He’s not nearly as violent as he used to be when he talks about Katniss now, but it’s still nowhere near positive. It’s just tolerance. Plutarch has been working over calls with scientists in Three on ways they can reverse the hijacking.

Every time you sit in on a meeting in the Control room, he can’t help himself when he makes jabs at you when it comes to Beetee’s death. As if you were the one that missed blocking the knife, not Finnick. And you don’t say that to blame Finnick, you’re just confused on how that was your mistake, when you couldn’t have helped prevent it.

You never feel the need to defend yourself with Plutarch, he’s not worth your energy, you did everything they asked of you. Besides, if you’re sitting in on a meeting, so is Finnick. He’s jumped to your defense plenty of times, he has no issue shutting down Plutarch when he’s making shit up. 

Speaking of Finnick, it’s a weird adjustment with him, too. If you had told yourself last year that Finnick would be defending you to other people, instead of helping them tear you down, you might’ve peed yourself from laughing so hard. Finnick swore to you, and Mags and everyone else who would listen that he would never change his mind about you. It’s funny how things have worked out.

You’re really glad you two have been able to move on from that point. You’ve known Finnick for a long time—ten whole years. If he hadn’t been so set on making you an enemy after your Games, you’re sure that the two of you would’ve been best friends. It makes you curious on how the Capitol would’ve perceived you in that case, would it have made your situation with Snow worse?

Either way, your feelings about Finnick have been the same for a while, even years before the Quarter Quell. You’ll admit there were times where you lost your patience, and dropped down to his level of disrespect. Which definitely didn’t help with the way he decided to treat you, only justified it.

All it took was Mags telling him the truth about how you’ve allowed the Capitol to treat you, something you confessed to her ages ago. You can still remember the look of horror on her face when you got into the details, and the way it smoothed over when you said you’d made an offer to Snow to take more nights for Finnick. 

Mags was truly a sweetheart. Besides Finnick’s family, she was the only other person who was able to see things correctly. And she was incredibly wise when it came to important secrets. When you told her about the Capitol, you said she could do what she wanted with the information. You assumed she would go and tell Finnick when she got the chance, a part of you had hoped it would shake him.

Nothing came of it, of course, until a couple weeks ago when Finnick told you she’d finally told him your secret. You loathed Mags for at least a week, all you could think was, “A little too late, don’t you think?” But as soon as you had a conversion with Haymitch about it, he reminded you that she did it on purpose. 

Mags waited for the perfect time to tell him, and you suspect it had to be on the night of the interviews, before you all went to bed. It would make him hesitate in the arena, see your opinion from a different angle. It made him trust you, despite the years of hatred that had been leading him prior. 

What really sealed it for him was when you risked your life to make sure his family was safe in the Capitol. Finnick’s told you countless times since you started talking to him, that he’ll never be able to make it up to you. You don’t know how many times you’ve told him that you don’t want him to. 

He’s doing enough now. In fact, he’s doing more than you expected from him. At first, it started with the two of you hanging around each other, going around District Thirteen, getting lunch and dinner together. You thought you’d be friends at most, until the two of you got caught in your feelings.

Johanna’s been making fun of you ever since she found out.

She’s currently laying backward on her hospital bed, using the pillows to keep her legs elevated and feet pressed against the wall. The hospital is beginning to drive her crazy, especially the nurses. It doesn’t help that the doctor she was assigned refuses to discharge her. She’s stuck here, like you.

Johanna’s gently rubbing her head, a habit she picked up recently. It’s not that she necessarily misses her hair, she just claims that it helps her think. She hasn’t been talking as much as she first did when you got here. It’s probably because she was able to get all of her thoughts out when she was talking to you while you were unable to respond. Everything she had kept bottled inside was let out over the course of three weeks.

It was actually fairly interesting to get inside of her head. She has good advice when it’s not clouded by anger. You’ve been meaning to ask her some questions, regarding Finnick. You’ve already picked the brains of Katniss and Haymitch, and they gave you answers that weren’t exactly thrilling to hear.

Lately, Finnick hasn’t been acting like the person he’s grown to be in Thirteen. In fact, he’s starting to revert back to how he used to be. The mean, distrustful man that could barely stand your presence in a room. But he’s inconsistent about it. Sometimes he’ll brush you off and make snide remarks, and others he’ll be kind and loving.

Haymitch wasn’t helpful, asking you if you were sure he wasn’t getting closer to Annie, like he’d been before the Quarter Quell. You told him that it couldn’t be possible because Finnick has never had feelings for Annie. It has something to do with the fact that she was too focused on her health to consider a relationship with anybody. Let alone Finnick, who had a number of problems from the Capitol. Not to mention, her parents are strict about her life.

Annie is out of the question.

Katniss had a better idea, mostly because she’s going through a similar situation with Peeta right now.  She suggested that Finnick could be acting like that because he’s confused. He had a wave of euphoria when he saw you were okay, after sacrificing so much for him. He’s been given the opportunity to make things right, but now he’s confused because he’s not used to these types of feelings about you.

This could be why he’s acting out.

The only other person you want to hear from right now is Johanna. Finnick still talks to her as much as she talks to you, which is almost all hours of the day. You’re hoping he’s said something to her recently that might give you an idea of what’s going on in his head. Or even the answer entirely.

“Hey, Johanna?” You ask.

She hums, hand pausing. “(Y/n), if you try talking to me about breaking out of this place again, you better fall through with the plan this time.”

You roll your eyes. “In my defense, I asked Coin to clear us to go outside, but she said that only Katniss and Gale are allowed to go. They hunt.”

“Sure they do. I bet they think of ways to escape, too.”

“It’s Katniss.” You agree, playing with your shoe on the floor. 

Thirteen’s shoes are unsurprisingly uncomfortable. If it were allowed, you’d walk around in your socks. You tried once, and then you got sent back to the hospital to get them. You were escorted the entire way here to make sure you wouldn’t disobey. 

“What’s your question?” Johanna asks.

You press your lips together briefly. “Have you noticed that Finnick’s acting kinda weird lately?”

Johanna doesn’t move for a second. “Weird how?”

“I mean, he’s not acting like he normally does. I think…” Your face screws. “I think he’s going back to how he used to treat me.” You look up to see her. “Has he talked to you about how he feels at all?”

Johanna doesn’t respond, so you take this as her thinking.

“If it helps, Katniss said it could be because he’s confused.” You offer, shrugging. “Haymitch said it was Annie, but that can’t be true, right?”

She looks impressed, rubs her head once or twice, and then turns to look at you. “Of course brainless is smarter than the drunk.”

“Katniss is right?” You ask.

Johanna sighs, “No, she didn’t get it exactly.” She rolls her eyes. “Listen, I told Finnick that he’s being stupid about this, but he didn’t care. He’s caught up in his head.”

“What are you talking about?”

“(Y/n), he’s told me that he doesn’t think he deserves you after the way he treated you. He said that it’s clear that you’re the better person, and he’s nothing but an asshole.” She shakes her head. “He wants to end things with you.”

“What?” You ask, getting to your feet. “When did he tell you this?”

“Last week, I think.” Johanna stares blankly at the ceiling.

“Why didn’t you tell me? We see each other every day.”

“I thought he wasn’t going through with it. If he did, you’d bring it up to me.” She makes a face. “I’ve been trying to tell him to knock it off.”

“Johanna, what did he say exactly?” You sit back down on the stool, trying to calm down.

She sighs, closing her eyes. “He said it had something to do with your generosity. You know, the whole Capitol thing. He’s hearing a lot of good things about you from Haymitch, and I think that’s freaking him out.” She starts to pick at one of the scabs she refuses to let heal. “I think he said that he didn’t understand the way you worked, and now he feels stupid about it.”

“The way I worked?”

“Like your ulterior motives.” She explains. “How you do one thing and it benefits you later on, but it looks bad from the outside. Finnick said that you have a heart of gold and it took you getting tortured for him to feel that way. He feels selfish.”

Your eyes dart to the clock, wondering what time it is. The hospital’s curfew will go into effect in a couple of hours. They don’t like it when their patients are out past a certain time, they have a routine when it comes to gathering vitals.

“I’ve got to go.” You say suddenly, bending down to pull your shoes on.

“Where?” Johanna asks, twisting to sit up.

“I need to talk to Finnick, now.” You tell her, standing up. “I’ll see you later.”

You leave her room before she can stop you. You’re a few steps down the hall when you hear the automatic door swish shut. Finnick could be anywhere in the bunker, but he’s been hanging out in the Control Room a lot recently.

You go there first. Down the hospital hall, up six floors on the elevator, down a muggy hallway and up to the door. When you knock, no one answers. It isn’t until you’re pounding on the door, does it swing open, to a very irritated President Coin.

“Can I help you, miss (L/n)?” She asks, eyebrows turn down. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

“Is Finnick inside?” You ask. “It’s urgent.”

“No, I have not seen him. Try Heavensbee.” She goes to swing the door shut.

You place your foot in the crack before she can shut it entirely, and regret it almost instantly from how hard she was going to slam the door. Coin opens the door wider, lips pressed together.

“Where would I find him?” You ask.

“The basement. He was working in the weapons shop.”

She then kicks your foot out of the way, pulling the door shut. You roll your eyes at her behavior, she hasn’t been the kindest person to you since you arrived. You think Plutarch’s convinced her it’s your fault Beetee’s dead. One day you’ll give him a piece of your mind, but today won’t be it.

You leave the hallway, finding the elevator again. It’s old, which means it moves slowly. It takes almost fifteen minutes for it to go all the way down to the basement, because of the other people getting on and off. 

By the time you get there, Plutarch’s locking the doors. “Have you seen Finnick?”

He looks over his shoulder to see it’s you, and then goes back to fixing the lock. “I haven’t. I’ve been on a call with a scientist for the past hour working on weapon plans because we don’t have any experts here.”

You suck in a breath, reminding yourself not to react. “Do you have any idea who might’ve seen him? It’s important.”

“Did you try Haymitch?” He suggests lamely.

“Where would he be?” 

“The rehabilitation center. Where else?” He shakes his head.

You don’t say anything back to him, because all responses would be rude. You leave him there, heading back to the elevator. By the time you get it programmed for the rehab center, Plutarch is in sight. He holds out his hand to tell you to stop, but you press the button while looking away, pretending as if you didn’t see him. 

Maybe he should be nicer to you.

The rehab center is closer, and their curfew is stricter. If Finnick is here, then he’s only in the visiting area. It’s a shame that Haymitch is still required to stay here instead of a pod, but he really pissed off Coin. He was joking about smuggling alcohol from Greasy Sae, and she was having none of it.

When the elevator stops, you program it to go up a few floors before being allowed to go back down. Anything you can do to inconvenience Plutarch. When you get inside of the center, they have you sign a sheet, and then they put you in the waiting room while they call out the person. As soon as they have you sit down, you know Finnick isn’t here, either, because they would’ve just directed you to the visiting area.

Haymitch comes out, as messy looking as ever, with a beanie pulled to his eyebrows. “Hey, kid. Curfew’s soon.”

“I know. Hey, has Finnick been here?”

He shakes his head. “Peeta’s a good guess. Finnick’s been trying to do exposure therapy.”

“At the hospital?” You ask. “I would’ve seen him.”

Haymitch blows air out from his cheeks. “Katniss?”

“That’s a better idea.” You nod, “I should’ve tried her first instead of Coin. I’m sorry I can’t stay, the hospital’s curfew is in an hour.”

Haymitch waves his hand. “Good luck.”

You wave, leaving out the waiting room door. The lady at the office bids you a goodnight, and then promptly shuts off the office lights. There’s a click that fills the air from the locking system, making you let out a quiet laugh. What a passive-aggressive way to tell you that you were overstaying your welcome. 

On the elevator again, you take it up to where Katniss’s pod should be with her family. Just her, her mom, Primrose and their cat. When you get there, you knock on the door. It’s only a second before Katniss’s mother opens it with a warm smile. 

“Oh, hello (Y/n).”

“Hi.” You smile, “Is Katniss here?”

“No, I believe she’s down in the cafeteria with Gale and Finnick.” 

You hum, eyebrows drawing together. “Thank you.” You begin to back away. “Have a good night.”

“Is there a message you’d like to leave?”

“No, I’m actually looking for Finnick.” You shrug. 

She nods. “Have a good night.”

The door shuts, you turn around and get back to the elevator, where you’re forced to wait twenty minutes. The clock on the wall isn’t helping the rising anxiety in your stomach, you’ve only got enough time to check the cafeteria before you have to get back to the hospital. He better be down there. 

You guess you could try again tomorrow, but you want to have a conversation tonight. The longer you wait, the more it settles into his head. What if he spends the entire day dodging you?

The elevator arrives full of residents trying to get back home. You step on, and being the only one inside, you’re able to head straight down without any disruptions. It’s a quick trip down, but you have to go down the hallway to even get to the cafeteria. 

You push the swinging door open with your hip. The room is illuminated by the few tv’s on the pillars, they’re stuck on the Capitol logo. In the daytime, Thirteen usually will let the Capitol broadcasts play. The people here see them as a comedy.

Sure enough, Katniss and Gale are inside, and they turn at the sound of the door. There is no Finnick in sight, but that doesn’t mean he’s not nearby. 

“Hey, (Y/n).” Katniss adjusts her body to turn halfway so she doesn’t have to crane her neck. “Looking for Finnick?”

“Yes, actually.” You nod. “Have you seen him recently?”

“He just left and took the stairs up to the hospital to talk to Johanna before the curfew set.” 

Your face twists. “Johanna?”

“If you take the elevator, you might be able to catch him.” She says.

“Right.” You agree, “Sorry for interrupting.”

Gale opens his mouth, Katniss speaks first. “It wasn’t even important. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye.” You wave, leaving the doorway.

You jog back down the hall to get to the elevator quicker. As soon as you press the button, the doors peel apart, allowing you to get inside. You’re briefly hopeful this trip won’t take longer than a minute, except you run into the same problem as earlier, with people stepping on with every passing floor.

By the time you get to the hospital, it’s past curfew. Finnick always leaves on time.

A wild goose chase for nothing. It’s like Finnick knew you were coming, so he avoided you at all costs. You don’t want to go back to how things used to be between you two. It was painful, knowing there was nothing you could do to fix it. You just had to let it go, like you will now. Except, you’re stuck in this stupid bunker with him, meaning you’ll never get away. 

Tears appear in your eyes. You suck in a breath, holding it, tilting your head back to force the tears back to where they came. It doesn’t work, they slide down the sides of your eyes, traveling down your cheeks.

You let out the breath, and take in a shaky one. It isn’t long before the crying starts. You have to stop in the hallway before you enter the hospital wing, because if they see you upset, they’re going to put you on medical lockdown. This thought alone increases the hysteria.

You slide down the concrete wall, burying your face in your hands while you cry. Ten years you’ve waited just to be his friend, and he’s going to take it all away on the thought he’s not a good person? When it’s clearly not true? He’s sacrificed just as much as you have to get here.

You’ve told him this. Why won’t he listen?

“(Y/n)?” You whip your head up to see Finnick, a frown on his face. “Oh, honey.”

“You—” The word is strangled as another sob overcomes you at the sight of him, finally.

Finnick rushes over, coming to a crouch in front of you. You jerk forward, throwing your arms around him for a hug, squeezing him tightly. Finnick pulls you closer, placing a hand on the back of your head to keep your face in his chest.

“I’m so sorry.” He murmurs, shushing you gently. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not!” You protest through your tears. “You want to leave me!”

He doesn’t say anything, his grip only tightens.

“Finnick, I don’t care. I don’t care that you were mean to me in the past, because it didn’t bother me. I wouldn’t be talking to you if I didn’t want to be with you. How could you have known better if no one told you? It’s not your fault.”

“I should’ve seen the signs. If I had gotten to know you better, maybe I would’ve realized. I was so mean to you.”

“We were mean to each other.” You tell him, playing with his hair. “We did good things on our own time. You’re a good person, Finnick. You’re not bad for what’s happened between us in the past.”

You push him away from you to see his face, finding tears in his own eyes. You cup each side of his face, pulling him to your lips. Finnick’s hand slides its way to the back of your neck, holding you against him for a few seconds longer.

When you pull back, you wipe a tear from beneath his eye. “Let’s just focus on us right now, okay?”

“Okay.”

[crossbowwwdotcom]

camilo's bllk fic reccs pt 2 (as of december 24, 2024):

- are we dancing after death? by calmgeyama ... 9.5k words and 1/1 chapters. read tags! gantz tabiori au where they all die and have to fight monsters to continue living... so terrifyingly written!!

- laced drill bits to my pointe shoes by ethereally ... 4k words and 1/1 chapters. kunigiri as old men fighting for their right to be married in jp. GREAT formatting and story and i love this so much

- conception by missiletoe .., 1.8k words and 1/1 chapters. egonoa character study pre-blue lock. its cute and short and they are just so Interesting.

- never let you come apart by ethereally ... 9k words and 1/1 chapters. i cant believe i almost forgot this one omfg. its so good! bachisagi fic set post canon with aroace isagi again. i fw it so much ughhh

- the sweetest flower by lockedskies ... 20k words and 5/? chapters. allsagi bachelor au!!! all the interactions between everyone is so good. i never realized how interesting the bachelor au could be...

- what we stand to win by raindrops_0 ... 6k words and 1/1 chapters. gen fic centered around isagi when theyre starting at bastard munchen. its just great hurt/comfort with some very relatable themes. love!

- GHOST OPERATIVES by shiryurealest13 ... 41.5k words and 23/30 chapters (chapter cap fluctuates). read tags! chatfic and still currently updating. not central focus but rinsagi, shidousae, nagireo, and tabieita. its about part of the bllk cast who are assasins are given the mission to kill reos dad and have to infiltrate reos fg (the rest of bllk) to get close to him. SO funny and the plot is actually so engaging. someone pls talk to me ab this its one of my favs rn 😭

- finding passion by strawberrytiramisu3773 ... 100k and 11/? chapters. read tags! VERY interesting canon divergence rewrite! i fear im a huge angst and whump fan and reading this was soooo good for me lol

- spoiled by vett .. 5k words and 1/1 chapters. rinsagi future fic that had me GIGGLING OMG. rin being a clingy drunk and isagi being so embarrased was so funny and i was literally freaking out lol. second hand embarrassment almost killed me but its ok!

- the language of losing by raindrops_0 ... 10.4k and 2/3 chapters. socmed kaisagi fic staged in the nel where each team gets more of a social media presence. im such a sucker for socmed fics and this one is so funny lol

- three is a charm by mistresssleepless ... 6k words and 1/1 chapters. ahhhhh i love bachirinsagi and this was so good. them having sex is referenced a lot but it isnt explicitly written (still teen+ though). theyre so cute together and i love these three together

- six facts about lobsters by smallghosts ... 3.7k words and 1/1 chapters. bachisagi kinda character study fic written from second person pov. one of the most well written things ive ever read

- fixation by celestee (jenjaemrens) ... 5k words and 1/1 chapters. rinsagi fic where isagi lives in spain and is part of re al with sae. SUCH a cool concept and im so obsessed with it

- good luck rin! by cyberialyr1 ... 60k words and 12/18 chapters. rinsagi highschool au where isagi is the new kid and rins the football team captain. very cute with internalized homophobia and angsty backstory isagi! i havent caught up since like ch9 though but its really good

- like glass from sandy ground by ethereally ... 7k words and 1/1 chapters. such a GOOD bachisagi ff where isagi is aroace but loves bachira and bachira loves him anf theyre just. struggling to figure things out. wonderfully written to portray the love of someone aroace! if ure gonna read anything on this list then read this one Please

- oat milk (and other irredeemable vices) by caluette .., 26k words and 3/3 chapters. kaisagi coffee shop au where kaiser is the frustrating customer with a long and specific order and isagi is a struggling employee. banter and light hearted enemies to lovers!

- of intrusive thoughts and sickly sweet smiles by zhiruiii ... 14k words and 4/4 chapters. soft rinsagi with isagi being a social butterfly and rin being insecure about it. cute!!!

- pretrichor by flowersforaliens... 3k words and 1/1 chapters. i LOVE. karasu centric angst fic with tabiori about karasu having an injury and having to retire. so good!

- i cant stay on your morphine (cause its making me ill) by witchcoded ... 22k words and 4/6 chapters. FEM LESBIANS ryurin!!!! perhaps the best??? the emotional constipation of rin is so good and the intimacy of them is so well written (or^o). great side roles too!

- to lose yourself in the world by thecurrator .. 25k words and 21/? chapters. egonoa fic where ego is a daycare worker, noa is his roommate, and bllk are the kids. so funny and pretty fluffy!

- art of momentum by illicitly ... 4.9k words and 1/1 chapters. cute little nagireo oneshot w nagi being protective!

- kintsukoroi by laylayli ... 54k and 3/3 chapters. read tags! kaisagi fic set after nel where kaiser finds out his dad is dead. lots of interesting grieving and well-written character study! loved this and i swear by this author

- maybe it was ego swinging by sopenation ... 3k words and 1/1 chapters. kunigiri w protective bllk and kunigami over chigiri. yk i love to see it!

- invincible like ive never been by mkat1020 ... 2k and 1/1 chapters. gen and chigiri whump during the u20. i looooove this one and isagi is such a good friend in this and its just. Good

- love you like oxygen by sweetdreamers... 12k and 1/1 chapters. kaisagi breakup and makeup fic. they have a generally toxic relationship and isagi is super sad and pathetic in this but the rest of the bllk cast comforts him and they figure shit out

- l'amour est bleu by laylayli ... 40k words and 5/5 chapters. perhaps my FAVORITE kaisagi ff and one of my fav bllk fics oat. its about isagi starting to babysit for kaisers younger sister and them falling in love during it. isagi just cares so much for kaisers younger sister and kaiser slowly starts loving him so much for it and isagi cant help but fall for kaiser its just. so endearing and i love it <3.

- world class hypocrite by aashimar ... 80.5k words and 9/10 chapters (EPILOGUE PLEASE PLEASE UPLOAD). read tags! explicit sex scenes throughout but its staged post-canon. this fic made me SICK. rinsagi au where isagi was outed as gay by rin before the wc and his life was basically ruined afterwards. the LONGING and RESENTMENT in this is the absolute peak of society. both rin and isagis characters are written so amazingly like theyre so flawed and theyre very messy people but theyre like really actually in love with each other. they say a lot of fucked up shit to each other but i still swear by this fic! the plot was SO SO intriguing and the way its written is really realistic. the chemistry is absolutely INSANE in this fic. my personal fav bllk fic and one of my fav fics ever! belongs in the hof tbh

see pt 1 here!

[yuquinzel]

— this is what love is.

feat. itoshi rin. f!reader. 2k+ wc. fluff and angst. rin concludes what love is, thanks to you.

THE HEAD: love — if you were to ever ask itoshi rin what love is to him, he would give you a scornful look, of brows knitted together and parted lips. it is uncertainty in disguise of a petty scowl. an elegant grimace on pretty features. he will not explain love with the understanding of it, but by the lack thereof. such a question is not for someone like him. 

to rin, love is as simple as the acknowledgement of its existence.

it’s real — he has seen it enough times in enough depths to come to the conclusion that love is a little more than just a concept and a little less than a materialistic possession. many times in his life, his perception of love has changed. it was never a question of what it means to him, but more of whether he’s willing to let it mean something.

he ponder the countless i love you ’s he’s heard on midsummer nights in some cheap hotel. when limbs and tongues entangle and fingers run through disheveled hair, an ‘i love you’ is whispered like a scandalous secret. a small talk to fill in loud silences. like the off-brand soda cans he will find on the convenience store down the street: it’s a cheap rip-off of the real thing.

rin can never bring himself to say it back. he wonders if it would ever mean something if he did.

THE LUNGS: loneliness — at some point in his youth, rin came to the conclusion that love and loneliness are two sides of the same coin. they come hand in hand. if you are to long for love, loneliness will follow you like a hungry dog— like an uncanny companion stuck by your side.

rin likes to believe he understands loneliness much better than he could love. he thinks of it as often as one would think of breathing — which is to say never, unless he is actively reminded of it. it’s almost like an intricate part of his being, following him everywhere he goes like a second shadow.

he hasn’t been alone, no — that’s entirely different. he’s aware he’s not easy to be around — blunt, reserved, pretty boy with a sharp tongue — yet, people do it anyway. he’s grateful in ways, so by definition, he knows he’s not alone. 

he thinks this is the best he can get.

THE HEART: you — you are a welcome contradiction to his thoughts. rin knows you. he sees you, after years. he had not expected to see you. but you and sae had always been close, so he isn’t particularly surprised to find you invited to his brother’s wedding.

you are too, something he does not understand.

he remembers being seven and you six, the first time he met you. you are the beginning — where the story starts: girl meets boy, boy meets trouble.

trouble— that’s what you are. seven years old itoshi rin can tell by the way you hide behind your mother as your and his talked away like old friends do. he sees you shrinking further behind her when he flashes you a smile, he was a nice kid back then. you smile back, it wasn’t anything genuine. he knew it was trouble then, that he wondered what your real smile would look like.

trouble, trouble, trouble — he thinks as he finds himself competing for sae’s attention. sae is always much nicer, much gentler to you. rin begins to thinks of you more than he wants to. it’s trouble when you move away just when he was finally getting used to your presence, it’s even more trouble when you come to visit and spend most of your time with sae. in retrospect — he knows at some point, he had made you feel unwelcomed, whether it was intentional or not. 

when he sees you again now, rin holds his breath. he stutters twice. blinking thrice, he steals another glance. you, adorned in youth and elegance — you are beautiful, like a moment of conscious breathing. like seconds trapped in sunsets and sunrises alike. rin has to take a moment to let it settle in his mind and heart alike.

you are as beautiful as he remembers, and as much as his mother never lets him forget.

rin thinks of talking to you, he would be doing so after years. he does so before he can really convince him to do otherwise. why he makes such a baseless effort, he does not know. this was always the case with you. you made his heart and mind turn against one another. it was as terrifying as it was exciting. rin can not name the emotions he can trace on your features when you see him. he aches to know what you think of him. you don’t seem surprised, but your smile is a fond one.

you are still trouble, he reckons — with how easily you seem to coax words out of him, falling into a casual rhythm of conversation. it feels natural, he counts the number of heartbeats each of your smiles last for. he finds himself longing for something he knows he has lost, but never hoped to find again. 

he does not see you nearly as often as he may be hoping for. you are something like a blurred memory, a lingering aftertaste, an unspoken word at the tip of his tongue. 

lately, you have been on his mind. he surprises himself with his impulsivity of calling you whenever he remembers that he can do so, be it monday mornings or friday nights when both of your schedules overlap — rin calls you, just to stay on the line. even when you don’t say anything, he revels in the silence you share. it’s peaceful. the kind he can never find if he searches for it. he hears your hums and mumbles, adds his own, and he stays on line until you fall asleep.

“it was a boring day,” your voice is so, so gentle. he feels giddy. “but i had some ochazuke — i thought of you, i think you would’ve loved it.”

he hears you hum, and then feels his heart stall. he wonders of how often you think of him. not as much as he does, he believes. he aches to ask you, do you look for him in the mundane? and do you find him there? “make some for me next time.”

you are probably smiling, “i will.”

it is a little terrifying. how good you are at making him feel weak. but he thinks it couldn’t be half as threatening as he’s taking it to be if his teammates are telling him he’s been smiling more these days. he tells them to fuck off.

or maybe it is? for the exact same sentiment.

rin can not name this fondness he has for you. he is afraid to use the stronger word. but he wonders if fondness and resentment can be synonymous. he had thought he resented you, all those years back. he thinks maybe that resentment still lingers. he worries he may be secretly resenting you for always plaguing his mind.

he will let you have that sort of control over him, for now, at least. this resentment and fondness balance all the scales for now.

THE HANDS: time — time is a conscious being. it is as unassuming as love and as ever-present as loneliness. time is the ground love festers on like a disease, it is the sky loneliness spreads on beyond grasp. 

time is something rin understands. it has hands that weave tales together slowly but surely before you can even begin to understand it, until you’re helplessly entangled in its plays. rin had known this comfort, the familiarity — the fondness he had found in your presence, it would only grow with time. he had seen it coming from miles away. it was as clear as the sky on the day he met you again, the way his loneliness got quiet whenever you were around.

you approached him like a thunderstorm, with your gentle disposition and longing smiles. shaking all of him to the core, and unlike much things in his life, rin let it come. if you leave him breathless and scattered, he figures, then breathless he’ll stand and wait for you to find him again. he had always been enamored of thunderstorms. 

time is a funny thing. he had never quite gotten used to you in his youth no matter how long you were around. and once he did, time took you away. and then it took him all those years to realize that everything started had with you, that he had missed you in your absence and longed for you before he could realize it. and once he had gotten comfortable with this revelation, time brought him back to you, again. 

it is with time he grows to acknowledge all the parts of himself he only ever sees when you’re around. like his impulsivity of purposely taking the wrong bus and finding himself in an unnamed town far from the city — with you. you tell him you believe this can either turn out to be the best memory of your lives, or simply the worst one.

“rin,” he likes the sound of your voice, “we can just start a new life here, can’t we?” you don’t look at him when you speak, but rin feels seen. 

“i can work on the farms, i think i would be good at it.” he adds, you laugh. “and i could help you out. we could grow our crops and eat simple meals, lead simple lives.”

he thinks of this imagined life on the bus ride home, when your head falls to his shoulder and he finds himself unable to resist the desire to brush back the strands of hair over your ear. it is a treacherous thing to do. the simple act of brushing your hair over your ear. why? because he will soon find longing for more. to rest his palm on your cheeks and brush his thumb over your beauty mark. 

in time, he grows surer of his feelings. the fondness of his gaze when it meets your, the softer side of him that you bring out when you try to teach him how to bake brownies. it is these minute little existences of the mundane, that he adores the most. he thinks you might just have the power to ruin him. a starry-eyed tragedy in which he’s the protagonist. but then again, love and tragedy often fall under the same umbrella.

you are the beginning, rin concludes, and there’s no reach beyond you.

THE BONES: love, again — rin thinks of love now. it resembles a sickly illness. he thinks of himself as an unfortunate and resigned victim. it must be a plague haunting his mind with the thoughts of you — he finds himself utterly helpless.

love is a carnivorous being, it feeds on his heart. why? because the heart is a muscle. it pumps and it bleeds and it loves.

love festers like an ugly disease rotting his flesh to his bones, and all he can do is let it come. there is a sort of beauty in peaceful resignation. it eats away at his hands, rin loses track of time. everything leads him to you. time doesn’t exist with you. every second with you is too short and never enough. yet it feels like an eternity before he can see you again. his hands are always seeking yours. love is a sickness. it spreads to his lungs, cruelly burning away any of the loneliness he had grown so comfortable in. it is uncomfortable and terrifying, it smokes his skin with uncertainty. but he can not do much here, he is helpless.

love is selfish and all-consuming, it slowly infests his head. determined to make it’s presence known somehow. determined to be understood in some way. determined to be found in everything.

rin thinks he had already known this. of course he did. you never made it easy to ignore his palpitating heart, the sweating of his palms and the flutter of butterflies — as romantics like to call it. he has always, always known it by heart. you made it so. everything had been love. the thousands of stolen glances. the late night calls. the impromptu visits. the moments that never lasted more than a few seconds, but felt like they trapped all the beauty of this world. all the times just hesitation and doubt and fear caused him to stop just short of confessing. of letting you decide what to do of his love.

it had been love, in its simplest form.

rin regrets not finding the words to express it sooner.

the room encompasses a heavy, suffocating silence. it seems to creep right into his skin like a catastrophe — spreading so slowly, rotting away every living cell it touches. it strips the air from his lungs. but he does not try to suck it back in. he does not want to feel alive right now. his eyes lose focus every second here and there. rin thinks his limbs can’t support him for long.

rin remembers that the heart is just a muscle. it bleeds and it pumps and it breaks and it dies. he feels it. he never should’ve let love become a part of him. it is much too cruel for him.

the room — the hospital room — feels ice cold. it is late may and it should be hot. yet he feels like his blood his frozen. the silence is no more. he hears the cries of your mother. he can not make sense of her words. he does not hear her properly, it is just white noise. everything is too white in the room. rin clamps a shaking hand over his mouth. why is he even here? had you really considered him close enough to let him be a presence in this room along with your family. he does not want to be here, he concludes. he can’t be here.

“y/n.” he calls out. he does not know why he does so. in all his consciousness, he’s aware you can’t hear him. you will never answer.

your sickly pale complexion, the darkening under your eyes — which are closed — and your body, covered in bruises all over, as if the bleeding was hard to stop. it is all the answer he needs.

“y/n, hey —” he tries again. because didn’t you always reply when he called? he feels the need to touch your skin, to feel you still with him. he recoils just as quickly when he feels the cold touch of your body. he feels nauseous. like something inside him is twisting and trying to break free.

he leaves the room next. it made him feel strangely alive. he wanted to feel anything but.

it has registered all too quickly. he wishes there was a time for delusions. for baseless hope. for the luxury of panic. there is nothing. it feels like being sucked in an endless void. he feels like he’s fighting for his every next breath. he does not really want to.

you’ve left him just as spontaneously and cruelly as when you met him.

he’s outside the hospital premises, going wherever his feet take him. only when a bench by the side of the road catches his eyes, does he realise how weak his knees feel. he drops down on it, unable to bear his weight anymore.

he does not pay attention to the time nor the people around him. this morning he’d received a call from your parents. something about an accident followed by your name. everything sort of blurred after that. now the sun has all but disappeared in the wistful evening blues. when it catches his eyes, he feels a painful strike at his chest — somewhere deeper than his ribcage and his lungs. it is a beautiful sight. it’s even more beautiful when it’s blurred by the tears collecting in his eyes.

he feels it again, that loneliness which had gotten quiet in your presence. he feels it stronger than ever — it is growling like some monster, its finger wrapping around his throat. a painful grunt leaves his lips then.

then he realises that it is not loneliness — loneliness was never a monster. it was kind. he was at peace with it. it would cradle him gently when he needed it and has been by his side longer than most.

it is love. love has always been cruel. it is a gruesome monster resembling childhood nightmares. its long-pointed canines, and fingers dressed in wrinkled, old skin — it has already infested his everything.

in its hauntingly sweet voice, it whispers an old lullaby, one rin tearfully sings along to. he feels it being carved onto his bones.

love will never be his. not anymore.

© yuquinzel2023 [ plagiarism is a violation of moral rights ! ]

me when i can’t write confession scenes: fuck it, there will be no confession.

my deepest, most humblest apologies for this. then again, it was so fun writing. i love angst. i’m off to writing rin fluff for compensation now :> thank u !

[s-seishiro]

࿐HEAD EMPTY! itoshi sae

summary: in which you grow more and more convinced that there’s nothing but soccer in that head of his as your relationship progresses.

— headcannons, fluff mostly, i’m finally warming up to sae 😧!

— no warnings!

You’re convinced that there’s nothing but soccer in Itoshi Sae’s head. What gave it away? Maybe the fact that he was literally incapable of doing the most simplest activities.

The two of you were roommates. Sae had his reasons for moving to an apartment. It was during his early career—when he was just beginning to pick up momentum; and sharing living costs seemed more efficient. You just wanted a roommate to take a bit of stress off living expenses—being freshly out of college.

In the beginning you put Sae on a pedestal. He was a semi-famous football player and was borderline worldwide talent. And you were just a humble nutritionist.

From the start Sae said he would rarely be at the apartment and would spend most of his days out training. And that’s how it was—he was so absent that at times you forgot you even had a roommate.

And when the two of you WERE together, it was awkward. Because the two of you didn’t have the chance to bond and skip this stage. But who were you to break the norm that was created?

One day you call out to Sae once he comes home, telling him he got some important letter on the table. It turned out to be a letter from his agent. One that told him to make a gift of thanks for his fans.

Originally, Sae just wanted to post a simple thank you on social media. But the letter made it clear that he had to physically make something.

And so for the first time since you lived in this apartment you saw Sae at the kitchen table. It was so remarkable that you paused the show you were watching to look at what he was doing. You saw a paper and pencil in his hand so you assumed he was drawing.

‘I wonder how good he is with drawing?’ You think to yourself as you approach him.

But as you appeared by his side you almost instantly crack up—turning around to stop yourself from bursting into laughter.

Sae lifts his teal eyes from his paper, glaring at you from under his lashes. “What’s so funny?”

You turn back around—trying to suppress your laughter once you saw what was on his paper. One the top it read: Thank You For All Your Support. And below that was ‘supposed’ to be Sae with all his fans surrounded by hearts. Cute concept right?

Except it was executed so poorly that it didn’t even look bad—just plain hilarious.

‘Stop that name, maybe he isn’t good at drawing.’ You told yourself, further stifling the grin on your face.

“I just think your drawing is really funny.”

He looks at you, then back to his drawing, before looking at you again. “It’s not supposed to be funny, it’s supposed to be heartwarming.” He grumbles. His hands reach to crumble the paper but you quickly stop him.

“You shouldn’t get rid of it!” You yell out, placing your hands on top of his.

“With this picture you can tell how hard you worked! Here, why don’t I help you create another one?”

Sae surprisingly allows you. And from their the two of you work to make a more neater version of his previous idea. You take a picture of Sae holding the new version and he posts it on Twitter.

Fans around the world loved it! But what they loved even more was attempt number one, that somehow ended up in frame. Fans joked about his first attempt and how it showed he really cared about them. Sae of course hears this praise from his manager—but could only think of you who brought up the idea in the first place.

After that day, your relationship defrosted and became more open. And it was then you began to realize how haphazardly he lived his life.

In the kitchen there was no regard to human life. He made food based on consumption—not appearance. His trainer gave him a list of foods and protein he’d needed to eat that fit his work schedule. And Sae’s response to that was to mix them all together in one pot—yum!

When confronted about it he told you:

“Who cares, I’m getting all my nutrients aren’t I?”

You made sure to put a stop to it immediately. Since you were a nutritionist, you decided you would be making his meals for now one. A decision he is thankful for to this day.

Another thing was cleaning. He just did it. No thought of wets or drys, which tool he used—what was UNDERNEATH when he cleaned.

(Because he thought it was okay to dust the ceiling fan, which was over your open drink and food)

One time he mixed bleach and various bathroom cleaners together to make a death chemical. The landlord was not happy about this.

And he was on his way to the grocery store but got distracted by the conveniently placed football apparel store, causing him to come home with new gear instead of food.

You overlooked most of these silly little mistakes, sometimes even laughing with him about them. It looked like all his brainpower and talent went to football—leaving him mediocre at everything else.

And as you go to sleep you think to yourself: at least he has football, so he isn’t totally incapable of taking care of himself.

[sobredunia]

Okay so I was looking through an old notebook from 2022 and I found a lot of cool stuff that I don't think I've shown here so imma do just that

I'll put it under the cut bc I really wanna put "developer commentary" on these so it's gonna get long quick

Oh fun fact I think I've shown her like. Only once before. And it was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment. So yea good luck if u wanna see her again lol. Also yes I did look that up on Google. For oc backstory reasons. Don't ask.

This is what my vent art looks like

One of the first sketches/concept designs for the PINK project! Ended up changing some small stuff like how detailed the jacket was, the pants, and the shape and length of the boots. Funnily enough even tho her clothes were simplified her vitiligo markings became more complex. Yes this AMV thing has been on my brain since 2022

Nume! :D I've shown this image of them a lot but I don't think I've shown the full page. She comes with a white boy I guess lol. The hooded doodle on the corner was kinda like an idea design for another AMV that was rotating in my brain at the time

Censored a bit of it for. Reasons. But yeah this is what Daya looked like when she was twelve! White boy included lmao. This was mostly so I could design them a school uniform, and still I think I'd change it nowadays. I'm not too satisfied with it. I've never been too good at designing outfits, esp the colors :/

I drew this when the school year started and I had mad rat Monday brainrot but I didn't know what the song said after "Panasonic Blu-Ray" and my brain somehow registered it as "don't be such a bitch" instead of "Christmas in July". Idk how it happened either.

Eren Yeager

Whoops almost forgot. Art taglist

@rotkad @sansxfuckyou @7hefear @beetroot-merchant @ashingtonkisihita

@h3xt0r @bree-sae @helloidkwhatimdoing-0 @zecrisketch @princelyre (welcome to the taglist btw! :D We hope you enjoy your stay)

[wttcsms]

excerpts;

i have over 100k+ words in unfinished drafts/wips in my google docs. yikes.

in an attempt to gauge general interest + also to motivate myself in attempting to at least finish half of the projects i've started, i'm going to share some of the fics i think y'all will be most interested in 🤍 (and also because these are my usual first rough draft attempts, so these are just the best of the worst LOL)

as always, lmk what you think, what you're most excited for, and i'm always open to chatting about any of my concepts in depth 🤭

featuring keiji akaashi, atsumu miya, sae itoshi, tobio kageyama, naoya zenin, satoru gojo, + a plot that's still open for any character so tell me why ur fave deserves it (all with fem reader)

— brace for impact, keiji akaashi elevator pitch: rich college girl with daddy issues is roommates/put under the care of old-time family friend, 20-something y/o keiji akaashi

“I just don’t want you to waste your life away.” He answers, which is the truth. He really hates picking you up when you’re drunk off your ass, unable to defend yourself against the swarms of sleazy college guys that are attending the same party as you. He hates the fact that you’ve been raised — if the dozen father-daughter interactions you had with your dad counts as him “raising” you — to believe that money can solve all your problems. Because, sure, having money has gotten you out of many tight spots, but it wasn’t money that drove to a college on the other side of the city to pick you up, it was him. He has to stand here and watch you push the universe’s boundaries, trying to test your luck, to see if there’s a problem or a bad situation that you can’t get out of this time. You’re reckless and privileged and insecure and rich — the deadliest combination for any college age girl to be. You’re going to ruin your life before it even fully begins. It’s like your default mode is self destruction. 

“Not this speech again.” You sigh, shifting your body so that your knees are turned towards the door instead of him. “Y’know, Akaashi, you’re not my dad.” 

“Yeah, because unlike him, I actually care about you.”

You’re silent now, still staring out the window. He’s usually better at keeping his mouth shut, but it’s hard to do whenever you’re constantly pushing and pushing and testing his patience and he’s just so—

“—sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” His knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. It’s a wonder how the words leave his mouth; you think the way he’s clenching his teeth acts as a formidable enough boundary. 

Actually, you think, it’s entirely justifiable. You’re coy, not dumb. You know when you’ve pushed Akaashi too far, and this is one of those times. And, really, you kind of — scratch that — you do deserve it. All of it. And then some. You’re irresponsible, and you drag him out to the other side of the city so he can act as your guardian, your protector, even though that is most certainly not the role he planned on playing. Honestly, you’re just surprised that he hasn’t left you out to rot like everyone else, and you’re thankful, you really are. But what are you supposed to say? That? The truth? Probably. 

You don’t, though. You just mutter some weak ass retort that sounds an awful lot like “you need to get laid” before staring out the window for the rest of the ride. 

— devil on my shoulder tellin' me i'll die soon (i don't really want that to impact you), atsumu miya elevator pitch: yakuza au but a healthy amount of porn and plot. sequel to this.

The first time Osamu Miya meets you, you’re unconscious, and he has a feeling you’d be grateful about this fact considering the state you’re in. 

Atsumu’s carrying you bridal style, and even in your sleep, you still cling to him. The sight would be almost sweet, but Osamu’s not an idiot. There can never be anything sweet in his dear older brother’s life. Even in the pale moonlight, Osamu can see the bruises and hickeys lining your neck, a trail of them that seem to disappear underneath your clothes (he wouldn’t be shocked if there’s a map of hickeys littering your skin). Your hair is sticking up at odd angles, your lips are swollen, and you are knocked out in every sense of the word. 

If the situation wasn’t serious (even without verbal confirmation, he’s well aware of how dire this situation is right now; Atsumu wouldn’t have visited him if it weren’t), Osamu thinks he would have made a comment about his brother’s rough handling. 

(He doesn’t, though, because Osamu knows all about just how rough his brother can get — after all, they both had the same upbringing.) 

“‘Samu,” Atsumu says, and his voice makes him sound like he’s worse for wear. He sounds like when he was fourteen and had his first taste of initiation, when a group of the strongest men would beat him relentlessly for thirty seconds and he wasn’t allowed to fight back. The crack in his voice is subtle, and even though Osamu rarely speaks to his brother anymore, he’s still a master at reading him. 

“Who’s the girl?” Osamu nods to your sleeping form, trying not to focus on the purple and red marks. God, he can’t tell if he, Atsumu, you, or all three of you are lucky it’s so dark. Osamu can’t really believe it’s possible to go out in public after a night with his brother; not without being on the receiving end of a few concerned looks. 

“I need a favor.” Atsumu ignores his question, which is typical behavior for him, so Osamu’s not entirely too surprised or annoyed. “She’s in danger, and it’s—” 

Atsumu grimaces like the next words he’s about to say are going to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. And maybe it’s because that’s his brother and they grew up together, or maybe it’s because ‘Tsumu’s always been a little predictable (or has Osamu just always been good at predicting?), but Osamu can almost mouth what his brother’s about to say.

“—my fault.” 

So, you must be someone awfully important to his brother then. Important enough that Atsumu would finally visit him in person after all these years (with barely any warning beforehand, too). Important enough that Atsumu would treat you so roughly (if the marks on your body are any indication of what you’ve been through) and still care about you so deeply. Important enough that he’s finally taking accountability, finally taking the blame for his actions.

He didn’t think it was possible, but Atsumu’s left him genuinely speechless for a moment. 

“Please, ‘Samu.” Atsumu Miya is not the type of person who breaks down easily. He does not beg, he commands. But right now, Atsumu sounds like he’s this close to getting down on his knees and clasping his hands together if that’s what it’ll take to get Osamu to help him. “You told me you would owe me after what I did for you. Consider this your repayment.” 

Apparently, you’re someone so important to Atsumu, he’s cashing in a favor that’s worth his life just to ensure your safety. Osamu can’t tell if that’s true idiocy or true love — then again, there’s hardly a difference between the two, is there? 

“Idiot. I would have helped ya regardless, y’know.” He means it. Every word. 

“I know.” And Atsumu means it, too. Because even if they’ve went years with little to no contact, even though they both belong to two completely different worlds, they’re still brothers. Which means that they also know each other as well as they know themselves, and Atsumu knows that Osamu can never truly be at peace until he feels like the completely imaginary debt he owes is paid back in full. 

The universe must have a taste for irony, though, because Atsumu thought that ensuring your safety and bringing his brother peace would make him feel good. Instead, transferring you to his brother’s arms allows the weight of the world to rest more comfortably on his shoulders. 

Osamu takes one last look at his older brother, and he’s not entirely surprised to see that his attention is on you, dark eyes staring so intensely at your sleeping figure, he wonders if he’s trying to commit your face to his memory. He’s worried about Atsumu. Sure, he’s got a whole entire gang on his side, a rather powerful one too, but ‘Tsumu’s never been the greatest at being left alone to his devices, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

But then Atsumu looks up at him, and Osamu feels like they’re both fourteen again. Trapped, vulnerable, in immense pain… But not alone, never alone. 

“Thanks, ‘Samu.” 

“Any time, ‘Tsumu.” 

(It’s the same words exchanged by their teenage selves years ago, whenever Osamu would help him clean his cuts and sloppily stitch him up.

To them, it was another way of saying “I love you”.)

— it always leads to you [chapter one], sae itoshi elevator pitch: literally the long ass, long awaited start to this series. if you listened to taylor's new album (ttpd)... yeah, that's basically the new soundtrack for this fic. do what u will with that info <3

A hard pill to swallow is that people never get over their first loves. 

It’s like, scientifically proven, or something. There’s been studies, you think. Not to mention that you belong to the group of people who have never gotten over their first loves. 

You’re aware that it’s probably embarrassing and should be something that brings you shame, but when Sae comes knocking on your door, infrequent, surprise visits that always catch you off-guard, you find yourself opening the door for him. 

(He has a key. He can let himself in any time he wants. You think he must forget.)

This time, he’s not knocking on your door, but he is waiting in the stairwell near the entrance to the floor of your apartment. He’s got a baseball cap on and a dark sweatshirt, and you want to tell him that everyone who lives here is most definitely getting shitfaced at the college bar you just left (the one whose only redeeming qualities are that it’s by campus and the drinks are cheap). He doesn’t have to worry about hiding his identity. 

You frown when he approaches you. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you pout and complain about this halfheartedly, but it’s all for nothing. Sae never tells you when he’s coming; it’s almost like you’re just a spur-of-the-moment decision to him, which doesn’t feel right since the Sae you grew up with was always meticulous and purposeful with his actions. Granted, the Sae you grew up with left on a plane to an entirely different continent four years ago, and the one you have standing next to you now sometimes feels more like a doppelganger than your ex-boyfriend. 

He doesn’t answer, because of course he fucking wouldn’t. He waits for you to fumble with your keys; if you knew he was coming, you wouldn’t have let Akane convince you to take as many shots as you did. Now everything is kind of blurry and hazy, and your hands shake despite the lack of coldness you’re feeling. 

You delude yourself into thinking that there’s something of the old Sae left inside of him as he gently pries the keys from your fumbling fingers and unlocks the door to your apartment himself. 

Entering your apartment feels like traveling in a time machine, only instead of traveling back in time or to the future, Sae is entering a present-day parallel universe. This apartment, with its best (and only) amenity being a short distance from campus, could have been his. Could have been shared by the two of you, even. 

If he had stayed, that is.

Sometimes Sae ponders what his life would be like if he stuck around. If he had never had the ego or the audacity to want to see more of the world. You know better than to ask him why he never visits you when you’re on a holiday break from school, and he thinks it’s because you still know him the best out of anybody, even Rin. The truth is, Sae is too uncomfortable to come crawling back to his childhood home that he grew up in, the one he’s spent years determined to grow out of. He only comes back home when absolutely necessary — out of eldest son/family obligation. 

This college apartment, seeing remnants of a life you’re living that he doesn’t know much about (even though all he has to do is ask, and you would gladly tell), feels wrongly nostalgic. Like, the sweatshirt lying haphazardly on the couch displaying a big, fat Tokyo U logo on its front could have been his instead of your roommate’s. He could have played college ball instead of trying to get recruited directly to the big leagues. Sae’s good enough to get a scholarship. Even received a letter informing him that Tokyo U would be more than glad to have him, full-ride. 

(The letter resides in the back of his closet, crumpled up but never forgotten.) 

And, most importantly, you wouldn’t be looking at him like this. 

Even drunk off of cheap alcohol, you sober up startlingly fast when you see him. You shouldn’t give him so much power over your life, but he’d be a damn liar if he said he didn’t relish in the overwhelming relief that you still love him just the same. Nothing ever changes back home, and he says this with disdain, but when it comes to your unshifting affection for him, he figures staying the same can’t be all bad.

“Y’know, it always feels like you’re judging me when you just stand there and look at everything.” An intoxicated you is an honest you. If he wasn’t so determined to mask everything about himself, he would have smiled at your admittance. 

He doesn’t smile, though. He just continues to let his cold eyes roam across the entirety of your cramped, college apartment.

— an indentation in the shape of you, tobio kageyama elevator pitch: idol!reader who goes into hiding after a major scandal despite being the victim x pro!tobio who's been hopelessly pining after you since forever. now you're in hiding, but also living in the apartment right across from his.

SEARCH NEWS: [NAME] [SURNAME] > TOP RESULTS (SORTED FROM MOST TO LEAST RECENT)

WHERE DID [NAME] [SURNAME] GO? *INCLUDES EXCLUSIVE PHOTO OF HER MOST RECENT SIGHTING!*Posted on March 10, 2019

[NAME]’S SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNTS HAVE BEEN TAKEN DOWN, IDOL HAS NOT BEEN SPOTTED IN A WEEK Posted on January 4, 2019   BREAKING: [NAME] [SURNAME] GOES SOLO! LEAVES IDOL GROUP TO START HER OWN CAREER! Posted November 6, 2018

KENTARO TANAKA NOW DATING J-POP IDOL AYAME MATSUMOTO, [NAME]’S FELLOW GIRL GROUP MEMBER!Posted on November 1, 2018

AFTER RECEIVING BACKLASH FROM ANNOUNCEMENT OF HER RELATIONSHIP, [NAME] [SURNAME] ISSUES AN APOLOGY ON ALL SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNTS Posted on September 3, 2018

NEW COUPLE ALERT! IDOL [NAME] AND HER RECORD LABEL’S EXECUTIVE, KENTARO TANAKA, SPARK DATING RUMORS Posted on August 16, 2018

When you spend most of your adolescent and young adult years standing in front of a camera, constantly served on a platter for the masses to scrutinize during your most formative years, you get used to being seen. People’s eyes locked in on you isn’t a comfortable feeling, but it’s one you’re very well acquainted with. Watchful, judging gazes cling to you like a second skin. 

It comes with the job is what your personal manager, Fumiko Gima, tells you, right before she tells you to toughen up. You had been fifteen at the time and saw a blogger discussing how you were the least attractive cast member on the children’s ensemble show you starred in. 

All eyes are on you from this point forward. You really going to let them see you cry? Fumiko is not a nice person, but she is incredibly kind, in her own way. She’s the type of person who believes in tough love, all while claiming that she doesn’t even think love exists. 

You think about the disapproving frown on her face when you revealed your relationship with Kentaro Tanaka. 

“You think you’re in love with him?” Sometimes it’s hard to believe that Fumiko is barely seven years older than you. Her youth is evident in her flawless skin and shiny hair (both of which are maintained by very meticulous routines), but the flat expression she wears on her face makes her seem like a woman who found out the hard way that her thirties are not going the way she planned. You’re eighteen when she asks you this question, and you don’t know how a twenty-five year old woman can have such an intimidating aura, but you think that only adds to her beauty. 

“He told me he loves me.” 

“People like him and I don’t believe in love.” Fumiko makes a face; sometimes, she lets her poker face drop in favor of making a face of disgust, annoyance, irritation, or extreme smugness. Right now, she looks disgusted. “Well, I wouldn’t normally place myself in the same group as him, but our industries are pretty much the same. You don’t get to where we’re at because of love, that’s for damn certain.” 

At this point in time, you’re adamant that it’s love because that’s what he says it is, and you’ve never been in love before, but you know that it’s something great. You’re eighteen, and insecure, and he’s in such a powerful position — he could have anyone he wants, and he loves you, so he picks you. Maybe Fumiko is just bitter because no one’s ever chosen her. 

— angel of the morning, atsumu miya elevator pitch: historical, ambiguous war au ft. soldier!atsumu x the civilian sweetheart reader who nurses him back to health

It’s the thunder that wakes you first. 

Lately, you’ve been a light sleeper. Paranoia is a good companion whenever you’re a young, pitifully unmarried lady who lives alone. You keep a chair propped under the knob of the front door, and you no longer open any windows, scared that you’ll forget to lock them at night. 

Normally, it’s the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer, or the creaks that come and interrupt the silence of the night (your parents used to swear that old houses just make those noises) that keeps you up. Sometimes it’s the neighbors next door; they like to get into screaming matches that seem to be so loud, they shake the walls of your home. 

It’s not your neighbors’ arguing that rattles the walls tonight. It’s the thunderstorm that the sweet old man at the farmer’s market warned you about. You be safe out, miss. Take some extra apples. It might be too flooded for you to go out like you normally do. 

You pull your blanket over your head, enveloping yourself in darkness but doing very little to block out the noise outside. The thunder seems to only grow louder, each boom punctuating the lightning that you’re certain is striking through the sky. It’s too loud. 

And rhythmic. 

You listen closer… Three booms in succession. A pause. Three more booms. After a minute of this pattern, the sound only comes more rapidly — louder than before, too. 

The loud booms — it’s not from the storm, then. 

There’s someone knocking at your door. 

You debate hiding under the blanket forever. Maybe this stranger will go away and leave once they realize that no one is going to answer the door. Besides, no one trustworthy is roaming the area at this time of night, right? What possible explanation could there be for someone to be stranded outside at midnight during a major thunderstorm? 

But the knocking persists. Whoever this stranger is, they don’t know when to quit. You’d be annoyed if you weren’t so paralyzed with fear. 

“Open up!” A muffled voice still manages to cut through the front door, traveling all the way to your bedroom. It only serves to make you more afraid; what sort of monster is waiting for you outside? The storm rages on, and the knocking won’t stop. 

What happens if this person is in genuine trouble? Would a murderer truly be going through such lengths to kill someone? A thief? 

Well, you rationalize, it’s not as if you have many items worth stealing. Besides, you have no family, no marriage prospects, and a dwindling stash of money with no means to make more. You’re just existing at this point, and you’re surviving on limited time.

So you make your way to the front door, cringing as one section of the floor creaks as you tiptoe through the darkness of your home. You highly doubt the stranger outside can hear you, but you still hold your breath as you peek through the curtains. It’s too dark inside and out for anyone to notice the movement, and all you can make out is a large figure. There’s a knapsack by their feet and hanging off their shoulder is a gun. 

The knocks shouldn’t catch you off guard by now, but one particular hard bang against the door has you jumping in surprise, away from the window. 

This stranger must be a soldier. 

There’s not a lot of fighting to be done down here. The southern towns have mostly been unaffected. Most of the war is being fought up north. All the southern soldiers write back home, telling stories about the cities they visited, careful not to mention the red that runs through the streets and the way the citizens will have to update the population count on the sign outside their City Hall. 

But still, you know what everyone knows — when a soldier, especially one from your side, shows up on your front step, you better let him know that this home is now his. 

You slide the deadbolt with shaky hands, turn the lock on the doorknob, and only hesitate for a few seconds before removing the chair that serves as your last barrier. He’s a soldier, you remind yourself, hoping that you’re not wrong. The least you can do for him is offer him a hot bath for leaving him outside for so long. 

You open the door, revealing a blond-haired soldier weighed down from the weight of his sopping wet uniform, his hair sticking to his forehead because his face is also covered in rainwater, and it’s now that you notice that he’s got one arm wrapped around his abdomen. His hand is pressing down on his side, and you don’t think the dark liquid coating his fingers is water. 

“Finally.” He says. “I’m First Lieutenant Miya, and I fight for the south. I am seeking temporary refuge in your home, and I require only what you can afford to give me. I–“ Before he can finish rattling off what he’s been forced to memorize for times like these, First Lieutenant Miya falls forward, his body crashing into yours. 

It’s been a rough day. 

A rough week. 

A rough month.

A rough life, really, but Atsumu Miya’s long past the days of whining and complaining about things he can’t control. For example, he no longer dwells on his father abandoning his mother right before she gave birth to him and Osamu. There’s still a bitter taste that gets left on his tongue when he mentions dear old pa, which is why, for the most part, he chooses not to discuss him at all. He can’t control the way the north and the south view each other; sure, the mandatory draft isn’t his definition of a fun time, but he honestly didn’t have many plans after school, anyway. He probably would’ve joined the cause, regardless of the law or not. It’s just… A choice is nice to have, y’know? 

Like, if he had it his way, he wouldn’t have gotten caught up in some ambush tonight. If only he weren’t just a lieutenant. If only his captain weren’t such a dumbass.

If he had a group to command, Atsumu’s certain that he wouldn’t lead his men into obvious traps, unlike some captains. But newly promoted Brigadier General Kita isn’t here to force people to listen to what Atsumu has to say. Kita has bigger problems to worry about, bigger troops to organize. 

Atsumu’s morning starts off bright and early with a five mile trek in the woods. The sky is overcast, and anyone with eyes is capable of predicting the storm that’s coming. Atsumu suggests building temporary shelter before the rain makes it too hard to walk; it’s already hard enough to navigate now, but Atsumu’s visited this town before, when he was a little boy. It floods easily, too easily. 

His captain doesn’t listen. Typical.

Around noon, they take a short break to eat. Rations are getting lower. Atsumu suggests that two or three soldiers turn around and head towards town to get supplies. His captain argues that their group is already small enough and sneers that Atsumu must be a northie lover since he’s trying so hard to sabotage this plan. 

The plan is shit, by the way. The captain swears his intel is good, that he’s just oh so certain that a troop of northern soldiers are planning to invade a series of small southern towns. They’re supposedly cutting through the woods to be discreet, and they plan on striking at night.

Atsumu thinks that the captain is just falling into their trap (spoiler: he’s right). There’s no way anyone would bother capturing small towns, just like there’s no way people ever want to listen to someone who’s just a lieutenant. Nobody thinks they have anything to offer, so it’s not worth the time to even pretend to care. These towns aren’t loaded with resources. They aren’t located in any coveted areas. There are only a couple of farms, but even then, they’re not big enough to justify wasting troops to terrorize the townspeople. 

But First Lieutenant Miya follows his orders anyway because what else is he supposed to do? Unfortunately, talking back comes to bite him in the ass because as nighttime starts to settle and the first drops of rain start to fall, his captain gives him a slimy smile before telling him, “Since you have such great ideas, Lieutenant, why don’t you go ahead and turn back into town to get us some of those supplies we needed?”

Well, Atsumu has a few choice words in reply, none of which will get him back into his captain’s good graces (not like he cares to be anyway). Atsumu can argue that it’s dark out, and no one in their right mind is going to be up at night. Atsumu can throw back his captain’s words and remind him that their measly team is already lacking in numbers. He can make the captain look dumb and ask him where the supposed enemy troops are at, since apparently they’re supposed to be capturing the town right about now. He can abandon the men, go back home, and enjoy a homecooked meal from ma. She wouldn’t care enough to scold him for being a dirty deserter; the lecture will come, surely, but she wouldn’t be too harsh with him. Atsumu misses home. He misses his brother, who belongs to a different troop. He misses Shinsuke, his former captain. He misses his mom. 

What he does end up doing, though, is biting back his tongue. He barely nods, clenches his teeth as he reluctantly says yes, sir, and treks off on his own. 

He’s about three miles in when the bullets start flying. 

Isn’t this just a lovely way to finish off the night, he thinks, before sprinting through the trees, weaving between them, trying to ignore how loud and how close the shots sound. He thinks he’ll probably go deaf by the time this damn war is over. A bullet narrowly misses his face, and then he starts to think he’ll probably be dead before then.

He can’t see. If he can’t see, he doubts the enemies can, either. That’s when he gets an idea. His legs are sore, he’s thirsty, and every step he takes is punctuated by a sloshing sound because the area is flooding, just like he predicted it would.

(Sometimes it’s a pain being right all the time.)

The shots are still coming at him in rapid succession, and he believes maybe it’s because they still think they have to shoot at him. If they think they got him, maybe they’ll leave him alone. It didn’t sound like anyone was bothering to chase after him, meaning they’re all probably perched in trees or hiding in bushes, shooting blindly into the night, hoping to land a lucky shot on a target. 

Before he can pretend to be hit, though, some bastard does get a lucky shot on him.

“Fuck!” He can’t help but yell out, the bullet piercing the side of his abdomen. A burning sensation begins to form on the spot where the bullet decided to make its happy home, and Atsumu can’t help but fall to the ground, clutching at the bottom half of his body. 

A minute goes by with no more shooting, and he’s glad he’s in enough pain not to realize that had he thought of his little plan of pretending to be shot sooner, he probably wouldn’t be in this predicament right now. 

It’d be so easy just to lie down and die. It’d be a slow death, sure. Painful, very much so. But no more fighting. No more captains belittling him. 

But if you die, a tiny voice in his head reminds him, it wouldn’t just be you that dies. It’d kill ma. It would ruin Osamu. Don’t be a selfish bastard. 

He allows himself only one more minute to stay absolutely still. He thinks the adrenaline pumping in his system helps to numb the pain, which is saying a lot, considering the fact that death would be preferable over this excruciating sensation. When he’s certain the coast is clear, he struggles to stand and keep himself steady.

He cannot die like this. 

Atsumu Miya knows better than to get upset at things he can’t control. He can’t control flying bullets aimed at him. He can’t control enemy soldiers; hell, he doesn’t even have soldiers he can control, enemy or ally. He can’t control a lot of shitty things that seem to happen to him, but as long as his heart is still beating, Atsumu Miya controls his own fate. He decides what happens next. 

It’s only a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, he rationalizes. He walks all the time. It’s not such a hard task. The storm continues to rage on, and Atsumu pretends he doesn’t even mind the water. He pretends that he’s not freezing. He pretends that he doesn’t care that his uniform is sticking to his body, making the dirty fabric cling onto him as if to act as a second skin. 

There’s a white flag in his knapsack. During training, they said to use it as a last resort. Die before you wave it, or something like that. 

He knows the intended use for it, but right now, he needs it as a tourniquet. He tightens the flag around his waist, using all his diminishing strength to get it as tight as possible. He can trick himself into thinking it’ll stop the flow of blood leaving his body, but at least it’ll slow it down. It’ll grant him enough time to make it into town and get help. 

He doesn’t choose the first house he sees; he chooses the one he likes the best. It’s nothing all too impressive — certainly not the biggest, but from what he can make out in the dark, it looks quaint. It reminds him of home, almost. There’s a porch with a bench outside and flowers on a window sill. It seems to glow in the darkness of the town, its paint a much brighter shade than the surrounding houses. A nice family must live here then. 

He knocks on the door, and there is no answer. Atsumu Miya did not walk this far with his life literally draining out of him to only make it this far. He knocks and knocks, and because he is too stubborn, even to the very end, he doesn’t quit. Someone must answer the door. It doesn’t cross his mind that perhaps this lovely family he’s envisioning might not even be home. It feels like ages since he first started banging on this door, and he thinks this might be it.

And then the door swings open, revealing a young lady with a certain glow about her. Maybe it’s the blood loss talking, but right now, you look like an absolute angel. His bright beacon of hope. 

“Finally.” He swallows hard, trying to remember what he’s supposed to tell you. The proper words are evading him right now. Honestly, even standing is a struggle now. He thinks he does a good enough job, but then he blinks, and his eyes don’t open back up after that.

— to the victor belong the spoils, naoya zenin elevator pitch: the dark longfic i mentioned abt borderline yandere naoya + how he basically slaughtered your whole entire clan and is going to force you to marry him because you have a cursed technique that will basically grant him invincibility

“Who did this?” You’ve seen Naoya so angry that his words seemed to shake the very interior of the room he was shouting in. You’ve seen Naoya so furious that he had everyone in his vicinity cowering in fear, scared to face his merciless wrath. Never have you seen him so enraged that he can hardly speak, the sentence coming out from between bared teeth; they’re discernible growls more than they are words, but his message doesn’t need to be understood in order to know his intent. 

Naoya Zenin is out for blood. 

“Tell me who did this.” He demands, hand gripping your chin, forcing you to tilt your head up and stare him directly in the eyes. You know why he does this; he can read you like a fucking book. He’ll know if you’re lying before you can even finish whatever fabricated story you’ve spent forever formulating. There’s no point in trying to trick him because it’ll cause him to get angrier, and then what? Then, you’ll have the whole entire room’s blood on your hands. A massacre dedicated just for you. 

You hadn’t cried when he had taken you from your home. You hadn’t cried when you were about to be killed by that curse. You hadn’t shed a single tear despite the unfamiliarity of the Zenin Estate, despite the fact that you were forced into a marriage with a man you did not know, despite the fact that you’ve never been this far from home, suffering silently in feelings of isolation and despair. You hadn’t cried after all of that, yet now you’re sobbing? Now you’re here, struggling to stand on your own, clutching onto the material of his shirt as if he’s your only lifeline, dangerously close to burying your face in his chest and crying your little eyes out. He’s been angry more times than he’s ever felt any other emotion. He’s numb to the feeling of his blood rising, of his vision being tainted with red, of having nothing but sick thoughts and vivid memories of torn flesh and severed limbs surrounding him. This emotion isn’t foreign to him; it’s a part ofhim. And he’s angry, yes, but there’s something else that he feels when he looks down and sees you making yourself smaller, as if trying to use him as your own personal shield.

— balancing act [chapter one], satoru gojo elevator pitch: the first month of your bet will you and gojo inevitably get together <3 the start of this series.

You have what you order down to a T. You first started your tried and true method of restaurant ordering when you were but a wee little intern, too shy to go to town on a rack of ribs in front of your peers and bosses. Once you entered the city’s dating scene (which is actually Dante’s tenth circle of hell — it’s just never discussed because that’s truly how vile trying to find a good man in a big city is), you realized that there’s not much difference between lunch dates and client lunches. 

You have the obligatory greeting exchanges (“hi,” “hello,” “how are you,” etc.), the awkward smiles, the mental countdown going off in your head as you wait for the perfect moment to get right into business (“what do you expect to gain from this partnership?” — a line surprisingly used more often in your meetings with potential investors and clients). There’s the pained professionalism, the tight-lipped smiles, the napkin resting in your lap, the battle to maintain constant eye-contact. When you sit across from someone at a table, date or client, you don’t see the person; you see a goal. 

And you’re good at working towards a goal. It’s why you’ve always been the analyst your managers rely on, why you’ve morphed into the senior associate that all your juniors look up to at G&G Capital, and why you automatically figure that if you set your sights on a man only to have him end things, it’s not you who was at fault. It has to be him. You’ve charmed the toughest clients and built fantastic working relationships with the most well-connected M&A lawyers; if you’re this good at professional relationships, why wouldn’t you also be fan-fucking-tastic at a romantic one? 

All the men who have taken you out on dates before wanted to sweep you off your feet. An ex-boyfriend once admitted to you that you appeared so unimpressed at everything, it had become this fun, twisted competition with himself to see what he had to do to get a look of amazement on your face. 

“I can tell by the look on your face that you’re impressed.” Gojo says gleefully, holding open the dirty glass door so you and Utahime can walk in. 

Utahime looks like Gojo just slid open the backdoor to a white van and told her to get in. There’s shock with a hint of disgust evident on her pretty, doll-like features, and you know you’ve got a similar expression, too. 

The floors inside this restaurant — if the dingy, dimly lit shack crammed with small tables and rickety chairs can even be considered a restaurant — are sticky with decades’ worth of mystery liquids that have congealed into the half-inch thick residue that coats the floorboards. You have to purposely think about moving one foot in front of the other in order to walk because actual pressure needs to be applied if you don’t want your heels to become glued to the floor. You’re walking in front of Utahime and Gojo, and you end up choosing a table in the far back; it looks the cleanest. Briefly, you wonder if you’re allowed to be here, then think better of it as Utahime takes the seat next to you, and Gojo takes the one across. You highly doubt there’s a hostess here that’s dictating where the customers sit.

Especially since, upon one glance of the whole place, you realize that it’s empty save for you three. 

“Gojo, if we get killed, I hope they murder you in front of us first,” Utahime hisses. Her family’s so rich (and traditional), she’s never willingly been to a restaurant that doesn’t have a Michelin star. Before college, she’s never even eaten out at a chain restaurant. Being caught in a place like this has Utahime mentally spiraling towards rock bottom. 

“I hope they would, too. I don’t think I have the stomach to watch you meet your grisly end.” Gojo says serenely. Usually, he says things loudly, teasingly, gets all up in your face. When it comes to Utahime, he likes to play at being nonchalant. He’s been doing this to her for over a decade now, and it still grates her. 

Before Utahime can reply, the shaky voice of an older woman is exclaiming, “Oh! Welcome in! Have you gotten a chance to look over the menu?” The voice belongs to a short, plump woman with gray hair, a wrinkly face, but a kind smile that reveals yellowing teeth. She’s got a slight hunch to her back and nails with overgrown cuticles. You try to do a mental calculation of what you could buy this building for, to ensure that this sweet old lady never has to work a day in her life ever again. 

“You know what I want, Mrs. Kimura.” Gojo is giving her one of his signature dazzling smiles. “You can just double the portions today since my friend Utahime here eats enough for a family of five.” 

Mrs. Kimura lets out a throaty laugh. Utahime kicks Gojo in the shin from underneath the table. You’re wondering what Gojo orders from this place, and why does he order here so often to the point of them memorizing his meals? 

“I’m glad you brought friends with you today, Satoru. Meals always taste better when shared with loved ones!” She directs a warm smile in your direction, and you feel bad for returning it with your normal polite one. Tiny and brief. It’s more muscle memory than born from any real emotion. She’s shuffling away to the kitchen before you can try to summon a genuine smile for her, and Utahime’s phone is ringing, filling this near empty space with the tinny, anxiety-inducing sound of an iPhone ringer. 

She doesn’t excuse herself; just looks down at the glowing screen, grabs her phone, and heads outside to take the call.

Which leaves you sitting across from Gojo. Just the two of you. Just the two of you in a dingy restaurant seemingly run by only one old woman. The table looks older than you. The chair you’re sitting on makes a weird squeaky noise with any slight movement of your body. There’s no decor on the walls, no windows either. Nothing to distract you, nothing for you to feign interest in as you wait for Utahime to come back. 

You straighten your posture, try to discreetly look out the front door to gauge how close Utahime is to wrapping up her conversation, and find yourself with no choice but to look in front of you. All you see is Gojo.

He’s tall, you know that. Broad shoulders. Definitely not hideous, you can give him that much. You just feel shocked at how much space he takes up, how it feels like your eyes have to stretch to try to accommodate all of him. 

You don’t know why you feel so awkward, almost like a teenager going on her very first date with a boy she barely knows but still, for some inexplicable reason, wants so badly to impress. You can’t remember the last time you’ve ever felt this way, and you definitely don’t like this feeling at all. 

“How’d you find this place?” You ask him.

“I like to support small businesses.” He’s not teasing you, but Gojo has this bad habit of always adding a playful inflection to his words. 

“I hope you tip well. You look like their only supporter.” It’s not meant to be an insult to the painfully empty restaurant. You know how much Gojo is worth; when Itadori Googled “Satoru Gojo net worth” and showed the results to everyone, Gojo caught him in the act, looked at the top result, and threw his head back in laughter as he told Itadori to “add an extra zero and triple the number.” You think back to your calculation and assessment of the place. “Might as well buy the business.” 

“You make capitalism so cute.” He has to be teasing you now. You scowl. 

(He means it.)

— i wish to know the fatal flaw that makes you long to be magnificently cursed, satoru gojo elevator pitch: yandere gojo, royal au, nanny!reader... yeah idk what happened to this fic either, just that it was depraved and i wish i wrote more to share LOL

You’re acutely aware of the noise you’re making, every huff and small, desperate gasp for breath only further betraying your location, but you can’t find it in you to care.

You know, deep inside your pounding, frightened heart, that it doesn’t really matter how fast or how far you run. 

I will always find you.

Just the mere thought of him is enough for you to ignore the ache in your legs and push forward. If you can find the exit, if you can just see the daylight, surely you’d be able to—

You stop in your tracks.

There are two paths: one right, one wrong. Left or right? Freedom or imprisonment? 

There’s no time to waste, but you can’t make a choice. Which decision would be the right one? Surely either route would still be able to lead you to the exit, right? The sharp snap! of a branch being trampled on leaves you even more frightened. Without thinking, you take a left.

— i think you're too divine for my human mind, undecided elevator pitch: rough around the edges but w a heart of gold underground fighter!character x ring girl!reader. i think this was gonna be for bakugo LMAO but i do not have bnha brain rot so maybe a bllk or jjk or hq boy... NO ONE SAY ATSUMU I DON'T WANNA GIVE IT TO ATSUMU

The couch seems to shift with his weight, and you swallow hard, staring straight ahead at the same cement wall you’ve been staring at for the last ten minutes because you’re still too much of a fucking wimp to navigate this area by yourself. 

Despite the two of you sitting at opposite ends of the couch, there’s only about one foot of space separating his knee from yours. You suppose that he gets away with the manspreading since he probably has no qualms with punching anyone who voices their offense. After witnessing just how brutal the infamous [ring name nickname] can get, you know that you’re definitely not going to be the one to say shit to him. You can’t even look at him.

Where the fuck is your sister? You have your arms crossed, covering your torso, and you think you must have subconsciously pressed yourself as far back into the couch as you possibly could. Everything about you must scream out “she wants to disappear!!!”, and the worst part of it all would be the fact that it’s the truth. You knew coming down here would be a bad idea, and the sinking feeling of regret is practically solidifying itself into your stomach. You think you could throw up. 

“Hey,” a voice — a deep voice, scratchy and low and so scarily close to you — breaks the silence. “You must be…”

Of course, you’re used to it by now. Always being referred to as “Akemi’s little sister” no matter the situation, the person, the setting. It makes sense, you rationalize. Everyone knows Akemi. And so, by extension, they must know you — her shadow, her little sister. 

“...helped out Sakura.” 

“What?” You don’t know anyone named Sakura, but you finally turn your head to properly look at him as you answer. He’s got on a white shirt now, incredibly form-fitting, and he’s staring right back at you. You're quick to meet his eyes before getting too nervous and focusing on the space just below his eyes. Then, that becomes too close to eye contact for comfort, so you settle for staring at his jaw. It’s a nice jaw. Sharp. He could probably cut you with it if you contradict any of his statements, so maybe you should pretend to know this Sakura girl. 

“You must be the girl that helped out Sakura.” He repeats. He says it slow and almost carefully, like he thinks you must be some sort of idiot who can’t comprehend the most basic of statements. “Gave her your jacket.” He clarifies, and it makes sense. The girl with the hot pink colored hair must have been Sakura. 

“Yeah.” You nod. 

“So why are you here?” 

“Huh?”

“Y’know… Pretty girls like you don’t normally end up here without a reason. So what’s your reason?”

He says it so casually, throwing it out there as easily as a punch. He probably means nothing deep by it, probably doesn’t even realize the fact that it is a compliment. 

He called you pretty.

“My sister.” You answer, finally looking away at him to look down at your hands that have settled nicely into your lap. Your cheeks feel a lot warmer than they did a second ago. You decide to blame this as a result of too many sweaty people in one basement. 

“She a ring girl?” 

“She’s dating a fighter here.”

“And you?”

“What about me?” 

“Are you dating a fighter here, too?” 

You look him properly in his face after that comment, almost resisting the urge to laugh. Fear that he’ll get offended and smack you into the floor stops that reaction. Instead, you stare at him, slightly surprised, lips almost curled up into an amused smile at just how unbelievable it would be for you to date anyone like him. 

“You finally did it.” 

“Did what?” 

“Look at me.” He holds eye contact, almost as if he’s trying to challenge you into looking away. “I don’t bite, y’know.” He smiles, showing off a surprisingly straight row of white teeth, not a single tooth missing despite the nature of his… job. “It’s against the rules.”

Yeah. Because [character], the fucking [ring name nickname], looks like the type of man who follows the rules.

[sorryitisandy]

Teddie might unironically be the P4 character that develops the most like a P3 character. His SL being automatic lets him react to the main plot and let’s his arc move alongside it. He also takes steps towards regaining his lost memories without the suggestion or help from the protagonist. Only IT member that evolves his Persona without the protagonist, too.

Morgana does this too somewhat but his link being almost always at night with Joker makes them feel more secluded from the plot imo

Yeah. I think the fundamental lesson that Persona 3 leaves us with, in terms of narrative structure is the following points:

1) Things need to happen with these characters outside of their designated block in the main story. In P4 and P5, Every character in the game continues to contribute to the party dynamic, but the main story is USUALLY done with them outside of their social link in terms of development. I.e: Ryuji and Ann with regards to Kamoshida

2) Things need to happen with these characters that the main character is not privy too sometimes. My best example is Akihiko reconciling Shinji's death on his own terms. This gives the sense that these characters have some existence outside of their group dynamic.

3) The persona evolution, at least the FIRST one should happen in terms of the main story. For example, in Persona 5, I would likely have changed Makoto's storyline that she evolves her Persona sometime during the Sae's palace arc as she reconciled with who her sister had become. Actually Makoto is one of the only characters we often see operating in any capacity away from the group, particularly with regards to her home life.

Those are really the three points I think Persona 3 leaves us with in terms of narrative structure. I fundamentally understand how we got here, because the events of Persona 4 and 5 involve some specific enemy related to the real world. Like in Persona 3, the threat as you understand it is just vaguely "Tartarus and Shadows". Persona 4 and Persona 5 involve characters who are victims of crimes, so they get a specific block of the plot of that is hyperfocused on them. Which isn't inherently a problem so long as the plot remembers they exist after the fact (though I do think they erred in having the Morgana/Ryuji conflict intrude on Haru's entry into the game).

I do want to clarify I prefer the overall narrative concepts in Persona 4 and Persona 5. I am in love with the world building that revolves around the TV world and Mateverse. Shadows born from fucked up desires and or the repressed selves of others. I generally prefer that to the more esoteric ideas represented by tartarus, nyx, etc about death and the value of life. As a result of this I actually like 4's overall narrative the most. But I think 3 leaves us with a lot of lessons in structure and narrative design that 4 and 5 could have benefitted from.

Burning question: What about social links? Don't they need to reward the player for their choices?

This is a fair question. I think the answer to this is that in terms of GAMEPLAY, Persona 5 did a really good job in making sure the player was rewarded for their decisions. They ensured that every social link was rewarded with something tangibly useful beyond extra fusion exp, even when they weren't party members.

As for narrative satisfaction? I don't have a great answer for this one but I recall the ladies having their persona evolutions seperate from their social links in Persona 3 and that worked out fine. So I have faith!

[astrxlfinale]

Jace, can I just say that the very first post that you make every day always lifts my mood and puts a smile on my face? It's so evident that you have so much fun on that dear boy, and it's so very contagious. I end up reading almost everything you write, no matter if it's ooc posts, gameplay things, threads, meta, the whole shebang. I just had to leave this here as a little note, in hope it also brightens your day. But thank you. You remain an absolute delight!

The way I frickin screamed due to your ask timing. Considering how much you've made this heartfelt post.

And the peach agenda just happened to be what I posted just mere moments before. FSDAFNDUSINGFs

But okay! Lemme go and get form fitting and appreciative boots on!

Let ME be the one to give some good honest thanks in kind for your loving words here Sae. I'm glad that acclimating into the Star Rail side of things have been more solid than I first imagined. It's not too often I join fandoms at the 'starting' mark so to speak, so I expected it to be an uphill battle!

Yet here Caelus was hitting my personal favorite character archetype of golden hearted (and passion strong) delinquents. It was just a framework I personally felt very excited to get into again. As much as I've experimented with characters, character types and giving a wide branch a genuine shot, in many ways it feels like leaning into this vein of character just feels like home irregardless of the RPC I'm in.

Often times whenever you see me hop around here, the first thing I prioritize is having some good fun, in expected or outright unexpected ways. It makes me pretty excited to just interact in general, to make personal character stories through my shared threads alongside of the game's content itself. Being one of the personifications of the Trailblaze, which often means being a guiding force for adventure just-- it hits so many things for me too? I love the as a general premise for rps.

Much as I love my character connections and depths, a world and it's lore, how it mirrors and bounces off the core concept and characters is just part of the formula for me. As it stands, the varied range that Star Rail introduces to me has gradually reignited my vigor to just go and mold some of my own works out here, and hope everyone who come and chills wit hem can have a genuinely good time themselves.

I'm also glad that at some point of the day, it just gives you a fun read. Whether for a laugh or just to ponder something about the series in question, and urge you to also maneuver you own craft of character study into the mix as well!

Genuinely? That's what the hobby is all about for me at the end of the day. I just want to come on and goof off with people, and to curate this particular space so people get the idea they're just hanging out at a table where they can screw around in kind.

Fite me for putting a smile on my face.

@orchideae out here getting a guy in the feels!

[imraespace]

GANG IM BACK AFTER GRIEVING OVER MY GRADES AND I HAVE DECIDED TO LOCK TF IN THIS TIME (.. hopefulyl.)

A CPT IS LIKE A FINAL PROJECT OF LIKE EVERYTHING YOU LEARNED BASICALLY AND ITS USUALLT WORTH 15% OF UR GRADE BUT DEPENDS ON THE COURSE AND USUALLT EXAM IS ALSO 15% its displayed on like the course syllabus but for some reason our science cpt is only worth 10%??? so idk how that chem cpt is worth 5% like if it was 5% per unit cuz theres chem bio physics for our science course then 5 x 3 is 15 but the math isnt mathing if the cpt is only worth 10% on the syllabus???????? SO THATS WHY IM CONFUSED AND ALSO WHY TF IS THERE A CHEM CPT AND IT TEACHES US A WHOLE NEW CONCEPT?? LIKE HUH WHAT

i also have a history cpt due on monday and another cpt due wednesday so that is fun AND I HAVENT STARTED BOTH HELPME I NEED TO ACC GET ONTO THAT ILL JUST WAKE UP EALRY TOMORROW….. 6 am grind trust…..

i just memorized the map for europe 1914 but i keep confusing denmark and sweden but its ok bc my test is monday …. i will be tweaking out bc apparently he makes the alternative test version harder and im taking that cuz my kidney appointment was on friday and the original test date was kn friday so im like lowk scared … STOP THIS. 💔

OH AND MY SAE PLSUH CAME IN TODAYYAYAYA i got a free clip and bracelet so now im gonna amke my rin and sae plushies recreate that one scene muehhehehe im #Evil rn STOP or ill make them hug depending. MY MOM APPARENTLY LOVES SAE BTw??? LIKE SHE SAW HIM AS A PLUSH AND SHE WAS LIKE i want that get me my card and paid 85 dollars for it HELPME STOP im also waiting on the yukimiya volume………. and im thinking like oh maybe i shouldve just waited to buy all the bllk manga cuz theres yk these bundles of like mangas 1-6!! and i save like 10 dollars or so from it bc of tax and im like Ugh i couldve saved money but in reality that 10 dollars saved wouldve webt jnto buying tiny bllk figures and it makes like no difference HELp SO IT DOESNT REALLT MATTER I GUESS ……. 💔💔

umumum nothing has happened other than OH WAIT I BOUGHT TWO ONESIES HELPME ONE ISNA FOX AND ANOTHER IS A DOG AND I WANNA WEAR IT FOR HALLOWEEN LIKE FOR SCHOOL AND IM THINKING LIKE OH DO I REALLY WANT TO BC WHAT IF PPL CALL ME A FURRY BUT ITS LITERALLT SO COMFY STOP.. like…. let me live its so comfy…… and very warm so idk if i acc will wear it cuz sometimes my school blasts the heaters after 12 pm BUT I MIGHT 😈

umumum okaya thats actuallt all that hapepned HELPME

OKAY DAILY QUESTION IS UM who in bllk would be really good at eating salmon sashimi bc i want salmon sashimi rn.

- 🐙

HAIIII YOU WERE MISSED DEARLY by me

IM GLAD YOU LOCKED IN I gotta lock in soon exams are almost here..

OH THAT SOUNDS.. confusing🤨 I MEAN IT MAKES SENSE but also sounds confusing that kinda reminds me of SBAS here but instead you do an SBA when you reach senior level bc your SBA overall grade adds to your FINAL FINALL exam mark the one you do to leave the school ykyk

I WISH YOU LUCK DAMG I'll be procrastinating like crazy

WHAT IN THE FAC A WHOLE MAP?? I feel bad for yall geography and history students.. whatever you're doing idk ever since i started business my knowledge narrowed (im joking)

OMG SAE PLUSH MSHDJAJS

HELO.EE MAKE THEM HUG🤬🤬

AW THATS SI CUTE my momma saw chigiri and asked who's girlchild is that!!?😊😊

idk anything abt money there.. but ik it has more value than mine so I'll be mad SHOULDVE SSVED UP THAT 10 DOLLARS ANS BUY MORE FIGURINES🗣🗣🗣

I started sneezing after reading this I'm allergic to you....😕😕😕

AW THATS SI CUTE BUT HELP FURRY I WISH I COULD DRESS UP FOR HALLOWEEN BUT MY SCHOOL HAS A STUPID ASS UNIFORM AND WE CANT ENTER THE SCHOOL IF WE DONT HAVE THE ACHOOL LOGO ON😒😒😒😒

erm what has happened to me this week🤔🤔 um.. OH we don't laugh.. but long long ago!! I used to play league of legends BUT WITH MY BROTHERS AND MOMMA but I stopped bc someone on dc asked if i stink bc he saw it on my profile but whatever.. I kinda.. wanna play it again.. bc I saw character I like.. PLUS THE NETFLIX SERIES FOR THE GAME ARCANE which I love #VIFORLIFE LEMME AT HER is literally coming out in November ITS SO SOON anyways

ISNT HE LIKE HOT?? it's all the same person but different skins THERES MORE HOT PPL THERE IN HIDING BRO THE PLAYERS JJST SCARE YOU AWAY☹️☹️😕😕😕😞😞

not the heaters.. the heater in our school is the darn sun! only a certain group of students gets AC and only like the library.. my group has fans then classes battle for bc apparently THEYRE TOO BROKE RO BUY ONE😒😒

UMUM ILL SAY REO HELP

[leonawriter]

Important point: This isn't about whether Morgana is likeable or not. That's a different thing (even if I do like seeing people be nice to him).

The point I'd been trying to make is to look at him as a narrative device. As a metaphorical concept within the confines of P5R's story.

The fact that Morgana becomes Joker's beloved cat and best friend is part and parcel of Morgana also being the concept of Hope.

What I was trying to do was point out the ways in which Joker has his highs and lows throughout the game, and how they interact with whether Morgana is present or not, almost divorcing the analysis entirely from Morgana's own personality as he is written, because he could have been characterised differently (we saw slightly different beta designs, and I'm sure other things would have changed in the process) but the purpose of the character would have stayed the same.

There's also a reason I started writing the original post up there while working on a fic that focused on the idea of Joker embodying the concepts of "Change" and "Rebellion" within the game, to an extent. As I've said to a friend, Akira becomes attached to Morgana because you cannot have worthwhile change without hope for the future.

Actually, on that note - it's also worthwhile pointing out the obvious, which is that Akechi doesn't have a Morgana in his life, does not have any sort of "mascot companion," and the few times he interacts positively with Morgana on his own terms are during Sae's Palace, which is a time he enjoyed and made the most of, just after the interrogation room scene and telling Shido that Morgana "wasn't worth killing, [he's] just a cat" (which Akechi knew was a blatant lie), and for a moment during the engine room scene Morgana reached out to him.

Most of the rest of the time, he has no access to Morgana. Bearing in mind how I put it in the original post? He has no Hope. Except when he's allowing himself to become closer and let his guard down with the Thieves.

This also adds extra meaning to how Morgana can transform into a vehicle; both in Mementos and during the climax of the last boss, he manages to become something that encircles and protects the Phantom Thieves from the distortion of the masses, and a collapsing reality.

What else could do that but Hope? In metaphorical terms, they're keeping the hope that things will work out.

Thought came to me as I was writing fic:

Morgana is Hope, right? In a metaphorical and not-so-metaphorical way.

Morgana (Hope) is not there when Akira is just arriving in Tokyo. Akira sees nothing to look forward to about his probation.

When Akira first meets Morgana (Hope), it's very transactional. "You get me out, I'll help you." Akira can see something good, here - but it's all in the give and take. He doesn't dare put his trust in this small thing. Things have gone wrong before, so there have to be safety nets.

When Morgana (Hope) is gone during the early Okumura arc, Akira can't do anything he usually does. He gets depressed. Everything he looks at, he can only think of "when Morgana (Hope) was here."

When Akira is in the hands of the police after being ambushed in Sae's Palace, Morgana (Hope) is not with him. It is one of the few times they are separated, and no matter how he is portrayed either by himself or by others (as a cocky, self-assured rebel), it is one of the most traumatic moments of the entire game for him. Akira would have had moments when he feared (had no Hope) that their plan would not work.

When he defeats Yaldabaoth and Morgana (Hope) disappears, that is when Akira gets either rearrested, or he sees Akechi get arrested in his place. Either way, not a happy, fun time. Regardless of who he spends the rest of Christmas with, it's a period of uncertainty.

During the first week of January, Morgana (Hope) is not existing in his true form. Akira has Akechi, but is kept at a distance. He has to remind his friends about their pain. The only future he has to look forward to is one where they have pain and trauma again.

On February 2nd, when Maruki comes into Leblanc, Morgana (Hope) is there. But when Maruki brings Akechi into things? When Akira starts to realise that Akechi might not be alive? Morgana (Hope!!!) leaves the room. To give them some space. To deal with their emotions.

In the true reality, the remaining Phantom Thieves start to have Hope again once they have Morgana back.

And what does Akira never lose sight of? The Hope that Akechi might not be dead, and can still fulfil their promise.

The very first thing that made me think of Morgana as a literal metaphor throughout the game was 2/2. But yeah. You see my point.