#though the iron burnt out.

[the-interuniversal-geometer]

rotates snufkin in my head (and also on this mug). Btw they are going on an adventure

[muzzlemouths]

3 for the fic asks

3. Do you share your fic ideas, or do you keep them to yourself?

The sheer amount of fic ideas that never actually make it onto paper (or even just mentioned here) is staggering...and a little embarrassing, frankly. I think in the beginning I shared every idea that came to mind, but now I only share the concepts that I become obsessed with, because I already have enough fics to write and I hate the idea of disappointing anyone by jumping to a newer, fresher idea instead of updating my old ones, because I'm already a very slow writer as-is lmao

[lock-my-feelings-in-a-jar]

I must say it's weird not seeing Bruce every time I scroll through ur blog

omg yes i agree actually, sometimes i still feel weird moving on to other things just because it's different and it takes a while to get used to change, but i am having sooooo much fun now

[nereidprinc3ss]

relax

in which spencer helps university student reader de-stress after a particularly exhausting assignment

18+ (smut) warnings: fingering, overstimulation, happy crying, lowkey softdom spencer, slight d/s dynamics, reader is referred to as a girl, ????idk i've never had to tag for smut before lols wc: 2624 a/n: been doing some insane literary cooking. lots of smut AND more fluff in the works (all uni reader... lol... ). idk if i love this but again need to fucking get it out of my word doc so here u go, PLEASE lmk if you like it!!

You don’t even realize the room has gone completely dark until Spencer comes in the front door and flicks on the light. 

“Why did you do that?” you snap immediately, looking up from your laptop screen for the first time in potentially hours, blinking hard as your eyes painfully adjust. Your boyfriend gives you an odd look. 

“Hello to you too...” 

“I’m sorry. Hi. How was dinner?” 

“It was good,” he says, crossing the room to the couch that has been your entire world for the past five hours. You sigh, releasing some of the tension in your shoulders when he leans down to kiss your head and set down a to-go box on the coffee table. “Have you moved since I left?” 

“...no,” you admit, moving your eyes dejectedly to the keyboard.  

“You made progress,” he appeases, leaning over you to angle the laptop upward. Immediately you wrench it away, holding it protectively against your chest. 

“Stop! I don’t want you to read it yet!” 

“I could help you with it though,” he pleads, bracing a hand on the arm of the couch. You look up into his hazel eyes, where he’s definitely playing up the puppy dog factor. His tie brushes your stomach, and he smells like lavender and clove and-- 

“You need to go away,” you realize, snapping back to reality and shrinking into the couch, away from him—trying to escape his all-encompassing sensory presence.  

“Wh- I just got back!” he scoffs, straightening. 

“You’re distracting me,” you accuse, throwing him a baleful look. 

“I’m literally offering to help you.” 

“And I’m respectfully declining because I care too much about your opinion to show you this essay until it’s less terrible. I really just need a couple more hours to finish it, please?” 

Spencer sighs, regarding your pitiful state before moving to sit down next to you. Automatically you move your legs out of the way before settling them in his lap and damn it he’s supposed to be going away. Your iron grip on the laptop involuntarily loosens a little as his hands begin to run back and forth over your legs. No—you must stay focused.  

“Spencer,” you whine, flopping your head back. You let the implied complaint hang in the air. 

“You’ve been writing all day. Your brain is exhausted, and your synapses aren’t firing at a rate that is intellectually productive.” 

“What is the point of having a brain if I can’t even use it half the time!” you almost-shout, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes until you see fireworks.  

The couch shifts and you feel the warm, robotic weight of the laptop unpin you as Spencer lifts it from your lap. “Don’t read it,” you beg, watching through parted fingers as he sets it on the coffee table, and relaxing slightly when he settles back into the couch.  

“Come here,” he says, holding out an arm. Too mentally exhausted to do anything but comply, you pull yourself up just enough to fall into him. Immediately he wraps his arms around you, one hand slipping under your shirt to rub your back in hypnotizing passes. “I think you burnt yourself out,” he mutters. 

You nod into his shoulder, surrendering yourself to his warmth, letting yourself sink into a lavender-clove fog, wanting nothing more than to dissolve into it. The darkness behind your eyes glows an inviting amber, threatening to pull you under...  

But the essay... 

“Stop thinking about the essay,” he demands. 

“But I have so much to do,” you sigh against his jacket, the words coming out muffled. 

“The best thing you can do now is give your brain a rest. I promise you you’re not making that paper any better if you’re exhausted.” 

“I am not exhausted,” you insist, although your eyes are still closed, “I’m just really stressed.”  

Spencer hums, continuing to rub your back.  

“Do you need me to help you relax?” he says innocently. 

Oh? 

One of your eyes opens to peer up at him suspiciously. He sweeps some of your hair out of your face. 

“Because I would be happy to.” A moment passes—him looking down at you fondly; you wondering if you’re picking up what he’s putting down. 

“And how would you go about doing that?” you ask suspiciously. 

“Orgasms reduce tension and stress and improve brain function.” 

Damn. Why did the nerdiest, most un-sexy pickup line ever just turn you on?

You groan, burying your face further into his shirt—mostly to hide any trace of a blush. 

“You know what else would reduce stress and improve brain functioning? Taking an Adderall and finishing my fucking essay.”  

“Angel, you're such a smart girl, and you are fully capable of doing whatever you set your mind to—but I will lock your laptop in my gun safe before I let you look at that essay again tonight.” He speaks so softly, and his fingers are still gently combing through your messy hair... all in all, you put up a good fight, right? Maybe you should just listen to him...

“... fine.” you say eventually, reluctant to give in too quickly even though the idea quickly has filled your stomach with butterflies. 

“Fine?” he says, pausing his motions as you turn your head just enough to look up at him. “Sounds like you don’t really want it, baby. Maybe we should just go to sleep. Or I could take you back to your-” 

“Spence,” you whine, gently grabbing the front of his shirt. Now he’s going to make you beg? As if it wasn’t his idea? Those puppy dog eyes of his are deceiving. 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he sighs, hand moving from your hair to your outer thigh. 

“Please?” you whisper, dignity forgotten as you look up at him imploringly. 

“Lean back, sweet girl,” he says, helping you adjust your position til you’re lying against his chest, legs sprawled across the couch. Your head lolls on his shoulder, intoxicated by his close proximity. “Perfect. Such a good listener.” 

Normally, you’d be quick to make a defensive remark, but with the way he’s slowly hiking your shirt up, running his hands over your sides so lightly it gives you goosebumps—you're really in no position to argue. Your eyes flutter shut as his hands grow bolder in their explorations, crossing your stomach, fingers just slipping under the waistband of your shorts and skimming over your hipbones before coming back up. 

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs, and you nod lazily, apparently losing access to your language facilities after running them dry all day. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem good enough for your boyfriend. “Do you remember when the last time I touched you like this was?” 

Through the hazy blur of your exhaustion, you try to think back. Was it... two days ago? Three? More? 

“Almost a week ago,” he supplies the answer for you when you take too long. What? That can’t be right. 

But when you think about it harder... it is right. It was right before finals week started.  

An errant hand straying up your torso distracts you. “Do you remember what I did?” 

You flush. 

“You... yeah,” is the best you can offer, too flustered to say exactly what he did to your body. That stray hand moves over your breast. Your back arches just slightly at the stimulation through the thin fabric of your bra.  

Thankfully, he lets you off the hook.  

“I made you cum three times, right?” 

“Mhm,” you hum through closed lips, tense with anticipation as he finally slides both hands down to your shorts and wordlessly directs you to lift your hips so he can pull them all the way off along with your underwear. 

“You’ve been so busy lately, huh. Working so hard.” 

You unconsciously drop your bent legs open, brain too foggy to be insecure about how utterly bare you are—allowing him to slowly rub up and down your inner thigh. 

“I’m gonna make you feel good, honey. I don’t think three times was enough for such a stressful week.” 

You gasp when his fingers finally brush your clit, whimpering slightly when they just barely skim your entrance before tracing the wetness back up.  

“Give me your hand,” Spencer says, taking his own from between your legs and holding it up. You don’t even think about it, releasing your grip on the arm he now has wrapped around you and holding it out for him. At this point, you’d do anything he tells you to without hesitation.  

He takes the proffered hand, gently guiding it back between your legs. Your fingers meet slick, soft warmth. “Do you feel how wet you are?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, seeing how your fingers glisten when you pull them away. His remain, running slowly up and down your clit. Your brain seems to be vibrating in your skull as warmth spreads throughout your body. 

“Who’s that for?” 

“You, Spencer,” you whimper. He hums in approval before the room falls into silence as you both watch his teasing intently, your breath baited as you try to be patient. But your body isn’t with the program, you keep twisting slightly, your hips cant upward. “Please, please,” the words escape on a held exhalation as you finally break, arching your back against him as your search for more friction.  

Without warning, he sinks two fingers inside you. The slight stretch after not having taken anything in a week scratches an itch you didn’t even know you had, and you let out a broken moan. 

“I know, honey. You’re so good, I know.” Spencer kisses your head as he speaks over your cry, barely moving his fingers for a few moments while you get comfortable. 

Still you’re not ready for it when he withdraws and pushes back in. 

“Look at that,” he breathes. 

“Oh, fuck,” you choke, watching how your arousal completely coats his fingers as he slowly, slowly begins to fuck you with them. 

Again you feel the vibrations in his chest as he laughs slightly—probably at your earlier insistence that you didn’t desperately want this. The laughter fades as you both become entranced by the sight of his fingers disappearing into you, and your stomach twists with pleasure. His pace remains languid, and he seems to delight in the filthy, wet sounds his hand is producing between your legs.  

“You okay, baby?” he asks after a moment, seemingly snapping out of some trance. 

“Uh huh,” you whimper. One particular drag of his fingers at just the right angle has you dizzy, and then he’s speeding up. Your jaw drops at the change in pace and your hips chase his hand, wanting even more. 

“So pretty,” he mutters as his other hand moves to spread you open.  

You attempt to shut your legs around his wrist, but instead he just ruts his fingers deeper into you, palm pressed against your clit. You attempt to twist away from the extreme stimulation, but he doesn’t allow it. 

“Too much,” you squeak, bucking your hips inadvertently. 

“No it’s not,” he states, like you’re talking about the weather. 

“Spencer, I really c- ah- can't!” 

“It feels like a lot, huh?” he asks soothingly, not letting up one bit. 

“Yes!” you cry, eyes stinging as tears begin to well. 

“You’re okay, angel. It’s just been a while.” 

You are so completely fucked. Each stroke of his hand feels like an electric jolt through your whole body. It is too much, but at the same time, pleasure is pooling deep in your stomach and at the base of your spine and you never want him to stop. You throw your head back onto Spencer’s shoulder, eyes screwed shut.  

“Relax,” he mutters, carefully bearing down the pressure across your waist with his arm to try and keep you from squirming. 

A rhythmic whine breaks through the barrier of your sealed lips as you focus all your energy into taking it, when the all-consuming need to kiss him hits you. You twist your neck to look up at him, observing the furrow of his brow and the way he’s tucked his bottom lip into a bite. Thankfully he notices your movement—his eyes dart from your own half-lidded gaze to your lips and he understands what you want. 

The kiss is messy and the angle is awkward and you’re moaning into his mouth half the time anyway, but it feels so good to have his lips moving on yours that you don’t care about any of it.  

“I—ah,” you cry into him, unable to form a coherent thought as your stomach drops like you’re mounting the peak of a roller coaster. 

His fingers again change their angle and he finds the spot inside you that makes your legs spasm. Attempting to hold in whatever noises you were making is now futile—the whimpers and pants turn to full-fledged keening moans interspersed with taut silences as you fail to breathe properly.  

Your wrench your gaze and lips away from Spencer to watch through a blurry haze the rapid movement of his hand between your bare legs, the way your hips buck and twist and the way your leg bends as he hooks his free hand under your knee and hoists it toward your chest. 

“You’re doing so well, honey. Being so good for me.” 

Moisture spills over from your eyes, tracing down your cheeks and down your neck as you begin to come with no warning and a desperate, broken cry. 

A string of praise from Spencer underscores your pleading moans, but you can’t focus on anything other than the buzzing warmth emanating from your core, the bright, pulsing white that blinds you and the feeling of stardust flowing through your veins. 

Your boyfriend continues pumping his fingers slowly in and out of you for a blissful few moments, before sensing the tail-end of your orgasm and bringing his fingers up to rub lazy circles over your clit. Aftershocks resonate from the hypersensitive area and make you clamp your legs shut around his hand as your toes curl and you attempt to squirm out of his grip. 

“Done! I’m done,” you squeak, rocking your hips back and forth to try and escape his toying. 

“Okay, okay,” he soothes, relieving the pressure of his hand between your legs and moving it to run over your stomach as you come down. 

You lie in silence for a minute, enjoying the liquid sensation weighing down your muscles and basking in the warm afterglow of your orgasm.  

“Shit,” you breathe shakily after a moment. Spencer chuckles. You manage to turn yourself over, laying your cheek on his shoulder and slipping your arms under his waist. He looks down at you as he moves on to massaging your back and bare hips, eyes full of warm adoration.  

“Feel better?” 

You hum an affirmation, wiping your eyes on his shirt. 

“Oh, honey, did I make you cry?” 

You laugh into his chest and nod, a few stray tears leaking from your shut eyes. “It’s okay. Not sad tears.” 

“What kind of tears?” 

“Orgasm tears,” you mumble, a tidal wave of exhaustion you’d been fighting all day finally washing over you. 

“That makes sense. Orgasms can be cathartic or even therapeutic depending on your head space. Major losses and life changes are often associated with sexual dysfunction but the opposite is actually just as if not more common. A spike in libido can—” 

Spencer pauses, looking down to see that you’re either asleep or close to it, and smiles to himself. You’ll probably be mad about it when you wake up, but he had to get you to stop thinking about that paper somehow. 

[alymccart]

[Click image > right click > "open image in new tab" for higher res]

Alright, uh. Screw it. Let's dust off this account. I was embarrassed about even drawing this, and especially about sharing it publicly, but I'm slapping it up here. Why not. Been extremely burnt out lately, doing art professionally has pretty much killed my desire to do art for the sake of enjoying it (sorry, fans of my dead comic). Mental health has been shoddy. Actual health is eh, as well. I've been too busy to really think and have been so guilty about there being so much stuff to do in my life still that I haven't really afforded myself time to relax or unwind. My enthusiasm for anything has been in the dumps for years. I don't think I've drawn more than a handful of fanart pieces in over a decade (what you see on here is pretty much it), and I've certainly never drawn something like... this. Obviously, I watched Hazbin finally (didn't even realize the show was an actual thing now, though I did love the pilot eons ago; I don't tend to traverse into fandom discussion and discourse so I've been out of the loop). I'm actually nearing double-digit rewatches... and the OST has been on repeat for weeks. Well animated, beautifully written adult cartoons? I'm here for it. Musicals? Oh yeeahhhhh! A well animated, beautifully written adult cartoon that is also a musical??? *teakettle noises*

I'm ace as hell, but wholesome, loving, devoted relationships like this in fiction seem to hit me right at my core. I also cry at heartwarming videos and movies, but that's beside the point... I just... hrrrnnnnggg... Charlie and Vaggie's relationship has SENT ME. It has an iron grip on my soul and I cannot stop it. I feel like i'm 14 years old again. I want to write fanfiction. Is it 2004?? Where am I????? What the fffffasdfasfagghfgfjhdd????????!!!! Aannnyyyyywayyyy.... This art gave me stomach butterflies the entire time I worked on it, as well as an immense amount of joy, and I really hope this can maybe do that for others. And I still have... so many ideas........ so many....

[missmeinyourbones]

AURORA BOREALIS GREEN

cw: non sorcerer au, college au, enemies to lovers (?) neighbors to lovers, miscommunication trope if you squint (I AM SORRY), reader e to as she/her once, reader wears heels, some light sexual content (dry humping nation rise)

wc: 10k+

There's something wrong with your upstairs neighbors. 

You've never met them, not face to face at least, but between the times you've hit your ceiling with the end of your broom and the audacity they have to continue to be as rowdy as they are, something isn't right with them. You're sure of it. 

And you're not naive to the fact that your apartment building is filled with young people, either currently in college or just freshly graduated. You're no prude to the dulled sound of late-night party playlists or squeaky bed frames muffled by plaster. 

But your neighbors aren't guilty of these typical noise complaints. No, they're borderline much worse.

The majority of their crimes take place in the day, believe it or not, which makes it all the more frustrating when you actually have shit to do. When it's not boyish yells of victory and frustration, it's footsteps that sound like a herd of elephants (how many people can live in an apartment floor plan for two?). They're relentless upstairs neighbors to have, and though you couldn't pick their faces out of a crowd if you tried, you're sure their lack of etiquette spans across other areas of their lives. 

The tiny clock at the top of your computer blinks a mocking 11:38 AM as you try to study through the sounds of excited stomping and rowdy gibberish. 

You don't know what makes today so different, whether it's the burnt coffee beans you can taste lingering in your usual order from the cafe across the street or the organic chemistry study guide practically laughing at you as you review your hieroglyphic notes for tomorrow's test.

Whatever is in the water has you feeling braver than usual, and instead of reaching for the conveniently placed broom in the corner of your kitchen, you find yourself stomping your way down the hall and up the staircase.

The sixth floor is identical to the fifth — you don't know why it wouldn't be, but you've never put much thought into it — so it's no surprise that your feet find no trouble in naturally bringing you to a door equivalent to yours just a floor below. 

Your knuckles wrap against the wood with three unfriendly knocks, and the joyous buzzing from inside the apartment instantly comes to a lull. You think you hear panicked whispers from the other side, almost as if the culprits are debating on answering or not. You take their choice away when you knock three more times. 

After a moment, you hear the clicking of the lock and the fiddling of the doorknob. You take a deep breath to ground yourself, put on your best customer service voice, and prepare to calmly tell these entitled frat boys to shut the fuck up when—

You're ironically met with the prettiest green eyes you think you've ever seen.

A tall brunette stands before you, about your age, and wearing a look that's both confused and embarrassed. Your eyes quickly flicker across his face in the span of mere seconds, logical thoughts going out the window and now replaced with amazement at how stupidly attractive he is. 

Though you knocked on his door, he speaks first.

"Hi...?" He clears his throat, looking behind you in the hallway, almost as if you have the wrong room. 

His confusion annoys you, and you suddenly remember why you're here in the first place. 

"Look, I really don't wanna be a bitch," you sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose, "but what could you possibly be doing in this apartment that sounds like an actual full-out brawl on a Wednesday morning?"

Obliviously handsome neighbor's face goes a bit pink and his jaw slacks as he stutters, looking for either a shitty excuse or a polite explanation of the truth.

He opens the door a bit more, gesturing to the living room behind him. You spare a glance to where another guilty suspect stares back at you with big brown eyes and a smirk. There's some video game paused on the screen, ridden with animated blood and a scoped weapon's perspective.

Your attention is brought back to the one holding the door when he mumbles, "I think it's our game."

A bit dumbfounded at his lame answer, you blankly stare at him.

"Your... game?"

Brown Eyes yells from the couch, "Call of Duty!"

As if on instinct, Green Eyes closes the door a bit, shielding you from his roommate and shaking his head in exasperation. He clears his throat awkwardly, "Sorry, are you—?"

You're suddenly hyperaware of the fact that you've been staring at how long his fucking eyelashes are. He's anything but sore on the eyes, but again, you try to remind yourself that he and his roommate make your life difficult at least five out of seven days of the week.

"I live below you," you huff behind a swallow, "and you really don't make it easy." 

He nods dumbly, finally realizing the connection behind your visit. "Oh, right."

You scoff and nod your head. For someone as pretty as him, he's a bit thick in the head. 

Biting your cheek, you begin to walk away from the door without completely ending the conversation. As you're turning to leave, he hears you call out from down the corridor. 

"If you could just — not play video games like eleven-year-old boys," your tone is filled with annoyance, "that'd be great." 

You don't need to turn around to know that the stranger at the door is apologetic and nodding in compliance. Before he can fully shut the door, you hear a quip from his counterpart on the couch.

"She told you, bro."

As the door shuts, you hear the muffled hiss from the other. "You're the one making noise, dipshi—"

…..

Your threatening conversation must have worked to some degree, because it's been almost two days without any sort of annoyance from your upstairs neighbors. You think you almost take it for granted, the way you can study without headphones and enjoy a movie in the living room rather than in your bed with the speaker on high.

The walk back from your class is usually about twenty minutes, but it's closer to fifteen today as you're quicker when it comes to getting out of the cold.

Your chemistry test went alright — maybe not your best work but okay enough that you passed. And that's all you care about as you make your way back to your apartment, intending to crash in your bed and not move for the next few hours.

The winter air leaves a chill up your spine as you swipe into your building and press the elevator button. Your nose runs a bit from the cold as it sits against your knit scarf. Bag on your arm and half-consumed coffee, you can't wait to enjoy a day or two without thinking about covalent bonds and isomers.

You close your eyes and release a sigh as the elevator door begins to close, but before it gets the chance to do so successfully, quick footsteps and a hand jammed between the closing space prompt the doors to reopen.

Not really paying attention to the stranger joining your 30-second elevator ride, you simply step to the side to make more room for them.

It's not until they make eye contact with you that you realize it's your neighbor, the same one you'd borderline terrorized a few days ago for being irritating.

He's out of breath from catching the lift last minute, lungs still adjusting from the crisp air from outside. His jacket is zipped all the way up to his collar and his hair pokes out in spiky tuffs from beneath his hat.

He mumbles out a weak "sorry" before his eyes find the floor and the rickety door shuts, leaving the two of you alone in the suddenly very small space.

You'd cuss beneath your breath if you weren't close enough for him to hear it.

What's the acceptable thing to do in this scenario? You mentally weigh out your options. Sit in an awkward silence? Introduce yourself as if your encounter never even happened? Address the fact that you banged on his door a few days ago and insulted him as a first impression?

You choose the silence. If anything, you silently pray that behind your winter apparel and the lack of eye contact, he doesn't even recognize you.

But that thought goes to shit when you see that he's already pressed the fifth-floor button for you.

You swear the ride to your floor has never been this slow. Seconds feel like hours as you watch the digital number rise like paint drying on a wall. The elevator almost laughs at you as it stops on the third floor and opens itself to find no one there; you curse whoever decided to press the button before changing their mind and taking the stairs.

After what seems like forever, your floor finally flashes on the pixelated screen, and as you feel the elevator come to a stop—

The doors don't open.

You think it's just your dramatic prolonged sense of time until it's been about ten seconds and still, nothing. Just the two of you in a stopped elevator with doors that won't unlock.

You've never been one to believe in karma, but you can't help but think this is the universe punishing you for standing up for yourself. You are quite literally on your floor, a mere sliding door away from the embarrassing situation you got yourself in, but still, nothing happens.

He presses the button meant to prompt open the doors a few times with slight force.

"It does this, sometimes," he weakly coughs out in an attempt to make conversation. "It's uh—a shitty building."

You try pressing the button for yourself, "It's never done this for me."

Green Eyes sighs, slouching against his side of the wall and letting his head fall to rest on his shoulder, "Consider yourself lucky."

You huff, giving up on the button and turning to face him.

Your eyes didn't deceive you the first time you saw him — he is just as pretty as you'd initially thought. Not a great conversationalist, but nice to look at. He avoids eye contact until you speak up.

"It's happened to you before?" you gesture to the doors that won't open.

He catches your eye before nodding defeatedly, "This is the fourth time."

You can't help but bitterly laugh at the situation you're in.

"Maybe it's just you, then," you joke, looking up at the digital five mocking you in the corner.

Though you don't catch it, his eyes soften a bit as they fall on you. The corner of his mouth slightly quirks up when he chimes, "Could be."

You let yourself count another ten seconds before tossing your hands by your sides in aggravation and sighing, "So, what now? Hit the help button or—"

And like a blessing, or maybe a curse, you can't decide, the elevator chimes, signaling its arrival. The doors open swiftly as if there was nothing wrong with them in the first place, revealing your destination floor to you.

You whip your head to your upstairs neighbor, confused and almost asking for his permission to exit the elevator. You don't know why you do so, and you don't know why you only depart after he nods his head and waves his hand for you to continue.

Next time you leave your apartment, you find yourself taking the stairs to be safe.

…..

Your peaceful living is unsurprisingly short-lived. After a few enjoyable days, you'd given your neighbors too much credit as they now return to their usual noisiness. You find yourself rapping on their door once again.

This time, Brown Eyes answers.

Even before opening his mouth, he's instantly friendlier than his counterpart based on body language alone, completely opening the door all the way wide and leaning against the frame in his palm.

He's taller than you, but not as tall as the former who greeted you last time. With light rose-colored hair, he's all smiles and giggles. You'd think he were high if you could smell anything on him.

Oh, he's also shirtless.

"Hey, it's our friend again," he smiles at you before craning his neck backward, and you can make an educated guess on who exactly he's talking to.

You're quick to steer clear, "We aren't friends."

He laughs at your words, completely unfazed by the unwelcoming attitude. He casually sips on an energy drink that looks borderline lethal when he asks, "Were we being loud? You comin' to yell at us again?"

His lack of care for the situation surprisingly doesn't rub you the wrong way. Inconvenient? Yes, but not necessarily malicious, from what you can tell.

"I wouldn't be here for any other reason."

"Sorry," he sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. "We don't really have inside voices around here."

You can't help but roll your eyes at the childish excuse. "You should find some."

"Will do," he nods like a child being reprimanded in class, "sorry again."

He salutes you with a metal can in his left hand. Before you can turn your back to him and towards the elevator, you hear the same voice call out to you.

"Hey—!"

You stop midstride, slowly turning around to face the door again. He stands in the same position, leaning against the door frame as he points out the obvious.

"We didn't get your name last time."

You blink at him a few times, not caring enough to connect the dots and extend the nicety, but the friendly one persists. He places a palm on his (bare) chest as he gestures to himself, "I'm Itadori."

You nod with raised brows, "And I'm calling our landlord if you piss me off again."

You hear a soft chuckle from the inside of the apartment. The two of you turn at the sound of the noise, where Green Eyes hides his smile behind the strings of his sweatshirt and quickly returns his attention to his phone.

Itadori, apparently, looks back at you and nods to his friend, "That's Fushiguro."

You breathe out your own name and quickly make your way back towards your apartment. On the ride down to your floor, you find yourself repeating the name — Fushiguro. It tastes weird on your lips, and you hate the way you don't hate it.

..…

His name is Megumi. 

You learn this when a letter shows up at your door addressed to a Fushiguro Megumi. Mail mix-ups are common in the apartment complex, but you can't help but laugh at the coincidence - his name but your apartment number clearly displayed in black ink.

You examine the piece of paper closely. The cream-colored envelope covered in poorly drawn hearts and tacky puppy stickers placed randomly across its front found itself wedged into your door's mailbox. Flipping it over, the return address is a mere surname of Gojo underlined with a smiley face. 

A love letter, you realize. You're not sure why the shift in narrative suddenly fills your stomach with an uneasy weight of disappointment.

You're going out anyways, you tell yourself as you slip on your scarf and shimmy into your shoes. Between stopping at the grocery store for a few small things and dropping off overdue assignments at your professor's office, it's not like you're going out of your way to return the letter to its intended recipient. You're doing the right thing, being a good samaritan, your mind repeats. 

The single flight up the stairs is easy enough and a good excuse for exercise. Approaching the door that mimics your own floor below, the same one you've already visited two times too many, you feel weirdly nervous. Just slide it beneath his door and call it a day.  

As you bend to slip the paper beneath the door, it swings open. 

You quickly stand up straight and back away from the opening, as the shadow in your peripheral startles from your presence and does the same. 

"Shit, sorry—"

Looking up, you lock eyes with the one and only whose letter lies in your hand. Fuck. 

He hesitates a bit when he realizes it's you, doing a double take and immediately assuming he's in trouble again. 

"We—" Megumi, you now know him to be, turns his back to you, quickly surveying his empty apartment to show you, "aren't playing? Yuuji's not even home, so—”

You're not sure why you're the slightest bit hurt by his more than reasonable accusation. The only two times you've been at his door were to reprimand him, so of course he's not wrong to assume this time was no different. Still, it has you feeling guilty as you dryly swallow and raise your arm.   

"I was sticking this under your door," you sigh, handing him the ridiculous-looking envelope. "Got sent to my place accidentally."

His eyes flicker to your extended hand, and when he sees the writing on the envelope between your fingers, his body instantly goes hot with embarrassment.

"Of course it did," he groans beneath his breath, almost annoyed. 

A bit abruptly, he grabs the letter from you and places his hand behind his back, telling himself that if it's out of sight, you'll forget it ever happened entirely.

His uneasiness and slight frustration have you taking a small step back as he snatches the envelope. He senses your hesitation and immediately mourns how he acted out of instinct, sighing and slowly moving the letter from behind him to rest by his side.

He softens and clears his scratchy throat, something you've come to notice he does a lot. "Thanks."

Feeling a bit brave, you raise your eyebrows, amused at his odd behavior. Your words are taunting yet friendly when you nod to the note at his arm.

"You should probably tell your girlfriend that you're in #603, not #503."

Megumi's face is often stoic and downturned, aside from a slight pull of a smile that can rarely be seen on occasion. But at these words, you watch in regret as Megumi's expression mimics one of disgust mixed with pure mortification. 

"Oh, this—" his eyes fall to the envelope he thinks might be the cause of his death, "this isn't from a girlfriend. It's actually a lot worse than that." 

"Worse?" you push.

"It's... from a family friend," he weakly reveals. "Kinda like a dad, I guess." 

You find yourself smiling at the meek yet sweet confession, nodding along and biting back a good-hearted laugh at his timidness. 

"Right, I just assumed with the hearts and the cute stickers that—" you trail off, gesturing to the letter that clearly presents itself as something else. 

He laughs a bit humorlessly and itches the back of his neck shyly.

"That would make a lot more sense and be a lot less humiliating, yeah."

You take a moment to take in his shyness. He's harmless, you decide at that very moment. You make a mental note to remind yourself to weigh the sides of the subject at hand. 

Cons: awkward, obvlvious, bad neighbor, a tad unfriendly at times

Pros: annoyingly attractive, nice enough in actual conversation, respectful in passing, girlfriend-less 

You shake those points from your head, taking a breath and slowly moving towards the elevator. "It could've been worse. The stickers could've been puppies and kittens," you tease. 

You expect that to be all, because that's all it should be, right? An awkward yet friendly coincidence between two strangers who got off on the wrong foot. You're locked in on entering the elevator when you hear his voice from behind you. 

"Sorry—" he shortly blurts out. 

You turn, expecting him to elaborate on the outburst. The look on his face almost reads as if he wasn't planning to until seeing your reaction, where he explains, "That we're loud sometimes. I really do try to tell Yuuji to shut up, but he's just... a lot."

You don't know why your heart swells at the apology. 

"It's fine," you nod softly. Turning your back, you call out to him as you enter the elevator. "You've actually been pretty tolerable this week, but don't let that go to your head."

As the elevator closes, you see Megumi smile before returning inside and closing his door. This time, you don't stop the thoughts that flow through your head.

Pro: cute

.….

You suppose it was only a matter of time before the tables you'd set managed to turn on you, but you just didn't expect it so soon. Because the next time you run into your neighbors, it's them knocking on your door for a change.

The sharp winter wind shakes the sides of your building with rage — the kind that results in creaky panels and systems outages in certain sectors of your building.

After waking to take a shower early this morning and being greeted with piercing cold water that refused to warm up, no matter how long you ran the faucet, you knew today would be a long one.

Clad in layers of fuzzy socks and bulky hoodies, you rise from the couch to answer the banging outside. After opening the door to see who's on the other side, it takes less than a second for the visitor to make himself at home.

"You out of hot water, too?" Yuuji casually brushes past you, walking into your home and stopping in the center of the living room. He looks around the space in awe — as if his own place just a singular level above doesn't mimic the exact same floor plan.

Still in the hallway but keeping an eye on his friend's questionable behavior, Megumi waits in the hallway. He's on the phone with someone, his cell wedged between his elbow and ear. When he begins asking about the building's backup generator, you mentally thank him for being the only proactive one here.

You sigh and turn to Yuuji, who's admiring your wall art and the fact that you have an actual television stand, "I'm out of heat in general."

"Damn," he blurts out without a thought, "that sucks."

You overhear Megumi wrapping up his conversation in the background when your lips are pulled downward in confusion.

"Are you guys not?"

"Oh no, we are," Yuuji continues admiring your apartment with a child-like curiosity, "but we have a space heater that's doing the job for now. How are you so good at decorating?"

You ignore his question, turning to Megumi who now stands on the threshold of your doorway. He makes a face, one of tight lips and sympathy, almost as if he's wordlessly apologizing for both the unfortunate scenario and his roommate's lack of social etiquette.

You further wrap yourself in your own little warmth, crossing your arms inwards. "That's actually really smart of you guys," you manage to croak out.

"You can come up and chill if you want," Yuuji mindlessly offers, eyes scanning over the magnets on your fridge. He can't stop himself from fiddling with a cherry-shaped one that holds up a baby picture of you from kindergarten.

The shock on your face must be obvious because you swear you hear Megumi swallow a chuckle at your reaction.

"You came down here… to ask me to chill?" Your voice octaves up towards the end, almost as if repeating the offer will reveal itself to be a track or joke.

While Yuuji nods eagerly, you can hear Megumi muttering from behind the neckline of his sweatshirt.

"Sue us for extending a neighborly olive branch."

As Yuuji continues to outwardly snoop around your kitchen, his eyes land on your oven-top clock and he whines.

"I actually have class in twenty and need to catch the shuttle to campus, but you're welcome to not freeze to death with Fushiguro, if you want."

You check your phone, confirming the time when you question, "Didn't the last shuttle of the hour leave already?"

You watch the gears turn in Itadori's mind for a second before he smacks a palm to his head, quickly brushing past you and out the door.

"Fuck me, see you guys later then—" he hurries, the only sound following him being the swishing of his winter coat and clunky booted footsteps jostling down the stairs.

And with Megumi still standing in your doorway and the sound of the main staircase gate slamming behind Yuuji's path, you could hear a pin drop between the two of you if it weren't for the howling wind outside (which you find yourself suddenly grateful for rather than loathing it).

Megumi shifts his weight on the balls of his feet as he stands. He clears his throat in a way he hopes is subtle.

"You can still come up," he gestures to the hallway with a nod of his head, before cautiously adding, "if you want."

Instinctively, you feel your body curl further in on itself. Megumi must notice it too, as his eyes quickly flicker to your raw hands tucked beneath your arms.

"It's not that bad in here," you weakly dismiss.

He deadpans, "I can almost see your breath."

A sigh leaves your chilled body and you look up at Megumi. Now it's your turn to silently communicate with him — eyebrows raising and wavering between your options, you chew on your cheek in thought.

"You don't have to," he softly adds, hands burrowing themselves in the pocket of his hoodie. "Just wanted to see if you needed anything, I guess."

"What did the landlord say?" your words are muffled from your teeth in your cheek.

Megumi's eyes light up a bit before they find his scuffed Converse again.

"He's sending his guys over, but it's gonna take an hour, at least."

After another minute that feels like twenty, you softly speak up.

"…Do you really have a space heater?"

As he fights off a smile, Megumi gently nods.

.….

You'll admit, the apartment looks better than you'd imagined. Not that your standards weren't too high to begin with, but you're pleasantly surprised.

Megumi unlocks the front door, gesturing for you to enter as he slowly closes it behind him, shivering a bit from the draft weaving through the hallway.

It's clean, relatively. The design of the rooms and open areas are identical to your layout below, but between the decor (or lack thereof) and the overhanging presence of the space, it feels so different.

Their television, the one you know to be responsible for their rowdiness, balances on what looks to be a bedside table. Far too small for the proportions of the TV but just enough to carry the width of the screen's base, it looks silly but does the job.

"You can just…" Megumi waves his hand to the living room, awkwardly trailing off as he insists. "Sit. Wherever you want."

Your seating choices include a felt futon in scrappy condition, two lopsided beanbags, and a busted recliner. You take your chances with the futon.

Surveying the apartment, it's not terrible — truthfully, you'd been expecting worse from college guys. You give them props; aside from a few half-drank plastic water bottles and withering plants on their window sill, there's nothing that outwardly goes against any health violations or suitable living standards. No empty beer cans or pizza boxes, no trashy flags or posters hung on the walls. It's decent.

And the space heater working overtime in the corner outlet is a major plus. Feeling the angle of its warmth blasting on your legs, you exhale at the heat and rub your fuzzy slippers together on instinct.

"Do you want anything?" Megumi stands a few feet away, nervous for someone in the comfort of his own home, "Water or a drink, or something?"

It's sweet how respectful he's being — you think back to whoever sent him that letter, imagining they raised him right.

You shake your head curtly, "I don't take drinks from strange men."

His face drops instantly.

"Oh—right," he swallows harshly, fumbling with his sparse words. "I didn't mean it like that or anything, but that makes sense. I just meant—”

The stoic expression you were attempting to upkeep fails and you can't fight off the smile that pulls at your cheeks. Exhaling a laugh and looking over at him, you apologize, "I'm just kidding, Megumi."

He feels his stomach instantly solidify like cement at your words — Megumi. He doesn't recall you ever referring to him by any name, let alone his first. He feels a wandering heat itching up his neck when he coughs up a chuckle.

He shakes his head, sitting on the opposite end of the futon and leaving the middle cushion between the two of you unoccupied.

"Fuck off," he scratches his jaw to busy his shaky hands. In doing so, you catch a glimpse of a few silver rings wrapping around his knuckles.

As the warmth of the space heater (solely the space heater, you remind yourself) gradually dissolves the chill that's been stuck up your spine for the last few hours, you slightly settle further into your seat.

"So this is the scene of the crime, huh?" you motion to the gaming console propped up on the floor beside the makeshift television stand.

Megumi amuses an exhale through his nose and nods along, "Yeah. I mean, you've kinda seen it from the hallway before."

"Yeah, but this is the real thing, first-person point of view. It's just missing me downstairs hitting the ceiling with my broom twenty times."

The next few minutes are stolen by a whole lot of small talk that holds no weight. Beginning to panic at how the hell you're gonna make it through this entire hour with little to talk about, your eyes fall on the television once more.

"So," you curl into the futon. "Show me something worth screaming over."

Without warning, Megumi chokes on his own saliva as he swallows.

"Huh?"

"A game," you quickly correct, not realizing how your words sounded and nodding to the television before you. "I meant, show me a game that justifies how loud you two get."

The game is fine, nothing revolutionary but admit that you could see how it could be entertaining for some. A standard battle royal concept, Megumi hands you his second controller and walks you through the instructions on how to play.

You mimic the way his fingers hold the controller, how they flex and bend to hit certain buttons for special uses. Throughout the tutorial of trial and error, the two of you naturally close the gap of the middle cushion, now much closer as you copy his movements and use his hands for reference. He even goes as far as reaching over to point out certain buttons to you, skimming your fingers hesitantly as he pulls away.

It's safe to say you don't win, don't even come close, but he's a good sport all the same. He laughs when you're hit by enemies and revives you with little to no mocking. He whispers an encouraging "there you go" whenever you manage to land a hit on someone, followed by an "I got you" when he's covering for your character. It's fun — you freeze a bit when you realize that you like spending time with him, even doing the very thing that caused this entire debacle in the first place.

You don't realize how much time has passed until Megumi's phone vibrates from the coffee table. His eyes quickly glance over the unsaved number, almost as if recognizes the contact and is debating on answering or not.

Your eyes narrow teasingly when you taunt, "You gonna take that?"

Snapped out of his thoughts, Megumi nods, swipes his screen, and holds his phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

The conversation is short, maybe thirty seconds in total. Though you can't make out any specific words, you can hear the rumbling of another deep voice on the other end of the call. Megumi listens half-heartedly, nodding along and chiming in here and there to acknowledge the caller.

"Hey, yeah. That was me. Right, okay. Okay, nice. Thanks, appreciate it."

The call ends and Megumi puts his phone down on the coffee table once more. You swear you can hear a small sense of disappointment in his voice when he breathes.

"That was the maintenance guy," he breathes softly. "Heat's back on."

You feel your own body getting sour with misfortune. Why are you so bitter about the thought of going back downstairs to your own apartment?

Nodding at his words, you slowly stand and do your best to sound relieved. "Thank god," you joke, "I was beginning to think I might have to sleep on this gross futon."

Megumi sneers, rolling his eyes and rising to walk you to the door. Before you step into the hallway, you turn to face him.

"Thanks," your tone is spineless, one he's unable to recognize from you before you elaborate, "for letting me leech off of your heat."

"No problem," he shoots you a genuine look. "Consider it reparations for all of the times we've annoyed you."

"All of the times?" you shoot him a harmless glare.

Unlike most who cower and scowl at your sarcastic quips, Megumi seems to bloom beneath your daggered attempts at pushing him away.

"Fine," he exaggerates a groan, "maybe not all. But it's a start, right?"

A start. The insinuation tickles all air out of your lungs like a feather. Though you pretend to be annoyed and kiss your teeth at his words, you nod all the same.

Leaving his door, Megumi seems lighter than he did when you first entered.

"Sorry you just kinda watched me play video games for almost two hours," he calls out to you as you depart, hands returning to his pockets.

"Don't be," you honestly tell him as your head cranes back to look at him. "It was nice to be up here for reasons other than wanting to strangle you."

.….

A day and a half later when the universe has realigned itself and it's you knocking on their door again, they half expect you to be followed by your stuffy landlord holding an eviction notice.

Much to their surprise, you're alone, rather skittish — and holding a tupperware container of… cookies?

It's Megumi who opens the door initially, but Yuuji is quick to squeeze his way into the opening at the sight of your familiar face and mysterious delivery in hand.

"Ooooooh, what are these?" he inquires, unashamed as he pokes his nose into your space in an attempt to get a better look at the baked goods.

Pulling a bit away from his antics, you swallow back any potential wisecracks.

"Thank you for being neighborly and not letting me die of hypothermia cookies," you keep your voice neutral.

"Are they poisoned?" Megumi pipes in.

You shoot him a scowl, one he's learned is innocent enough, and his eyes crinkle in amusement.

"Shit, can't remember if I added vanilla or vitriol?" your head cocks to the side in faux thought.

Your eyes flicker to him as he chews on his cheek in a half-assed attempt to cover up his entertainment at your quickness.

Yuuji, focused on nothing but having a minimum of five cookies for good measure, snatches the container from your hands and carries it to the kitchen counter.

He's already opening the dish and helping himself as he chews, "I don't even know what that is, so I'm gonna take my chances."

Megumi gives a quick thank you for the cookies, and Yuuji chimes in behind a satiated mouth and crumby lips. You brush off their graces, reminding them it's just you returning the favor for the heating situation.

Just as you're about to see yourself out of their entryway, you hear an authentic offer from the kitchen.

"Hey," Yuuji wipes his lips with the back of his hand, and something about it feels oddly youthful to you, "wanna come over this weekend?"

You look at the two of them for a moment, waiting to see if there's a punchline to come, before carefully treading, "Why?"

"We're havin' some friends over," Yuuji reveals casually before going to take another large bite, "and I guess you're funny enough to hang out with us."

The hesitation in your response must be more apparent than you think because he's quick to chuckle and elaborate on the offer.

"It's not an orgy," he teases at your stiffness before grabbing at another cookie and shrugging. "We get take out, chill, drink a little, kick ass in Mario Kart."

You nod as you listen to his words. He's kind, they both are, and you know the offer to be a genuine one. Still, the situation makes your stomach ache with uncertainty at the thought of mingling with strangers for the sake of your mere — acquaintances? Neighbors? Friends?

"As fun as that sounds," you breathe, clearly trying but failing to convince them of your apologetic tone, "I don't really wanna intrude on you and your friends.

"It's not intruding if you're invited," Megumi interjects for the first time in the conversation.

Looking at where he stands against the counter, his eyes are on you. They're careful, but hopeful in a gentle kind of way. He wants you to say yes — but he'd rather swallow a knife than his own pride and admit it himself.

Your words are unconvincing when you sigh, "Not really in the hangout mood. Next time, okay?"

The two men deflate a bit, one more dramatic and obvious than the other, but they nod at your rejection. Wiping his hands off on his shorts, Yuuji walks you to the door, thanking you again for the sweets and joking about you getting home safe on your long journey back downstairs.

You can't help but giggle at his theatrics, insisting that, "If you need me this weekend, I'll be rotting away on my couch with a bottle of wine and a week's worth of Love Island to catch up on."

Yuuji laughs wholeheartedly, "Your loss, see ya."

Megumi weakly waves as his best friend swings the door shut. Once closed, Yuuji turns to him with a cheeky smile he knows can mean nothing good.

Megumi grimaces at his enthusiasm, "What?"

Yuuji nods to the door, a toothy grin spreading across his face. "Think I'm gonna ask her out."

Megumi's quick to react poorly.

"What?" he borderline knocks over the water bottle next to him on the counter. He catches it, embarrassed by his obvious care for the situation as he tries to cover it up with a nonchalant scoff, "Why?"

Yuuji stares at him for a minute in disbelief before stating what he believes to be the obvious.

"'Cause she's hot and yells at us all the time?"

Megumi scoffs in distaste again. He fiddles with the rings on his right hand, pretending to be careless about a situation he's anything but careful about.

Sensing his roommate's off response, Itadori's quick to add. "Unless you wanna call dibs before I do?"

"Dibs?" Megumi groans.

"Yeah, like claiming—"

"I know what dibs means," he interrupts before Yuuji can dig his own grave any further. He slumps into the palm of his hand as his elbow rests atop the kitchen counter, "I just think that's shitty."

Yuuji, knowing Megumi well enough to sense that he's hit a sour spot, nods and backs off. He joins him at the counter again, oblivious as he grabs another cookie to chomp on. With cautious eyes and a mouth filled with chocolate, he speaks up.

"…So you don't wanna call dibs?"

.….

It's Saturday, almost Sunday, according to the cat clock on your wall.

You'd kept your word. Beneath a few blankets and practically one with your couch cushions, you're spending your weekend doing exactly what you'd anticipated.

The television continues to play the stream of episodes you're catching up on. With your second glass of red in hand, you tune in and out of the segments when the good parts catch your attention. It feels good to relax, to do nothing and to be nothing behind tipsy and fatigued eyes.

A sudden knock on your door puts a minor wedge in your plans. Sitting up with a groan, you whimper beneath your breath but move to answer it regardless.

Maybe you forgot to tip your delivery driver when he dropped off your takeout a few hours ago and he's back for revenge. Maybe it's your drunk friends, showing up to ruin your night and attempting to persuade you to join them on their foolish escapades. Maybe it's someone with the wrong address.

Locking eyes with the visitor at your door, it's Megumi. Maybe you're drunker than you thought.

His delicate eyes match yours when he scarcely smiles, "Hi."

Your eyes go to the items in his hands — a few beer bottles, a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, and a deck of cards.

Giggling to yourself, you stare at him, "I think you got off a floor too early."

Megumi laughs, and when you're able to get a good look at him, you can tell he's a bit tipsy, too. His shoulders aren't as tense as they usually are, he's still broad, but a lot looser now. His eyes are glossed over with a haze you're sure yours mimic. He scratches his nose awkwardly before opening his mouth.

"I—" he cuts himself off, eyes darting to the items in his arms before returning to you, "wanted to see you."

"Me?" you're unable to stop yourself from nearly gawking.

He laughs again, not obnoxiously but easy and natural. "Yes, you. Does someone else live here?"

"Don't you have plans with your friends?" you question, still not letting him inside.

"They're upstairs," he nods, "and no, I'm not here to force you to come up."

At his words, he can see your visible relief. Opening the door fully and letting him come inside, you relish in reassurance, "Good, I really didn't wanna be fake nice right now."

A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth as he sets his belongings on your coffee table. "Fake nice?" he prompts.

"I mean, not that it's fake, it's just like—customer servicey. Y'know? Being kind to people in a way that's not ingenuine but—"

"Exhausting?" he finishes for you, and he's weirdly more talkative with a bit of alcohol in his veins. "Yeah, I feel that."

You sprawl onto your couch and he takes the seat next to you but refrains from leaning back as far. He watches you graze on your glass of wine, your legs crossed childishly as you gaze up at him.

"Are you like that with me?" he puts on a brave face. "Fake nice?"

He releases a breath he didn't even know he was holding when you shake your head. After a hearty sip from your drink, you talk dramatically with your hands.

"Am I even real nice to you? I've kinda been a bitch since the day I banged on your door."

Megumi shakes his head as he laughs, which in return allows you to do the same. He relaxes a bit further into the warmth of your cushions, lolling his head to look at you as he opens himself a beer.

"I don't think so," he shrugs. "You're not wrong for complaining about us being understandably annoying."

Things lighten up as time passes. The night gets a bit blurry but it's fun, carefree. The two of you sit on your tiny couch, passing a bag of pretzels back and forth, and playing stupid card games that bring out your competitive sides and don't have real rules.

Minutes bleed into hours and you're not sure what time it is when it's late enough for Megumi to start yawning. Enjoying a comfortable silence between the two of you, his voice is temperate when he asks.

"Why didn't you want to hang out with us?"

He almost seems mournful, and a part of you feels guilty as his eyes blink heavily down on you. You exhale, readjusting your legs and throwing your head back.

"Seemed like a friend group thing," is what eventually crawls up from your throat. "Felt weird being the only one who didn't know everyone, y'know?"

He considers before nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I guess. But I would've been with you."

His stare feels sharp, like he can see right through your facade and into parts of you you've buried deep a long time ago. You hate it and love it, want to drown yourself in it and voluntarily inhale until your own demise.

Unable to hold his stare, you look into your almost empty glass, swishing around the bleeding wine and ice that remains at the bottom.

"Well, you're here with me now, anyway."

Megumi continues to admire you without words. Pointing an accusatory finger back at him, you nudge his leg with your foot. "So, why aren't you up there?"

"Cause you didn't show up," he doesn't hesitate to respond. Almost as if he regrets his eagerness but still stands by the sentiment, he clears his throat before adding, "Was weirdly hoping you would, but—"

He doesn't finish his sentence, trailing off with a lame shrug.

His eyes look greener when they're a bit more watery. Fuck it.

Slowly, maintaining eye contact with him the entire time to assess his reactions, you move to crawl into his lap. You sense a difference in his breathing pattern, but other than that, he makes no move to pull away from you. He lets you carefully straddle his legs before getting comfortable atop him, when he places his hands on the plush between your hips and thighs.

Leaning in, giving him any chance to reject you, stop you, hate you, you continue to keep his eye as your lips just barely brush against his. He does the same, refusing to look away from you as if he'll never get this opportunity again. As if he wants to take a picture and relish it forever.

"Stop me," you bite through a hushed whisper, daring him to put an end to this before it begins.

His breath is lulled against your own when he whispers, "No."

You kiss him, and he kisses you back. It starts simple, like you're learning all about one another's creases and folds. Between shaky inhales and nervous hands, you lean into one another's touch, savoring every taste and sound you can manage.

Megumi feels brave, and on one particular gasp from you, he prudently skims his tongue across your lower lip before slipping it inside. Rubbing against your own with a fervent need, you open your jaw further for him to have whatever he wants. Between your increased breathing, soft moans, and greedy hands, the two of you slowly become messy and desperate for one another.

Hips wantonly moving against his thighs, he flexes instinctually as you begin to grind yourself down on him. He meets your movements, half hard as he presses into you, both of you whimpering at the new-found friction. The two of you reduce to whiney teenagers, practically swallowing one another whole and dry-humping fully clothed before you open your eyes to look at him.

Megumi, eyes shut and whimpering into your neck, is too good for this — deserves more than this. He's kind, respectful, funny (though you'd never tell him that to his face), and you're both drunk. It feels so fucking good, but it isn't right. It's not supposed to happen like this.

Slowing your movements, you pull back to see his face. Dazed, he opens his pretty green eyes to look up at you like you hold the stars and sun in your hands.

"We shouldn't," you pant, brushing your bangs back and catching your breath. "We should stop."

Megumi, confused and hurt, but instantly moving you off of his lap with a gentle hold, nods in agreement. "Right, right, we're — we're drunk," he whispers, almost ashamed of everything that just happened.

Before you can say anything, he's readjusting himself and standing up. A bit more sober than he was a few minutes ago, he's straightening himself out and making his way to your door.

"Sorry—" he keeps repeating himself, "I'm… I'm so sorry."

He's gone before you can reassure him that there's nothing to apologize for.

.....

You don't hear from him the next morning — or afternoon. 

When night falls, you've given up that there's any hope of saving whatever it was the two of you had going. 

Wanting to drown yourself in your own sorrows, you stare at the text from your friend before you and weigh your options. 

Stay in, cry yourself to a babbling mess, and finish your show

Answer their text and agree to go to this party with them

Thinking back to last night and how badly you fucked that one up, you decide the first choice is off-limits. Hoping you don't regret your decision, it's not long before you're looking decent enough to lock your door behind you and start the commute to your friends. 

The walk isn't terrible, being ten minutes to your friend's place and an additional fifteen to whoever's party you're attending. On the west side of campus, you can hear the muffled music and drunken squeals of the attendees from down the street. 

The party itself is fine, nothing special. The lime seltzer in your hand is still half full when you stray away from your friends in search of the bathroom. 

There's a line formed down the hallway of drunk girls laughing, couples swallowing one another's faces, and a single guy slumped against the wall in his own world. Taking a second glance at the end of the line, you recognize the lone drunk as Yuuji. 

Gently tapping his shoulder, his eyes blink open and he's nearly crushing you to death when wrapping his arms around you in excitement. He lets his animation get the best of him, lifting you in the air and spinning you once before he realizes he can't handle another. Leaning on the wall to steady both you and him, you're smiling at his sloppy yet endearing enthusiasm. 

"What are you doing here!?" he beams, swaying back and forth and reeking of cheap booze. 

"My friends dragged me out of the house," you tease before noticing truly how incoherent he is. Your nose crinkles with worry, "You fucked up?"

He can barely stand up straight, eyes unable to focus in one spot for too long as he blearily looks at you before skimming his body against the wall again. He's talking in slow gibberish, something about having one too many and wanting to talk to this pretty girl from his linguistics lecture before she leaves.

"Hey," you gently grab his jaw to steady his gaze. "Did you come here alone?"

Yuuji doesn't answer, or rather he does but it's nonsensical and impossible to go off of. You sigh, quickly scanning the suddenly overwhelming crowd around you before grabbing his arm and speaking kindly, yet reflective of a mother. 

"Let me take you back to our building, okay?" you prompt him to stand up straight and follow your lead. "I'm going back anyways, I'll walk with you."

Yuuji's eyes light up with excitement at the thought of a journey with his neighbor friend, and it's not long before he's dragging his feet over one another and using your hand as a guide to the door. 

On your walk home, you ache for the comfort of your warm bed, the feeling of taking these god-forsaken heels off, and Megumi's forgiveness. You wonder if you'll see him when dropping off Yuuji at his door — you pathetically hope so. 

However, Yuuji didn't show up to this party alone.

Megumi, who had been grabbing him a drink and caught a glimpse of you two, saw the entire thing without context — Yuuji's hands around your waist, you caressing his jaw, the two of you leaving abruptly together. 

He downs both his and Yuuji's drinks with ease. 

..…

Megumi wasn't home.

Disappointed but relieved to see Yuuji safe in the comfort of his apartment, you help him collapse on his couch.

Turning him on his side and making him drink at least two cups of water before throwing a blanket over him and leaving a note, you close the door behind you with a heavy heart.

A few minutes later, you're a bit more at ease. Feet now ridden of silly high heels and skin against the soft cotton of your bed, you find yourself flooded with thoughts of Megumi.

You wake up to a constant thud on your front door. Picking up your phone, it's almost two in the morning and you're not even sure you're not dreaming when you're feet carry you to the blistering noise of a fist on your door.

Swinging it open with half-closed eyes, you're more than prepared to fight a murder charge to get whoever the hell this is to leave you alone. But before you can curse them with everything in you, you realize it's Megumi.

"Hi," he whispers. It's a start contrast from the violent banging on your door he was responsible for two seconds ago, but you can't find it in yourself to care.

"Hi," you respond, suddenly more than awake and just as breathless. "You okay?"

"Are you sleeping with Yuuji?"

Your heart skips exactly two beats before you can accurately comprehend his question. It's then when you notice that he's drunk, disgustingly so. You're not sure how it wasn't the first thing you noticed - but looking at his green eyes again, you give yourself some grace.

"… What?" is all you can pathetically muster.

"Itadori," he slurs. His face is pale with hurt and the collar of his shirt is all wrinkled.

You can't help but roll your eyes, "Yeah, I know who Yuuji is, but why the hell are you asking me that?"

"Because you shouldn't be," he declares through a heavy tongue and spinning head. You think you hear his voice crack with emotion when he continues, "I don't want you to sleep with him."

You're sure you're still dreaming as you take in his words. Since the moment you knocked on the door one floor above you, sleeping with Yuuji has never crossed your mind. You've been far too busy focusing on thinking about the man in front of you, who's wasted beyond belief and accusing you of something that not only doesn't make sense but hurts a bit.

He fumbles on his words, swallowing dryly and spiraling.

"You shouldn't sleep with him just because he walks around shirtless and invites you to hang out with us."

Your eyebrows pull downwards with what Megumi knows is hurt. He can't stop himself from talking or spewing nonsensical things just because he can.

Your voice is shaky when you plea, "Megumi, what?"

"I mean—he's my best friend, he's great," he throws his hands up to surrender the truth. "But we played video games and—and we kissed. And you're always looking at me with those eyes and—"

"Megumi," your voice comes tired now, cold. "You're drunk."

"You left with him. And you were whispering in his ear and touching his arm." He frowns, feeling sick just thinking about it again. He shakes the nightmare from his head when repeating his prior question.

"Are you sleeping with him?" he asks again, more accusatory this time around.

He watches your eyes fill with water, but it's not long-lived before you're blinking away any sign of weakness and cementing your walls up again.

"If you didn't notice," you spit with venom, "your friend is drunk off of his ass. I walked him home since he could barely stand on his own."

As if you're speaking another language, Megumi dumbly gapes at your confession.

"You—what?"

You press with ice in your words, "Walked him home. He's passed out on your couch right now."

"Oh." Megumi hadn't returned to his apartment before coming to yours. He'd walked home from the shitty party with one destination in mind, immediately talking the elevator to the fifth floor and finding your familiar floor.

He feels stupid, nauseous with guilt, and god, does his head hurt. His heart hurts too when you scoff and cross your arms in defense.

"Wanna go back to the part where you were practically calling me a slut?"

He cringes, "No, no god no, that's not what I was trying to—"

You don't give him the luxury of explaining himself. Turning your back and slamming the door, you take away his chance of redemption.

You sound unrecognizable when you tell him, "Go to fucking bed, Fushiguro."

.….

The birds outside of your window remind you that it's Sunday, and the open book on your desk reminds you that not only do you have class tomorrow, but you have an assignment due before midnight.

Memories of last night's conversation — if you could even call it that — with Megumi make you feel queazy. Nothing happened in the way you'd wanted. It all just spiraled out of control, like water slipping through a cracked ceiling, you'd just watched it leak without remorse.

The continued chirping outside reminds you that it's quiet, something you should use to your advantage. A light in this mess of a pathetic story.

You'll study, you decide. You'll grab a quick coffee from the cafe across the street and get some actual work done. Something you should've done a long time ago, something you’d ignored that ended up with this this heartbreak.

Not even ten minutes later, you're decent enough to slide your shoes on and grab your house keys. Opening the door into the hallway, you're met with familiar eyes.

Megumi looks disheveled, sitting with his knees up against the wall of your hallway. At your abrupt opening of the front door, he's quick to stand up and dust his pants off from the grime of the hallway carpet. You notice he has a paper bouquet of pinks and blues in his hand and an exhausted frown on his face.

When he looks at you, he can almost feel the air leaving your lungs as your stomach drops.

The first words you say to him are softer than he expects, than he thinks he deserves, but still carried by a look of disapproval.

"Were you here all night?" your lip turns with disgust.

"No—" he spews too quickly. Seeing your expression that clearly reads disbelief, he slows himself down. Taking a deep breath, he repeats himself with a bit more certainty. "No, I've been here since like, seven maybe?"

"Why?"

His hand trembles in a way he hopes you have the respect to ignore as he moves to give you the bouquet. "Because I'm sorry," his voice is steady, like he's been practicing in the mirror.

Choosing to make him work for it, your eyes flicker to the flowers unimpressed before finding his face again.

"For?" you cruelly push him further.

But Megumi's determined to meet your forces just as equally. His voice gains confidence as he speaks clearly, "For panicking and assuming the worst last night. I was drunk, but that's not an excuse. It was a douchebag thing to do."

Admiring how your face softens at his apology but still carries creased lines of worry, Megumi half expects your response.

"And?"

This is the part he's a bit unprepared for.

"And for leaving that night," his volume dips with the confession, eyes wanting to find comfort in the floor so badly but refusing to leave your own as he tries and tries and tries to fix this, "I..."

His lips move before he can think twice about his words, "I thought it was what you wanted."

His confession cracks something inside of you, like nails digging crescents into raw skin. Slowly, you gesture for him to come inside. He hesitates but follows when you move towards the couch, the same couch you'd straddled him on two nights prior. It looks different in the daylight.

Megumi's careful with each step, as if he's walking on eggshells, when he slowly sits beside you on the couch. Placing the bouquet on your table, he moves as if you're a predator, as if he'll make one wrong move and you'll snap, lurching at him and sinking your talons into his neck. You hate how it makes you feel.

Your words surprise the both of you when they eventually come. "I'm sorry I reacted the way I did. I wanted you to stay I just—felt bad."

Felt bad? Megumi's mind goes numb at the realization. Felt bad for him? Like when you do a good deed to cancel out a bad one? Did you kiss him that night because you pitied him?

Before his mind runs itself further into the worst-case scenario, he's brought back to reality as you continue.

"We were drunk, and I didn't want that to be how it happened y'know?"

He starts at you blankly, "It?" He lamely asks.

This time, it's your voice that weakens with shame. He watches you fiddle with your fingers, the same ones he remembers feeling in his hair and on his skin. The ones he wants to feel again.

"Felt like I was coming onto you, and you deserved better than that," you eventually reveal softly, correcting yourself with certainty. "Deserve better than that."

And he feels stupid. God, does Megumi feel stupid. All this time, he'd been thinking you regretted the why of the situation, kissing him like you did. He'd never stopped to think about the fact of how you did it. Never thought you'd be so inclined to consider his wishes.

You think he regrets it, and that is the last thing he wants you to believe.

Taking a risk, Megumi lays a gentle palm on your thigh. He does so slowly, giving you a chance to revolt and bite his hand clean off the bone. You don't so he relaxes his hand.

It's not sexual, not desperate and needy like how it was the other night. It's calm. comforting. Another way for him to say I'm still here, aren't I?

"I'm not great with words," he starts, "but I was very much into it. I need you to know that. You didn't—do anything I didn't want."

Softly and ignoring the criticism from the voice in your head for once, you nod.

You recognize the familiar pull of his lips when he softly grins. "Think it's pretty obvious now, but in case it's not," he leans into this whole communicating thing, "I really like being around you."

He thinks his heart grows a size when you weakly smile back at him, "You like being around me?"

He shrugs, laughing at your sarcasm. "Around you, with you. I guess I just like you, really."

You raise your eyebrows, challenging his statement, "Are you still drunk?"

"Fuck no."

You hum shortly. "Hungover?"

"Disgustingly so," he grimaces at the reminder of how nauseous he is.

"Thinking clearly?"

"Never really around you, but clear as I can be."

It's soft and sweet, and this is how you wanted it to be. Naturally, as if you're both magnets being pulled to one another, Megumi is carefully guiding you into his lap as you're naturally making yourself at home in his hold.

The position almost exactly mimics the one you'd found yourself in on Friday night, but this time, it's different. It feels different — golden instead of red and light with a newfound meaning.

With gentle eyes and slight nods from each of you, you kiss once more. His mouth moves the same, eager yet graceful as he leans into you. No wandering hands or drunken hiccups, you feel one another smile into the kiss until it is all giggles and teeth.

"Y'know, if you wanted to ask me out," you pull away from him, accusatory with an underlying teasing, "you should've just asked like a normal person instead of accusing me of sleeping with your friend."

Megumi groans in embarrassment, hiding his face in your neck. You feel the heat of his cheeks when he sighs.

"Yeah, that wasn't my finest moment."

Kisses are stolen and silence is shared until he yawns you remember how awful he must still feel from drinking so much. Crawling off of his lap, you ignore the butterflies in your stomach whines he whines at the loss of your weight.

"Want anything?" you call out as you walk towards the kitchenette. "I have Advil and a bagel with your name on it."

Megumi hums at the thought, not confirming or denying the offer, as his eyes remain locked in on you in a blissful comfort.

Your voice becomes more distant as you turn the corner, "I'll even give you those eyes I know you like so much."

A muffled sound of humiliation can be heard from the couch, "God, please forget I said that."

Putting the bagel in the toaster and reaching up to the medicine cabinet, you laugh carelessly.

"Never."

…..

Yuuji wakes up with a throbbing headache and an acidic burning in the back of his throat.

He groans, turning on his side before realizing that — he's not in his bed. With blurry vision and sweaty hands fumbling to survey the environment around him, he feels for his phone. The screen is far too bright and completely overridden of missed calls and texts, reading a mocking 2:14 PM when he groans.

When yelling Megumi's name a handful of times doesn't work (it usually does), he opens his Find My Friends app and tracks his roommate. Seeing his icon appear right next to his own while ironically hearing your echoing laughter ring from upstairs, he laughs.

Before he closes his eyes again and deals with a hangover from hell, he sends Megumi a text before tossing his phone across the room.

Ur welcome for not actually calling dibs.

[attapullman]

Silver Screen, Make Me Scream | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: The world is used to seeing Robert Floyd as a Navy admiral on a screen thirty feet tall. You're used to seeing him as the man who spoils you rotten, in and out of the bedroom.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: f!reader, 18+ ONLY, older boyfriend AU, movie star AU, daddy k!nk, unprotected pinv, older bf Bob eats it from behind, cowgirl position, age gap, no y/n

A Note from Mo: Uh...this is porn without plot disguised as a filthy, flirty AU and I am waving from the bars of horny jail. Fellow old man fuckers, this one is for you.

It’s his cold pillow that wakes you. 

No deep breaths or soft snores echoing around the vaulted ceiling. The absurdly expensive bedding all yours to take. Your late night should keep you asleep until noon, but it feels wrong to be in bed when you don’t have your lover’s solid warmth against your skin.

You pad down the terracotta-tiled hall and take in the views of the Pacific, the only artwork needed on this side of the house. Stormy blue and glass-riddled sandy white, the picturesque view sells itself. The waves crash on the beach below, their mellow sound seeping into the Mediterranean revival from the open patio doors. 

He’s sitting outside in just his sweatpants, coffee in hand, as he watches the water while flicking through a thick stack of pages. The grey at his temples is bright under the early San Diego sun. You know he’s reading something important because he has those horn-rimmed glasses on, the ones he repeatedly complains are too tight around his ears. Won’t even waste a minute to go grab his preferred wire frames. 

Robert Floyd may be retired from show business, but he’s hotter than the first day he graced screens.

Eyes lifting from the pages, he catches you staring from your spot by the French doors, negligee skimming your body in the soft ocean breeze. The lids of your eyes are still a little heavy with sleep.

“You need something, baby?” He pats his broad thigh and you assume your perch, snuggling against his sun-warmed skin as you shake your head. How is he always the perfect temperature? The chill from the ocean wafts over you as he wraps his arm around your waist.

Your lips part in a contented smile. “Just checking in on you, Daddy. Missed you in bed.”

“Sorry, baby,” he coos, brushing his lips against your temple. His thick pointer taps against the stack of pages that arrived by messenger at sunrise. “Agent asked me to give this a look over, see if I’d be interested.”

You tilt your head to see the title. “Is that-”

“Yes, baby girl. They’re asking me to come back. Just a few scenes with the new regime, but get to wear that admirals uniform one more time.” Despite him saying it so matter of factly, you can detect his giddiness at wearing those pins once again. “Not sure if it’s the right move though.”

You trail your finger along his pectoral, imagining the ironed uniform underneath your touch. 

Robert Floyd had made a career of Naval action films, starting out as a fresh faced Weapons Systems Officer in his debut, to gracing the screen one last time as an Admiral in the franchise’s original conclusion. He’d won over hearts with his steely blue gaze and soft smile, never one for breaking the rules. Yet always the one who celebrated the hardest when his squadron completed a mission.

For military propaganda, he made a compelling poster boy.

Your entire childhood he had been on posters in the mall, trailers on the television during commercial breaks. Those bright sapphire eyes and gleaming pins burnt into your vision, uncontrollably charmed by the strong, silent type. 

And now here he was, putty under your palms as you asked if he wanted more coffee.

Without a doubt he’d take the appearance, spend a day or two on set with the next generation of Naval action stars. The next year he’d appear on every talk show and repeat his modesty over his fifteen minutes on camera. Your Bobby would balk at the attention, but glow with pride as the host played his cameo for the audience. 

Watching him flip through a few pages, you could already see the shy smile he would win the crowd over as he insisted the revival’s cast members were the real stars.

“What’cha thinking about, sweet girl?” You were so lost in your daydream that you missed his attention turning to you, warm palm running over your hip under your thin robe. 

You stroke his jaw, fingers curling into the regulation-cut greying hair. The cut he’s kept since he was first cast in his early twenties. “You should take the role. You look handsome as an admiral.” You peck a light kiss to his lips. “Dashing, really.”

His blush is striking against the ocean sky. As you get up to go make you both breakfast, you can feel his eyes on you; an extra sway in your hips for his enjoyment. Bob lounges back on the outdoor set and looks between the breaking waves and the now slightly rumpled script. 

He’s coming back.

The view of the ocean as you zip up I-5 is breathtaking, a gorgeous Southern California day. The early call time was less than ideal, but the energy in the car is electric. Bob’s hand wanders into the passenger seat to wrap around your bare knee, thumb tapping out an unknown rhythm as he navigates traffic. 

He looks the vision of wealth and importance sitting in the front seat of his pewter grey Porsche 911 - a sleek upgrade for his 40th from the battered truck he’d been driving since he arrived in Hollywood. The car is understated in its elegance, like its owner. You admire his graceful lines of a life well lived, the pokes of silver woven through his hair. And yet his eyes carry that intelligent, sassy energy that keeps you on your toes, ready for the next challenge he brings you. 

“You’re looking at me.” His eyes don’t leave the road, but the smile on the corner of his thin lips is playful.

You fiddle with his fingers, admiring the large dexterous digits. “Just so handsome, how can I not?”

Bob lifts your hand with his, allowing the platinum and diamonds of your bracelet to catch the morning sun - nearly blinding with their sparkle. He brings your interlocked fingers to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to the skin as he finally looks at you. His eyes are the same striking blue as the ocean behind him. 

“Perfect girl, what did I do to deserve you?”

You’re wondering the same when he enters the studio lot, passing through security and finding your way to the set. There’s a bustle of commotion as the two of you join the crowd, everyone immediately hushing their voices as the talent arrives. Bob’s chest swells with power as everyone immediately caters to him before noticing you.

“That must be his assistant?” Rumors spread through the crew like wildfire, watching you prance behind film legend Robert Floyd like an excitable puppy. Eyebrows shooting up when he turns back and rests a hand on the back of your bare thigh, leaning close to ask if you want anything from craft. 

You slide your diamond-covered wrist around his neck and peck his cheek. Definitely not an assistant.

Since the day he’d made his name on marquees, Bob had been surrounded by women. A tall man in Navy blues with the golden touch of Hollywood? His fellow cast joked more than once that tag chasers didn’t care whether you served the country or just did it on screen. Eventually he’d done the responsible thing and tried marriage, settling down with a woman who cared more about his flashy lifestyle than the quiet man behind the lights. Divorce was swift and the introvert reverted inside his shell, his film career quiet as the next generation of aviators took the screen. 

And then you entered his life, with your open face and bright smile. A coffee shop in Coronado he frequented that you happened to pass. A bump of elbows over the creamer, his amused grin when you accidentally grabbed his drink in your fluster. You were so excited to meet a real movie star, a dream come true. And he looked so much bigger than his character - those shoulders brawnier, that jaw sharper. Yet the smile he gave you was heart-melting as you handed him your own coffee cup to sign, nothing else available.

It wasn’t until that afternoon you noticed he’d written his number in neat penmanship. You had to wait until that next night to know you were falling inexplicably in love with a man who the rest of the world already adored. He was bigger than life, your everything.

And for all of your affection, he spoiled you. Dates to restaurants you couldn’t pronounce in Liberty Station, private events with tickets you couldn’t afford. Every week a new trinket left at your bedside, sparkling in the low light while he hummed in the bathroom excited for you to notice. Few things brought him joy at this stage in life, but you traipsing in with nothing on but the latest diamanté left him positively enraptured.

People could stare and point and judge all they wanted. It was love, and it was all yours.

You’ve raided the mini bar and read through the call sheet when Bob finally comes back to his trailer. He strikes a bold figure in his Navy blacks - pins gleaming, white cap under his arm. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” he greets you, swooping to kiss your cheek. But your breath is already stolen. You’d seen pictures, caught his movies at the old matinee in Balboa Park. But standing in front of you is the sexiest man you’ve ever seen. He looks so…official.

Bob was already feeling good in the wardrobe trailer, the crew he’d worked with for years stroking his ego as they put the final touches to his starched uniform. He’d be on screen for a total of eight minutes and he was going to look important every single second. 

But with your eyes trained on him, pupils wide and mesmerized, it’s the only compliment he needs. 

“They look good on you again,” you coo, tracing your fingertips over the sterling silver insignia pins. It’s hard to quell the rising heat as you look at him, standing tall in this uniform - his uniform - just like the posters and movie trailers of your youth. 

He rubs his temples and grabs his wire frames from the counter, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he straightens up. “Feels good to wear them, baby. Not sure who I am if not in the ‘Navy’.” He chuckles around air quotes, morphing into a moan as you run your nails down his torso. 

Even though he’s not in character, the suit transforms him. 

He’s not your Bob, the man who walks around his big ol’ house in band shirts he got in the 80s and his worn shearling slippers. Squinting through his glasses while trying to read fine print for instruction manuals for more Lego sets than he needs, peppering your head with kisses as you sit between his knees. Your Bobby is always goofy and smiling when you come through the door, eager to wrap his arms around you as he patiently listens to all the friend updates from brunch. He’s warmth and safety, that side of middle age where you have to explain internet fads with a playful eye roll.

But this man…this man in front of you is stern and mighty, seizing the room with his intensity. He’s commanding in his own silent way, back straight and shoulders taught. No nonsense, just like the admiral he plays for screens around the world. His presence is intoxicating. You can’t decide if you want to dominate him or be putty in his hands. 

You twist in his arms, pressing your chest to his as you smooth the lapels of his suit. It’s only natural that those big, practiced hands of his immediately slip to your legs. Two magnets drawn by the promise of touch. But once he’s inches from your pretty face, ready to ask you to help him read over lines, that gleam in your eyes has other plans.

His girl wants him.

“Babygirl, I’m in wardrobe.” His words say no, but the fervent way he’s stroking the skin under your hem says differently. He’s not immune to a tiny dress and puppy eyes. You watch his hand reach up to drag through greying roots before he remembers it’s styled, redirecting his frustration by slipping rough fingers around the nape of your neck. Holding your head still while he fights his sense of responsibility.

It doesn’t matter that you’re in a tin can trailer with no sound proofing. You lick your glossy lips and give him the most innocent smile. “Please? We can be super careful.”

He eyes you warily. The two of you together is messy.

“Please, Daddy?” You rub yourself against him, feeling the way he shivers underneath his stiff uniform. “I wanna know what it’s like to fuck an admiral. Please?”

He’s powerless against you when you’re like this. Needy and heavy-lidded, unsatisfied until you’ve had your fair share of him and then some. It’s only when you’re a panting mess full of his spend that he can regain any control against you.  The age gap is exhilarating and exhausting.

His face dips to rest against your temple, the floral scent of your perfume clouding his senses. So sweet, so soft. You feel his groan against your cheek before he straightens up to his full height, towering over you with a stern expression on his face. Those elegant, practiced fingers tuck under your chin.

“Attention.” Your spine straightens, your breath deepens. “Let’s see if you’re up to regulation, lieutenant.”

A warm gush of excitement floods your body, soaking in your flimsy excuse for underwear. You watch your big, broad, authoritative boyfriend sink down into the plush trailer sofa, knees spread. Patting his thigh with an unamused brow quirk. 

Exhilaration races through your veins as you eagerly straddle his lap, sundress sliding up your thighs as you perch prettily on his thighs. The vision of youthful glow, hoping to impress.

Bob traces your heated skin with callused fingers, lips pursed, before sliding a hand firmly up your back. The world spins as he flips you over his lap, your rounded ass exposed to his eyes, modesty barely covered by a scrap of lace.

“Uniform panty inspection,” Bob huffs out, fingers ghosting over the fabric. His voice is restrained, clipped. You stay as still as possible as you hold your breath. You want to pass this inspection so bad.

The firm touch of his ring finger to your clothed sex forces a moan to slip through your clamped lips. So close to giving you what you want. But he remains diligent, stroking your pussy through the fabric until he’s satisfied with the wet patch he created. “Perfectly up to code.”

His finger wraps around the strap of the thong and yanks it down, forcing you to further immodestly part your knees as he discards the sexy - yet unnecessary - piece of fabric.

Your mind is heavy with lust as you turn your head, trying to understand. Normally he’s between your thighs teasing the fabric for longer than you can handle. Your lips are still dry. But before your eyes and brain connect with the visual, film legend Robert Floyd has a rounded cheek in each hand and his tongue plunged deep in your pretty pink pussy.

Blunt nails dig into the soft skin of your ass as he re-acquaints himself with your taste. Sliding his thick muscle along the velveteen walls of your cunt, lapping up the addicting taste of your lust. Your head is empty as he forces you to take it, to enjoy the way he worships the very core of your being. 

Saliva and arousal mix on his clean shaven face as he presses deeper, moaning as he feels you clench around him. His own pride growing as you wail with only his tongue fucking you. It’s wet and dirty, the heat along your skin eating you alive as you succumb to your pleasure. 

These are the benefits of dating a man with experience.

His tongue retreats, laving over your folds with practiced precision. You bury your head in the rough sofa fabric, muffling the depraved sounds crossing your lips. Your fingers reach up and wrap around his thick wrist, needing a tether to reality. His free hand travels to his belt, loosening the leather and freeing his erection to the humid trailer.

He knows you and your tells. Dragging that wicked tongue back, he corners your little neglected clit. Sucks it into his mouth like an after dinner mint, savoring the tangy sweetness of you. Your hips thrust back at him, desperate for more as you begin your hedonistic descent. 

Time and space lose all meaning as Bob goes in for the kill, switching between the heavy pulls on your clit and the slippery licks along your core. Blowing cool air where you’re most sensitive before sweeping in with his burning tongue. The combination of his stiff muscle fucked into your depths and his thumb bumping your swollen clit finally send you over the edge, a white light overtaking your body as you scream into the plush cushion below.

Film legend Robert Floyd cleans your juices from your shaking thighs thoroughly.

Begrudgingly, your limbs are jelly as you bring yourself to his level. Bob’s hands continue their ministrations to the globes of your ass, squeezing and groping the soft skin. When you finally find yourself sitting upright, his thick cock nestled between the soft lips of your cunt, he gives into his desires and draws his hand up, only to bring it down with a slap! The sound rings through the room and his cheeks tinge pink with arousal and embarrassment.

“Admiral!” you giggle as he repeats the harsh slap on the other cheek. 

While you have the devastatingly sexy view of a sweaty admiral beneath you, his eyes are glued to the mirror across the trailer that captures the dark red handprint he wishes he could tattoo on your perfect ass. 

Lips descend upon his and the trailer is filled with the slick sounds of tongues and moans, four hands grasping with the need to touch. But where to touch? His burning skin? The cool pins of his jacket? It’s almost too easy a choice to wrap your fingers around the bulbous head of his cock while he swallows your desperate little tongue.

“That’s it, feel how hard Daddy is for you.”

He finally pulls himself from your kiss-bitten lips as his hands tug down the neckline of your filmy dress, exposing your heaving breasts to the room. Lips dipping down to wrap around your hardened nipple, leaving teeth marks and wet kisses on tender flesh. Your moans egging him on to bite deeper, suck harder.

The world knows the reserved man who waits to speak, level-headed in the most dire situations. And yet here he is, the remnants of your orgasm staining his chin as he closes his eyes to better enjoy the peaked bud he’s devouring. 

He’s delicious and all yours.

Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck, grasping the short strands with all your might as you pull him off your chest with an audible pop. Those impossibly blue eyes look at you reverently, letting you call the shots so he can continue to enjoy your body as it deserves. You drag your shared gaze to where your bodies meet and a grunt involuntarily leaves him. Finally.

The first touch is a puzzle piece falling into place. The thick head of him asking for entrance, slick with your desire. 

Those unbelievably large hands hold themselves delicately at your waist, assisting your descent. His eyes flicker between yours and the welcoming entrance of your cunt. Your commanding admiral - your sweet Bobby - grasps you securely as you try to sink further on his swollen cock.

“Daddy, it’s too big.” Your voice is pained, teary eyes struggling to hold his gaze just as he likes. His size splitting you open like his own personal cock sleeve.

“You can take it, baby, just breathe.” His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as your impossibly tight cunt squeezes around him. “There’s my good girl, gonna fit all of Daddy, aren’t you?”

Hesitantly lifting your hips, muscle memory takes over as you adjust. The ease of taking his thick cock coming back to you as your breasts bounce with your fervent movement. The lapel of his jacket wrinkles as you hold it, lip between your teeth as he grazes that spongy spot only he can reach.

He guides you in your pursuit of pleasure, admiring the way you thrust you chest out as you clench around him. One hand on his lapel, the other grasping his knee. Truly using his body to get yourself off. So unbelievably sexy.

Your admiral’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing persistent slow circles over the sensitive, swollen bud. Times a hard press with when you are completely full of him, your senses overwhelmed. Bob. Bob. Bob. His balls ache with the need to claim you as his.

Impatient, knowing call time is mere moments away, Bob lifts his hips to yours. Pumping his erection deep, all the way to the hilt as his balls brush your ass. He’s so deep, so perfectly deep. A guttural moan leaves your spit-slicked lips, begging for your orgasm. 

“Are you going to cum for your admiral?” His deep voice rings through your ears as you chase your high, the world clouding as only his cock becomes your reality. Your fingers card through his hair, silver and golden brown weaving together to keep you grounded in your pleasure. “I said, are you going to cum for your admiral?”

“Yes!” The next lot over could probably hear you shout to the heavens, plunging yourself down on Bob’s thick cock as your orgasm plunges you over the cliff. Sweet relief flooding your senses as your pussy pulses around him as a thank you.

Your lips find his neck as you nuzzle in, hips still sunk low on his throbbing erection. You need to be filled with Daddy’s cum.

The stiff fabric of his uniform jacket rubs your bare skin as he holds you close, pressing your nipples to his insignia pins as he strongly thrusts those last few times. Grunting into your cooing mouth as he finally lets go, cock pulsing as thick white jets of his cum coat your walls. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper in his ear when you carefully pull off, barely enough energy to keep your thighs closed for the sake of his uniform. He gently guides you onto your back, ever the gentleman. 

You stretch your sore limbs and relax into the plushness of his trailer sofa, hands wrapping behind your head as you smile, satiated, while Bob’s creamy cum runs past your thighs to pool on the fabric. Your graying lover gives you a wry smile as he regains his breath against the back the couch, uniform crumpled and bearing a stain a little too close to his zipper. 

Always so messy. But so worth it.

There’s a rap at the door, three quick knocks that shake you both from your orgasmic haze. Bob rushes to cover your modesty, fiddling with the hems of your dress with clumsy fingers. Wishing you were home so he could wrap you in his robe and run a bath before watching the ocean from the terrace instead of praying there’s wipes in this shoddy trailer. 

“Mr. Floyd? We’re ready for you,” comes through the door. The PA who whispered you were an assistant, now only steps away from your bare breasts and dirty thighs.

You wiggle your eyebrows at Bob as you fix your own appearance, amused as the bigger than life Robert Floyd shuffles around the room, tucking in his button up and wiping sweat from his collar. Blush in full force as he hands you the thong resting on the kitchenette. He shakes his head at you, mirth softening the edges of his hard gaze. There’s another knock at the door.

Uniform fully back in place, Bob takes a moment to admire you before an afternoon in front of cameras. Enjoying this last moment before he gets into character. Hands on your soft hips, sated cerulean eyes appreciating the curves of your mischievous lips. “Be a good girl for me today and Daddy will give you a reward later. Deal?”

You bite your lip and nod with a smirk, opening the door of the trailer so he’s not later than he already is. Today you get to watch him do the thing he loves, that in itself is already a reward. The crowd outside the trailer watches you turn back and leave one last kiss to his lips.

“Yes…Admiral.”

Bob can’t wait to surprise you with the South Sea pearl and diamond earrings he’s saved for this day. It’s his baby girl’s first day on set, only the best to commemorate the occasion.

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[cockaiine]

on weekends, nanami makes sure to bake before you come over.

it started off with him just wanting the place to smell like freshly baked goods, to impress you with his skills. but it soon developed into a routine. both your schedule and his are cramped, adult life was no joke. but when he sees you by the weekend it all changes. it makes things even better when your face lights up at his latest creation, eating mouthfuls of whatever goods he had prepared for you.

but tonight doesn’t go as planned. kento is not used to things not going according to his plan. he’s a precise man, doing all he can to keep things in check. yet, somehow the cookies come out burnt, his iron isn’t working, the grocery store has surveillance and you should arrive in 5 minutes. 

you’re on time. the one thing that seems right. yeah, you’re right on time to catch a messy kitchen and the wrapping of a new iron thrown right next to the trash. you’re on time to see an embarrassed nanami, muttering apologies at the mess in the place and promising you it was all unexpected.

but then you giggle.

the blonde looks up at you, brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. wow, he’s really done it. He looks like an idiot now, an unorganized, unkempt idiot.

“kento, it’s okay,” you assure, turning to face him as he closes the door. “why are you apologizing?”

he clears his throat, visibly flustered. brown eyes flit away from your gaze. “erm…”

“would you rather i come another time?” you cock your head slightly, not wanting to cause any discomfort.

“what– no, it’s fine,” he mutters, moving out of the doorstep. “please stay.”

you smile gently, moving to take off your shoes. kento watches over you gingerly, praying to any gods that exist that you really don’t mind. the last thing he wants is for this to ruin your perception of him. 

plans were you just spend some time together, nothing too big. maybe, just maybe, it’d escalate into something. but it seems as though no plans were kept today.

you find yourself in the kitchen of his modest apartment, cradling a bowl in your arms as you work hard on whisking the eggs.

“is this enough?” you propose the bowl to him with a hopeful look on your face.

kento hums with a small smile, eyes checking the bowl with curiosity. “not quite yet,” he says, and you let out an exasperated groan at the eggs that just won’t get whisked to liking.

“do you do this often?” you ask, glaring in mock envy at his already-prepared dough. 

“on the weekends, mostly,” he mumbles, threading gloved fingers into the dough. you don’t understand why he doesn’t buy a mix from the supermarket, but you don’t question it. Nanami had his own way of doing things

“you’re such a hard worker,” you tease. he’s about to turn his face to you when he feels something pressing against his face.

he looks at you; face first, then hands. that’s when it clicks; you left flour on his face. 

“I’m bored with the eggs,” a breathtaking giggle escapes you, raising flour-filled hands to his face. “let’s do something else.”

it’s bold to make such a request when you were the one who suggested he teach you how to bake. But kento has no complaints whatsoever, not with your hands cradling his face like that. “like what?”

“mmm… i don’t know…” You roll your eyes, pretending to think as his gloved palms find your middle. “what do you think?”

he smiles a little, knowing where you're headed with this. He doesn’t hesitate, leaning in to kiss your lips.

[mariacallous]

“Did they really decapitate babies?” my 14-year-old daughter asked me yesterday. She was pointing to a text message on her phone from a friend. “They’re saying they found Jewish babies killed, some burnt, some decapitated.” And I froze. Not because I didn’t know what to say—though in truth I didn’t know what to say—but because for a moment I forgot what century I was in. All of the assumptions I had made as a Jewish father, even one who had grown up, as I did, with the Holocaust just a few decades past, were suddenly no longer relevant. Had I adequately prepared her for the reality of Jewish death, what every shtetl child for centuries would have known intimately? Later in the day, she asked if, for safety’s sake, she should take off the necklace she loves that her grandparents had given her and that has her name written out in Hebrew script.

The attack by Hamas on Israeli civilians last Saturday broke something in me. I had always resisted victimhood. It felt abhorrent, self-pitying to me in a world that seemed far away from the Inquisition and Babi Yar—especially in the United States, where I live and where polls repeatedly tell me that Jews are more beloved than any other religious group. I wasn’t blind to anti-Semitism and the ways it had recently become deadlier, or to the existential dread that my family in Israel felt every time terrorists blew up a bus or café—it’s a story whose sorrows have punctuated my entire life. But I refused to embrace that ironically comforting mantra, “They will always want to kill us.” I hated what this tacitly expressed, that if they always want to kill us, then we owe them, the world, nothing. I deplore the occupation for both the misery it has inflicted on generations of Palestinians and the way it corrodes Israeli society; when settlers in the West Bank have been attacked, it has pained me, but I have also felt anger that they are even there. In short, I wasn’t locked into the worldview of my survivor grandparents and I felt superior for it.

But something in me did break. As I was driving on Tuesday, I heard a long interview on the BBC with Shir Golan, a 22-year-old woman who had survived the attack at the music festival where more than 250 people were killed, her voice sounding just like one of my young Israeli cousins. She described, barely able to catch her breath, how the shooting had started and how she’d begun to run. She’d found a wooded area and tried to hide. “I got really into the ground,” she said. “I put the bushes on me.” Covered with dirt and leaves, she’d waited. A group of terrorists had shown up and called for anyone hiding to come out. From her spot under the earth, she’d seen three young people, whom she called “children,” emerge. “I didn’t go out because I was scared. But there were three children next to me who got out. And then they shot them. One after one after one. And they fell down, and that I saw. I saw the children fall down. And all that I did was pray. I prayed to my god to save me.”

I pulled my car over because my own hands were shaking as I listened. She then described waiting, hidden in the dirt under bushes for hours, until she saw the terrorists begin to light the forest on fire. “I didn’t know what to do. Because if I’m staying there, I’m just burnt to death. But if I go out they are going to kill me.” She crawled over to where she saw dead bodies and lay on top of them, but the heat soon approached, so she found more bushes to hide in until she could run again. Burnt bodies were everywhere, and Shir looked for her friends but couldn’t find them, couldn’t even see the faces of those killed because they were so badly burned. “I felt like I was in hell.” She finally escaped in a car.

Her story flung me back to my grandparents’ stories. My grandmother hid in a hole for a year in the Polish countryside, also under dirt, also scared. My grandfather spent months in Majdanek, a death camp, and saw bodies pile up in exactly this way. Stories are still emerging of families burnt alive, of children forced to watch their parents killed before their eyes, of bodies desecrated. How was this taking place last Saturday?

But these stories aren’t what broke me. What did was the distance between what was happening in my head and what was happening outside of it. The people on “my side” are supposed to care about human suffering, whether it’s in the detention camps of Xinjiang or in Darfur. They are supposed to recognize the common humanity of people in need, that a child in distress is first a child in distress regardless of country or background. But I quickly saw that many of those on the left who I thought shared these values with me could see what had happened only through established categories of colonized and colonizer, evil Israeli and righteous Palestinian—templates made of concrete. The break was caused by this enormous disconnect. I was in a world of Jewish suffering that they couldn’t see because Jewish suffering simply didn’t fit anywhere for them.

The callousness was expressed in so many ways. There were those tweets that did not hide their disregard for Jewish life—“what did y’all think decolonization meant? vibes? papers? essays? Losers”—or the one that described the rampage as a “glorious thing to wake up to.” There was the statement by more than two dozen Harvard student groups asserting, in those first hours in which we saw children and women and old people massacred, that “the Israeli regime” was “entirely responsible for all unfolding violence.” And then there were the less explicit posts that nevertheless made clear through pseudo-intellectual word salads that Israel got what it deserved: “a near-century’s pulverized overtures toward ethnic realization, of groping for a medium of existential latitude—these things culminate in drastic actions in need of no apologia.” I hate to extrapolate from social media—it is a place that twists every utterance into a performance for others. But I also felt this callousness in the real world, in a Times Square celebratory protest promoted by the New York City chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America, at which one speaker talked of supporting Palestinians using “any means necessary” to retake the land “from the river to the sea,” as a number of placards declared. There were silences as well. Institutions that had rushed to condemn the murder of George Floyd or Russia for attacking Ukraine were apparently confounded. I watched my phone to see whether friends would write to find out if my family was okay—and a few did, with genuine and thoughtful concern, but many did not.

I’m still trying to understand this feeling of abandonment. Is my own naivete to blame? Did I tip too far over into the side of universalism and forget the particularistic concerns to which I should have been attuned—the precarious state of my own tribe? Even as I write this, I don’t really want to believe that that’s true. If I can fault myself clearly for something, though, it’s not recognizing that the same ideological hardening I’d seen on the right in the past few years, the blind allegiances and contorted narratives even when reality was staring people in the face, has also happened, to a greater degree than I’d imagined, on the left, among the people whom I think of as my own. They couldn’t recognize a moral abomination when it was staring them in the face. They were so set in their categories that they couldn’t make a distinction between the Palestinian people and a genocidal cult that claimed to speak in that people’s name. And they couldn’t acknowledge hundreds and hundreds of senseless deaths because the people who were killed were Israelis and therefore the enemy.

As the days go on, the horrific details of what happened—those babies—seem to be registering more fully, if not on the ideological left, then at least among sensible liberals. But somehow I can’t shake the feeling of aloneness. Does it take murdered babies for you to recognize our humanity? I find myself thinking—a thought that feels alien to my own mind but also like the truth. Perhaps this is the Jewish condition, bracketed off for many decades and finally pulling me in.

When news broke of the Kishinev pogrom in 1903 that took 49 lives (compare that with the 1,200 we now know were killed on Saturday), it caused a sensation throughout the world. “Babes were literally torn to pieces by the frenzied and bloodthirsty mob,” The New York Times reported. “The local police made no attempt to check the reign of terror. At sunset the streets were piled with corpses and wounded. Those who could make their escape fled in terror, and the city is now practically deserted of Jews.” In response to that massacre, the emigration of hundreds of thousands of Eastern European Jews to the United States began in earnest; the call of Zionism as a solution also sounded clearly and widely for the first time.

In his famous poem about the massacre, “In the City of Slaughter,” the Hebrew writer Haim Naḥman Bialik lamented, even more than the death, the sense of helplessness (“The open mouths of such wounds, that no mending / Shall ever mend, nor healing ever heal”), the men who watched in terror from their hiding places while women were raped and blood was spilled. I can’t say I know what will happen now that this helplessness has returned—if I’m honest, I also fear that Israel’s retaliation will go too far, that acting out of a place of victimhood, as right as it may feel, will cause the country to lose its mind. Innocent lives in Gaza have been and will be destroyed as a result, and competing victimhood is obviously not the way out of the conflict; it’s the reason that it is hopelessly stuck. But in this moment, before the destruction of Gaza grabs my attention and concern alongside fear for my relatives who have been called up to the army, I don’t want to forget how alone I felt as a Jew these past few days. I have a persistent, uncomfortable need now to have my people’s suffering be felt and seen. Otherwise, history is just an endless repetition. And that’s an additional tragedy that seems too much to bear.

[nkogneatho]

𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃

—a/n: well...this is how i think geto's aftermath hit you like.

I was walking down another unfamiliar block when I saw you. My heart skipped a beat as I slowly approached you. I tapped your shoulder. But it wasn't you. How can it be you? You've been dead for years.

"I am sorry. I mistook you for someone else," I said to him.

He had the same long charcoal hair tied in a half-bun, the other half rested down. Same height even ironically. Not the same face though. Yours was different. Maybe one in the entire world. They say you atleast have seven people who look the same in this world. But I don't think you have one. Even if someone does, they won't hold the same demeanor as you. You were different. You were kind. Although, Your eyes never sparkled. I should've known they held so much pain, but all I ever focused was how kind you were to me. How your lips quivered before you spoke to me because you were scared of using a harsh tone. How your blood painted your cheeks pink whenever I smiled at you.

I should've known.

I despise smoking. Yet, you've got me lighting up once in a while because I miss how you taste. How whenever your lips landed on mine, my tongue was met with the burnt of your desires with a hint of guilt.

I should've known.

I've made new friends. They are so nice to me. They set me up to blind dates to pull me out of my solitude. "Go out there. There are so many good people who would die for you." I guess that's a ln exaggeration. I am sure there are many people out there. But none of them are like you. I am sure they would die for me. But you actually did. You did die for me. You pushed me away so I don't get winded up in your mess. So I did not have to feel the pain of your sins.

But Suguru...I do. My heart aches even more than the day you left me. I would've moved on if you truly hated me. You never did though. Your facade hurts me even more.

I should've known.

I should've known when you zoned out randomly when I was blabbering about how obsessed I am with that movie. I should've known when you sat on the balcony, getting drenched in rain only to hide the one s that were falling from your eyes. I should've known when the day before it all went down, you kissed me harder. You told me all the romantic things you could within the soan of 24 hours. You fucked me slower yet harder as if you were trying to merge our souls.

I should've known. But I didn't. And now all I am left is with a cigarette I don't like and traces of you left behind.

[jamespotterismydaddy]

Traded Posession

Dark!jacaerys x reader

A/N: I definitely did not do this request justice but I also feel like this would have to be a series if I did and I probs should finish a series before I start a new one😭

Pt 2 here

TW: DUBCON, smut, semi public sex, degration, talks of death, size kink

word count: 1,656 words

They call you a witch, all of them. How else would an unremarkable peasant girl get the attention of Aemond Targaryen? You spend your days at his side, bathed in blood as you lick his dagger clean. You’re his perfect accomplice. You like to think that he cares for you, loves you even but in this moment, you realize just how wrong you are.

The Kinslayer has fled King’s Landing and Prince Jacaerys has claimed it. He leaves you behind like a toy that he has tired of.

The next few days are a blur. Cregan Stark’s

men are the ones to find you after your

failed attempts to escape the city. In hindsight, it was silly to think you’d make it to Harrenhall anyhow, make it to your lover. After you are arrested, they promptly throw you into the dungeon, the dungeon where you have been left to rot for the past few days.

This is when you truly realize that he’s not coming for you. He’s. Not. Saving. You. And you were an idiot to think otherwise.

You’re getting close to having been left alone too long with your thoughts when the door to your cell clangs open. Two guards walk in and lift you under each arm, to your feet.

“Hey! What are you doing?” You ask, happy to be taken out of the dungeon but unsure if it’s out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“His Grace has summoned your presence.” The guard on the left says as they drag you to the throne room.

When you arrive, the doors are thrown open and you stumble in, the guards’ pace much quicker than your own. You come to a halt and someone says, “You stand in the presence of the Dragon Prince, Jacaerys, Heir to the Iron Throne and future Protector of the Realm.”

Jacaerys Velaryon stares down at you from the Iron Throne, a cold gaze in his eyes. “Kneel.” He commands and when you don’t immediately obey, your legs are kicked out at the joint and you fall to your knees. He just looks at you for a moment. “You’re much plainer than I had suspected.” He comments offhandedly.

“Sorry to disappoint.” You say with a grimace.

A hand strikes you across the face. “You will use the proper honourifics when you address the prince, whore.” The guard on the right spits out at you.

“There’s no need for that at the moment, Ser.” Jacaerys says and then smirks. “Actually, i’ll have the room cleared.

“Your Grace.” The guards bow and then exit the room dutifully.

“I was truly pleased when we captured you, girl. I had this whole plan to trade you to my traitor of an uncle just to make him watch as I burned you alive instead…” He trails off. It’s almost like he’s telling you a story rather than describing your fate. “It was all going to be proper vengeance for my brother. Though, you’re not nearly as innocent as he was, are you?” The way he speaks is so casual that it could almost unnerve you, if it wasn’t for your experience with one bloodthirsty Targaryen already. “Imagine my surprise when I send a messenger to him and the boy returns, cockless, with a note that says I can keep you.”

You try not to let the hurt show on your face. After all you’ve done for him, Aemond couldn’t give a shit whether you live or die.

“Ahh disappointed, are you? So am I.” He says simply. “I was actually so terribly disappointed that I found that sweet little village you’re from and burnt it down instead.”

The blood drains from your face. “W-What?”

“You were not useful to me so I burnt your fucking village to the ground.”

You don’t feel like the powerful woman you were at Aemond’s side at this point. You don’t even know how you feel. Your silence reflects your shock.

“Is that all you can show your future king, a blank stare? The more I look at you, the more I can’t believe how the cyclops was so beguiled. You’re nothing.” He says with a cruel disappointment.

You stare him down, angrily now and you spit on the ground in front of you.

“Are you trying to prove something to me, wench? All I can see is that you are perhaps a bit more reckless than an average peasant. Do you care for your life at all?” He asks, like he thinks you’re stupid.

“Yes, your Grace.” You say, thinking it would be unwise to lie. Spitting at his feet was unwise as well but perhaps pride is your fatal flaw… perhaps.

“Come here.” He says, beckoning you with his fingers. You follow his command, stopping at his feet. He points down. “Kneel.” You feel inclined to disobey, Aemond liked that defiance but this man is harder to read, frightening in a different way.

“I plead your mercy, my prince.” Grovelling usually is the safest bet.

“You really cannot decide how to act, can you? I intend to find your purpose.” He grabs you by the chin and tilts your head up. “Let’s start with the most logical.” He unbuckles his belt and you know exactly what he desires.

The prince is well endowed, you know it before he releases himself, but you could not have expected him to be this sizable. He laughs at your reaction. “Judging by the look on your face, Aemond’s cock is small.”

Not small. You think to yourself. But compared to this…

“I don’t doubt that you know what to do. I trust you won’t try anything stupid” He says seriously.

Stupid like biting his cock off.

He’s right though, you do know what to do, taking him in your mouth as much as you can and beginning to suck, you quickly realize Jacaerys is bored. You speed up your movements, just the way Aemond used to like it. The quick pace usually is pleasing to most men… you thought, but the way the prince slumps back in his throne says otherwise. He examines one of the swords next to him in a distant sort of interest and after a few moments, he grips your hair and pulls you off.

“I see now why he didn’t come back for you. You’re like a broken toy.”

You just gaze up at him from under your lashes. “It’s how he liked it.”

Jace scoffs. “What a surprise. You have no technique. I suppose you can learn. I expected you’d be a fully trained pet but oh well.” He brings your head close again. “Go slower this time.” He tells you and you do, taking the head into your mouth and beginning to suckle like a little lamb. “Better.”

You lick up his shaft and then try to take him fully into your mouth again. He never completely fits but you bring your hand up to aide yourself. He guides your movements, pulling on your hair back and forth. You gag almost every time but it would be pretty much impossible not to with how big he is. Though he seems to get off on both, it’s more the motions than your suffering that brings him pleasure.

“Good. Now get up.” He says as he pulls you off again. He stands as well and though he’s not as tall as aemond, he’s still taller than you. “Bend over.”

“Over what, your Grace?”

He sighs and rolls his eyes, like you’re more of a nuisance than anything. He then swiftly grabs you by the waist and manhandles you so you’re bent over the iron throne. Though, you make yourself pliable for him.

“You would think that as a prince, I wouldn’t have to do all this work.” He rucks up your skirts and tugs down your smallclothes. He sees your folds glistening with wetness. “Oh gods, you like all this? What a pretty little cunt you have.” He says as he rubs his hand through it. “Let’s see if it’s enough to truly make a man cunt-struck.” He then slips himself inside of you, so slowly that you think that it makes it hurt more rather than less.

“Ah-ah…” you whimper out once he’s fully sheathed inside of you.

“I almost didn’t think I’d get it all the way in.” He laughs a little before beginning to thrust lazily. “Maybe this was the only reason he kept you around. It wasn’t enough though, was it? He still abandoned his little whore.” He chuckles and begins to thrust a little harder now. “Nothing to say? You were so confident at the cyclops’s side you seemed to have lots to say then.”

“My prince…” you moan as he hits that sweet spot inside of you, his thick cock filling you up deliciously.

“Say my name when I fuck you.”

“Mmm, Jacaerys.” You whine out as his hands come to your hips, his thrusts making you unsteady.

“Perhaps I’ll keep you around. Make you my little fuck toy.” His thrusts get quite rough now. He’s angry and taking it out on you. And you could swear that his thrusts are so deep that his cock is in your tummy. You feel his fingertips on your pearl.

“Please, Jacaerys.” You beg him for release.

“Begging now? Gods maybe my stupid fucking uncle just enjoyed how pathetic you are, but you don’t care about him now, do you? You’re my whore now.” His hips keep slamming against yours and his words make you hit your peak, the possession of them enticing you. The way you constrict around him has the young prince hitting his peak as well. He spills his seed deep inside you and then immediately pulls out.

“I’m going to my chambers. I’ll have you bathed and delivered there in an hour.” He says before descending the steps and leaving you there, slumped over the iron throne.

taglist (comment to be added): General: @valeskafics @urmomsgirlfriend1 @girlwith-thepearlearring @darylandbethfanforever9 @lovellies @juhdoche @papichulo120627 @watercolorskyy

[saturnniidae]

Interesting and, in my opinion, often overlooked thing about Hiccup is how he's like, not really a compassionate person by default. It was learned, not an innate trait like it seemingly was with Valka.

From things said in the first movie, we can presume he's always had a fairly intense interest in dragons, but it was solely with the intention of killing them – and very stubbornly his way at that, considering he hadn't even read the Book of Dragons yet – and it kind of makes sense considering, he's likely desensitized to violence with how often their village was repeatedly burnt to the ground then rebuilt. Like he got excited there was a raid, completely one-track minded on his plans to shoot something down for his own benefit with no regard for the danger everyone (and himself) was in (and yes! This is somewhat selfish, but he was also a child.) Again, a lot of people overlook the fact that while he was insecure about it, alienated by his peers, and looked down upon by adults, Hiccup is still a viking – or at least was raised as one. He still very much held the same, core dragon killing beliefs every one else on Berk did. The only thing that set him apart was his inability to follow directions due to his unwavering obstinacy when it came to doing things his way.

He had every intention of killing Toothless upon finding him, only changing his mind after seeing the dragons fear and realizing they're both trapped by circumstances outside of their control, and even then had no plans of seeing Toothless again after freeing him. He thought he lost his chance at killing a dragon, after uaving the realization he just didn't have the heart to look an animal in the eyes and take its life, he was fully prepared to return to his mundane routine of ignoring what adults want him to do in favor of his own, ironic and futile attempts at making his father proud.

He's never had any kind of 'natrual' connection with dragons, it was something he stubbornly worked towards. Like I said before; he was as set on killing one as any other person on Berk, I just think he had an easier time accepting they were wrong due to spending most of his life as an outcast.

He only went back to find Toothless after his first attempt at dragon training, it was with no intention to get closer, more of an almost childish curiosity, a fascination that grew out of hand, especially after Astrid yelled at him and forced him to confront what he was doing with the question: 'Whose side are you on?"

I know Forbidden Friendship is the moment we all talk about, but I don't think Hiccup and Toothless had any kind of solidified bond until they flew together, and from Toothless' point of view, the realization that Hiccup had now gone beyond just brief fascination and was actually invested enough to help him fly again.

And even then it wasn't until he met that Terror he realized that Toothless wasn't just a one off thing, that most dragons won't attack pointlessly unless pushed to. And even then his relationship with them is still very flawed, and remains that for a long time; I know we're mostly talking about movie Hiccup here, but would the 'do-no-wrong dragon whisperer' that some people act like he is really have trapped that Skrill in a glacier because it was the easy way out? (In his defense he was like sixteen and at least realizes it was pretty fucked up when he was older and did his best to fix things)

It took time for him to get to be the so called 'peace keeper' he is as an adult (though he always seems to prioritize dragons over people, especially Toothless which is a really interesting and fitting flaw but I digress).

tldr; Hiccup was kind of a selfish, maybe even insensitive kid in the beginning, his compassion took time to develop. I feel like people too often forget that, one of his best traits wasn't an innate thing; it was something he worked for.

[liveyun]

EYES LIKE STARS | j.jk (teaser)

banner by the amazing @itaeewon 🩵

summary. “He was everything you were not. He was perfect—too perfect. Always kind, always excelling, always loved by everyone, even your own parents, like a reminder of everything you weren’t. And you hated this. You hated him. You hated the way he always included you, the way he tried to help, as if you ever needed his pity. He was always there, almost like a shadow you could never escape.

Returning to the town that holds both your earliest memories and silent secrets, you’re forced to confront not only the unsolved knots you’d left behind all those years ago, but the boy who was always at the center of your pain. Whose eyes have always seen right through you : Jungkook.”

title. Eyes like Stars

pairing. Jeon Jungkook x afab reader/oc

rating. M (18+)

genre. e2f2e2L (you get it), angst, drama, romance, boy next door sorta situation, emotional baggage, eventual smut

warnings (for this teaser). emotional trauma, toxic parenting, negligence by parents, memories 🫠

word count. 1.4k

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Home smelled like old arguments and unspoken words.

It felt funny— really, how you expected your hometown to be abuzz with lights and joy because you were back in the town. Or, maybe because you’d expected it to change drastically, but much to your surprise— or disappointment, one would say, nothing really had. Everything seemed just as it was as compared to what your memory had told you, though, you were once again not very sure of what exactly you wanted to be changed.

Sure, there were some slight differences you could spot here and there as the Sedan sped through the dull, foggy afternoon street, making each and every detail seem like a blurry haze as you passed every shop, every lane. You wanted to stop and take a look around at things better, but however, you did know that you yourself had paid for this cab and it’s not going to stop until it reaches the destination.

Your home.

Or rather, your house.

The scent of rain-soaked earth mixed with the fragrance of jasmine blooming in the distance did pull a smile on your lips as you remember that jasmine was a speciality of your little town— as how you used to make little garlands from the withered flowers you’d found fallen on the pavements nearby your house.

You roll down the window of your seat, wanting to sniff the fresh air after hours of breathing recycled air in your eight hour long flight. A gust of wind greets you directly on your cheeks, feeling a chill run down your spine at the intensity.

You couldn’t lie, you’d missed this feeling. No matter how much you’d try to deny it, it did smell like older times when you used to enjoy the smell of wet earth after a drizzle, or the smell of seasonal flowers mingling with the damp air.

It somehow felt a bit unsettling how the wind that blew felt rather unwelcoming. You tried inhaling deeply, thinking it’s just your mind playing with you once again, but each time, the wind just felt like it burnt you, ironically being as cold as a winter morning breeze. It felt like a forced embrace, like somewhere you don’t belong to, but are trying your hardest to mingle in.

Wrong place.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself a moment to breathe, to remember.

You tried to remember good things. Things which would put a smile on your face, things which would put aside the bubbling anxiety in your belly away for a while. You sat back in the seat, trying out a few breathing exercises, but they do not really help.

Instead, you remember the echoes of their fights, the way each yell after yell rose from the ashes of fury and threatened to touch the ceiling.

“I told you this wouldn’t work out!”

And there used to come a reply, a sharp retort.

“Did you even believe in us to begin with?”

Instead, you remember how your poor heart felt like bursting out of your chest during these arguments between your parents.

“A child will fix everything,” was what they’d said, but all it did was tear their lives apart. . . alongside yours, which you believe they weren't really aware of. It did everything which turned you to a by-product of their expectations woven with their own aspirations, leaving you to bear the weight of their shattered dreams and unspoken grudges.

Was it ever your fault?

You don’t know.

You remember how scared you used to be. Clutching that old, dusty plushie which you vividly remember, smelled of nothing in particular, your small body used to tremble with sobs, wishing it would all stop. You could not really do anything, say anything, for whatever you said was churned into something you didn’t like.

“Mom.. d-dad, please, stop fighting..”

You remember those pairs of eyes who stared back at you. Specifically a pair of bloodshot, teary eyes who looked at you with an anger perhaps no word can describe. Her bottom lip used to quiver like a dried leaf on a windy day, her face flushed with fury.

“You. . . you . . . ! Why can't you be more like him?”

The car came to a stop, jerking you back to the present. You stay there, frozen, unable to do anything except breathe, until you hear the driver calling you out. You take another huff of air inside you, gripping the handle to steel yourself for what lay

You step out of the Sedan, having thanked the kind driver to help you out with your luggage. The smell of the rain-soaked earth immediately filled your lungs, grounding you firmly to place.

Returning to the place where you grew up, where every street, every corner seemed to whisper something akin to mockery, was more daunting than you’d anticipated. The familiar sights and sounds of your hometown were both comforting and suffocating, although now you’d say it was more on the latter side.

A part of you, small and foolish, had almost hoped that the old house would be as you’d left it—doors flung open, the smell of your mother’s cooking wafting through the air, laundry spread out in the wires to dry, and your father’s booming voice echoing from the living room. You’d even imagined them standing on the porch, waiting with that old enthusiasm, eager to welcome you back as if nothing had ever happened.

But reality was far from those faint, lingering hopes.

Your eyes trailed over the familiar, weathered facade of the house, now so empty, so silent. You wondered if your parents really lived there anymore, because the eerie silence that knocked your heart was more than scary to admit that you really had lost touch with your parents. Yet, it felt like the echoes of the past were still trapped within those walls. How you’d left it behind. The front fence was just how you’d remembered it to be, old and worn out. You were right, nothing really had changed.

It felt like you were standing in front of a deep, hollow void, where you’re expecting some sort of miracle to happen, but alas.

You’d wish.

Feeling your chest tighten, your heels almost take you back— you almost turned to leave, feeling way too anxious and shitty to take a step forward. Your hand was tightening around the handle of your suitcase, but something held you back. A memory, unbidden, flashed through your mind.

It was those eyes—those damn eyes which shone like buttered chocolate. Always watching, always understanding. They weren’t just any eyes; they had a way of catching the light, glimmering with an intensity that made you feel seen, truly seen, in a way that was both comforting and terrifying. You could never hide from those eyes, no matter how hard you tried to.

They had followed you everywhere, lingering on you with a softness that made your defenses crumble, even when you didn’t want them to. There was something about the way they would crinkle at the corners when he smiled, how they darkened with concern whenever you turned away too quickly. They held a sparkle, a depth you couldn’t fathom, a warmth that burned you with its sincerity, and a quiet strength that made you want to trust him—except you never could, even if you’d tried. Or wanted to.

You remembered how they looked at you, full of questions you never wanted to answer. With kindness that you never thought you deserved. The way they bore into you, as if searching for something you weren’t ready to give, always made you feel naked— exposed, vulnerable, in a way you couldn’t explain.

You shook your head, pushing the memory away, but it clung to you like a shadow, which is always there with you, struck with you. The last time you saw him, his eyes glimmered with just a silent understanding that had way cut deeper than any argument ever had. His eyes had said everything you didn’t want to hear, everything you were too afraid to acknowledge.

You didn’t want to acknowledge, anyway. You didn’t want to acknowledge him, nor his kindness, nor his sincerity.

You wonder, briefly, if he still remembers you. If he ever knew how much of a pivot he was in your life, then maybe, maybe, some of his answers he held could’ve been answered.

The wind blew again, cold and sharp, almost as if pulling you back to the present. You sighed, letting go of the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, and took a step forward.

There was no going back now.

a/n : hello there! if you’ve read it till this far, thank you for reading <3 i’ve written something after a very long time of having a terrible writing block since ages. if you liked this teaser and are exicted to read more, please let me know through your feedback 😞 they’d mean the world to me. 💜

just in case if you want to give me an anonymous feedback, you can do that here! 🌹

[legally-allowed-to-slime]

The last few people had logged off the server, leaving it in its burnt, damaged state.

She knew where Gem would be.

Cleo scaled up the ladder and clambered up to the rickety roof of Joel’s tower — where you could look out on the entire server.

Sure enough, Gem was perched on the railing, sitting on the edge with nothing to support her but the wind, staring in the direction of the Secret Keeper.

Cleo looked around at the short cobble walls. Grian had told her that he’d hid away here. Not a bad strategy, overall. You could shut yourself here and forget everywhere else existed.

“Hey, Cleo.”

“Am I that loud?” Cleo joked weakly.

“Who else?”

Cleo watched as the last remains of the green flesh flaked off Gem’s skin, leaving her regular human tones. “No more zombies now, then? Good job, anyway. Killing people left and right.”

“Not you, though.”

“Not me. Only way I’m going out is my way. I’d rather die on my own stupidity than someone else’s callousness.” Cleo allowed a hint of pride to enter her voice. “You were great zombies, though.”

“We weren’t zombies.” Gem turned and hopped down from the railing.

Cleo noticed that unlike the other zombies, or even Scott or Grian, Gem didn’t have a single scratch or injury, save one neat bandage that no doubt was due to Scar’s reckless arrows.

Which meant the blood splattering her face wasn’t her own. “What do you mean?”

“That’s not how zombies work. No offence, Cleo, but most zombies aren’t sentient.”

Cleo blinked. “No worries, I know they aren’t. I kill plenty of them at night.”

“So you should know how they work. They’re mindless. They lurch along, they kill without thinking, they probably bump into trees.”

Gem tilted her head. “They don’t set TNT traps, or betray their teammates, or ask for permission to kill their wife’s perceived murderer.”

Cleo’s mouth was dry. “So you’re saying…”

“I’m saying the apocalypse wasn’t zombies, Cleo. It was human.”

Horribly, incredibly human.

Cleo remembered when they were up on the tower, staring at the others down below, condemning them as monsters.

Somehow, it was better to think of them as a mindless horde and not people she’d been laughing and arguing with a session ago.

Gem was watching her. “You know I’m right. Look at Pearl. Was running from us, convinced we were infected or something but once she realised she had permission to kill, she went in. Even unleashed a warden, or two. That’s how quickly we switch.”

Ironically, Cleo realised, the roles had been swapped this session. The humans were chasing the zombie, but it hadn’t been any different.

“That’s not true,” Cleo said, “It’s not all bad. Did you know, Grian snuck down from this tower to check on his magma pet, and I was there too. And so was Etho. He didn’t kill us.”

Irritation flashed across Gem’s face. “He didn’t kill you? If he had, or, like, told us your location or something, we could’ve all just gone after Scott, and, and, the task would’ve succeeded…”

She trailed off, and looked at Cleo. “Is that the point you’re trying to make here?”

Cleo shrugged.

“Alright, I get it,” Gem grumbled, “No need to rub your holier-than-thou alliance and great morals in my face.”

“Well, no one asked you to put your task over your bandmates.”

Gem didn’t say anything to that.

“It’s not as if I’m exactly a paragon of morality either.” Cleo continued.

“I guess not.” Gem gave a short laugh. “Neither am I. You know, all the murder and stuff? I don’t feel bad! In fact, I feel great. I feel proud of myself for it.”

“…I feel you should be a little less bloodthirsty.”

Gem smiled at Cleo, an innocent, cheerful smile that would have been such if not for the circumstances. “Oh, no.”

Cleo was suddenly feeling very unsafe on the highest platform on the server. She wished Etho was here, or even Grian.

She knew Gem couldn’t take any lives, not now, not when the session was already over. But still…

Cleo raised her sword to stop the axe swing that came, but it was a feint, and her sword hit nothing.

Gem dramatically swung her axe back into her inventory.

“You really thought I would attack you?” Gem said.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” Cleo retorted curtly.

“That’s true,” Gem conceded. “But the curse is just so- it’s so freeing, Cleo? Can’t you see? You could do anything.”

“Uh- no thanks. Session’s over, anyway,” Cleo pointed out.

“That’s true. But I’m still kinda cursed, you know.”

In response, Cleo warily raised her sword. But all that Gem did was deliver a mock salute before logging off with a chirpy “See you next week!”

Cleo stood silently. There had been one zombie on the platform just now. Her.

And thinking about it, she wasn’t sure if there hadn’t been two.

[ilguna]

Piano Sessions: "White Leather" by Wolf Alice + Finnick Odair x reader, their relationship had just started when Quarter Quell happened and both sent to arena, when the rebels pull victors out she gets left behind but her tracker was taken out and the gamemakers can't find her in arena. so everyone assumes she's dead but she escapes. while she's on the run she thinks about the life she wants with Finnick (maybe she sees the propo he does and he says something about her death). as "star squad" makes their way through the capitol they are reunited.

☼ white leather (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, death mention, reader has an injury.

wc; 5.7k

prompt; Piano Sessions: songfic, white leather by wolf alice. not noticable.

--

The seasons are changing, the warmth is fleeting, and the loneliness is burrowing in your heart. While you were being roasted alive a few weeks ago due to the unrelenting heat, mother nature has since decided to be kind rather than cruel. With summer ending, it allows her to relax, iron fist loosening.

It’s perfect timing, too.

If you had to endure it for any longer, you think you would’ve stopped traveling, ultimately setting you back. It was different when you were in the arena, because you weren’t actively moving for the entire day, just in increments. Out here you have no choice, especially if you want to make it back.

The Capitol can’t be that much further. After walking in the trees of Panem for hours at a time for weeks, it has got to be around here somewhere. You know for certain that you’re heading in the right direction because you stumbled into District Nine by accident. 

You didn’t even realize you had, even though you crossed through a fence to get inside. In your defense, there’s a lot of sectioned off areas inside of the wilderness, with no apparent reason why. What should’ve given you a clue was the burnt wheat field, stretching as far as your eyes could see.

In the distance, you could make out buildings, something that also wasn’t too unusual, considering that when the districts were formed after the Dark Days, a lot of structures were abandoned. You’ve been hopping between them, actually. It’s dangerous, they’re falling apart, and there’s critters absolutely everywhere, but you don’t have much of an option. 

You’ve tried sleeping under the stars, it’s not at all comfortable. You get increasingly paranoid as the hours drag on, afraid of the wild animals coming across you. You’d be able to defend yourself, with the knife that you have from the Quarter Quell arena. In the case of a pack, you’d be screwed.

They’d tear you apart, and then you’d have to add on their damage to injuries you already have. The last thing you need right now is another infected wound. The one on your forearm is bad enough. It’s your own fault, you dug out the tracker prematurely, assuming that you’d be rescued out of the arena, because that was the plan. 

When Katniss short circuited the dome using the lightning, she unintentionally messed up the plan, putting the rebels on a time crunch. They were able to get her, Finnick and Beetee out of the arena, you believe. Which left you, Johanna and Peeta behind. And Enobaria, but she doesn’t really count.

You ran across your allies, tried to tell them that if they didn’t want to fall into Capitol hands, then they had to escape that minute. Johanna, who usually trusts your judgement, was resistant to the idea of escaping the dome. She didn’t like the idea of having to survive outside of it, not knowing where to go. She wanted to play it safe, and if that meant enduring whatever the Capitol had in store, then that’s what had to be done. 

You would’ve argued with her, possibly even convinced her, if the hovercraft hadn’t appeared above the three of you. They knew exactly where they were because of the trackers they still had. With you being set on not being captured, you ran, leaving them behind, while you got out of the dome.

They should’ve caught you. It was an open field for at least a mile, they easily could’ve seen you, shot you and scooped you up. You don’t think you’ve ever run so fast in your life. Johanna and Peeta must’ve put up a fight, if it took them that long to grab them out.

You didn’t hear news for a long time, not until that farmer caught up with you in that wheat field. She was out of breath, face a bright red from running for so long, sweat running down from her temples. You paused, watching in slight amusement as she tried to catch her breath, clearly wanting a conversation.

“You… what are you… doing out here?” She gasped, a hand on her chest. “If the Peacekeepers catch you…”

At the mention of Peacekeepers, you were no longer smiling. “Where am I?”

Her face twisted. “Well, District Nine, of course.”

The burnt field clicked then, and you turned to look at it with new eyes. It also explained why the fence you climbed over was harder than the last few. Which then got your mind working, wondering if you’d been in District Nine the week before, because it was heavily barbed.

“My name is (Y/n).” You said, head shaking. “I don’t live here, I’m a victor from District Four.”

She squinted at you, unbelieving. She eyed your body, the clothes you were wearing, which is nothing but an undershirt, a pair of shorts and water boots. Not the typical clothing for a farmer out in the fields, you guessed. You came to the right conclusion, because her mouth opened.

“You’re supposed to be dead.” She told you. “How did you get out of the arena?”

“It fell apart. I simply climbed out.” 

She made a noise, as if the answer was too easy. “Where are you heading? District Four?”

“No, the Capitol. How far away am I?”

“Close, but you’re going in the wrong direction. You need to get to District Two, they cracked the Nut.” She pointed over your shoulder. “If you get to the rebel base, they’ll help you there.”

You nodded slowly. “They still have Peacekeepers here?”

“We’re too close, that’s why they haven’t retreated. They’ve up and abandoned the further districts. They wiped out District Twelve completely.”

You tilted your head. “Everyone’s dead?”

“They bombed it, seen it in the propos with Katniss Everdeen. Some of her people made it out, they’re in District Thirteen now. Not much left of ‘em.”

“Right.” You murmured. “Thank you for the help.”

“Wait, don’t you want me to look at that for you?” She motioned to where you’d cut out the tracker. “It looks nasty.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Well, good luck.” She said, “You better hurry and get out of here.”

“I will.”

She nodded, watching as you turned away, heading for District Two. From what you’ve gathered, you’re confident enough to say that the Quarter Quell arena was placed in the space between Districts Eight, Nine and Two. When you picture the map of Panem in your mind, it’s the area that makes the most sense.

A part of you wishes that you’d taken up her offer on cleaning out the cut. You have some herbal knowledge, which is what’s keeping it from killing you, but that has nothing on real medicine. This could’ve been healed days ago, and it likely wouldn’t have left a scar.

There’s also so many questions that come to mind since talking to her. Parts of the conversation that didn’t make sense to you. The biggest one being her telling you that you should be dead. Why? At the very least, the Capitol should know that you made it out alive. Especially if they did a sweep of the arena and didn’t come out with your body.

Unless they figured that you escaped and you’ve died out here somewhere, starving and alone. Which is the dumbest conclusion that they could possibly come to. With your track history, the bare minimum that you’ve lived off of your entire life, including your Games, they should know you’re a parasite that you can’t get rid of so easily.

If there’s one good thing that’s come out of fighting in the Hunger Games, it’s that you know how to survive. It would’ve been harder to do if you were rusty, but your time in the arena was a refresher, setting you up to live out here, which is not nearly as difficult. You don’t actively have other tributes hunting you down every waking second. 

If the Capitol really thinks that you’ve died, they have a surprise coming.

Your feet stutter a step when you realize what that means. It’s not just the Capitol, District Nine believes it too. There’s a good chance that they’re advertising it to the rest of the districts, then. You wouldn’t put it past them, they rub factors in your faces all the time, like District Thirteen. They led you to think that it’d been destroyed decades ago, when in reality, they came to an agreement that allowed Thirteen to slip out without the others noticing.

Oh, you hope that Finnick isn’t believing the same thing that girl did. You really hope that he wouldn’t take their word for it. But why wouldn’t he? District Thirteen didn’t have enough resources to rescue you all, and the Capitol was right there. Who’s to say that you didn’t die before they could get you out? Or that they didn’t kill you in captivity? Or that they’re secretly hiding you.

They could say anything they wanted about you, and he’d have no choice but to believe it because there’s no evidence proving otherwise.

You’ve been thinking about Finnick a lot lately out here while you walk, mostly your future. It was discussed briefly before the Quarter Quell, because the two of you had come to the agreement of volunteering for the Games. The conversation didn’t get very far after you started talking about the hypothetical rebellion if the arena did work out.

If you had it your way, you think you would’ve talked to him about what he wants to do after the rebellion, because you have so many ideas. Primarily, you’ll be able to travel, you won’t be held down by District Four. You and Finnick could spend months bouncing between districts, and come back home when you get tired of it.

For the first time in your lives, you’ll have freedom. You’ll be able to do anything you want with little to no limit. There will be no more Hunger Games, no more months of preparation with teenagers that have no choice. There won’t be any interruptions, something that held the two of you back for so long.

And you’re not talking about the Games being a burden, you mean the relationship you’ve been denying. You and Finnick have had unavoidable chemistry for years, but between district life and the Capitol, there was no room to explore until recently. And even that seems to have been a mistake, something that should’ve waited.

Except, neither of you could suppress the urges any longer. You were already sharing longing looks and gentle touches, there was no point in withholding the pleasures when you were already dipping into it. That’s why you made it official in April, four months after the announcement, three months before the reaping. 

There had been countless nights where you stayed up, dreaming of the day where you’d be able to be yourselves. Where the stars would align perfectly to allow you to become more than just friends. When it finally happened, you almost didn’t believe the words coming out of Finnick’s mouth.

It’s been difficult to take it slow with him, because you feel like you’ve been dating him this entire time, under the table. You might not have been physical with him, but the emotional aspect was there. In your mind, he was already yours. And he admitted to you that he felt the same, that you belonged to him years ago.

You remember shivering when he told you that, because you had a feeling that it was true. These were words that you thought you’d have to wait to hear come out of his mouth. He was eager to tell you these truths, like a weight being lifted off of his chest. Like he’d been planning the exact moment they’d slip out of his lips in a whisper.

When this is over—when the rebellion is done—you want Finnick to yourself. It’s what you deserve at the very least, after all that you’ve been through. If it’s up to you, you’d want him to propose once Panem has begun to relax. You don’t want the teasing, or more years of build up. You just want to make him officially yours, forever.

Whatever comes after doesn’t matter. As long as you can say that he’s your husband, and you’ve agreed to love each other eternally. You’ll take what’s thrown your way with grace. You won’t ask for anything ever again. You’ll be especially good, if you could get what you wanted for once.

You step through the treeline into a meadow, letting you get a clear view of what’s ahead. You take a few steps before you come to a stop, staring at the colorful buildings in the distance. While you had tried your best to stay on track for District Two, you eventually came to the conclusion that you’d rather go to the Capitol, like you’d originally planned.

It’s not that far now. If you keep going, you think you’ll make it there sometime tomorrow.

—

Four hours. That’s all the time it took for you to realize that the situation has majorly changed here. The further you travel into the Capitol, the more it grows increasingly obvious. Especially if they’ve turned to violence to keep people out.

It’s a ghost town, which is not what you expected. The streets are usually crowded, with no space on the pastel sidewalk, crawling with people dressed in bright color. You were sure that you’d get spotted in the first minute of stepping foot into the city. It turns out that you had nothing to worry about.

Well, that’s not necessarily true. While you were temporarily relieved to find out that the outer half of the Capitol had been evacuated, you were put back on alert when you figured out why. There are traps placed on almost every street, with exponential damage to the buildings around.

You’ve yet to figure out if it’s the Capitol trying to defend themselves, or the rebels ensuring that if citizens return, they’ll be met with resistance. If you had to guess, you’re leaning more toward the Capitol. The way the traps are placed are methodological—it’s a pattern you’ve seen before. It reminds you a lot of the Gamemakers.

The traps are nearly perfectly hidden, the triggers in plain sight. You fell victim to the first few, but once you started to really notice where they were and what they’d contain, it was so much easier to avoid them. Once in a while, you’ll find yourself trapped, where you have no choice but to set them off. In those cases, you duck and cover, hoping for the best.

With the sun setting, you think it’s about time you call it a night. The last thing you’d want is to miss a sign and get yourself seriously injured. Everything is easier in the daylight. Besides, you covered a lot of ground today, more than you thought you would. 

You stop in front of a lime green apartment building with front doors that are made out of frosted glass. You grab the handle, pulling it open to slip inside. The lobby is cool, reflecting the temperature on the outside. It’s very carefully decorated here, with tall green plants in white pots and a small loveseat with a side table. On top of it is a magazine, with Katniss and Peeta on the front cover.

You wander forward, looking at the directory to find a paper taped to the front of it, the words successfully evacuated printed across the middle in bold writing. You lift it up to see beneath it, curious to how many floors there are. There’s five of them, you’ll probably stay on the third floor to keep from going too high.

As you start up the steps, you keep a sharp ear and eye out for noises or cameras that might capture your appearance. Just because this part of the Capitol has been evacuated, doesn’t mean that they’ve surrendered control entirely. For all you know, there’s Peacekeeper bases around here, ready for the signal to round a rebel up.

When you reach the third floor, you choose the unit that’s located next to the fire escape that you step out of. The door is locked, of course. You hold out your knife, staring down at it. It’s dulled considerably because you’ve been using it for everything while you’ve been traveling. This will be its last job.

You stuff the blade into the keyhole, wiggling it from side to side. For a second, nothing happens, and then there’s a click. You twist the knob, pushing in, opening the door to reveal the expensive living room. You pull the knife out but leave the door open as you inspect the apartment from top to bottom. When you’re convinced there’s no one, you pick up a dining room chair, going back to the front door. You shut it, lock it as best as you can, and then shove the chair as stiffly as you can beneath the knob.

The first thing you do is raid the bedroom, tearing it apart for clothes that you’ll be able to wear without looking ridiculous. Once you have an outfit that makes sense, you shower, watching as all the built-up dirt and dried blood mixes in the water, creating a grainy substance at the bottom of the white shower.

You feel so much better when you step out, drying yourself off. You change, letting the bathroom air out while you go through every cabinet you can, searching for the medical supplies. They’re hidden when you do find them, but they’re top-grade, the type of medicine that you’d send to tributes in the arena to get them healed within days.

You read over the ointment’s directions, and then you slather it over the open wound in your arm. Your teeth are grit hard enough that you think you’ll break them, toes curling at the pain it’s causing. It burns as it works its magic, you toss the tube on the counter, leaving to go back to the living room.

The sun has fully set now, there’s barely any light coming through the windows. Still, you shut the curtains, blocking out the rest of it. You head to the kitchen next, digging through the pantry to find countless cans and boxed goods. You pull out a few familiar soups because you’re starving. After you’ve finally located a spoon, you go to sit on the living room floor in the dark to eat.

You could heat it up, you’re sure that it’d be better that way, but you don’t want to risk more than you have to. You open the can, dipping your spoon inside, and raising the creamy substance to your lips. As expected, it’s not very good when it’s cold. Yet, it could be worse.

You manage to get down half the can before an alarm cuts through the stillness, making you jump in surprise. Your hand wraps around the knife before the television set lights up on its own, and you’re immediately greeted with the face of Beetee Latier.

“This is a repeated broadcast from District Thirteen, a reminder of the faces we’ve lost to get here.” He says. “We Remember, do you?”

It cuts to Haymitch Abernathy, sitting in a dark room, wearing a grey jumpsuit. The background is an empty area. To an extent, he looks better than the last time you saw him. 

A feminine voice speaks from off-camera. “What do you remember about Cashmere and Gloss Ritchson, the brother and sister duo from District One?”

“They were a bright pair of mentors, even when they were teenagers.” Haymitch says, staring at the camera. “There was nothing the two of them couldn’t do, and it showed time and time again when they performed miracles outside of the arena. Cashmere had an undeniable dedication that was admired by everyone, and Gloss was very hardworking to ensure his tributes got the best possible. It’s a great loss we’ve suffered losing them to the Quarter Quell.”

You squint, eyebrows twitching. Is this a memorial piece? If so, it’s a little funny for someone like Haymitch to speak about Cashmere and Gloss, considering that they were never invited into the alliance. Or thought about twice, beyond the idea of them possibly killing Katniss or Peeta.

The screen fades to black slowly, before Haymitch comes up again. “Brutus, he won a couple years after I did. He was friendly to me after my Games, and had briefly tried to help me after the tragic loss of my family.” He pauses to sigh. “Even though we could never see eye to eye, that did not keep him from drinking with me on occasion.”

Beetee shows up in the next clip, in the same spot that Haymitch was on a stool, only he’s in a wheelchair. Something must’ve happened between the arena and now. You wonder if it has anything to do with the lightning tree.

“Wiress was very intuitive, incredibly intelligent.” He adjusts his glasses, shaking his head. “It may appear that we have lost no one at all, but with her absence, Panem will not function the same. She worked alongside me to create some of the more important Capitol devices, a factor they neglected to think about. We will miss her dearly.”

You finish the can of soup, and you’re pulling on the tab to open the next when his face shows up on screen. Finnick sits on the stool, eyes puffy and a little bloodshot, bags underneath from the lack of sleep. There’s a slouch in his posture, a small length of rope in his fingers that he fiddles with.

“Tell us about (Y/n) (L/n).” The female voice says.

Finnick swallows, voice quiet. “What isn’t there to say?” He asks, looking into the camera. “She was my best friend, and more than that, my girlfriend. She was the kindest person I’ve ever known, always so considerate and patient with everyone around her. How President Snow can take such a gentle life and then brag about it is a mystery.”

Your blood runs cold, suspicions confirmed. So, they have been broadcasting you as dead. They saw an opportunity and took it, wanting to make themselves look more ruthless. When in reality, they haven’t so much as touched you since you escaped.

“I love her and I miss her.” He says, tired eyes filling with tears. An overwhelming urge to reach through the screen to hold him seizes you. “If I had known my time with her would be cut short, I would’ve done everything to protect her.” He breathes shakily. “This is why we must stop the Hunger Games. For loved ones like (Y/n).”

Finnick is gone, once again replaced by Haymitch, who begins to speak about Mags, your mentor. For the first few seconds you stare at the screen, face slowly twisting before it hits you.

Mags is dead.

“What?” You murmur, sitting up.

“Mags was the first mentor to approach me after I won my Games.” Haymitch says. “She was a sweet woman that could see the pain and understood what I was going through. I was the first victor of District Twelve, she was the first face of the Hunger Games. And for as long as I let her, she helped me mentor.”

Of course she did. That’s who Mags is—was. If she saw someone that needed help, she was there. She even approached Johanna after her Games to give her some tips because Johanna was slowly sinking. 

“Mags did not deserve to die the way she did.” Haymitch says.

It moves on to the next victor, the woman from Five who was killed in the arena. You try to listen, but it’s difficult. You can feel yourself slowly getting sucked out of your body and into the open air. You’re here, but are you really?

The entirety of Panem thinks you’re dead, and as serious as the situation is—it’s a little funny. If this is the rerun, that means that they’ve been Finnick speak on your death dozens of times. There is not one person left in this country that believes otherwise.

But you’re not dead. You’re here, in one of the many luxurious Capitol apartments, eating someone else’s vegetable soup that they’ve saved. If you had gone to District Two like the girl from Nine told you to, this wouldn’t be the rumor.

For the remaining eight districts, the statements are brought from the victors that now reside in District Thirteen or some faces of previous Capitol citizens. Which you can tell by the way their skin is tinted or the tattoos that line their bodies. There’s even a part where a former Avox sits on the stool, signing while his brother translates.

It wraps up with Finnick talking about Rue and the future that was stolen from her. She was just an innocent child, and the Capitol thought it was right to force her to fight for her life with other older kids, who were much bigger and more skilled. When she should’ve been at home, with her family.

Beetee shows up at the end, hands in his lap. “We Remember.” 

The screen dies, but not completely. It glows faintly, illuminating the small area that you’re sitting in. You need to get out of here—out of the Capitol, at least. You should be with Finnick. He needs to know that you’re alive, because the idea of you being dead is killing him. After the two of you fought to be together, you’ve been ripped from his fingertips.

You don’t sleep tonight. 

You want to, with the couch being the comfiest thing you’ve laid down on in months. You know that the apartment is secured, you triple-checked everything. No one is coming to get you. This isn’t what keeps you up.

So, you relax in front of the television in the living room, eyelids feeling heavy the moment your head touches the pillow. When they shut, that’s when the problem rises. You’re not tired anymore, even after counting sheep for what feels like hours, your mind is still running.

By the time the sun is peeking through the curtains, you’re ready to leave the apartment with a packed bag. It has the essentials inside like food and water, and the ointment you’ll be using to heal your arm. You’ve grown too attached to the knife you had in the arena, so you find a way to sharpen it, giving you a reason to keep it.

The streets look the same way as they did yesterday, nothing has magically shifted. You head for the train tracks that’ll bring you to a tunnel that runs to District Two. It’s what the girl in Nine called the Nut. It serves several purposes, including training the new Peacekeepers underground, but it’s also the easiest path to get in and out of the Capitol.

While you should’ve gone to District Two straight away, you’re glad you didn’t. If you had, you wouldn’t have known the whole story. You can’t imagine how overwhelming it could’ve been if you came across the rebels and they bombarded you about how you’re alive. 

You travel blindly through the streets, dodging and setting off traps, watching the chaos that follows. A few of them are made up of weapons that shoot out once triggered. You manage to react quickly most of the time, but you still come out with a few nicks from blades that are impossibly sharp.

Other traps are made up of insects that are abnormally colored and move in ways that they shouldn’t be capable of. When you see this, you decide that you’re right to say that they’re designed by the Capitol’s Gamemakers, because it makes no logical sense the other way around.

When it appears to be around lunch, you stop to eat in a shop with broken windows, stomach growling. There’s a nice aqua blue couch a few feet away from the door, void of the glass shards that litter the tile floor. You open a can of soup, and dig out a small pack of crackers to have with it. 

It’s still disgustingly cold, and yet it could be worse. After what you ate in the woods these last few weeks, anything is a good meal compared to that. Even the crackers seem like a treat.

You set the empty can on the floor when you finish, sitting back against the cushions, staring through the open window. A pair of black birds circle over a nearby alley for a minute. They’re the first sign of life that you’ve seen in this city since you got here, besides the mutts that come out of the traps.

They settle on the roof of a building, side by side, much like the birds at home when they land on power lines. You’re about to look away, when you watch as they both simultaneously tilt their heads, attention set on whatever is in the alley. Your face twists, confused.

As soon as they open their beaks, beginning to screech, you realize that they’re not birds, either. They look to be like jabberjays—a Capitol weapon. You get to your feet, swinging the bag strap over your shoulder. You don’t know how they can see you, because they are definitely not facing your direction. You shouldn’t be in their view.

You take a single step, before you freeze where you are, watching as a group of people dart out from the alleyway. They’re dressed in black, wearing combat gear and carrying weapons. You’re terrified, wondering how the Peacekeepers have found you, until you realize that they are not Peacekeepers. Peacekeepers wear white.

There’s almost a dozen of them, and their leader is pointing his finger down the street to your right, an area you haven’t explored yet. He barks out an order, one of the girls in the middle turns with a gun, shooting at the jabberjay. They flap their wings, rising from where they’re perched, flying around.

Rebels.

Your lips part, wanting to speak, but the words die in your throat. You’re not dressed like they are, you look like you belong in the Capitol because of the clothes you’re wearing. You’re even sitting in an abandoned boutique as if you’re not completely surrounded by danger.

It doesn’t matter, they’re gone before you can work up the courage to speak. You watch as one of the boys toward the end grabs another boy with blonde hair, pulling him along. Neither of them stick out in your mind, and then the first boy turns, looking over his shoulder, right at you.

It’s Finnick. It’s Finnick, and he’s pulling along Peeta. 

You move now, trying to follow him. You’re sure he’s seen you, but as you step out of the shop and in front of it, looking at where you’d been standing, you see that it’s too dark to make out much of anything. The awning above the street blocks any sunlight that might be able to get inside.

“Hey,” You call, walking after them. They’re moving too fast, trying to escape the birds, running around the corner. You begin to jog, not wanting to lose them in the maze of Capitol streets. 

Even as a team, they move remarkably fast. You’re barely catching Finnick’s bronze hair in glimpses each time they take a turn. They’re losing the birds, though. And even worse, you.

“Hey!” You shout, sprinting down the street. “Wait!”

It grows more narrow, crowded with decorations that citizens couldn’t pull inside before leaving. There’s many places to hide, too many buildings to duck into. You can’t see Finnick anymore, much less hear the stomping of their boots against the asphalt. 

When you’re breathing so hard that you’re sure you’re going to throw up your lunch, you slow down, coming to a stop in the middle of the walkway. Your face contorts, hands on your hand.

“Fuck.” You breathe, walking at a slow pace. “Finnick!”

You peer into the local stores, checking behind every bush. You know that eight people would never be able to hide around this area without splitting up. They could’ve gone anywhere.

“Finnick, please!” You stop in the middle of a crossroads, taking your time to look down what each road offers. “It’s me, it’s (Y/n)! I’m alive!” You struggle to breathe normally, whispering, “Please, I’m alive.”

When there’s no appearance, you sigh. The one chance you had, and now he’s gone.

“(Y/n)?” A faraway voice asks.

You turn instantly to face the person, finding Finnick standing at the end of a walkway. He’s not alone. In fact, he’s with the leader of the group, who’s clutching a large gun in his hands, wary. This doesn’t bother you.

“Finnick.” You say, starting toward him. “Oh my god.”

There’s a deep crease between his eyebrows, watching you come closer. “You’re—how are you here?”

You walk straight into his arms, letting him crush you against his body. You grip on tightly to his shoulder, face pressed into the space above the vest. He presses a kiss into your hair once, then twice, and again and again. When he’s had enough, he pulls away, grabbing your face to kiss your lips.

It’s gentle, loving, but quickly turns greedy as he refuses to let you go. And when he does, it’s not because he needs to breathe, it’s because his shoulders are shaking. His face is wet, eyes filled with tears. You bring his forehead to yours, thumbs wiping away the tears.

“It’s okay, Finnick.” You murmur.

“The Capitol said you were dead. They showed your body. How are you—?”

“I escaped out of the arena.” You tell him, stroking his hair. “I’ve been in the trees between the districts the whole time. I got here yesterday.”

He backs away, lips pressed together, tears still sliding down his cheeks. “Of course you did.

You pout, shaking your head. “I cut the tracker out.” You show him your arm, which is looking better this afternoon, but still far from healed. “I’m not sure who’s body you saw, but it wasn’t mine.” You reach for his hands. “I am so, so sorry.”

He pulls you back into his body, hugging you. “You’re alive, (Y/n). That’s all that matters to me.” He frowns. “I’m not leaving you again.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

-

this was part of my 3k celebration!!

[arlemoon]

venus, planet of love, has one moon.

contains: established relationships, implied character death, implied murder, bittersweet endings, angst.

arlecchino’s mind could be equated as a pond. within it contained a diverse body of aquatic creatures festering about. these could be called both her memories and emotions. some lived by feasting upon the seagrass and algae, creating harmonious and symbiotic relationships with those it coexisted with. others, the more ravenous ones, persisted through much more barbaric means akin to invasive creatures. without natural predators, they’re destined to overwhelm the rest of the pond like conquistadors.

it is a cherished skill to be able to create those said predators. or, perhaps, is it but a mere pitiable circumstance in which the mind has forced itself to find ways to cope with trauma? whatever the case was, arlecchino is no novice at containing her invasive creatures, though a hefty sum of her ability to do so was attributable to none other than the one she called her lover. her darling, darling lover.

ironically, the one that nearly sent the effectiveness of all of arlecchino’s developed coping mechanisms down the drain.

it was all too characteristic of life and fate itself that things would twist and turn into such a grotesque ending. what was even more grotesque was how bright the moon reflected against the ocean’s still currents. what was more grotesque was how nothing else seemed amiss in the world. the cliff wasn’t crumbling, the forest wasn’t wilted, and the crickets still played their otherwise comforting melodies as if arlecchino’s mental anguish meant nothing.

what was most grotesque of all was the disgustingly content and gentle smile decorating your face. the face that arlecchino couldn’t bear sparing more than a glance at lest she let anger or sorrow consume her.

she of all people stressed to her children that anger causes impulsivity, and that sorrow causes wavering, and she was an avid practitioner of what she preached. arlecchino tries not to give in and break the silence, but she can’t stop the small utter of your name, weak and defeated.

your response is adeptly timed—elegant and poise as always, she takes note of.

“never in my life could i fathom the idea of hearing my name slip from your tongue with such vulnerability lacing it, my dearest, arlecchino. does this gentle breeze not quell your heart?” you reply, said gentle breeze nearly drowning out the quiet whisper of your voice without exertion. thankfully, arlecchino’s unknowingly trained herself to cling onto every word you say like it was gospel or words of the divine.

her throat is too parched to reply, and it’s as if her pyro vision has snaked its way up to her throat and burnt it up until it shriveled like a plant. still, these moments with you are too precious to let her own mind stop her from talking with you.

“you are such a foolish lover of mine. you of all must know that something as minute as a gust of wind could never hope to pacify something as immense as my unrest,” she slowly starts, finally bringing her gaze onto you for longer than a short glimpse. it was shattering to see how full of life you appeared—flushed skin, hair that was tamed and very clearly tended to.. it all served as a stark juxtaposition to what schemed within your very being and soul.

“we both are foolish lovers, then,” you reply, no beats missed. “the two of us both made mistakes. yours, falling in love with me, and mine, being born.”

arlecchino uncharacteristically bristles at that.

“do not say such ill words about yourself. in fact, do not call what has happened in the past a mistake. mistakes are something to be regretted, and i do not regret and have not once regretted falling in love with you,” she sternly replies, and you have to refrain from letting your slight amusement show.

“pardon my insensitivity, my love. i forget you’d scold anyone who talked ill of me, myself included.”

“you particularly, actually. you mustn’t forget.”

“hm? that wounds me, my love.”

a few seconds may not have summed up to much, but those few seconds of lighthearted banter were heaven itself to arlecchino. after all, small moments like these rarely came. after all, small moments like these would never occur again at all. after all, to arlecchino, these last moments were all she had.

because arlecchino was fair.

she always looked at the grander design—the big picture, and in this case, it was the world at stake. all seven regions were at risk because of this one predicament: you. more specifically, the tumor that grew within your soul, leeching onto your energy until it grew big enough to leave your vessel and infect the world with its curse.

contrary to what some people may assume, arlecchino did not want the world to burn. arlecchino was no villain or antagonist, but she was no saint either. she was somewhere in limbo—an anti-hero of the sort. she wished not for the world to crumble, but rather for it to simply exist.

though, in no foreseeable future could her desires align with you keeping your life.

“arlecchino, my dear? i worry when you fall silent. i cannot help but wonder what goes on inside that mind of yours,” you start, a bittersweet smile coming to your face once more when you hear the sound of materializing metal.

“oh, my love.. how i will always forgive you.”

venus, planet of love, had one moon.

© arlemoon 2024. plagiarize at your own will, but i will be very sad to find any of my uncredited work elsewhere. thank you.