#each of them is a story waiting to be told...

[mephisto-reporting]

You Don't Have to... For Me

About: You step out of your comfort zone to share special moments with him. He sees right through your act. How will he respond? Pairing: Female Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are NOT in a relationship but there is implied mutual interest. Trigger warnings: Fears, insecurities, mild panic, mild food aversion, sensory discomfort

Author’s Note: Hey! Some of the discomforts and fears in these stories might not apply to you personally — I chose them based on what each LI seems to enjoy and what the reader might quietly endure just to spend time with them. This concept was inspired by a conversation with my dear friend and chaos enabler, Ivy ( @xaviersknight )

If you enjoy my writing and want to support me, you can buy me a Ko-fi! ☕

SYLUS

There’s a boxing ring in his penthouse.

Of course, there is.

It shouldn’t surprise you—nothing about Sylus ever plays by anyone else’s rules. He doesn’t live, he orchestrates. Even the things that should feel raw and violent, like boxing, feel too elegant when he’s involved.  Of course, he had a private ring, glinting under moody downlights like something out of a crime drama. Polished floors. Blood-red ropes. A small stack of gloves in varying sizes, already laid out for you. The floors smell faintly of clean sweat and expensive disinfectant.

You're underdressed for this, somehow. Even though he told you to wear something comfortable, even though you showed up in sleek workout leggings and a cropped tee, even though you tied your hair back the way you always do when you mean business—none of it feels right under his gaze.

“Welcome to my little playground…” Sylus speaks from across the ring.

He’s already inside it, lounging lazily against the ropes like a king waiting to be amused. Black tank top, gloves hanging loose from his fingertips, a thin sheen of sweat already glinting across his collarbone. He looks carved from obsidian and marble, every inch of him dangerous and divine.

You swallow. Smile.

“It’s not so little,” you reply.

“Oh? Planning to flatter me into going easy on you, kitten?”

There it is—kitten. The word slides off his tongue. You offer a half-laugh, stepping forward like it’s all a game. But inside, your stomach twists. Tight. Unrelenting.

You don’t like boxing.

It’s too much. Too close. Too exposed. Every movement is a risk. Every breath, a beat away from being cornered. It’s not just the physicality of it—it’s what it forces out of you. Anger. Instinct. Too close. Too loud. Too... visceral. You liked knowing where your limbs were. You liked boundaries and clear lines and space to breathe.

But Sylus was unpredictable. Impossible to read. A storm of velvet and barbed wire. And once, just once, you’d heard him say: “Boring things don’t interest me.”

He hadn’t said it to you. But it stuck. And it doesn’t take much for the mind to twist things.

Boring people don’t interest him, either.

And the thought had stuck in your ribs ever since — echoing in your bones every time he teased you, called you “kitten” or “sweetie” like it was second nature. You didn’t want to be boring to him. You didn’t want him to lose interest. So you said yes.

Of course you said yes.

He tossed a pair of gloves toward you — you caught them, barely.

“You’ll need help with the wraps,” he said, walking over before you could protest.

He took your hands gently, like you were a glass weapon. Thumb brushing your palm. The silk of his touch was deceptive — soft, delicate — but you could feel the power beneath it. Coiled control. Calculated intimacy. Like he knew exactly what strings he was tugging.

“You nervous?” he murmured without looking up.

“No,” you lied. “Why would I be? This is just practice... right?”

You step into the ring.

He doesn’t rush you. Just watches.

You’ve seen him like this before—when he’s stalking someone through a deal, or when he’s circling the truth in a conversation. It’s not hunger. It’s focus. He’s studying you, already inside your head.

“I thought we’d start with light sparring,” he says. “No pressure. Just a dance.”

You force your lips into a smile, ignoring the cold sweat trickling down your spine. “Just don’t break my nose.”

“I’d never mar you, sweetie...” His eyes crinkle, playful. “Unless you ask me nicely.” He was joking, of course. Sylus never hurt you despite his reputation.

He moves first. Not striking. Just circling.

Testing.

You follow. Clumsy. Too stiff.

“Relax,” he says, not unkindly. “This isn’t a war. Not yet.”

You take a breath.

Try again.

The first time he taps your shoulder with a jab, you flinch. He sees it. Of course he does. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching your reactions more than your form.

“Something wrong, sweetie?”

“No.” You lie so fast it burns your throat.

He jabs again—light, teasing. You respond with a wild swing. Miss entirely. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Getting bold, aren’t we?”

Your chest tightens. You can’t read him. You don’t know if he’s impressed or amused or—

Disappointed.

That’s the word that hurts most.

You move too hard next time. Overcorrect. You nearly trip over your own foot as your glove grazes his chest and he catches you—arms snapping around your waist, steadying you like it’s nothing.

Your face is close to his. Too close. His breath is warm against your cheek. He smells like clean sweat and spiced cologne. He doesn’t let go right away.

You look up, startled.

He’s staring at you again. But something’s different.

Less amusement. More... calculation.

And then, softness.

“Why are you hesitating?” he asks. Quiet. Not a whisper, but close.

You blink. “I’m not.”

His brow arches.

You try again. “I just... I’m not good at this.”

“I noticed.”

You flinch.

But his voice is gentle now. Not mocking. Not amused. Just... honest.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t explain the heat rising in your chest. The way your gloves suddenly felt too heavy. The sweat gathering at your lower back. The eyes on you — his eyes — making it impossible to breathe.

It wasn’t the fight. It was the nearness. The intimacy of it. The way his presence filled the ring like smoke, clinging to your skin and thoughts alike.

You stepped back, then again. The ropes pressed against your spine.

His gaze followed you — not taunting. Not cruel. Just watchful.

“You don’t like this....” he said quietly.

You stiffened. “It’s fine.”

“No, sweetie.” He took a step forward. “You’re not fine.”

You looked down, fingers curling into the gloves. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Silence stretched.

“I heard you say once,” you added, voice quieter now, “that boring things don’t interest you. I just… I didn’t want to be that.”

There’s a pause. A shift.

Then, a laugh.

“Is that what this is about?”

You don’t answer.

His hand rises, gloved, brushing lightly beneath your chin until you meet his gaze.

“Oh, sweetie...” he sighs, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever heard from him. “You think I invited you here to impress me?”

You nod. Barely.

He exhales, the sound tinged with remorse.

“I invited you here because I like watching you try,” he says, lips curving into a gentle smile. “You could throw cotton balls at me, and I’d still find it riveting.”

You blink fast.

He leans in, voice barely audible. “If I wanted perfect form, I’d spar with one of my... business associates. If I wanted dull, I’d drink alone. But you... you make things interesting just by showing up.”

You feel the tears prick your lashes before you can stop them.

His hand—still gloved—cups your cheek gently. The rough texture of the leather is at odds with the tenderness in his touch.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, sweetie,” he murmurs. “Just be here. That’s enough.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

“Besides,” he adds, voice lighter now, “your form is atrocious. But your pout is lethal.”

You laugh—shaky, but real. He grins, triumphant.

“There she is..." he whispers.

You don’t spar again that night. Instead, you both sit in the ring, backs against the ropes, gloves off, drinks in hand brought up by someone who clearly knows better than to ask questions. Sylus lounges beside you, knee brushing yours, casual in a way that still buzzes under your skin.

He talks, and he listens, and he teases, and he lets you unravel yourself in pieces—not all at once, but enough to make you feel seen. Safe.

And when you leave, hours later, he walks you to the door and leans against the frame, arms crossed, lips curved.

“Next time,” he says, “we’ll do something that scares me.”

You raise a brow. “Does anything scare you?”

“Just one thing,” he replies, eyes holding yours.

You want to ask what.

“But that’s a discussion for another time.” He taps your forehead, leading you to his car. his hand, extended, waited for yours without force, without pressure.

Just... waiting.

And when you placed yours in his, he didn’t let go.

CALEB

You could hear his grin through the message.

Got us two VIP passes to the Amusement Park’s Firelight Festival tonight. :p Rides, food, fireworks… and a parade with glowing dragons, just like the old stories you love. ;)

And then, like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t making your stomach twist in a dozen knots .

 Come ready to fly,.

You smiled when you read it.

You really did. He remembered that you liked parades and fireworks. You’d told him when you hung out with him once.

And then immediately set your phone down and groaned into your pillow.

Rides. He said rides.

He didn’t know. You never told him. It was embarrassing. Heights just... did something to you. The tilt of the world. The way it all dropped away beneath you like gravity forgot how to love you. That sick feeling in your stomach, the one that clung like static even hours after you were back on solid ground.

You liked fireworks. Parades. Candy stalls and fuzzy prizes you’d never win.

But coasters? Loops? Platforms you could see through?

Nope.

And yet, here you were — standing at the entrance of the park’s glowing gates. breath caught somewhere between your throat and your heart, watching him wave at you from across the crowd.

Caleb was all light. All warmth. That stupidly charming smile that could’ve powered the whole island. He was in his casual clothes – Sleeveless white shirt, baggy jeans and shades and his dark hair was a little tousled like he’d run here.

“Hey!” he beamed, trotting toward you. “Look at you. You showed up. Thought I’d have to fly over and drag you in myself.”

You laughed — or tried to. “Would’ve been easier if you had.”

“Oh? You saying you wanted me to sweep you off your feet?” He winked, already walking backward toward the gates, tugging you by the wrist. “Next time just say the word and I will come pick you up from your doorstep.”

He had the same boyish grin as always. Same lopsided energy. But beneath the laughter, there was something tight about him. Focused. Like he was trying to be carefree — like he was carrying something heavier than he let on.

You squeezed his hand. He looked at you, surprised. Then softened.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied. “You?”

“Always,” he said, but didn’t let go. “And even more so now that you are here.”

The park was a living constellation. Lights danced in every direction — strung along towers, wrapped around trees, woven into the very air like stardust. People bustled by with caramel popcorn and glowing necklaces. Children squealed. Music floated from every corner.

And high above it all, looming like metal beasts with neon eyes, were the rides.

You avoided looking at them.

Caleb was thrilled. He practically vibrated next to you, pointing out different ones, telling stories, dropping trivia. “That one,” he said, eyes sparkling as he pointed at a monstrous looped coaster. “It was inspired by the early zero-G training modules for astronauts. Goes up to 3Gs on the final drop. Wanna try it?”

You smiled too fast. Too wide. “Sure.”

With VIP passes, the wait time was almost non-existent.

You stared up at the metal track. It twisted into the clouds, lights flashing like a heartbeat. Every scream that echoed down from the peak made your stomach twist tighter. You tried to breathe.

Caleb was rambling about pilot protocols and how G-force affected vision, and you were nodding, smiling, trying to look normal.

But the closer you got, the worse it felt.

Your hands shook when you buckled in.

Caleb noticed. “You cold?”

You shook your head too fast. “I’m fine.”

The harness clicked into place. The floor dropped out from beneath your feet.

And then — the ascent.

The world shrank beneath you. Each click of the coaster’s gears echoed like a countdown.

You felt him look at you.

“…Hey?”

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Your hands were white-knuckled fists. Your eyes were squeezed shut. Breathing shallow. Chest tight.

“…Hey.”

His voice was gentler now.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You did.

He was watching you. Really watching you — not with teasing, not with that easy charm. With concern. With care.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked softly, the lightest tremble in his voice.

“I didn’t want to ruin this evening…” you whispered, ashamed.

The ride lurched — nearly at the peak now. A second more and it would drop.

The wind screamed as the peak crested.

He reached over — twisted in his seat, even with the restraints — and grabbed your hand with his left. “Close your eyes. I’ve got you.”

It was warm. Heavy.

But steady.

“Hold on to me,” he said, voice low. “Don’t look down. Don’t think about anything else. Just me.”

And then — the fall.

You screamed.

Not just out of fear but because it was everything all at once. The terror. The relief. The way Caleb held your hand the entire time, grounding you when the sky fell away.

When the ride slowed, your breathing did too.

You didn’t let go.

He didn’t ask you to.

Later, you sat on the grass, away from the lights, a bag of half-eaten cotton candy between you. The fireworks were a long way from happening and there was time to kill.

Caleb leaned back on one hand, the other tucked around your shoulder.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“For what?”

“We’ve been here for a while now because I did something stupid. I ruined the evening for you... You were so excited.”

“I didn’t bring you up here to make you uncomfortable.” he said finally. Soft. Almost guilty.

You winced. “You didn’t. I just…”

“You hate heights.”

He gave a sheepish little smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You think I dragged you out here for the rollercoasters?”

You glanced at him.

“I did it for the fireworks. For the stupid nebula cotton candy. For the look on your face when the parade started. For you. Not the rides.”

You looked down. “I just didn’t want to seem—”

“I don’t need you to be fearless,” he said. “I just need you to be you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You swallowed hard.

He tugged you in closer. “I’m serious. If you’re scared, if you’re upset, if you hate rollercoasters — I want to know. I want to know you. Not some version of you that’s trying to be what you think I want.”

You looked up at him, eyes stinging a little.

“I do like the parade though,” you whispered.

He smiled , soft and golden, all heart. “Good. Because I booked the best spot for it.”

You tilted your head. “How?”

“I’m a Colonel in the Farspace Fleet,” he said with a wink. “Perks of the uniform.”

You laughed. The sound felt free now.

He watched you with a look you couldn’t name. Something warm. Something more.

Then he said, softly, “Thanks for trusting me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Thanks for holding my hand.”

He skipped the thrill rides without hesitation, instead loading your arms with candy and glowsticks and ridiculous souvenirs. You sat together on a private bench as the parade passed by, a blur of shimmering lights and music. When the fireworks finally exploded overhead in bursts of gold and violet, he leaned just a bit closer.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said, his voice low and almost reverent beneath the sky’s celebration. “Even if the rides were a bust.”

“I’d go anywhere with you, Caleb,” you said.

And this time, it wasn’t a lie.

ZAYNE

You stand in front of the mirror, tilting your head as you assess your outfit for the third time. Casual. Put-together—but not trying too hard. The denim jacket is a little snug across your shoulders, the black tee just low-cut enough to count as flirty if Zayne noticed such things. He always seems so calm, so unfazed. And yet, every time he looks at you, your stomach flips like a coin midair.

You check your phone. Zayne.

I’ll pick you up in ten. Wear something comfortable.

Comfortable? That’s rich, considering what he’s roped you into.

Pool.

You had smiled like it was nothing when he’d brought it up over coffee earlier this week, his fingers casually tapping the rim of his mug, eyes steady on yours. “There’s this place I used to go to when I first joined Akso. It’s quiet. Good for unwinding. Would you want to join me? I can teach if you’d like.”

And you, ever the glutton for punishment, had said yes.

You’ve never played pool in your life. Something about the geometry, the angles, the calculated strength of the strike… none of it sounded appealing to you. Your hand-eye coordination is barely enough for catching projectiles thrown at you. But it’s Zayne. Calm, composed, frustratingly attractive Zayne. And he invited you. That has to mean something.

The pool hall is tucked between a laundromat and a late-night ramen bar. A few patrons linger at other tables, but Zayne seems to know the owner, and within minutes, he’s leading you to a far table in the corner, away from the noise.

He’s already in his element, chalking his cue. “We’ll start with the basics,” he says, offering you a stick. “Grip. Posture. Precision. Pool’s all about intention.”

You take the cue stick and try to mirror him. You can already feel the weight of the evening pressing at the back of your neck like an invisible hand.

The first round is a disaster.

Your fingers curled around the smooth wood, already clammy. You lined up awkwardly, bent forward, and—

Crack.

The cue ball wobbled. It barely tapped the triangle of colored balls, scattering them half-heartedly.

"Solid attempt," Zayne said, not unkindly, but with a teasing tilt to his voice. “You aimed with your heart, not your eyes.”

You told yourself to relax. He didn’t expect you to be great. He wasn’t like that.

Was he?

Zayne moved with confidence, sinking two shots in a row. His posture was perfect, movements fluid. When he lined up his next shot, he looked back at you briefly, one brow raised as if to say, You watching? You nodded, smiled. Pretended to be fascinated by the game instead of calculating how many more turns you’d have to humiliate yourself.

Your second shot went worse than the first. Your hand slipped on the bridge, the ball skidded, and you felt your cheeks heat. Zayne came up behind you then, gently placing his hand on your arm to guide your posture.

“Here,” he murmured, breath warm near your ear. “Relax your grip.”

Your fingers froze.

He was so close. His hand so steady. Yours... not.

You nodded. Said nothing. Tried again. Failed again.

The next few rounds were even worse. You miss the cue ball entirely once. Twice. Then you scratch it. You try to laugh, but it comes out thin. Zayne doesn’t scold you, he’s not cruel, but he’s precise, his words clipped with surgical clarity.

You nod. Try again. Fail. Again.

“Your wrist’s too loose.”

“You’re leaning too far. Keep your core stable.”

“Don’t look at the cue, look through the shot.”

With each miss, your shoulders tighten. Your knuckles go white around the stick. You feel the blood drain from your face as a couple nearby chuckles softly. You know it’s not about you, but your skin crawls with embarrassment anyway. You didn’t like people watching you mess up.

Zayne watches, silent for a few beats. Then he speaks, voice lower this time. “You’re holding your breath.”

You hadn’t realized you were.

He places his cue stick down gently and walks toward you, his steps soundless on the hardwood floor. He stops just within reach, but doesn’t touch you.

“You’re not enjoying this.” he says softly.

You froze mid-bend.

“I—” you began, but he raised a hand.

“Don’t lie.”

You straightened slowly, cue stick still in hand. “I didn’t want to disappoint you,” you admitted, voice barely above the background hum of the jukebox. “You’re so good at this. I just wanted to spend time with you.”

The silence between you was soft, not sharp.

“I invited you here because I like spending time with you,” he said. “Not because I needed a pool partner.”

You blinked at him, uncertain.

He continued, voice lower now. “I can be... singularly focused. Too much, sometimes. But I don’t want you pretending to be okay with something just because I picked it.”

Your grip on the cue loosened. “I didn’t want to ruin the evening.”

He tilted his head. “It would ruin it more if you spent it uncomfortable.”

You want to deny it. Laugh it off. But your throat is tight, and your heart feels like it’s pressed against a wall.

“I just—” You force a shrug. “I wanted to spend time with you. That’s all.”

Zayne studies your face. “So you dragged yourself into something you hate just to do that?”

“I don’t hate it,” you mutter. “I just... don’t belong here. Pool isn’t exactly my thing.”

His expression shifts, not amusement, not disappointment. Just something softer. Quieter. The kind of look someone gives when they see through you instead of at you.

“I noticed,” he murmurs. “Your shoulders were locked. You didn’t blink once in thirty seconds.”

You try to smile. “So much for subtlety.”

Zayne chuckles. It’s a quiet sound, rare, but warm. “I’m a doctor,” he says. “Reading body language is half the job.”

There’s a pause. Then he leans forward—not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can smell the faint trace of cologne on his shirt. He lowers his voice. “Next time you want to spend time with me... just say it. You don’t have to contort yourself into something you're not. It wouldn’t feel right if you were uncomfortable the whole time.”

You blink, stunned into silence.

“I don’t want your time if it costs you your ease,” he adds. “That’s not the kind of presence I want to be in your life.”

Your chest aches, not with shame, but something closer to relief. The kind that comes when someone lifts the weight off your shoulders before you even realize how heavy it’s been.

He straightens up and gently takes the cue stick from your hands.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s ditch this and go to that ramen place next door. You can make fun of my spice tolerance there. Does that sound good to you?”

You grin, heart hammering, the tension finally cracking like ice. “Only if you let me steal your gyoza.”

“Negotiable,” he says, brushing past you with the ghost of a smile. “Come. The night is far from over. You don’t have to change who you are around me,” he said, tone calm but sincere. “I’d rather have the truth.”

Your heart thudded, unsteady but warm.

You nodded. “Next time... you’ll be the one out of your element.”

He smirked. “I look forward to it.”

And he meant it.

XAVIER

The elevator hums quietly as you check your reflection for the fifth time.

Comfortable. Cute. Relaxed. That was the goal.

You’d chosen your favorite knit sweater — the one just baggy enough to hang off one shoulder — and paired it with soft leggings, fuzzy socks, and a warm-toned scrunchie pulling your hair back in a loose twist. A look that said, “I didn’t try that hard,” while clearly being planned down to the scent of the vanilla lip balm on your mouth.

Because this wasn’t just dinner.

It was dinner at Xavier’s apartment.

You cradle the two grocery bags in your arms a little tighter, filled with neatly packed slices of marbled beef, a few delicate cuts of lamb, some fresh shitake, enoki, and bok choy, plus the greens. There’s also a small six-pack of fruit-flavored soda you thought he might like — and two mochi ice cream desserts in your bag's chill pouch.

You’d been excited all day.

Xavier’s apartment was what you expected: neat, quiet, lightly decorated in soft colors and odd trinkets he didn’t think twice about but made your eyes linger.

In the center of the living space, a low table had been arranged with two cushions on either side and a full hot pot setup. The induction stove was small but new, clean and white, already buzzing  gently beneath a divided metal pot. Steam curled lazily into the air.

He padded barefoot across the room, sleeves rolled, hair loose and a little ruffled from sleep, and took the bags from your arms wordlessly. When you tried to insist you could help, he simply said, “Sit. You’re the guest.”

And so you sat.

And then he poured the broth packets in. The setup was clean and minimalist, just like him — a pale wood table, small ceramic sauce dishes, dipping bowl sets, and a yin-yang shaped hot pot cooker with two separate sides of broth.

Except this time… both sides were red.

Not a gentle tomato-based red.

Not one side miso, not mushroom.

The liquid turned dark crimson almost instantly.

You blinked.

“Hot Mala. It’s… strong,” he said. He stirred with a lazy rhythm, the aroma already clawing at the back of your throat.

You swallowed hard. Bright crimson oil glistened on the surface, flecked with floating peppercorns and crushed chili. You felt your soul begin to sweat.

“...Both sides?” you asked, feigning a casual glance.

“Spicy’s better,” Xavier said, crouching at the table. “I only bought the twin-pot style because the seller said it was popular.”

Your tongue already tingled at the idea of the red broth. You weren’t just bad with spice — you were barely functioning around a mildly spicy samosa. Anything more, and your eyes would water and your face would burn like a reactor core meltdown.

But you looked at him — quiet, warm, fond in that unreadable way of his as he placed dipping bowls beside the stove.

And you smiled.  You did what you always did with people who mattered more to you than your own comfort.

Because the thought that you might ruin this calm, carefully arranged evening over something like spice tolerance made your chest tighten.

“It looks perfect,” you said.

He sat across from you, cross-legged and relaxed in dark joggers and a white hoodie, a bold choice for hot pot, especially with the red broth.

He leaned over the table with all the grace of a sleepy cat, selecting slices of meat and guiding them into the red broth with long chopsticks.

“You brought good cuts,” he noted, nodding. “I trust your judgment.”

And then, a pause — his eyes narrowed a little at the pile of greens beside him.

“Except… this.”

You laughed softly. “It’s not that bad.”

He gave the vegetables a look that could only be described as betrayal. “It smells like sadness.”

You tried not to laugh. But your heart twisted. Not because of his words.

Because while he bantered the smell of chili oil and peppercorn was already beginning to sting your throat. You reached for your dipping bowl, adding soy sauce, onions, minced garling, lime and sesame paste with trembling fingers, trying to busy yourself.

And when he dropped your favorite mushroom into the red broth, you didn’t protest.

You only smiled.

The first bite singed.

You chewed slowly, nodding like it was fine, like your tongue wasn’t slowly blistering from the inside out. You chased it with soda. Swallowed a second piece — lamb this time — and made a soft sound that you hoped passed for enjoyment but probably sounded more like someone dying of quiet regret.

You blinked the tears back.

He watched you.

You looked down at your bowl.

“Too spicy,” he said, softly.

Your fingers tightened on the chopsticks. “No. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You flinched, barely. He was still neutral in tone — not accusatory. Just… certain. Like a man who already knew the sky was blue and didn’t need convincing.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” you said quietly. “You were excited.”

“I’m always excited to see you,” he said, without a hint of irony. “But I’m not excited to watch you suffer.”

That stilled you.

“I thought you didn’t notice.”

“I notice everything about you.” His chopsticks stilled above the pot. “I just don’t always know what I’m supposed to do with it.”

You laughed despite yourself, hand gripping your drink as you coughed lightly. “Okay. I admit it. I’m bad with spice. But I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Why?”

You hesitated. “Because I… uh… You invited me. I didn’t want to be difficult.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You’d rather be in pain than tell me the truth?”

You winced. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It is,” he said gently. Then added, “But I’ve done worse.”

Then he shifted.

With a flick of his wrist, he transferred the vegetables — yes, even the sad greens — and a generous portion of meat into a plate. He grabbed the serving ladle and began to scoop the broth from one section of the pot into a bowls.

“I have a mild instant soup base in the kitchen, it's delicious too.” he said, standing up. “Give me five minutes.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

You blinked again, but this time not from spice.

“Why?”

“Because you’re here,” he said simply, walking to the kitchen. “And I like that you’re here.”

Your throat tightened.

The new broth was clear, soft, comforting. The moment he brought it out, you wanted to cry.

Not just from the relief of no longer melting from the inside out.

But because someone had noticed.

Listened.

And changed something just for you.

“You didn’t have to,” you said softly as you ate. “Really.”

“I know.”

And then, as if to demonstrate further solidarity, he reached into the spicy broth, pulled out a bok choy… and stared at it like it was his mortal enemy. Then, with slow determination, he bit into it.

His whole face remained unchanged.

But you saw the twitch.

“…Was it worth it?” you asked.

“No,” he said, deadpan. “But now we’re even.”

Later, when you left, he walked you to the door barefoot, holding the empty mochi container like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Next time,” he said, after a pause, “you pick the broth.”

“Next time?”

He blinked. “If you want.”

You looked up at him.

He stood in the doorway — hoodie sleeves half-pushed, hair still tousled, the faint scent of chili oil clinging to him like a memory. His expression was unreadable again. But the warmth behind it? That wasn’t hard to see at all.

“I’d like that,” you said.

And you were already planning it.

RAFAYEL

You shouldn’t have said yes.

That thought rings in your head as the last rays of evening sunlight melt into amber, stretching across the mirror-glass surface of the lake. Everything is quiet — too quiet — save for the light chirp of insects and the steady ripple of water as Rafayel swims deeper, his silhouette cutting sleek lines through the reflection of the sky.

He’s graceful.

Unfairly so.

Water clings to his skin like it belongs there, catching on his lashes, beading along his shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle down his back and arms as he moves. And you, standing at the shallow edge in your swimsuit, arms folded like a makeshift barrier, feel like a tangled bundle of nerves held together by one wrong decision.

Not the lack of footing. Not the invisible things beneath the surface. Not the way your limbs felt disconnected and sluggish, or how you could never quite get the rhythm of your strokes right without swallowing water or tipping awkwardly sideways like an overfilled tote bag.

You could swim. Technically.

You just… didn’t like it.

It was clumsy. You were clumsy. You’d passed the mandatory swimming exam at school, survived a few hotel pools on holidays ut lakes? Open water? With things brushing against your legs, invisible weeds tangling near your feet, the ground disappearing beneath you with nothing to hold?

It made your skin crawl.

But the way Rafayel’s eyes lit up when he talked about it… You didn’t want to ruin that.

So you came.

You still remember yesterday evening when Rafayel had flashed that impish grin and tossed you with “Wear something cute. I’m kidnapping you for a swimming adventure. No complaints,” — you’d said yes.

Because he was Raf.

And part of you always said yes to him. Hoping, stupidly, that it  might be something worth remembering.

Maybe he’d laugh. Maybe he’d tease. Maybe he’d say something flippant and walk away…

Or maybe — just maybe — he’d notice you like you notice him.

“You’re not gonna melt, cutie,” he calls from a few meters out, resting easily on the surface of the water. He floats with infuriating elegance, his arms outstretched and his purple hair haloed around his head. “Or are you actually made of sugar?”

You snort softly, hugging yourself tighter. “I just… don’t want to ruin the peace. It’s nice just watching.”

“You mean it’s nice watching me.” He grins. “Go ahead. Get your fill. I don’t blame you…”

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

And that was Rafayel in a sentence — smug, sharp-tongued, beautiful enough to get away with it. But underneath the teasing, you knew his invitation wasn’t just about swimming.

He wanted to share something.

And you wanted to be part of that world , his world , even if it made your stomach twist.

So you step in.

Slowly. The water’s cool against your skin, not cold, but shocking in contrast to the warm evening air. You move step by careful step, feeling the soft sand shift beneath your toes, the occasional ripple brushing your calf like phantom fingers.

It’s fine.

You can do this.

You make it chest-deep before you hear his voice again.

“Come closer.”

He’s farther now, maybe eight or nine meters out, treading water with that casual, effortless grace.

You hesitate.

He notices.

There’s a pause — one of those strange suspended silences that exist only between people who know each other too well and not well enough at the same time.

Then you smile. Not because you feel okay, but because you want him to feel okay.

And you swim.

Clumsily. Arms too wide, breath too shallow. You keep your chin above water, trying not to panic, trying not to think about the darkness beneath your feet or the silt that clouds around your knees when you kick.

But then — something brushes you.

A slip of lake weed? A fish? A strand of hair?

It doesn’t matter.

Terror shoots up your spine like ice.

You gasp sharply, flail, and instinct kicks in — wild, desperate kicks, arms slapping water, trying to go anywhere but where you are. You can’t feel the bottom anymore. You can’t find a rhythm. Panic closes your throat like a fist—

And then he’s there.

Strong hands caught you.

You didn’t even realize he’d come until his arms wrapped around your waist, one hand steady at your back, the other curling under your thigh to anchor you as you trembled.

“Hey. Hey,” Rafayel’s voice was lower now. All the teasing had dropped out. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

You tried to speak, but your throat burned. Your hands clutched at his shoulders instead, nails digging in. He didn’t flinch.

His face is close. Closer than it’s ever been. Water drips from his lashes, and for once, there’s no smirk, no teasing spark. Just something… protective. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Breathe. You’re fine.”

And somehow, you do.

He holds you for a moment longer. You feel the strength in him, the calm. The quiet assurance that, at least in this moment, nothing would dare happen to you.

And then you’re moving.

Back toward the shore.

He doesn’t drag. He glides, guiding you like something precious — like you’re worth holding onto.

“I didn’t know,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, “You should’ve told me you didn’t want to swim.”

“I didn’t… I thought I could handle it,” you croaked out, cheeks burning with shame. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Idiot, guppy” he muttered, but there was no venom in it. “You think I brought you here to watch you suffer?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The humiliation was sharp and bitter in your chest, mixing with the leftover panic.

He walked the last few steps, carrying you until the water kissed only your calves. When he set you down, your legs wobbled.

“You could’ve drowned,” he said quietly. “And then what would I do? Swim around this stupid lake yelling at your ghost?” He knew he wouldn’t have let that happen. So did you. But he was making a fair point.

That startled a laugh out of you, hoarse and awkward, but it made him smile.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to say no to you.”

He looked at you, for a long moment. Eyes clearer than usual. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said. “If you want to spend time with me, just say so. You don’t have to drown for it, cutie.”

You blinked. Then frowned. “So what, you’re not gonna make fun of me?”

“Oh no,” he smirked, the old glint back in his eye. “I am absolutely making fun of you. But—” He reached for your towel, flicking it playfully over your head, “…only after I make sure you're not cold, scared, or crying.”

He plopped down beside you on the ground, towel around his shoulders, hair dripping. The lake shimmered behind him, but he didn’t spare it another glance.

He looked only at you. “You’re an idiot,” he says, voice bright with performative scorn. “A pretty, sweet, stubborn idiot.”

You blink.

He reaches out and dries your wet hair with surprisingly gentle fingers using the towel.  Then, with a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, he says, “Next time, you sit on the shore, look pretty, and cheer for me. Deal?”

You open your mouth to protest.

“And,” he adds, lifting a finger, “You’ll bring snacks. Preferably something cold. I’ll get out, pretend to suffer from exertion, and you’ll feed me with loving devotion while telling me how brave I am.”

You laugh. This time, genuinely.

“…Deal.”

He bumped your shoulder with his, light and easy. “That’s my good little guppy.”

And somehow, as the light faded and the stars blinked into view above the treetops — you didn’t feel so out of your depth anymore.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

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[piastrisun]

back on track.

─────⠀ opposite: part two.

pairings: max verstappen + female reader, charles leclerc + ex female reader.

summary: even with a broken heart, love might found you in the must unexpected places, the paddock.

faceclaim: jessica alexander.⠀warning: none.⠀

notes: part two of opposite!!! this been sitting in my drafts for a couple of days now. hope you love it as much as i do, i fell in love with them tbh.

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yourusername te quiero barcelona <3 and thank you to @/scuderiaferrari for making me feel like home again

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username alexandra in the likes screaming crying and throwing up

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maxverstappen1 🏁 ♥︎ liked by author

username MAX??? girl what is going on

username red bull garage next you heard it here first 🫢🫢

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username FRRRR once a motorsport girl, always a motorsport girl

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yourusername added to their story.

replies to your story:

maxverstappen1 🤍

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yourusername 🫡🫡

username HOLD ON. MONACO YACHT. HAND. WHO LEAVES IN MONACO??? MAX VERSTAPPEN

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lottierose oh we’re posting hands now???

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lottierose CHEEKY

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ayladrew and this is how you do it!

yourusername 🙂‍↕️

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maxverstappen1 P2 in Montreal, champagne and something to hold onto. Grateful for this weekend. 🙌

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username SLIDE 3??? MAX EMILIAN WHAT DO YOU MEAN SLIDE THREE

username well done max 👏👏

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username we’re doomed

username “here’s my car. here’s my trophy. oh and i got a girlfriend” OKAY????

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username THE BRACELETS that’s literally yn

username i’m unwell

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yourusername officially on the team, and prouder than ever. congrats on the win, champ!! ⟡˖ ࣪ 💙

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maxverstappen1 You being there was better ♥︎ liked by author

yourusername to many more!!!

username i’m gonna pass out

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lottierose YOU DIDN’T EVEN WARN US I’M SCREAMINGGGGGGG

alexandrasaintmleux cutest 🩷🩷

yourusername 🤍🤍

username i’m sobbing 😭😭

username she waited until he WON to hard launch him. mother is mothering

ayladrew i told you that man was a soft launch waiting to happen!!!!!

username THE HARDDDDD LAUNCH????? red bull shirt? POST-RACE HUG????

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username “officially on the team” i’m gonna commit a crime

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

[sweetdispatch]

Movie fan - L. Hughes

masterlist | Part 1 pairing: Luke Hughes x fem!reader summary: You and Luke went on a date not really knowing what to expect warning: none

After receiving the message from you, Luke was all over the moon. He felt like the luckiest man in the whole world to this point that he forgot to text you back. The next day when he realised that you didn’t say a word, he noticed that he read the message but didn’t write back. Quickly, he texted you and set the date for friday. 

Luke planned the whole thing. At first, he decided to take you to his favorite restaurant because he wanted to impress you. He didn’t want any locals that he didn’t know. The food was important for him and he wanted the best for you. Right after the dinner, he planned a walk through the park before coming back to the dorm. 

You were sceptical about the date. You didn’t know anything about Luke except for the fact that he had the same lecture as you and he played hockey. You were scared that you two had nothing in common and the date will be as awkward as the conversation both of you had at the party. But you didn’t want to ditch on him when he made you this heartwarming presentation. 

Your roommate was repeating to you that Luke is a great guy and you should give him a chance. You wanted to believe her but it looked like you two had nothing in common except for the classes you two attempted. Day before the date, Luke sent you a message that he’s planning to take you out to the restaurant. You were clueless about the dress code but decided to wear a black dress that was your favorite to wear in summer. 

Before Luke came to you, he went to buy you a bouquet of flowers. He didn’t know which one to pick so he chose the most colorful one. For him, you were a colorful person and when he saw this bouquet, he knew it’s perfect for you. With pride, he walked into your dorm and knocked on your door. You opened them and your heart melted when you saw the flowers. 

“Hello” Luke said and handed you the flowers. “This is for you” He smiled. 

“Thank you so much. C’mon, I’ll put them in a vase and we can leave” You accepted the flowers and let him into your room. You put the flowers on your desk and grabbed a vase to pour water there, leaving Luke alone in your room. He was looking around, trying to learn the most about you. He saw your photos with friends on the wall and your family photo on the desk. You got back and put the flowers into the vase. “Shall we go?” You asked. 

“Of course. It’s close to the restaurant so I thought that we could walk there. Is it alright with you?” Luke asked you and you nodded. You took your purse and locked the doors. 

First minutes of the walk were quiet. You and Luke were walking next to each other but didn’t say much. You tried to calm your nerves and Luke was trying to come up with topics to talk with you. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, you felt alright just by walking without saying a word. When you arrived in the restaurant, Luke opened the door for you and let you walk first. You sat down and were looking at the menu. At that moment you decided to break the silence. 

“What do you recommend?” You asked him while looking at the menu. 

“I really like steak here with french fries. Butter chicken is also great but if you’re vegetarian, risotto with asparagus and zucchini is worth a try” Luke told you and looked at your face. He saw that you were concentrating and looked as beautiful as in the economy classes. 

Luke ended up ordering steak and you decided to try his recommendation of butter chicken. While you were waiting for the food, Luke tried to get you talking. When he was looking around the room, he learnt a couple of things about you and wanted you to feel comfortable with him. 

“I saw that you're a huge movie fan” Luke started and you looked at him confused. “the posters in your room” 

“Oh, it’s actually a funny story. My friend works in the cinema and she was stealing the posters for me from movies that she knew I liked. I’m more of a tv show person” You told him with a smile. “How about you?”

“I love movies. I don’t have much time to binge a tv show so I’m watching a lot of movies. I don’t know if you saw this one but I watched with my roommates The Iron Claw a couple days ago and I really liked it” Luke told you and you gasped. 

“No way. I love this movie. I cried at the end of it. It was so heart touching but also tragic. I watched this movie during the winter break and since then, I can’t stop thinking about it. Might be in my top 5 movies” You explained to him. 

“I told the same thing to the guys after we finished” Luke laughed. “What’s the latest tv show that you’re watching?” Luke asked you. 

“I’m rewatching Criminal Minds. I watched this tv show like three times already but it helps me to study and I always watch it while doing my homework” You told him and he looked surprised. 

“Should I be scared?” Luke joked and you laughed. 

“We’ll see after the date” You told him with a smile. 

At that moment, your food arrived and you started eating while talking. You learnt a lot about Luke and saw that he’s more than just an athlete. He’s a great guy and also really funny. He didn’t even try to be the funny guy but it came to him so naturally. You enjoyed the time you two had. 

Luke was shocked that you were actually a calm and collected person. He always thought that you’re more of a loud and energetic person but you were very similar to him. He loved when you were talking to him about something that you were interested in. He swore that he could listen to you for hours.

“What do you think about dessert?” You asked him when both of you finished eating. 

“Great idea but I was thinking about going to the park and grabbing an ice cream there” Luke told you and you nodded. 

Luke asked the waiter for a receipt so he could pay. You wanted to cover your part but he didn’t let you. You appreciated that but you didn’t want him to spend money on you. That’s why you knew that you’re gonna pay for the ice cream no matter what. Both of you left the restaurant and walked into a park. You felt Luke’ hand near yours and you grabbed his hand. He smiled at this move and now, you were walking holding each other’ hands. 

The walk to the park was quiet and that’s why you pulled out your airpods. You handed one airpod to Luke and you were walking holding hands and listening to music. It was peaceful and both of you enjoyed this. None of you wanted to cross the line and start talking. Just two of you, listening to music and enjoying each other’s company. 

Luke ordered the ice cream for you and him but you quickly pulled out your card and paid for it. He looked surprised at you and acted like you hurt his ego by paying. You laughed at his reaction and he smiled at you widely. Both of you sat on the bench and started talking about plans for the next week while eating the ice cream. 

You felt comfortable with Luke by your side. He hasn't done anything to scare you or to intimate you. He wanted you to feel alright and safe with him and he was waiting for the green light from your side. Luke didn’t pressure you to do anything, he was respectful and you adored that in him. Luke walked you back to your dorm and stood there awkwardly while you were searching your keys. 

“Thanks for tonight. I had a great time with you” You told him and smiled. 

“Thank you for the chance. How about the same thing next week?” Luke asked you, hoping that you’ll agree. 

“With pleasure” You said and kissed his cheek. “Good night Luke, let me know when you get back to your dorm” And like that, you walked into your room and closed the door. 

Luke stood there for a couple more minutes trying to process what just happened. He couldn’t believe that you kissed him. Later, he walked to his dorm with a smile all over his face. His roommates saw how red he was on his face and laughed about it but he couldn't care less. You kissed him and it was something that stuck with him.

[nogutsnogloria]

summary: robby hasn’t had a proper conversation with you since you started on his shift. a small encounter makes him want to change that.

michael robinavich x reader

warning: medical inaccuracies, reader is shy, smoking and drinking mentioned

a/n: medical case may or may not be based on a true story of my life.

robby didn’t know much about the new nurse, all he knew was anything he learned from dana and even then the information was “sweet girl, good nurse, keeps to herself otherwise.” boy did you ever keep to yourself. robby thinks he’s maybe heard you say ten words to him total since he met you months ago, nine of them clinical.

you had just finished up a triggering case for you and dana knew it so she stops you right before you’re about to hop into something else and tells you to go get some air. you nod and head out through the ambulance bay. not expecting anyone else but when you turn the corner you see robby there lighting up a cigarette.

“do you want a cigarette?” he asks looking at you. “oh, um no thank you. i don’t smoke.” he huffs out a bit of a chuckle at that. “good. never start.” you smile at him “you got it boss.”

he looks you over and he can see that you’re a bit shaken by something. “you okay?” you look at him like a deer being caught in the headlights. “yeah, yeah um that cva we just had hit kind of close to home.” you end it there because you don’t want your first real conversation with your hot senior attending to be a trauma dump of sorts. you exhale out a breath “well i have patients i need to check on. better get back in there.” you turn on your heel and walk back in.

robby finishes his cigarette and heads in immediately going to find dana. she can sense something is up just by the look on his face. “what’s up cap, you look like you need to ask me something.” he’s watching you. “she told me the cva hit close to home, but shes as collected as can be running his follow-up vitals right now” he says to dana pointing his chin in her direction. “yeah robby she’s a real nurse, she can keep it professional. i don’t think i could pull her off that case if i tried. especially with that guys daughters right there worried about him.” he looks at dana with a quizzical look. “look robby i already said too much, i am sure she’d tell you if you asked her.” she leaves him at the desk with that.

robby is trying to look casual after shift waiting outside the woman’s locker room. your busy finding your headphones in your bag you don’t see him sneaking up on you. “i know you said you don’t smoke, but i was wondering if i could buy you a beer.” you clearly weren’t expecting him and jump at his words. hand over your heart you turn to him. “jesus dr. robby! you can’t sneak up on a girl like that. i spook easily.” you smile at him to let him know that you weren’t really afraid of him, just startled. you think about his offer. “i could go for a beer.” and you follow him out of the hospital to the pub down the street.

the two of you find a place to sit and the waitress comes to take your order. robby can’t help to notice how polite you are to the waitress, even outside of work you are making sure people feel comfortable in your presence. “you know i think you and i have doubled our word count to each other today.” he says with an amused smile on his face. “yeah, well my motto has been speak when spoken to, the last hospital i worked in we were basically only allowed to talk to the doctors if it was involving a patients care. it’s a hard thing to unlearn.” robby nods and makes a note to figure out where you came from before working at the pitt.

the waitress comes back with your drinks and placed them on the table. you take a sip out of yours and put it down on the table in front of you, pulling at the label of the bottle. robby can’t not ask it’s really the whole reason he’s sitting in the bar with you, at least that’s what he’s telling himself. “so you said that cva today hit close to home. i just wanted to make sure you were okay after that. i didn’t really have a chance to check in on you, that’s a part of my job.” you continue to peal at the label on your beer. chancing a look up at his face you decide to tell him the truth.

“my dad had a stroke about three weeks ago. my mom was out of town visiting her sisters so i went over and we had dinner. i was just about to leave and when he was saying goodbye to me he wasn’t making sense, mumbling and slurring his words. i didn’t even run an assessment like i maybe should have i just called 9-1-1. and when i told him an ambulance was coming he yelled at me. the words came out clear as day and i thought i maybe made a mistake.” you smile at robby and he just blinks at you. “having seen this situation so many times before i couldn’t believe how i just froze, not that there was much i could do from home but…” you trail off. robby rests a hand on top of your arm of the hand that has now basically peeled the whole label off your bottle. “hey there’s a reason we aren’t supposed to be a part of a loved ones care when they’re in the hospital. worrying is a completely normal response you saw something wasn’t right and called an ambulance, i would say that he had pretty good care right off the bat.” you nod at that. “is your dad alright now? any thing long term?”

you shake your head with a smile. “we got really lucky. his doctor suspects that the time between first symptoms and clot buster administered was about forty-five minutes, he had full speech back by 11:30 that night and was discharged two days later. now he’s just grumpy because he can’t drive for a couple more weeks. my poor mom needs a vacation when he gets the okay to be behind a wheel again.” robby nods at that with a smile. “and you? anything long term with you?” you take another drink from your bottle. “i think im doing fine and then a case like today comes in. that guy was definitely in worse shape than my dad was, but then my mind starts racing and asking questions like what if i didn’t go there for dinner, what if i picked up a shift that night. sorry i shouldn’t dump this all on you. i have a therapist for that.” you look up apologetic with a forced exhale. “don’t worry about it please, im enjoying learning about what makes you, you” you meet his eyes with a small smile. “i am enjoying this too.” you meet his eyes.

“this hospital isn’t like your old one. the doctors here appreciate the nurses input, we welcome it. or if you just want to ask how our weekend was is good too. we like to make sure everyone feels apart of the team, no weird power dynamics if i can help it. i for one would enjoy hearing your voice a lot more.” you blush at that. “i will try. but like i said im usually a speak when spoken to type of girl.” robby leans in resting his head on his palm. “then i guess you’re going to be sick of me asking how you are”

[pink-nightmare-lab]

✨🦇General!Lilia Vanrouge one-shot🦇✨

Summary: reader is a diurnal* fae and is curious about the nocturnal fae so she goes to their territory to satisfy her curiosity

*Diurnal: basically the opposite of nocturnal, in other words, most active during the day

Other info: reader is female and a faerie🦋

Side note: might turn this into a fully fledged fanfiction with multiple chapters, also, I don't know the word count but it's long

Also, everything is purely made up, I took some inspo from the Tinkerbell movies and used my own imagination, so yeah, nothing canon here but HOLY MOLY, it took me so long to finish this

You live in a beautiful village surrounded by big trees where fae of all kinds flutter by or walk, going on about their day while the warm sun shines through the trees and illuminating the village in a golden glow, flowers blooming in every corner and magic flowing through the cores of the trees protecting the village.

You were a diurnal fae, to be exact, a butterfly faerie, wings as soft as silk and delicate like the wings of the small butterflies fluttering by, there was nothing better than to fly around and feel the breeze caress your skin like a gentle kiss.

It was widely known that faeries have conflicts with humans for centuries now but even amongst faerie kind, conflicts exist too, for one, nocturnal and diurnal faerie don't seem to get along too well and usually stay out of each other's skin just to avoid unpleasantries.

Yet no matter how often the others warned you and told you all sorts of stories, you always wanted to see the nocturnal fae up close out of sheer curiosity, after all, what if they aren't as bad as everyone says they are?

It's dawn when you slowly arise from your slumber, stretching and letting your wings flutter before getting out of bed, the village slowly coming to life to proceed with their daily tasks.

Today or rather tonight will be different, tonight you're venturing outside the territory of the diurnal faeries and into the lands of the nocturnal fae, yearning to learn more about them since books don't cover much about them.

You put on a beautiful floral dress and your hair up so it won't bother you for today's flower caretaking amongst other butterfly faeries in the nearby meadow.

You flutter towards your closet and grab a dark brown cloak and stuff it into a bag for later, after all, nobody should see it's you and with those big wings of yours that resemble those of a monarch butterfly, they'd stick out like a sore thumb, especially in the dark forest of the nocturnal fae territory, big bright orange wings would certainly be an unusual sight over there.

Once you're ready, you flutter towards the meadow, some already there and tending to the moon flowers, preparing them for an upcoming festival, pollinating them with a special pollen and making sure no illness befell at least one of them.

While you scatter the pollen on the flowers, you carefully observe the guards, ever so often hiding beneath the big flowers to take a better glimpse at them, listening in and trying to memorise their patrolling pattern, technically, it wasn't forbidden to leave the village at night but when your reasoning is to visit the nocturnal fae and try to become friendly, well, that's another story.

When it finally becomes evening, it's time to get ready, you put on a cloak and wait around a certain area around one of the exits for guards to walk past and go towards another area to patrol.

It's your cue to leave and you quickly do so, not the fastest by foot but it worked, you only hope that nobody saw you else you'd be in trouble and then the mayor would be upset and then the ministers when they heard one of their subjects decided to dare to go to the nocturnal faeries.

You take off the cloak once you're a good bit away from the village, you decide to flutter towards the edge of the forest for the rest of this small trip till you reach the edge of the forest, staring into the other side, it looks much darker and dangerous yet it's no time to go back now after planning for so long for this adventure of yours.

From what you've heard, nocturnal faeries are rather "scary" looking, sharp fangs, horns, scales and just overall roughness, that they're pretty mean although that's debatable since you've met plenty of mean diurnal faeries in your life but oh well, those were just rumours, you don't know what exactly to expect but at least it's one step closer to get friendly with them.

Aside from curiosity, you had another reason for this trip...

A while back, you overheard guards whispering amongst themselves, the trees surrounding the village are growing weaker and need a special kind of pollen to restore their strength but their problem was that the remedy lied within the territory of the nocturnal faeries and they're oh so stubborn to ask for help in that regard, instead, they tasked scholars to find an alternative solution.

If those trees die, everything around them does as well, your village is highly dependent on that but most importantly, the moon flowers on the meadow are of highest concern but what makes them special is that they have healing properties and that they bloom the strongest on the third full moon during the festival, without it, aiding the injured would take longer and finding a healer might end up being too late.

To you, the answer was obvious, to negotiate with the nocturnal faeries, asking for help and offering something in return, it couldn't be that bad... but then again, you've never met an actual nocturnal fae.

As night grows closer, you put on the cloak, trying to blend in, the forest seems so much darker compared to the ones in your territory, the tree leafs rustle in the wind and the owls sing their songs, it's hard to see without a light but if you lit up a light it could alarm the wrong type of creatures, so instead, you depend on the moonlight to guide you.

After walking for an hour, you spot a distant light emitted from a campfire but then you also heard... screeching and growling? you're not sure if you're hearing dangerous creatures or actual nocturnal faeries after all but nonetheless, it's an opportunity to see them up close.

You lower yourself and walk along the bushes to try to get closer till you're close enough to peek through the bushes and see what you've found.

Your eyes widen at the sight, real nocturnal faeries! But from the looks of it, soldiers.

Their masks are put aside and they're resting and talking, you hold in a gasp at the sight, such sharp fangs, piercing eyes with a slit shaped pupils, longer pointy ears and as you've heard, some indeed have scales and horns, the rumours about them looking more rough and predatory certainly wasn't a lie and yet... there was something ethereal about them.

To your confirmation, that growling and screeching is indeed just them talking, such an odd yet curious language, you thought.

You decide to stay hidden and keep observing, clearly, it's very important! You were just about to take out your journal but then you remember just how good of a hearing they have so perhaps alarming them wouldn't be so smart, writing can wait but... if their hearing is that good, what if they already are aware of your presence? No, that can't be, else they would've already noticed by now.

You have a clear goal in mind, observe, plan and negotiate (hopefully), after all, finding the remedy yourself and just taking it would be thievery, so you can't do that, you'd be punished and you aren't exactly fond of that.

You spot a fae much smaller and slimmer than the rest, his skin was a beautiful shade of pale, he had sharp fangs like the rest but his red piercing eyes truly captured your interest, his long hair flowing in the gentle night breeze.

Judging from the way the others interact with him, he seems to be someone highly important but it was difficult to really tell if they'd listen to reason were you to actually approach them, you could make nothing of their screeching.

They truly sounded and looked so different from the faeries you're surrounded by all the time yet you couldn't help but look at them in awe, you want to know more about them and get to know their lives and everything else.

Now stuck in a dilemma, you're sure that approaching them head on wouldn't be the smartest idea, they'd probably just shoo you back to your home but you somehow need to at least befriend one of them.

After some more observing, you internally sigh, it's no use to keep watching them so you slowly back away and try to get away without getting noticed.

Once you successfully get away, you continue to walk deeper into the woods in hopes of spotting the sister tree of the ones surrounding your village but that advantage is cut short very quickly.

One step and suddenly a rope snatches your ankle and pulls you up, dangling you upside down.

You did not expect this whatsoever and now you're stuck hanging upside down, also having made quite the noise with the amount of leaf rustling due to the trap.

Your hair is a mess, the skirt of your dress hanging down, revealing the shorts beneath them, your bag fell down alongside your cloak, letting you wings free and making you less hidden.

You curse inside, trying to figure out what to do now while you meekly tried reaching for the rope holding your leg, your wings flutter in frustration.

"first you're snooping around and now you're stuck dangling like freshly caught prey, I must say... I've never seen your kind venturing into our territory, alone nonetheless" a deep voice from behind suddenly speaks up.

You freeze, unable to look behind you but you can tell that it must be one of the soldiers you saw earlier.

"Such beautiful wings, diurnal faeries truly live up to their names, you look like a soft delicate flower, like something that doesn't belong here"

You feel a hand gently caressing your wing, you gasp and slap him with your wing, it was gentle and didn't harm him but it was enough to startle him and to tell him to stop.

After a moment of silence, he's in front of you and you're met with those piercing red eyes again that you saw earlier, he looks like he's thinking with a stern face.

"Tell me, who are you and what are you doing here?" he asks sternly, leaving no room to back away.

"I'm just here for help, I need something that can only be acquired here!" you say after composing yourself.

"and pray tell what it is you're looking for? Not often does your kind come here, nonetheless all alone like yourself, a bit naive if you ask me" he replied unimpressed.

You huff "I came here with a purpose, thank you very much..." you reply back a little sassy.

He keeps looking at you sternly, letting you know he won't help you if you don't tell your intentions first, very clearly as well.

"Okay look... my village has these special trees with magic and they're growing weaker... there's a certain type of pollen that can make it strong again but the problem is, the sister tree carrying that pollen grows here, in your forest, nowhere else and those trees are super important to us..." you explain and the sigh, talking while hanging upside sure is exhausting.

He hums and then just looks smug "I see how it is, we have a little thief here"

You gasp frustrated "I'm not stealing! I'm here to negotiate with your kind! I was hoping to talk with any of you, get friendly and well, get the pollen since the higher ups refuse too!"

He looks contemplative before responding "I truly don't know if you're naive or actually brave for coming here but let me be clear, you can't just waltz over here, expecting to simply 'talk it out' with the first faerie you see, not to mention, we aren't on friendly terms"

You look a little defeated but still keep your composure "...at least please let me down?"

He sighs and cuts the rope, making you fall down with a groan, slowly getting up and reaching for you bag and cloak.

He watches you gathering yourself and evening out the skirt of your dress and removing a few leafs from your hair before looking at him.

"Look, in case you didn't realise, we're in the middle of a war with the Silver Owls, we don't have time for something like this, we're busy protecting our lands, including yours, so you better fly back home and stay out of danger, let the higher ups handle it" he replies while looking around, listening to his surroundings.

You look frustrated but quickly keep shut once he looks at you sternly once again.

He sighs and looks less serious "I've been gone long enough from the camp, it won't be long till someone comes looking for me, you're lucky you came across me, you should better hurry back home before anything dangerous can happen, I can't protect you just because you decided to have a little adventure here, I have my duties to attend to"

You put on your cloak and bag but before you can go, the nocturnal fae calls out to you again.

"the name's Lilia Vanrouge, general Lilia Vanrouge, in case we cross paths again, little lady"

Clearly he knows just as well as you, that this won't be the last encounter.

Once you reach your home without alarming the guards, you sigh, sitting down on your bed, thinking about your encounter with Lilia, it was a rocky start but you know you'll have to come back.

Nonetheless, you start writing down on your journal, everything you found out so far, but you must admit, despite their rough and predatory features, they are quite handsome.

You smile and put the journal away, getting ready for bed for another day of planning the next move.

"You're finally back, general, was it a Silver Owl?" Baur asks once he sees Lilia return.

"No, just a lost deer, nothing to worry about" he dismisses, before heading to his tent, the feeling of your wings still lingering on his mind.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Glimpse of Us

summary: routine became something finnick cherished. but course, the capitol must ruin everything, including his love. but he will still find a way to get her back.

finnick odair x fem!reader

content warnings for the whole story: descriptions of death, torture, starvation, and everything described in The Hunger Games, mentions of suicidal thoughts, implications of S/A

mood board + playlist

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter VIII

They don’t stop him from visiting.

Maybe it’s pity. Maybe it’s because Haymitch told them not to interfere. Maybe it’s because no one knows what else to do with him.

But no one says anything when Finnick shows up. Every day, from the moment he wakes up, he’s there.

The Recovery Wing is quieter than any other place in District 13. Too clean. Sterile. The air smells like antiseptic, but it’s the kind of sterile silence that doesn’t offer any peace. It clings to the back of his throat like saltwater that won’t wash away.

And then, there you are.

Always in the same place. Curled up on the thin hospital bed, your body buried under oversized blankets and clothes. They dressed you in the standard gray uniform, the same as everyone else, but it doesn’t fit right—too big, too loose. The fabric hangs off you like it doesn’t belong, like it’s swallowing you whole.

You’re awake sometimes. But even when your eyes flicker open, it’s like you’re not really here. Like your mind is miles away, and your body just hasn’t caught up yet.

Sometimes you sit up by yourself. Sometimes you let the nurses help you. But Finnick knows. He can tell when you’re too weak, too distant to care. And every single time his shadow crosses the threshold, you flinch. Every time his voice brushes against the air, your whole body tenses, like you’re waiting for something. Like you’re bracing for pain.

It’s that reaction that eats away at him. That’s the part that’s almost unbearable.

He spends most mornings in the chair by the wall, just out of reach. Close enough to watch your chest rise and fall with each shallow breath, but far enough that you won’t notice him too much. Sometimes, he wonders if you even know he’s there at all.

He watches the rhythm of your breathing like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

In his lap, his hands work through knots. Tiny, shaky loops. His fingers ache, cramped from twisting the rope too tight, too fast. But it’s the only thing that helps him hold on to something.

Sometimes, he talks. Softly. So softly that he’s not even sure you can hear him.

He likes to believe you can. Even if he can’t see it in your eyes.

“Hey, Angel,” he whispers one afternoon, his voice barely rising above the silence in the room. “It’s morning again. The sun’s probably rising over Four right now, you know?”

His eyes drop to his hands, moving mechanically over the rope, watching it twist. “Mags would’ve made you tea by now. Annie would’ve shown up with one of those seashell bracelets she’s always making. You used to love those. You loved when she gave them to you. You wore them everywhere cause you said it was like having a piece of the ocean with you all the time. ”

He smiles softly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His throat tightens when he thinks of it. “You always said the mornings there smelled like salt and cold sand. Like the ocean was always just a breath away, even when we were indoors.”

Nothing.

His fingers tighten around the rope, pulling, twisting, knotting. He doesn’t even feel the burn in his muscles anymore.

“You hated it when I made fun of you for using too much sugar in your tea,” he adds, his voice so small, so fragile now, like it’s breaking with every word. But it’s the last thing he can remember—those mornings. That laughter. The warmth of it.

Still, there’s nothing.

The room stays as still as a tomb. The only sound is the faint, quiet echo of Finnick’s own voice in his ears, the only thing that feels real anymore.

The quiet is unbearable.

Every word he speaks seems to get lost in the air. It hangs there like smoke, slowly drifting away, just out of reach.

Finnick’s hands keep moving, the rope slipping through his fingers like time itself—too fast, too slow, a tangle of memories he can’t untie. He pulls tighter. Over, under, through, over, under, through. He does it until his fingers start to sting and the knots are so tight they almost seem to bite back.

He wants to speak more. He wants to remind you of everything. He wants to be the one to make it all come rushing back. But how do you remember someone when you don’t even remember yourself?

He glances at you again, his breath catching in his throat. There you are, lying there, eyes closed, but the softness in your face doesn’t reach your eyes. You look like you’re sleeping, but Finnick knows better. You’re not resting. You’re trapped in a place he can’t reach.

And that’s what kills him most of all.

It isn’t just that you’ve forgotten him. It’s that you’re still in there somewhere, lost. Somewhere inside that broken mind, there’s a part of you trying to claw your way back to the world, to him.

But it’s so far gone, buried under layers of pain, and Finnick doesn’t know how to bring you back to him.

He tries again.

“Do you remember...?” His voice is quiet, hesitant. He can’t bring himself to finish the question, the one that’s been gnawing at him for days. Do you remember us?

His throat tightens as he swallows the words, choking on them before they leave his mouth. He doesn’t know why he asked. Of course, you don’t remember. How could you?

Instead, he says something else. Something safer. “I remember when we first met. We didn’t talk much. Just shared a look. You were too shy, and scared—obviously. But you warmed up pretty quick."

He smiles bitterly at the memory. He remembers the way you’d shyly glance at him, your eyes full of questions you didn’t want to ask. The way you’d laugh under your breath when he’d say something under his breath about Lyssandra.

“Do you remember when I taught you to tie knots for the first time?” Finnick’s voice breaks, but he doesn’t stop. “It was after your games, I knew that your brain was probably think of a million things at one time. I wanted to give you something to do with your hands so you could turn your mind off for a little bit.”

He looks at you again. This time, you’re not sleeping. Your eyes are open, unfocused, staring off into some distant space. There’s no recognition. Just that vacant look he knows too well.

His heart clenches, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe.

You flinch when he shifts in his chair, and he recoils in kind, like he’s the one who’s been struck. His heart aches in a way he didn’t know it could. It feels like all the air has been sucked from his chest.

For a few moments, there’s nothing but silence again.

Then, you speak.

It’s quiet. A whisper that barely cuts through the weight of the room.

“I’m sorry...” Your voice cracks, so faint he almost doesn’t hear it. “I don’t... I don’t remember.”

Finnick closes his eyes, but the tears still slip through. He wasn’t prepared for this. He didn’t know how to be.

“I know,” he whispers back, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you don’t.”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there after that. The room stretches on forever, stretching his pain with it, making everything feel endless.

Eventually, he stands. It feels like moving through mud, like he’s dragging his own body forward. Every step is harder than the last, each one heavier than before.

Before he leaves, he glances back at you one last time.

You’re still lying there. Your eyes have drifted closed again, but the stillness in the room makes Finnick feel like he’s suffocating.

And as he steps out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him, he finally lets the tears fall.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The days blur together after that.

Finnick doesn’t know how many times he’s sat in that chair, or how many times he’s spoken to you. His words hang in the air like a forgotten song, like an echo fading before it’s even begun.

Every morning, he wakes up with a new sense of purpose, but by the time the day ends, it feels like he’s only ever going in circles. Around and around, through the same old routines, the same old words that lead to the same place: the chair by your bed, the silence, and the aching emptiness in his chest.

Some days are worse than others. Some days, the silence feels suffocating—like there’s a weight pressing against his chest, making it harder to breathe. Other days, there’s a flicker of hope, a sliver of light. The small moments where he swears he sees something in your eyes, some fragment of recognition, a spark that shouldn’t be there but is.

But every time he gets close, it vanishes. Just like everything else.

It’s the waiting that’s killing him. The waiting, and the feeling that he’s not allowed to be anything more than an observer in your life. He can’t reach you. He can’t save you. And every time he’s faced with that harsh reality, it feels like a part of him shatters all over again.

One afternoon, he finds himself standing by the window, staring out at the cold, gray wall. The weight of everything feels unbearable, like it’s pressing in from all sides, and Finnick knows that if he doesn’t find something to hold on to soon, he might just break.

His fingers drift toward the knot of rope in his pocket. It’s worn now, the edges fraying from all the hours he’s spent twisting it between his fingers, but it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded. The only thing that keeps him tethered to the world when everything else seems so far out of reach.

He pulls it out and begins to work the rope, his hands moving quickly, expertly. The knots are familiar now, automatic, like breathing. Over, under, through, over, under, through.

It’s the only thing that makes sense.

But even as his fingers work the rope, his mind drifts back to you. To the way you looked at him when he spoke, the way you flinched, like he was a stranger.

The memory claws at him.

Finnick exhales slowly, the air leaving his lungs in a broken, jagged breath. The tears are close now, but he swallows them back. He won’t let himself cry. Not yet. Not when he hasn’t even begun to figure out how to fix this.

He turns away from the window, eyes lingering on the door to your room. There’s a pull, an ache in his chest, and for a second, he’s sure he’s going to walk right back to you, sit in that chair again, and say the same words he always says. The same words that don’t reach you.

But then, he hears a voice in the hallway. A familiar voice.

“Finnick.”

He stiffens, his heart racing for a moment, before he recognizes it.

He turns, watching as Haymitch approaches, his expression unreadable. There’s a silence between them, thick and heavy, as if neither of them quite knows where to begin.

“You’ve been at it for days,” Haymitch says, his tone sharp but not unkind. “I’m not going to tell you what you’re doing is wrong, but it isn’t helping her either.”

Finnick opens his mouth to argue, but the words get caught in his throat. The truth stings too much.

“I’m not giving up on her,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

Haymitch eyes him carefully, studying him. “I never thought you would.”

For a long moment, Finnick doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, the rope still clenched in his hands, his fingers stiff and aching from all the twisting and pulling. The words he wants to say don’t come. Not now, not yet.

“I just...I don’t know what to do,” Finnick mutters, his voice quiet, almost lost in the air between them. “Every time I think I might get through to her, it’s like...she’s still so far away.”

Haymitch nods slowly, his face softening just a little. “You’ve got to let her find her way back to you. And maybe it won’t be the way you want. But you can’t force it, Finnick. Not when she’s so broken. Not when everything is so...fragile.”

Finnick looks down at the knot in his hands, the tension in his chest growing tighter with every word.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. But I’m afraid...that if I don’t keep trying, she won’t ever remember me. That she’ll forget what we had.”

Haymitch doesn’t say anything for a long time, and when he finally does, it’s just one quiet sentence.

“She’s not the only one who’s lost something.”

Finnick’s chest tightens at that. He looks at Haymitch, seeing something deeper in his eyes. Something that resonates with him in a way that nothing else has.

Haymitch’s words settle heavily around him, a reminder of everything Finnick has lost in the chaos of the war, of the Games, of the Capitol. Of the person he’s been before. Before the weight of his memories started to slip away, too.

Before he started losing parts of himself.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

Finnick doesn’t go back to his room that night.

Instead, he finds himself pacing the hallways, the silence of 13 pressing down on him like a weight he can’t shake off. His mind is a storm of conflicting thoughts, a thousand questions he can’t answer. What if she never remembers? What if all he’s doing is making things worse?

Everywhere he goes, he’s haunted by the echo of his own voice. By the quiet gap between the words he speaks to you and the silence you give back. It feels like a loss too big to understand, like a void that swallows him whole every time he thinks about it.

The walls seem to close in as he walks, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Not yet.

He’s at the end of the hall when he hears it—soft footsteps behind him.

This time he doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Finnick,” Haymitch says again, his voice low, the kind of voice that speaks without words. The kind that understands what’s happening without needing to say it.

Finnick doesn’t respond. He just keeps walking, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes trained on the floor ahead.

“I know you’re struggling,” Haymitch continues, his voice gruff but not without care. “But there’s a line, you know? You’re going to drive yourself mad if you don’t start thinking about something else.”

Finnick stops, but only for a moment, his body stiff with the weight of Haymitch’s words. He presses his forehead against the cold wall, trying to steady himself.

“What do you want me to do, Haymitch?” His voice cracks, rough with the tension he can’t shake. “She’s in there, and she doesn’t even remember me. I don’t know how to fix this. How do I... how do I make her see me again?”

“You don’t.” Haymitch’s voice cuts through the quiet, harsh and direct. “Not all at once. You don’t get to make it happen. You have to let her come to you when she’s ready. She’s not the only one who’s broken here. You’ve got to remember that.”

Finnick turns, finally meeting Haymitch’s eyes. The older man looks as tired as he feels, his face worn down by everything they’ve been through. But there’s something else there—something that gives Finnick pause.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Finnick whispers, his chest aching with the weight of all his unanswered questions. “I’m not stupid, Haymitch. I know what’s happening. But every time I see her... I know she’s in there. I just can’t reach her. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.”

Haymitch steps closer, his face softening slightly. He places a hand on Finnick’s shoulder, giving him a rare moment of grounding.

“Then stop trying to be the one who saves her,” he says quietly. “You can’t fix everything. Not this time. Sometimes the only thing you can do is wait. Just... wait.”

Finnick swallows hard, his throat tight. For a long moment, he stands there, his hand gripping the rope in his pocket like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

Finally, he nods.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll wait.”

But as he steps away from Haymitch and walks back down the hall, a small part of him wonders how much longer he can keep this up. How much longer he can wait for a love that might never come back.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The next morning, he’s back at your room, back in the same chair, watching you sleep—watching for any sign of movement, any hint that you might remember. He talks to you again, just like the day before, just like every day since they brought you back.

“Hey, Angel,” he whispers softly. “It’s me again. I know you probably don’t remember...but I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You shift a little in the bed, your eyes fluttering open. You blink at him, and for the briefest second, there’s something there. Something that flickers in your gaze, like a spark. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and Finnick feels his heart sink again.

You’re not ready. Not yet.

He exhales a shaky breath and shifts in the chair, the knot of rope still in his hands. He runs his fingers over it absently, wishing it could anchor him to something solid, something real.

But it doesn’t.

“Do you remember...the beaches back home?” Finnick asks, voice barely above a whisper. “We would go all the time before...before everything happened. You loved the sound of the waves crashing. You said it felt like the world was breathing.”

Nothing.

“I still remember it,” he continues, his voice breaking on the words. “I still remember how your hair smelled like salt and the wind, how you smiled when I tried to teach you to fish.”

Your eyes don’t even flicker at the words. They stay blank. Vacant.

And for a moment, Finnick wonders if he’ll ever be enough. If he’ll ever be the one to bring you back from the dark.

But then—just as the silence settles back around them, thick and suffocating—he sees it.

Your hand shifts slightly, your fingers brushing against the edge of the blanket.

It’s so small, so faint, but it’s there.

For a second, Finnick dares to hope.

Maybe you’re not as far away as he thought.

Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find your way back to him.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The days stretch on, but Finnick is still there. Still waiting. Still speaking to you.

It’s almost like a ritual now—the mornings, the chair by your bed, the endless string of memories he whispers into the quiet. He talks to you like you can hear him, like you can understand. Like everything will fall back into place if he just keeps reminding you.

But it never works.

Not yet.

He shifts in his chair again, his hands shaking slightly as he touches the rope in his lap. The knots are tight, small, perfect. Each one he ties feels like a silent plea. Every twist of the rope is an attempt to anchor himself to something��anything—besides the ache that is becoming unbearable.

“Do you remember,” he asks gently, his voice trembling, “the first time we ever went to the beach?”

You blink slowly, not responding. Your gaze drifts past him, unfocused, lost somewhere far beyond the room. But Finnick doesn’t give up. He leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the chair like it’s the only thing holding him together. His eyes never leave you.

“We went down to the water... you were wearing that white dress you loved so much.” He swallows, trying to steady his voice. “You remember that, don’t you? The one with the flowers? The one you always said made you feel like you could breathe again?”

He watches your face, looking for any sign—anything—of recognition.

But there’s nothing.

He tries again, pushing the words out like they’re his last chance. “You said it reminded you of the sea. That you’d never seen anything more beautiful than the way the waves shimmered in the sun. You said it was like the ocean was speaking to you, telling you secrets no one else could hear.”

He pauses, the silence swallowing him whole. It’s unbearable, and his heart aches with the weight of it.

“You always said,” he continues softly, his voice cracking as he forces the words out, “that you could hear the ocean calling your name.”

For a moment, he swears he sees something shift in your eyes. A flicker. A small change, but it’s there, almost imperceptible. Finnick’s heart skips.

He leans in closer, his breath catching in his throat.

“Do you remember?” he whispers urgently. “Do you remember that day? Do you remember us?”

But then, just as quickly as it comes, the spark fades. Your expression goes blank again, like a veil has descended, and Finnick’s hope crashes down, heavy and cold.

He leans back in the chair, his chest tight with the weight of disappointment. The knot in his hands trembles with the same frustration. He’s trying so hard. Harder than he’s ever tried for anything in his life, and yet it’s never enough.

The silence is deafening, and he feels like he’s drowning in it.

And then—before he can say anything else, before he can beg you to remember—the world shifts around him.

The air in the room seems to change, like the walls are closing in on him. The chair under him feels like it’s pulling him downward, and for a moment, he swears he’s falling into the past.

His fingers slip from the rope, and suddenly—just as the room begins to fade away—the sound of waves fills his ears.

The world around him softens, and he’s not in the sterile, white Recovery Wing anymore.

He’s back on the beach.

***

The air smells like salt and the earth, the waves crashing gently against the shore in a rhythm Finnick knows all too well. The sound wraps around him like a blanket, the familiar scent of the sea filling his lungs, grounding him in a time that feels both distant and close, like a dream he doesn’t want to wake from.

He’s standing on the beach, the sand cool beneath his bare feet, and the sun is still low on the horizon—casting everything in a golden haze. It’s the perfect morning. Quiet. Peaceful. Just the sound of the waves and the distant calls of seagulls. No worries. No Capitol. No war. Just the two of them.

You’re there beside him, standing at the water’s edge, the hem of your white dress fluttering in the wind. Your hair is tangled by the breeze, but you don’t mind. You never do. You’re smiling, and it’s the kind of smile that fills him with a warmth he can’t explain. The kind of smile that makes him think, This is it. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.

The sun catches the edge of your dress, the pale fabric dancing in the wind, and he can’t help but smile as he watches you. You’ve always had that way of moving, like the world was a little bit more beautiful when you were in it.

“You know,” you say, your voice light and teasing as you glance back at him, “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to stand here. The waves keep pulling at my feet.”

Finnick chuckles, shaking his head as he steps closer to you, the sand soft beneath his feet. He can hear the laughter in your voice, the sound that always brings him a sense of peace.

“You’re always complaining about the waves,” he says, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “But you never stop coming back to them.”

You tilt your head, looking out at the ocean with a faraway look in your eyes, the salt of the air catching on your lips. “I think the ocean speaks to me,” you murmur softly, almost as if the waves are the ones you’re talking to and not him. “It tells me things. Secrets no one else can hear.”

Finnick looks at you, his heart skipping a beat as he takes in the sincerity in your expression. You’ve always been like that, so deeply connected to the world around you. He wonders if you even realize how beautiful you are when you’re lost in your thoughts.

“Secrets?” he asks, a grin tugging at his lips. “What kind of secrets?”

You turn to face him fully now, your eyes sparkling with something he can’t quite place. The wind tugs at the edges of your dress, and for a moment, you look like you’re floating on air.

“The kind that make me feel like I belong here,” you say, your voice quiet but certain. “Like I belong with the ocean. With the sky. Like I’m part of something bigger than just... me.”

Finnick’s breath catches in his chest. The weight of your words settles over him like a quiet understanding, something deeper than just a passing moment. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly everything feels clearer. Like this moment is the one that’s been waiting for him all along.

He steps closer to you, his hand brushing against yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The world feels still. The sea. The sky. The sand beneath your feet. All of it is just... you. Just the two of you, lost in this moment, caught between time and space, with nothing else to worry about.

“You know,” Finnick says softly, his voice barely more than a whisper against the wind, “I don’t think I’ll ever hear the ocean the same way again. Not without thinking of you.”

You smile at him, that same soft, knowing smile that always made him feel like you held all the answers. “You’ll always hear it, Finnick. Even when we’re not here, when we’re not together. The ocean will always call your name.”

And then, as if by instinct, you reach for him. Your hand slides into his, fingers curling together with ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The waves crash at your feet, the sound so familiar it feels like home. You close your eyes for a moment, and he can’t help but pull you just a little closer, the warmth of your body against his, the salt of the sea lingering in the air.

Everything feels perfect. Unbreakable. Just for a moment, you are everything to him. The ocean. The sky. His entire world.

And in that instant, he knows with all his heart that he will never let you go.

***

The sound of the waves faded slowly, and suddenly the air in the room grows heavy once more. Finnick blinks, his vision blurring for a moment as the beach begins to slip away, replaced by the sterile white walls of the Recovery Wing.

His heart pounds in his chest as he comes back to the present, his fingers still trembling from the memory that lingers so clearly in his mind.

But it’s gone. It’s only a memory now.

He opens his eyes, and there you are—still lying in the same spot. The same hospital bed. The same quiet room.

And yet, somehow, he feels like he’s closer to you than he was before.

The memory lingers in Finnick’s chest like a weight he can’t shake off. The taste of salt on his lips, the feeling of your hand in his, the sound of your voice—soft and sure. All of it clings to him like an anchor, grounding him even when everything else feels adrift.

But as the last echoes of the waves fade away, Finnick’s heart aches with the knowledge that it’s just a memory. A moment in time that he can never fully reclaim.

He blinks a few times, the stark, sterile white walls of the Recovery Wing pulling him back into the present. The noise of the machines and the soft hum of the air vents return, and with them comes the crushing weight of everything he’s lost.

His fingers curl into fists around the rope in his lap, the knots still tight and perfect, but now they feel like shackles, tying him to the pain of the present.

You’re still there. Still lying in that bed, so close and yet so far away. His heart clenches, and for a moment, he wonders if the memory will ever be enough to bring you back to him.

He stands, his legs shaky as he moves towards your bed. His heart beats faster, thumping painfully against his ribs as he watches you, as he gets closer.

Your eyes are closed, but there’s a soft rise and fall to your chest. The air feels thick, heavy with the silence between you two. Finnick swallows hard, his throat tight with the words he can’t seem to say, the things he’s been holding onto for so long. He takes a shaky breath, forcing his hands to stay steady.

“I miss you,” he whispers softly, barely more than a breath. The words come unbidden, spilling out before he can stop them. “I miss you so much. I miss the way you looked at me, the way you smiled. I miss hearing you laugh.”

His fingers brush the edge of your blanket, but he doesn’t dare touch you. Not yet. Not until he knows if you’ll flinch away from him again.

“Please... I just need you to remember,” he murmurs, his voice breaking as the words catch in his throat. “I need you to come back. I can’t do this without you.”

The silence in the room feels suffocating, like it’s pressing in from all sides. He takes another step closer, but before he can say anything else, he hears it.

A soft sound. A faint shift from the bed.

His breath catches in his throat.

You stir, your eyelids fluttering, and for a moment, Finnick dares to hope.

And then, your eyes slowly open.

There’s a pause—just a beat—but it feels like eternity.

You blink up at him, and Finnick’s heart skips, his pulse racing as he watches you. For a second, just a second, he sees it. A flicker of recognition in your gaze. Something familiar, something so small, but so important.

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t dare move, his whole world narrowing down to the look in your eyes.

You blink again, your brow furrowing as you take him in.

And then, softly, so softly, you whisper, “You’re still here.”

The world holds its breath.

The words aren’t enough to bring everything back. They aren’t the words he’s been waiting for, the ones that will bring you back to him completely. But they’re something. They’re a sign.

Finnick’s heart cracks open, but there’s something else, too—something that feels like hope. He leans forward, holding onto that thread with everything he has, because you’re still here. You remember him. You remember something.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice steadier now, stronger. “I’m right here. I'll always be right here.”

And this time, he doesn’t wait for you to respond. He just stays, watching you, holding onto that spark.

Finnick doesn’t leave right away.

He stays, even when the silence grows thick between you both. His heart still beats faster, the pulse in his ears louder than the quiet hum of the room. You’re still here. You spoke. You remembered something. Even if it wasn’t enough, it’s more than he had a few minutes ago.

But it isn’t enough.

Not yet.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. His legs ache from the stillness, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare. The small, fragile thread of hope that you’re still in there, somewhere, is enough to keep him tethered to the moment.

“Do you remember when we used to sit on the beach?” he says after a long while, his voice low, soft. It’s almost like he’s trying to speak to himself more than you, but he says it anyway. “You used to say the ocean called your name. You’d stand there with your feet in the water, your hands stretched out like you could catch the wind itself.”

He doesn’t know if you’re listening. He doesn’t know if you even care to hear the words. But he says them anyway, because they’re all he has.

“I still remember it,” he murmurs. “I remember the way the wind felt, the way the sun warmed your skin, the way you smiled when I asked you what the ocean was saying. I remember everything. I don’t care if you can’t yet. I’ll hold onto it for both of us.”

There’s a flicker in your eyes again. Maybe it’s just his wishful thinking, or maybe it’s the fading edge of some distant memory. But Finnick latches onto it, the small glimmer of hope growing brighter. It’s enough to make his heart ache and swell at the same time.

He leans forward, his hand reaching for the edge of your blanket, hovering there, but not touching. He doesn’t want to push you again. He’s learned that much.

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

His fingers curl into the fabric, and for a moment, his mind drifts back to that day on the beach. The warmth of the sun, the sound of the waves. You, standing there like you could command the world with a single step.

It’s a memory he’ll never let go of. And as he watches you, as he waits for you to say something—anything—he realizes just how deep his feelings go. How deeply he’s willing to wait.

For you. For the person you used to be. For the person you’ll become again.

The silence stretches on, but it’s different now. It doesn’t feel suffocating. Not anymore. It’s a silence filled with possibility, with a fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—you’ll find your way back to him.

Finnick leans back in the chair, exhausted, but for the first time since he found you, he feels like he can breathe again. Even if it’s just a little bit.

And as he watches you, still so far away, he knows this is only the beginning. This is just the first step in what’s going to be a long, difficult road.

But he’ll walk it. He’ll walk it for you. And he won’t give up.

Not now. Not ever.

A/N: okay it's out everyone pls come back.

Taglist: @jacaeryslover @sundawn1990 @redama @noodleisodd @amara-mars @lovemyself-m-k @goosy-goose @potao-o @womenkisser05 @arsonistlizard @iguanagwen @lover-rep-fanfic@tatumrileyslover  @kimarii-00 @shuri-my-love @saleyeniu @succulent-ruler6 @aphxdea @humongousrunawaytiger @herbal-tea-and-manga @1i1winter @echoingrainydays @technicallyspookymoon @smthabsolutelyunhinged @yeah-idk-either @moon-zoons @shutendoji22 @thatoneamericanblonde @syd649 @curryexpress @harrypotterlovers-things @wonubby @212-apricity @anyaslittlepeanut @momoriii-i @milfslover2 @pluto-plutonium @xmochiloverx @wowlani @eyantice @suneaterscape @hanjelia @winx333-blog @lisaoligy

if you'd like to be included in this taglist lmk in the replies!

[luvvjayk]

𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 — 𝒋𝒋𝒌

pairing : situationship!jungkook x reader

genre : angst · emotional tension · slow burn · social media au · ex-situationship

──────────────────────

You hadn’t spoken since that night after the rooftop party. The one where he said, “Don’t wait up,” and you still did. The one where you watched him leave with someone else and told yourself you didn’t care. He never texted. Never explained. You never asked.

But last night? He showed up again.

Same party, different energy. He laughed too loud. You avoided the kitchen. He stood in the doorway like he was waiting for something or someone.

You didn’t look at him once.

You know, because you were too busy feeling his eyes on you.

you didn’t answer him after that.

not because you didn’t want to. but because you knew how it would end in another conversation with no resolution, another late-night confession that would dissolve by morning.

you told yourself you were over it. told your friends it didn’t matter. but the truth is, you remembered every word he never said. and worse, you still wanted to hear them.

this thing between you and jungkook… it wasn’t quite love, but it was never casual either. you knew how to hurt each other too well for that. there were months where he made you feel like the only girl in the world, and nights where he wouldn’t even look at you.

and after everything the rooftop fights, the parties where you didn’t speak, the texts that never came he still had the nerve to say your name like it meant something.

maybe that’s what hurts the most. he always knew how to make you stay. even after he’d already left.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 🍓 hi, i’m rie this isn’t really a full story, just something that got stuck in my head & wouldn’t leave until i wrote it out. the frenemies, 1am texts, that unresolved tension that never really ends , it stayed with me, so i had to let it out.

i’m still figuring out what kind of things i want to write, but if you liked this, feel free to show support <3 or let me know what you thought ! thank you for reading ˚₊‧୨♡୧‧₊˚

— rie ✧

[andy-15-07]

hi there! i was wondering if you could do a ellie story again, it could be game ellie or hbo ellie you pick! but i was thinking that y/n used to have like a situationship with ellie as in they used to hook up a lot and y/n opened up to her about her past and everything and then one day ellie ices her out and y/n doesn’t know why! but one day they get paired to patrol together as a lot of the people have the flu because of it being winter and all, so they both patrol together and there’s a lot of awkward tension in the air but then a blizzard or something else happens that they have to camp out for the night and ellie finally confesses her feeling for y/n and tells her she did the whole icing out thing because she’s afraid of loosing her since she’s lost a lot of people in the past! and maybe it could end in a love scene it could just be fluff or smut whichever you wanna do!

thank you 🫠

Almost Lost You

paring ✦ Ellie Williams x fem!reader

word count ✦ 1075| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

The Last Of Us Masterlist

You knew something was wrong the second Ellie stopped looking you in the eye.

One day, she was pressing kisses to your shoulder after a patrol quickie, whispering, “You can talk to me. Always.”

The next, she wouldn’t even nod when you passed her on the street.

No call. No explanation. Just cold air where her warmth used to be.

You tried once , asked her if everything was okay after a meeting in the barn. She shrugged. “Busy. Got shit to do.”

Then nothing.

And you’d be lying if you said it didn’t wreck you a little.

Because you’d told her things. Things nobody else knew. You’d let her see the jagged, broken edges of you, the kind most people didn’t want to touch. But she did. She held them like glass , until she didn’t.

So when Maria paired the two of you up for patrol during a flu outbreak, your stomach dropped. Just your luck. Everyone else was sick or down with a cough, and of course she’d pair you with Ellie.

You stood by the stables with your coat zipped to your chin, silently waiting. The snow was falling in lazy spirals, wind curling under your hood. Ellie showed up ten minutes late, boots crunching over frostbitten gravel.

She didn’t say much. Just a tight nod and a quiet, “Let’s go.”

The silence stretched long as the road, tension thick enough to choke on.

You rode ahead for a while, not looking at her, until the wind picked up and the first signs of a whiteout started rolling in.

“Shit,” Ellie muttered, pulling her horse closer. “We’re not making it to Lookout Post before this turns bad.”

You scanned the woods. “There’s an old cabin. I saw it last week with Jesse. It’s a couple miles west.”

Ellie hesitated, then nodded. “Lead the way.”

,

The snow came fast.

By the time you reached the cabin, your fingers were stiff and red from the cold, nose running, breath jagged. Ellie kicked the door open with one boot and you both stumbled inside, stomping snow off your clothes.

It was small , just one room, half-frozen over, but dry and mostly intact. A fireplace, some chopped wood, and a dusty old couch.

Ellie got the fire going while you pulled blankets from a cabinet. You moved in a rhythm , not comfortable, but familiar. The way people who used to know each other moved.

Finally, with the fire crackling and your clothes drying near the hearth, you sat across from her on the floor, backs against opposite walls.

Still not speaking.

You lasted maybe fifteen minutes before cracking.

“Why’d you stop talking to me?”

Ellie looked up sharply.

You continued, voice low, but steady: “Was it something I said? Something I did?”

She exhaled. Looked away. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what?” you pushed. “Because you were the one who got close, Ellie. You were the one who asked me to open up, and then you,”

“I know,” she snapped, voice tight. “I know I did.”

The room went quiet again. Then softer, she added, “I just… I freaked out.”

You blinked.

“I’m not good at this,” she admitted, staring into the fire now. “Feelings. People. Not since,”

She cut herself off.

You waited. And finally, she said it.

“I’ve lost so many people, Y/N. Joel. Riley. Tess. Sam. All of them. Everyone I let in…” She shook her head, jaw clenched. “I didn’t want to lose you too.”

Your chest twisted.

“So you iced me out? That was your big plan to keep me safe?”

She winced. “No. I mean,fuck, I don’t know. I just knew that the closer I got to you, the more I’d care, and the more it’d destroy me if I lost you. And that scared the shit out of me.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then: “You think I wasn’t scared too?”

Ellie looked over at you.

“I told you things I’ve never said out loud,” you said softly. “I trusted you. You think that didn’t terrify me?”

Silence.

Then Ellie slid closer across the wood floor.

“I know I fucked up,” she whispered. “I thought I could walk away before it hurt. But all it did was hurt more.”

Your eyes met.

“I never wanted to be just a hookup to you,” you said. “But I would’ve settled for anything just to keep you close.”

Ellie’s brows drew together, like she was in pain. “You were never just a hookup. Not for a second.”

You swallowed, heart thudding.

She reached for your hand slowly, letting you pull away if you wanted , but you didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was stupid. Scared.”

You nodded once. “I get it.”

She squeezed your fingers. “Can I make it up to you?”

You looked at her.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Start now.”

Ellie leaned in, lips barely brushing yours , slow, tentative, reverent. Like asking permission. You kissed her back gently, then deeper, tugging her into your lap, both of you sinking into one another like gravity.

Clothes came off in hushed gasps, the fire casting gold over bare skin. Her mouth moved over your chest, her hands careful, trembling slightly.

“You sure?” she whispered, forehead to yours.

“Yeah,” you breathed, pulling her in. “I want you.”

She made love to you like she was remembering , your sounds, your warmth, the way you fell apart under her hands. And when you came together, it was like everything she never said poured out through touch alone.

Afterward, tangled in a blanket by the fire, she whispered: “You’re it for me, Y/N. You’ve always been it.”

You smiled against her neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You and Ellie ended up curled on the couch, sharing one too-small blanket and one too-big silence that no longer felt heavy.

Her fingers traced lazy circles on your wrist.

“When we get back,” she said softly, “I want to do this right. No more hiding. No more fear.”

You glanced at her. “You sure you’re ready?”

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “But I’m more scared of losing you again.”

You let yourself lean against her, head tucked under her chin.

“Okay,” you murmured. “We try again.”

She smiled against your hair.

And in the quiet crackle of firelight, you both finally breathed easy , not because the storm had passed, but because you knew this time, you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

[theshipsong]

platonic dracule mihawk x reader in a poly cross guild situation. reader is an astrologer and cross guild's navigator. glimmers of past mishanks and mihopero and allusions to the elbaph arc.

⸺

Mihawk didn't often invite himself into your tent, especially not with the addition to Cross Guild of one Gecko Moria and his darling daughter who recently took a liking to Crocodile, so you startled like a horse when you finally caught the swordsman in the periphery of your vision.

"God, Mihawk, would you make some noise at least?"

"I made plenty. You're just careless."

Even if Perona didn't bias you with her grievances against the him, you thought you might like Mihawk less now that he involved himself in you self defense training, seeing how freely he criticized you these days.

"Does your roommate know you're burning through our paper budget?" he said with a nod.

You huffed. Your writing desk was an impractical escritoire that you would have begged "your roommate" to trade if he wasn't Sir Crocodile, perfectly at home with his massive bureau, and you had five horoscopes and counting taped to its tiny desktop drawers.

"I'm busy."

"I can see that." Mihawk didn't need to squint to examine them from where he sat in Crocodile's armchair, and you scrunched your noise to readjust your drooping glasses. "...Perona, I take it?"

He said her name in a tone that would have passed for neutral if you didn't know him.

"Good eye." You would have mock applauded if you didn't think he'd chuck his cross knife at you.

"And squares are..."

His lips thinned and turned into a frown, and you felt a dangerous amount of pity well up in side you. He could read them well enough to discern angles, and knew the relationship between Perona's sun sign and his own—the same as yours.

You decided to pursue a tangent.

"You know, you and I are the only people here who know our birth times."

"Hm."

"I suppose piracy isn't usually a life for people with... well, people who know their parents." You wouldn't have been so eager to leave the North Blue if it weren't for your mother's rages, and Mihawk hadn't exactly shared his life story with you, so you didn't want to assume. "But you've totally seen an astrologer. Right?"

To your surprise, Mihawk groaned, his head knocking into the chair's winged back as he let out a totally frustrated near-roar unlike any noise he made in bed, and scrubbed his hands over his face and into his beard. "Red-Haired," he muttered into his palms.

"What was that?"

Mihawk moved his hands to glare at you. "Red. Haired. Shanks."

You grinned. "A yonkou took you to get your fortune told."

"No. Not mine. His." You knew the man would love nothing more than a dry red, how his eyes darted to your and Crocodile's modest bar cart. "The King of Pirates found Shanks in a damn treasure chest, and at some point he met his birth family and learned his birth date but had no desire to meet them again to get the time, so he told this astrologer he wanted it—calculated?"

"Rectified." You gestured at your possible Perona charts.

"—To prove he wasn't lying. Because he's." Mihawk sighed. "March 9."

It took you less than a second to realize. "The same as yours."

You knew nothing of Shanks' character, just the physical qualities of his hair and one arm, and that your fool of an ex-captain likely meant to challenge him in that stupid alliance.

"Wait. So did he know his age before then?"

Mihawk inhaled through his nose, what would've been a snort of amusement from another man. "You doubt the Roger Pirates could count?" You shrugged. "He's younger than me," he conceded.

"Well, there you go. Those are entirely different charts. It's not like you're twins or anything. But," You frowned. "Rectification takes a lot of time. A lot of interviews." When you were able to sit Perona down long enough to focus, you more or less grilled her on each year of her life she could remember.

"Is that what they call it?"

"Over multiple meetings," you said, ignoring him. "Then did Shanks... bring you to each time?"

"We got thrown out. He tried to charm them into doing it quickly."

You pursed your lips, trying not to laugh. "There's been attempts to start astrologer's guilds or professional organizations, what have you," you said. "You two would be blacklisted."

"Good thing I have you."

You were friends who sometimes fucked and you thought of him more as Perona's, or even more Crocodile's, so the idea of being had by Dracule Mihawk was odd, but not unwelcome.

"Let's look at yours later," you said. "More in-depth. I have some thoughts."

"Like?"

"My roommate likes Saturnine people. And now that I'm closing in on Perona's..." You chose your words carefully. "I've historically only done synastry for failed relationships. Or troubled ones."

Mihawk's lips turned up in an almost-grin. "It's a date."

[pyxy-styx]

I got sad, so I bought and took a 250 tiny plastic ducks with me to work today about it. Some of the shenanigans from the day:

• The cashiers lost their minds, and I got introduced to a couple of new ones as "The girl who brings us ducks and candy." (I've done similar things a couple of times now)

• The stocking teams immediately turned it into a competition to see who could get the most, ending with one of them getting a duck in each color because he joked he was my favorite and that he was gonna exploit that, and I found it hilarious.

• The store manager looked deeply upset when she told me she didn't want one because she didn't have anywhere to keep it.

• Almost every single manager adjacent person happily accepted a duck with the biggest smile.

• One of the girls told me she was gonna turn hers into a nose ring.

• I got accused of favoritism because I very specifically handed the guy on my team a blue one because that's his favorite color, and I let everyone else pick theirs (a tragedy according to him).

• I let the girl I have a crush on pick another duck every time I saw her because I can't tell her no lol

• One guy asked if he could pick one out for his wife, got her a purple one, and then gave me updates on her pregnancy because I hadn't seen her in a minute.

• One of the cashiers got very dramatic about the fact I didn't wait until she got there to start handing them out (she comes in two hours after me), and said "Hey, it's not always right at *time*. Sometimes it's later" when I started teasing her.

• One of the kinda manly man man guys who kind of intimidates me very politely asked if he could have one, picked put a pink one, and told me he was gonna stick it to his name tag.

• The lovely old man on our maintenance team picked out a handful of pink, purple, and teal ones for his granddaughters.

• I got told a story about how someone 3d printed a bunch of tiny penises and hid them around the store.

The moral of the story is: If you feel like shit, and you like your coworkers, buy 250 tiny ducks and start offering them to people, the shenanigans that ensue will instantly boost your mood.

[neurotica-tales]

How would yanhiccup react to yantuffnut falling for reader??

I'm writing a new story thanks to this question sent to my inbox and also thanks to @sf-renard for giving me an idea that has been flying around in my head since they suggested it. So yes! This story will be a Yandere Hiccup x Reader x Yandere Tuffnut! To give a little information about it, this story will have three parts. One where Hiccup and Tuffnut falls in love and realizing that they both fell in love with the same person. One where they start trying to one-up each other for your attention. And the ending... is a secret! So stay tuned!

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The Chief, The Fool & You (Yandere Hiccup x Reader x Yandere Tuffnut) (1K Likes Special 5/10)

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When you moved to Berk, you didn’t expect dragons to be real. You didn’t expect the Chief of Berk to notice you, either—not like that. Not with gentle smiles and handmade gear tailored just for your hands. And you definitely didn’t expect the chaos of a certain Thorston twin to start orbiting your life with fish-scale gifts, goat-related accidents, and an affection so strange it made your heart skip.

But the deeper you sink into the warmth of the forge and the laughter in the village square, the more you realize: this isn’t harmless.

Because Hiccup doesn’t just admire you—he’s rearranging Berk around you, carving your name into his world with every plan, every smile, every step. And Tuffnut? He was never supposed to fall. But now that he has, he’s not letting go. Not without a fight.

You were just looking for a place to belong.

Instead, you’ve become the thing they can’t live without.

And Berk?

It’s not big enough for the both of them.

Not when you're in the middle.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Up Next: Forged in Obsession (Yandere Hiccup x Reader), The First Kindness (Yandere Tuffnut x Reader)

To find my main master list, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You moved to Berk for reasons you didn’t talk about.

It wasn’t scandalous, or even especially sad—just complicated. Your home village had been absorbed into a trade alliance with the archipelago, and your parents, eager to secure your future, arranged for you to relocate to Berk. A small home near the cliffs was offered as part of the agreement—nothing fancy, but enough. The walls creaked in the wind. The sea air rusted everything. The neighbors were loud. But you didn’t mind.

Berk was strange. Hard. Cold. But it had dragons.

And that made everything better.

You’d grown up hearing stories about them—monsters in the night sky, fire-breathing terrors, creatures only fools would dare approach. But what you saw on your first morning in Berk shattered every tale you’d been told.

A Deadly Nadder coiled beside the bakery, politely waiting for a woman to toss it a fish head. Two children giggled while brushing soot off a chubby Gronckle’s snout. And high above it all, a shadow cut across the sky—faster than a storm, sleeker than a spear.

You followed it without thinking.

Down the winding stone paths, past the goat pens, through a cluster of wooden huts half-swallowed by cliffside fog. You watched the dragon descend into a wide open clearing that sloped toward the sea. He landed with a quiet thump, folding his wings with the fluidity of silk.

A Night Fury. The only one left in the world, according to rumor.

You didn’t approach him.

Instead, you found a dry patch of stone several meters away and pulled out your sketching tools—scraps of parchment, a bundle of charcoal wrapped in cloth. Your hands moved before your thoughts did. The angle of the tail, the slitted eyes, the folded wings. You barely noticed the cold biting your fingers. He was beautiful.

You came back the next day. And the next.

You kept your distance. The dragons didn’t seem to mind you. A few of them watched you curiously. A few even dozed near your spot, rumbling peacefully as you worked. No one interrupted you.

Until one day, someone did.

It was quiet that morning. Wind off the sea. A thin, salty fog had rolled in, and the dew hadn’t yet lifted from the grass. You crouched near a rocky outcrop, sketching the way a Nadder’s spines flared with tension as a Terrible Terror landed on its tail.

You didn’t hear the footsteps.

“Those are… really good.”

You jumped so hard the charcoal snapped in your fingers.

A boy—no, a young man—stood several paces away, basket of metal scraps tucked under one arm. He had windswept brown hair, a soot-smeared cheek, and a tunic that looked like it had survived several explosions. His green eyes—sharp and hesitant—were fixed on your drawing.

“I—I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he added quickly. “I was just on my way to the forge and saw you out here and—”

He stopped, fidgeting.

You stared at him. Not rudely. Just trying to place the pieces. The artificial leg. The dragon emblem on his vest. And in the distance, the familiar black shape of the Night Fury slinking between trees.

You realized who he was a second too late.

“I’m sorry,” you said, brushing charcoal dust from your hands. “Was I not supposed to be here?”

“What? No. Not at all.” He shifted the basket to his other hip. “This is open space. You’re fine. It’s just that—most people don’t really… see them the way you’re seeing them.”

You glanced at your sketch. “The dragons?”

He nodded, taking a cautious step closer, like he was worried you’d vanish if he moved too fast. “You didn’t just draw the Nadder. You noticed how it was bristling, how the muscles in its legs coiled before it jumped. You gave it… personality. I’ve never seen someone get that close to right on paper before.”

You weren’t used to that kind of compliment. You didn’t even think he meant to flatter you—it sounded more like astonishment than praise.

“You seem like someone who notices a lot of details yourself,” you said.

He smiled, and it changed his whole face. “Maybe too many.”

There was a long pause.

Not uncomfortable—but not easy, either. Like two people standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure who would step first.

He looked away, then back at you. “I’m Hiccup. I—well, I guess you already know that.”

“I do.”

“You new to Berk?”

You nodded. “Yes. A few weeks now.”

“Well…” He scratched his head, suddenly nervous again. “If you’re interested in dragons, you might want to visit the forge sometime. Or the stables. Or, uh… both. I mean. If you want to.”

You smiled. “I’d like that.”

His shoulders relaxed, just a little. And for a second, you saw something in his eyes—something uncertain, but bright. Like a spark that hadn’t caught fire yet.

Toothless appeared behind him then, sniffing the air and curling protectively near his rider’s side. You studied the way the dragon leaned into him—not as a pet, but as a partner. You hadn’t realized how deeply that bond ran.

Hiccup noticed your gaze.

“He likes you,” he said softly. “He doesn’t warm up to strangers.”

You didn’t realize it, but neither did Hiccup.

And yet here he was—lingering in the fog, watching you with fascination, heart already shifting in ways he wouldn’t admit even to himself.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next day, you stood in front of the forge, debating as to whether you should go in or not since it wasn't exactly the kind of place you’d ever thought of as welcoming.

It breathed smoke and fire, glowed with red-hot metal, and thundered with the roar of dragon bellows and hammer strikes. It was a place where steel was beaten into submission—where flames didn’t warm, but scorched. The kind of place that made others step back, flinch from the heat, shield their eyes.

But not you.

And not him.

You stepped through the heavy door just after sunrise, the sea air still damp on your sleeves. The wood creaked under your boots, and the scent of iron hit you immediately—thick, earthy, and warm. You paused just inside the threshold, blinking against the dim light and the shimmering haze rising from the forge's heart.

Hiccup was already there.

Not the Chief you’d seen from afar—calm and decisive, with his shoulders squared in public and his words measured. No. This version of him was softer, stripped of that title. He was in motion—half bent over a worktable, one leg propped on a support beam, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a smudge of soot streaked under his left eye. His tunic clung damply to his back with sweat, and a half-forged harness sat disassembled beside him like an open puzzle.

He didn’t hear you enter at first. The sound of quenching iron hissed loudly through the room, followed by the clink of tongs on metal.

Then—

“Oh—hey!” His voice cracked over the sound of a hammer dropping. He looked up, startled, then smiled like your arrival had shifted gravity. “You're early.”

You stepped closer, brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Best reason to start forging,” he said, reaching for a cloth to wipe his hands. “Or watching someone else forge. That works too.”

He said it playfully, but there was a flicker of something else in his tone—hopeful. Like he didn’t want to assume too much, but desperately wanted to.

Toothless, curled on a pile of canvas in the corner, lifted his head. He gave you a brief look, then rumbled low and warm, settling back down. You offered the dragon a small smile before turning your attention back to the man who hadn’t stopped watching you since you entered.

The forge’s heat wrapped around you both, heavy and golden in the morning light.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just looked around—the scattered gears, the half-completed blueprints, the table scarred with burn marks and knife gouges. Everything in here had been touched by his hands. Everything in here breathed him.

“It’s… a lot more organized than I expected,” you said after a moment.

He blinked, then laughed. “Organized chaos. Gobber would argue the opposite, of course, but this?” He swept an arm across the room. “This is deliberate. This is where dragons and humans meet. This is where we figure out how to fly together.”

You drifted closer, drawn to the schematic pinned to the far wall. A saddle—complex, with triple-jointed stirrups and shock-absorbing supports. A name was scrawled across the corner: Hookfang.

“You redesign all of them yourself?”

“Every one,” he said, and his voice went soft again. “Every dragon flies differently. Feels differently. You wouldn’t give Toothless the same rig you’d give a Nadder. You’d be amazed how many people don’t think about that.”

“But you do.”

He met your eyes then. Something in his chest fluttered—visible only for a second.

“Yeah. I do.”

You nodded slowly. “Good.”

There was a pause.

The forge crackled. Outside, a seagull screamed into the wind. Inside, you reached for one of the metal plates lying on the workbench.

It was heavier than it looked—curved and ridged with dragon-scale design, the edges smooth from careful polishing.

“What’s this one for?”

“Armor. For wing edges. Hookfang’s, specifically. He burns himself on his own fire sometimes during dives. The plate disperses the heat—keeps the membrane from blistering.”

You turned it in your hand thoughtfully. “It’s elegant.”

Hiccup swallowed. “It’s nothing special.”

“It is.”

He didn’t reply.

He didn’t have to. His hands trembled slightly when he reached for the next tool, and the corner of his mouth tilted upward like you’d said something he wanted to preserve in memory.

You set the plate down gently.

“Show me how you made it.”

That was the moment it started.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You came back the next day.

You didn’t plan to.

It was a moment of impulse—your fingers brushing over your charcoal kit, the sun rising behind the dragon stables in pale, sleepy gold, and something pulling you toward the forge. Not a voice. Not a reason. Just instinct.

You told yourself it was the dragons. That you wanted to sketch Hookfang’s armor while it was fresh in your mind. That it was just a place to focus.

But you knew better.

And so did he.

“Didn’t expect to see you so early,” Hiccup said as you walked in, voice casual—but the way he stepped out from behind a stack of lumber and brushed soot from his arms betrayed the truth. He’d been waiting. Not long—maybe only a few minutes. But enough.

He always had something ready.

This time, it was a half-built wrist guard—lightweight, shaped for a human arm, with padded lining that flexed with the wrist. You paused beside it, admiring the craftsmanship. Hiccup stepped up beside you, not quite brushing your shoulder.

“You said yesterday your hand cramps when you hold the charcoal too long. I figured…” He trailed off, lifting one hand awkwardly. “It’s nothing big. Just a prototype.”

You turned to him, lips parting in soft surprise. “You made this overnight?”

“Not all of it.” A nervous chuckle. “Just… most.”

He didn’t say he’d stayed up past midnight, pacing between blueprints and melted candle stubs. He didn’t mention how many times he redrew your hand from memory, getting the curve just right, the joint alignment exact. He didn’t tell you that he measured his own wrist and adjusted for the size difference until it fit the image of your fingers as they brushed graphite against paper.

You picked it up.

It fit perfectly.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

After that, you came often. At first, you called it coincidence. Just stopping by. Just passing through. But it became habit. The forge became your gravity, the place you wandered to without thinking.

You brought your sketches. He brought something new every day.

Blueprints. Schematic fragments. Metal feathers cut from polished brass. He claimed they were scraps, leftovers, little projects that didn’t matter. But each one carried your name, whether written or not.

One day, you made the mistake of asking for his opinion on a sketch.

He leaned over your shoulder, hand bracing against the bench beside you, and fell utterly, wordlessly silent. When you turned to glance at him, he startled—like he’d been staring at the stars and forgot the earth still spun.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “It’s just… you’re really good.”

You didn’t see how tightly his hands were clenched after you smiled.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The village started to shift around you.

Not that you noticed. Not right away.

But the blacksmiths who used to pass through the forge in the mornings stopped coming by while you were there. Riders who trained their dragons along your sketching paths quietly relocated to the northern field. Chores you were once expected to do were reassigned—without explanation. Meals were delivered to your door more frequently. Fishlegs started giving you extra portions at the market, claiming it was surplus.

You thought it was kindness.

You didn’t realize it was coordination.

All of it—redesigned by one hand.

Hiccup didn’t ask for more of your time.

He just took away the reasons you might spend it elsewhere.

And when you thanked him, not knowing the full extent of what he’d done, he smiled—soft, self-effacing, like he wasn’t even sure he deserved the praise.

But inside?

Inside, he was burning.

Sometimes he didn’t even pretend to be subtle.

You’d be sketching in the corner of the forge, charcoal smudged across your fingers, and he’d stop mid-sentence, mid-hammer, mid-anything just to watch.

He never said it outright.

But his eyes—those green, stormlit eyes—held something that scared you when you caught it too long.

Longing.

Hunger.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even realize he looked that way.

“Have you ever thought about flying?” he asked one afternoon as you worked side by side, sweat glistening at the back of his neck.

“What, like on a dragon?”

“Yeah.”

“Wouldn’t that require… I don’t know… not dying?”

He laughed, and it was breathless—relieved.

“I could fly with you. I mean—with Toothless. It’s safer that way.”

You gave him a wry smile. “That’s not why you’re offering, is it?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been hinting at it for days.”

Hiccup opened his mouth, then closed it. His fingers flexed around a rivet. Then he set it down and turned to you.

“I just think you’d love it,” he said, softly. “The wind, the height, the sky. No one else there. Just you and the dragons.”

And me, he almost said. But didn’t.

Not yet.

You accepted.

You thought he’d let you sit behind him, maybe grip the saddle as Toothless took off in a lazy glide over the cove.

You didn’t expect him to build you your own saddle.

Lightweight. Tailored to your frame. Made for a passenger seat, but not a passive one.

“This is too much,” you said when you first saw it.

He shook his head. “It’s not.”

You touched the leather. It was already worn in. Already fitted to you.

Like he’d been planning this longer than he let on.

That flight changed something.

The first time your hands gripped the handles, the first time Toothless launched into the sky and the wind screamed in your ears—you understood what Hiccup meant. The world below shrank. Everything became motion and breath and heat.

He flew beside you, guiding your dragon with light gestures, checking over his shoulder every few seconds. Not because he doubted your balance.

Because he couldn’t look away.

When you landed, cheeks windburned and laughing, Hiccup dismounted slowly. He turned to face you, eyes shining, hair wild from the wind.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just looked at you like he was seeing something sacred.

Then—softly, deliberately—he said, “You looked… perfect.”

You froze.

Not because you didn’t know what to say. But because of the way he said it—like it wasn’t a compliment, but a confession. Like he’d been waiting to tell you that for a long, long time.

Your heart skipped.

And you weren’t sure if it was because you were flattered… or because something in his voice unsettled you.

You saw it then, just for a moment. How deep the water went. How far he'd already sunk.

And you didn’t know whether you wanted to swim with him… or run for the shore. Whatever it is that you planned to do, the last thing you expected to happen was to run into the chaotic twins of Berk -- one of them at least.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tuffnut didn’t plan to fall in love.

He planned to launch a salmon at Snotlout’s face.

There was a difference.

The salmon, for the record, was carefully chosen. Big. Slimy. Just the right weight for an aerial arc. It had taken him all morning to steal it from the smokehouse without Gobber noticing, and all afternoon to hide it in a barrel of mead outside the Mead Hall. By the time sunset rolled in and the fish was perfectly chilled, he was ready.

His target: Snotlout Jorgenson, village menace and champion of “accidentally” lighting hay bales on fire while showing off.

His goal: Glory. Also laughter.

His backup plan: Deny everything.

The village square buzzed with life—vendors shouting over cauldrons, dragons circling above, old women complaining about “those dratted yak-stealers again.” Tuffnut crouched behind a wooden cart, eyes narrowed, fish in hand, tongue poking out in concentration.

“Ready…” he muttered, drawing his arm back. “Aim…”

Snotlout swaggered out of the blacksmith’s stall, flipping his hair like he’d just defeated an army. Tuffnut adjusted his grip on the fish. Wind was in his favor. The salmon glistened in the sun like a meat torpedo of destiny.

“FIRE!”

The fish soared.

Unfortunately, so did a goat.

“NO—BAD TIMING, GUSTAV!” someone shrieked nearby as a goat leapt off a barrel and collided directly with the salmon mid-air, knocking it off course with an angry bleat. The fish spun, wobbling like a drunk bird, and sailed—not into Snotlout’s face, but into yours.

Right between the shoulder blades.

SLAP.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You never expected to get hit with a fish.

Let alone in the back.

One moment you were carrying apples through the village square, sun warming your shoulders, wind catching the hem of your tunic—thinking maybe you’d finally adjusted to Berk’s unpredictable weather and even more unpredictable dragons—and the next—

SLAP.

Something large, cold, and very, very slimy smacked between your shoulder blades with enough force to make you stumble. The basket in your hands tumbled down, apples bouncing across the cobblestones like startled birds.

You stood there in shock, hands hovering mid-air.

And then—of course—it slid down your back and flopped onto your foot.

You looked down at the fish.

It looked up at you.

Your eye twitched.

Around you, the village went silent. Someone sucked in a dramatic gasp. You turned slowly—very slowly—to find the source of your new misfortune.

And there he was.

Crouched behind a market cart with only the top of his wild blond hair visible, peeking over the edge like a child caught stealing honey.

The second your eyes locked, he straightened awkwardly and gave a little wave.

“Hey.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You bent, picked up the fish—still slightly twitching—and walked straight toward him.

He looked panicked for half a second. You could practically see the thought: Is she going to hit me with it? That would be fair.

Instead, you stopped in front of him and held it out.

“Is this yours?”

He hesitated, like it might be a trap. “Uhh… depends. Are you mad?”

You raised a brow. “You hit me with a fish.”

“Technically,” he said brightly, “I was aiming for Snotlout. You just bravely intercepted the trajectory. For peace.”

He grinned.

You didn’t.

You sighed.

He blinked.

Then something… changed.

It was hard to explain, but you saw it in his eyes—some invisible weight shifting behind the grin. Like he hadn’t expected you to sigh. Like he’d prepared himself for yelling or swearing or, at the very least, a full-body tackle. But you didn’t do any of those things.

You just handed him the fish.

“Try not to commit any more seafood-related crimes,” you said dryly.

And then you turned, gathered your apples, and walked away.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But something tugged at your mind—not the fish, not the slime, not even the chaos—but the way he’d looked at you. Like he didn’t know what to do with you. Like you’d broken a rule he didn’t know he’d been following.

Like he’d been waiting for someone to react… differently.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You saw him again two days later.

Well, technically you heard him first.

There was shouting near the Mead Hall, something about a “catapult,” and then a crash that shook the window shutters. You didn’t investigate. Honestly, at that point, you’d started to assume any loud commotion was his fault by default.

But when you walked through the village later—arms full of herbs and smoked meat—you caught sight of him perched on top of a roof beam, yelling down at Ruffnut, who was shaking a pair of pants on a stick.

“YOU SAID THE GOAT WAS TAME!”

“I SAID IT WASN’T CURRENTLY BITING ANYONE!”

You snorted.

He turned at the sound.

And saw you.

Instantly, he fell off the roof.

“Ow.”

You paused mid-step.

“…Are you okay?”

He popped back up with a crooked grin, hair full of straw and dirt. “I meant to do that.”

You gave him a look.

“Part of my new agility training. Gravity-based. Patent pending.”

You shook your head, amused despite yourself.

He squinted at your bundle of herbs. “Are you… doing plant stuff? Witchcraft?”

“Cooking,” you said.

“Same thing.”

Then—“Wanna see something cool?”

You hesitated. Part of you knew better. But curiosity won.

“What kind of cool?”

He beamed.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Five minutes later, you were standing in the middle of the village square, watching him try to juggle three fish, a candle, and what might have been a live eel.

It ended exactly how you expected: with a fountain catching fire and a sheep escaping toward the cliffs.

He was soaked. Covered in soot. And laughing.

You were doubled over, wheezing with laughter, nearly dropping your meat bundle.

“That was not cool,” you choked out.

“It was kind of cool,” he wheezed. “If you ignore the structural damage and minor legal implications.”

“You’re insane.”

He wiped his face on his sleeve. “Thank you. You’re not bad yourself.”

And there it was again.

That look.

Not teasing. Not sarcastic. Just… watching.

Like you’d surprised him again.

Like you were a riddle he couldn’t stop solving.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

After that, he started popping up everywhere.

You'd stop by the market—he’d be balancing upside-down on a barrel.

You’d head to the cliffs to sketch a Stormcutter—he’d already be there, building what he claimed was a “dragon repellent made of yak hair and cheese.”

You didn’t mind him, exactly. He was strange. Loud. A little exhausting. But harmless. Kind, in his own weird way.

And then one day, as you were walking back toward your home, he appeared beside you with a flower.

Not a pretty one. Not even a whole one.

Just a crushed, lopsided, possibly-dead sprig of something green.

“It looked like you,” he said.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then you smiled.

“Thanks.”

His mouth opened, like he had something to say. But no words came out.

He just watched you tuck it behind your ear.

And that was the third time.

The third moment he didn’t know what to do with you.

The third time you didn’t treat him like a punchline.

And he was starting to think… maybe he didn’t want anyone else to have the chance to, either.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It started with the gifts.

Sort of.

The first gift was a piece of driftwood.

Well, “gift” was a strong word. More like… a carving attempt. A lumpy stick that vaguely resembled a person, if you were generous about the definition of limbs. You found it sitting upright on your porch one morning—carefully propped between two stones as if someone wanted to make sure it wouldn’t fall.

You blinked at it, then looked around. No note. No one hiding behind a bush. Just birds and fog and the far-off sound of a dragon sneezing.

You picked it up.

The grain of the wood was rough under your fingers, and the figure had a noticeable lean to one side. Something about the way it tilted looked weirdly familiar. Like the way you stood when you were holding something heavy. There was even a scratch across the chest that reminded you of the scar you’d gotten last month falling into a saddle rack.

That had to be a coincidence. Right?

You snorted.

Tuffnut.

That was your first and only thought. Who else would leave a vaguely-you-shaped stick outside your house before breakfast?

You shook your head with a smile and took it inside. Propped it next to your window herbs. It leaned like it was about to fall over. You didn’t fix it.

It felt right.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The second gift showed up the next day.

A string of dragon scales—red, green, black, even translucent ones that must’ve come from a Changewing. Tied together with some sort of leather cord, knotted so clumsily it looked like it might’ve been done with one eye closed and one hand tied behind a back.

You found it dangling from your doorknob when you came home that evening. There was a feather stuck in the middle. You weren’t sure if that was intentional.

Still, it sparkled.

You couldn’t help but grin.

It was the ugliest necklace you’d ever seen.

You wore it anyway.

Just for a little while.

Just because you were curious what he’d leave next.

After that, it became a pattern.

Each morning, something new.

A rock shaped like a fish (you’re almost certain it was meant to be a heart, but you didn’t want to assume). A helmet half-melted from dragon fire, now being repurposed as a flower pot with exactly one weed growing in it. A fish spine carefully twisted into the shape of a ring, which you found tucked into the pocket of your cloak even though you knew you hadn’t put it there.

The weirdest part? None of it bothered you.

It was just… Tuffnut.

This was how he operated. Big gestures. No explanation. No warning.

If it had been anyone else, you might’ve worried. You might’ve wondered what they wanted, or whether there was something behind it all.

But this was the same person who once tried to create a saddle for a yak using only pinecones and old socks.

The same person who tried to forge a sword by dropping a metal rod in a volcano “to see if the gods were interested.”

Weird gifts were the least surprising thing he could’ve done.

You started looking forward to them.

Not in a romantic way. That would’ve been silly.

But they were fun. Harmless. Like a private joke he kept telling that you didn’t have to answer.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

One day, you found a wooden spoon carved with what looked like your face.

The handle was crooked. The eyes were way too big.

You stared at it for a full minute.

Then laughed until your stomach hurt.

You didn’t even bother wondering why he made it.

You just hung it on the wall.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

People started noticing, of course.

Gobber squinted at the scale necklace. “New fashion, or just Thorston trouble?”

You shrugged. “It’s definitely not fashion.”

Fishlegs saw the wooden figure in your window once and asked if it was a cursed artifact. You told him it was Tuffnut’s art.

He backed away slowly.

Astrid said nothing when she saw you with the flower pot helmet. She just gave you a look that said, “You’re either very patient or very doomed.”

But you didn’t care.

You weren’t worried.

This was just how Tuffnut was.

Weird.

Creative.

Generous, in his own bizarre way.

It didn’t mean anything.

You told yourself that without hesitation.

And you believed it.

When the gifts started showing up in stranger places—like under your pillow or inside your firewood basket—you still didn’t think anything of it.

He was probably just testing how stealthy he could be.

Or maybe Ruffnut dared him to do it.

You didn’t ask.

You didn’t want to ruin the fun.

He wasn’t hurting anyone.

You didn’t realize there was anything to notice.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was strange how often you started running into Tuffnut.

Not suspicious-strange. Just… Tuffnut-strange.

Which was kind of its own category.

You’d leave your home early to avoid the market rush—there he’d be, already sitting on a barrel, sipping something that may or may not have been fermented yak milk.

You’d go to the cliffs to sketch the coastline in peace—he’d show up “accidentally chasing a squirrel” that had “insulted his honor.”

Even when you changed your routine, doubled back, skipped the forge entirely just to take the long way around Berk, somehow…

There he was.

Perched on rooftops. Leaning around corners. Emerging from carts with wild theories about storm clouds being dragon camouflage.

You didn’t question it.

Why would you?

This was the same man who once wore a jellyfish as a helmet during a feast and swore it enhanced his “oceanic intuition.” Seeing him at odd hours or in unlikely places wasn’t alarming. It was practically expected.

If anything, you started to enjoy it.

You’d be walking alone, and there’d be a sudden crashing noise, a plume of feathers or soot, and then his familiar voice:

“You’ll never guess what I found inside a cabbage!”

And you’d laugh, turn, and suddenly your day was better.

Not because you were waiting for him.

But because the world felt… lighter when he was around.

Like gravity didn’t work quite the same.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You noticed little things, too.

He always had something in his hands—a stick, a stone, a clump of grass—and more often than not, he gave it to you without ceremony.

A snail shell shaped like a spiral heart. A button he claimed was ancient and “cursed with mild romantic consequences.” A scrap of cloth he said “looked like you if you squint hard enough and believe in miracles.”

Each time, he’d hold it out solemnly, like a knight offering a sword to their sovereign.

You accepted them every time.

Sometimes you kept them.

Sometimes you slipped them into your pocket and forgot about them until later, when you’d find them again and smile.

You never considered what it meant.

Not really.

Because Tuffnut was just like that.

Ridiculous. Sweet. A living whirlwind of nonsense and stray animals.

You never felt unsafe.

You never felt watched.

You just… felt entertained.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It wasn’t just you who noticed, though.

The village did, too.

It started with raised eyebrows and muttered jokes. Fishlegs was the first to comment, quietly, while flipping through a dragon field manual beside you on the docks.

“He’s been within ten feet of you for the last six days.”

You blinked. “Who?”

“Tuffnut.”

You laughed. “He’s just being Tuffnut.”

Fishlegs adjusted his glasses. “Sure. But he usually spreads the chaos around. You’ve become… central.”

You waved him off. “I’m not worried.”

“You should be.”

You didn’t ask what he meant by that.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Snotlout was less subtle.

“So, you and Tuffnut, huh?” he asked one afternoon as he spotted you helping Ruffnut tie extra saddlebags to Barf and Belch.

“Me and—? No. Absolutely not.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Come on. You’ve got the whole village wondering. I mean, the fish bone necklace? The goat-skin pouch full of moss? Classic courtship.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m just saying—if he proposes with a dead eel bouquet, don’t act surprised.”

You punched him lightly in the arm. He squawked and fell into a trough.

Ruffnut didn’t even flinch.

“I give it two more weeks before he builds a nest under your house,” she muttered.

“It’s not like that,” you replied automatically.

But she wasn’t even looking at you. She was squinting up at the roof.

“Then why is he watching you from the chimney?”

You turned—too late.

The chimney was empty.

Just smoke curling upward.

You frowned.

Then shook your head.

Just Tuffnut things.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You might’ve brushed it all off for good—except Hiccup noticed, too.

At first, it was small. The quiet way he watched from across the square when Tuffnut spun a wild story about falling into a pit full of enchanted beetles and you laughed so hard you nearly dropped your basket. The way his expression didn’t change—but his hand on Toothless’s saddle strap clenched slightly.

He didn’t say anything that day.

Or the next.

But he was there.

More and more.

You started seeing him wherever you saw Tuffnut—not talking, not interrupting, just present. Hiccup had always been a little intense, but now there was something extra. A weight behind his gaze. An alertness that prickled when you turned away.

It came to a quiet head during the Harvest Bonfire.

You’d just arrived in the square with a basket of dried herbs for the offering when Tuffnut leapt from the roof of the ale tent, landed beside you with a flurry of confetti (you didn’t ask where he got it), and declared:

“Your presence has summoned the spirit of chaos and autumnal mating! I mean celebration! I mean… look, I made you something!”

He held out what looked like a small wreath made of chicken feathers, dried flowers, and what may or may not have been pieces of bark with your name carved into them.

You burst out laughing.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He beamed. “You’re welcome.”

You took it. Not because you wanted to wear it—but because it was so absurdly sweet in that very specific Tuffnut way.

He immediately tried to put it on your head.

It didn’t fit.

He tried anyway.

“Hold still—your skull’s bigger than I remember—”

“You’ve never measured my skull—”

“I did once while you were asleep. Only a little!”

You were wheezing from laughter by the time the wreath fell off.

That’s when you noticed Hiccup across the square.

Standing at the edge of the bonfire ring, one hand wrapped around a torch.

He wasn’t smiling.

Toothless stood beside him, tail twitching slowly, eyes flicking between the two of you.

And Hiccup…

Hiccup didn’t look away.

Not even when you did.

Not even when Tuffnut grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the cider cart with a shout of, “Let us drink until our dreams are weird and legally questionable!”

You followed, still laughing.

You didn’t notice how long Hiccup stood there, unmoving.

You didn’t see the flames reflected in his eyes.

You never noticed when he whispered something to Toothless, quiet and low.

Or the way Toothless turned his head toward Tuffnut’s retreating back… and blinked.

You didn't notice at all because you were too busy being dragged toward the cider stand by Tuffnut, who was gleefully shouting about fermented apples and how “all good love stories start with indigestion.”

You giggled as he shoved a wooden cup into your hands and dramatically toasted, “To fire, freedom, and people who don’t question my fashion choices!”

You clinked his cup with yours, nearly spilling it, and took a sip. It was sweet, a little spicy, and much stronger than you expected. Tuffnut’s laughter grew louder the more you coughed.

You didn’t notice the way Hiccup stayed behind near the flames. You didn’t notice the way Toothless tilted his head, a low rumble in his throat, like he was being told something important. You didn’t notice the way Hiccup’s eyes flicked toward the bonfire sparks and then followed you through the crowd.

But Tuffnut did.

Sort of.

Not in a concerned way.

Not yet.

He saw Hiccup’s face for a brief moment—flat, unreadable—but chalked it up to normal Chief stuff.

Hiccup’s always like that, Tuffnut thought. Stoic. Thinking about taxes. Or diplomacy. Or why dragons keep sneezing in the armory.

Hiccup always watched people. It was kind of his thing.

So Tuffnut didn’t think twice.

He just downed the rest of his cider, tossed the cup over his shoulder (it hit a goat), and started plotting how to convince you to help him build “a memory shrine made entirely of fish scales.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next day, the weather turned chilly.

Wind curled down from the cliffs in swirling bursts, and most of the villagers huddled inside, tending fires or mending cloaks.

You ventured out anyway, eager to check on a small herbal patch near the east cliffside. The cold air bit at your fingers, but you liked the solitude—and the view from the rocks was always worth it.

Tuffnut met you halfway up the slope.

“I knew you’d go here,” he said proudly, skipping over stones like a mountain goat. “Because your soul is drawn to windswept poetry and mild danger.”

You blinked at him, bundled tighter into your cloak. “You followed me?”

“No,” he said quickly, then paused. “Yes. But in a respectful, deeply spiritual way.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled.

He helped you reach the rocky ledge, offered you a slice of questionable dried fruit, and began explaining his latest theory: that trees have secret opinions about everyone, but only reveal them to birds.

You were mid-snort when you heard footsteps behind you.

You turned.

Hiccup was there.

Wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, boots dusted with frost, a small leather pouch in his hand.

“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking to yours. “Thought you might be cold. I brought you some warming powder. Just mix it with tea or hot water.”

You took it with surprise. “Thanks… I didn’t even realize I needed this.”

“I did,” he said quietly, then nodded and turned to leave.

The wind tugged at his coat.

You didn’t see Tuffnut watching him.

You didn’t hear the brief silence stretch longer than usual.

Later that night, as you walked back to your house with Tuffnut chatting beside you about his latest attempt at crafting a dragon harness from spare belts, he suddenly said,

“Hiccup’s always been weirdly prepared, huh?”

You shrugged. “He’s a good Chief.”

“Yeah, yeah. I mean, sure. He knows things. Makes stuff. Probably sleeps with a map under his pillow.”

You laughed. “What’s your point?”

“No point. Just saying. It’s cool he, uh… noticed you were cold. That’s all.”

His tone was light.

Not bitter. Not suspicious.

Just… noting.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next time it happened, Tuffnut didn’t think it was a pattern.

Not yet.

It was just another ordinary afternoon.

You were helping Ruffnut untangle fishing nets on the docks—mostly by laughing while she yelled at them—when a gust of wind blew your hood back and flung saltwater straight into your face.

You sputtered. Ruffnut cursed. The net slipped into the water.

Before you could chase it, someone stepped up beside you.

Hiccup.

Holding a clean cloth.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed it to you.

You blinked. “How…?”

“I saw the wind shift. Thought you’d need it.”

He smiled and walked off.

Ruffnut let out a low whistle.

Tuffnut arrived three seconds later with a fishing spear, soaking wet, wearing only one boot and proudly shouting, “I defeated a mackerel and stole its soul!”

You immediately forgot everything else.

But later—much later—when Tuffnut was combing seaweed out of his braid and mumbling about how Hiccup always seemed to be around at the right time…

That’s when the first tiny flicker of suspicion entered his head.

He brushed it off.

He wanted to brush it off.

Because it was Hiccup.

And Hiccup wasn’t competition.

Right?

Right.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tuffnut wanted to ignore it.

He really did.

But after the docks incident—after the too-convenient cloth and the perfectly timed “Chiefly concern”—he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Hiccup always seemed to know.

Not just where you were, but what you needed. When. Why. How.

And now, he didn’t just show up.

He stayed.

The very next day, you were helping Gertie the baker haul sacks of flour to the storeroom when a voice behind you said,

“Let me grab that for you.”

You turned to find Hiccup already beside you, reaching for the heaviest bag.

He offered you a soft smile as he slung it over his shoulder.

You blinked. “Weren’t you working in the forge this morning?”

“Took a break.” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Thought I’d walk by the bakery. Smelled something nice.”

You didn’t think much of it.

You smiled, thanked him, and went back to work.

Tuffnut—who had been loitering just outside the storeroom with a cinnamon roll stuck to his elbow and a sprig of rosemary in his hair—watched the whole thing.

He didn’t say anything.

Yet.

The next morning, you walked out of your house to find Hiccup waiting with Toothless.

“Thought you might like a ride,” he said casually, patting the saddle. “It’s a clear day. Good views from the sky.”

Your heart jumped. “Really? You’re offering me a flight?”

He nodded, then hesitated. “Just the two of us.”

You didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered when you smiled.

Or the way his hand tensed on the reins when you reached up to touch Toothless’s nose.

But Tuffnut did.

From a rooftop. Under a basket. Holding a jar of pickled eggs he’d meant to gift you.

He froze mid-step as he watched you climb onto the saddle.

And he didn’t come down from that roof for a long, long time.

At first, he told himself it was fine.

Hiccup was the Chief. He had duties. It made sense that he’d be everywhere. Helping people. Smiling at villagers. Offering dragon rides.

He was just being a good guy.

That’s what Tuffnut kept telling himself.

Over and over.

Until it started happening every single day.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The shift became impossible to ignore the day of the storm.

Heavy clouds had rolled in by midday, dragging rain and sea wind with them. Most villagers ran for cover, but you stayed out longer than expected—trying to help an older woman collect laundry before it blew away.

By the time you made it halfway home, your arms were full and your cloak was soaked through.

That’s when Hiccup arrived—again—with a second cloak.

Dry. Warm. Just your size.

You stared at him. “Where did you—?”

“I thought you might need one. The weather looked bad.”

You took it, half-laughing, half-shivering. “You think of everything.”

Behind a stack of barrels, out of sight, Tuffnut gritted his teeth.

He had also been running toward you.

With a handmade umbrella made out of fish skin and bones.

He stopped.

Looked at it.

Then back at the way you smiled at Hiccup.

The umbrella dropped to the ground.

By the end of the week, Tuffnut had stopped pretending it was a coincidence.

He didn’t want to be jealous.

Not really.

Jealousy was ugly. Petty.

He was chaotic, not cruel.

But every time Hiccup stepped in—every time you laughed just a little softer for him, or tilted your head that way that made Tuffnut’s stomach turn—something inside him twisted.

He’d spent days crafting the most ridiculous, beautiful fish scale ring anyone had ever seen, only for Hiccup to hand you a dragon-shaped pin the same day—practical, polished, elegant. You wore it immediately.

You didn’t know.

Of course you didn’t.

But Tuffnut did.

And the moment he saw that pin glinting in your hair as you smiled at the Chief?

That’s when something changed.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You didn’t know.

Of course you didn’t.

You were still smiling, adjusting the dragon-shaped pin Hiccup had given you—fingers brushing over the polished metal at your collar like it belonged there.

You were talking to him—probably about nothing important—and laughing like everything was normal.

Like there wasn’t someone just a few feet away watching you from the shadow of the well, silent and still for once, fingers clenched so tight around a fistful of scales that his knuckles turned white.

Tuffnut stared at the way Hiccup leaned just slightly too close.

At the way your eyes flicked up to meet his.

And something inside him—the part that had always laughed, always shrugged, always assumed everything would work out—curled in on itself and burned.

Not with anger.

Not with heartbreak.

But with something deeper.

Darker.

Older.

A low, simmering pulse in the back of his mind that whispered:

So that’s how it is.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t shout.

Didn’t throw anything.

He just stepped back into the shadows.

And smiled.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tags: @sf-renard, @gudaworks, @mel-vaz

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

[vcnillababy]

CAFES AND COMFORT

bokuto kotaro x shy! reader

clinking of cutlery against plates, the buzz of different groups of friends, families and couples having simultaneous conversations, and of course, the smell of coffee beans and pastries were the reason this particular cafe was so popular— especially in your eyes— the semi-loud atmosphere was oddly comforting, especially with BOKUTO KOTARO sharing his apple pie with you.

the bell above the blue door chimed, signalling the baristas of a new customer. you glanced at the figure, it was a familiar one— one that you could never forget— it was him.

your eyes couldn’t help themselves, gazing at the door for what felt like ages— well, that’s what bokuto told you— he furrowed his brows, snapping you out of your trance.

“pumpkin, what’re you looking at?”

you grimace. this date was supposed to be a chance to catch up— with classes taking up your time, and practice needing his full attention 24/7, this was one of your few chances to talk to each other with no distractions— but right now? your attention was fully captured by the hunk of junk at the counter ordering his meal.

big brown eyes, soft black hair, and sharp features that you recognised. the same features that you used to hold, kiss, and comfort during hard times— his hard times.

you shut your eyes, resetting your memories as you flutter them back open, landing on the owl-like boy in front of you, his golden eyes looking in yours filled with concern.

“sorry, kou..” you whispered in shame.

“who is that? is he an old friend?” bokuto questions, glancing at the counter.

your eyes followed his, landing on the figure that once clouded your mind for days on end. “you could say that.”

“an ex?”

“guess so.”

the once light and breezy atmosphere turned tense and somber. still, bokuto couldn’t help but pry— i mean, it’s his girlfriend we’re talking about! of course he’d want to know every single thing about her ex and how to outdo him in every single aspect— “ended on bad terms, huh?”

you reluctantly nod. “my fault.”

you remembered everything clearly. how he chased you first, how you were too shy to reciprocate, and how he was too impatient and immature to wait until you were ready. but you couldn’t blame him, not when you were so painfully insecure and only felt like you were holding him back from his full potential.

bokuto couldn’t believe it— anything being her fault— she was sweet, always has been. sure, chasing after her took time, but it was all worth the wait.

“mind telling me what happened, princess?” he further inquires, his large hands fidgeting with the teaspoon in his mug.

“same thing that you went through.” she shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“what are you talking about? you’re as sweet as my apple pie!” he flails his arms, exaggerating his point.

you let out a soft sigh, your hands picking at the lint on your sweater. “you know..”

he scoffed, growing tired of the back and forth. “no, i obviously don’t. y/n, just tell me.”

you chew on your bottom lip, slightly reluctant to tell him about your faults in the relationship. “i uh..” would he understand? or would he blame you like your ex did?

it was bokuto. you could trust him— or at least you hoped you could— “i was, like, really shy during the three months we were together.”

bokuto’s golden eyes widened, his head tilting in a mix of confusion and curiosity. “what’s wrong with that? it’s who you are.”

“no, kou— you don’t get it.”

“what don’t i get? you can’t keep saying that and not tell me how to understand!”

“i was stupid, okay?” she snaps. “i-i avoided him cause he was always with his huge group of friends— and they were always so loud! always hollering at us and he blamed me cause i couldn’t talk to him when his friends were around— which was practically all the time..”

bokuto’s hand reached for yours, his touch soft and tender. “baby..”

“soon enough, he got bored of the awkward back and forth, and well..” you pause, not knowing how to continue her story. “when the next school year came around, he finally found a prettier girl— a younger girl— and they started dating under a week of our break up.”

he was quiet for a moment, processing your little story time as he squeezed your hand tighter. “that’s bullshit.”

“what?”

“he— because you were shy? oh, come on!” bokuto lets out an exasperated groan. “he should’ve known what type of girl you were before you two even started to date! why is he surprised that the shy girl he asked out is actually awkward and timid?”

bokuto tilts your chin up, locking eyes with you. “y/n, listen.”

his gaze was stern, in contrast to his usual carefree personality. “it’s not your fault that he was impatient— that he didn’t even try to understand how you felt!”

you shake your head, your eyes fixating on the plate of croissants and muffins in front of you. “but that’s not the problem— i kept avoiding him when his friends were around.. you know how i get when there’s a lot of attention on me—“

“that’s not your fault.” he stops her. “he knew that you’re a reserved person, y/n. and he didn’t do anything to make you feel comfortable around him— that’s his fault. he’s an idiot.”

bokuto’s grip on her chin loosens, instead combing through his hair as a feeble attempt to calm himself down. “he’s an idiot for letting you go.”

“kou, he was perfect back then. everyone knew him, everyone liked him—“

“if he was so perfect, he wouldn’t have done any of those things to you. he would’ve been understanding and helpful— not unkind and condescending.”

he takes a breath, his gaze tender and loving. “he’s an idiot for jumping at the first opportunity to go after a pretty girl. that’s not the type of guy you’re looking for, is it?”

“no..” she whispers, her eyes finally meeting his. “you are.”

bokuto’s lips couldn’t help but twitch into a smirk. “damn straight.”

the coldness in the air quickly disappears, turning to the same calm atmosphere she could always count on it being whenever she was with him.

“you’re perfect to me, alright?” he starts, “you’re smart, pretty, kind, and so, so caring. any guy who’s willing to throw you away is an idiot— which i am not— and i’m never gonna let you go.”

you felt a bashful smile tugging at your lips, your cheeks flushing with a warm hue.

“the chase to get you took months, sure, but it was all worth it.” he grins. “especially when i get to spend my time with you after the ‘hardships’ i endured.”

“oh, kou..” she chuckles, her hand reaching for his under the table. “i love you.”

he squeezes her palm, touch warm and welcoming. “i love you more, darling.”

── .✦

╰┈➤ “if you can love the wrong person that much, imagine how much you can love the right one.”

you always thought that you were the problem. that you couldn’t be loved because of your hesitant personality and insecurities despite the positive traits that other people see, but being with the right person taught you otherwise.

with the right person, you could be yourself— they don’t judge you or try to change you to fit their image. you’re you and that’s all that matters.

────୨ৎ────

hii! it’s been a while since i uploaded any fics hehe. i’ve been spending my time watching new shows and movies.

i might start uploading fics for different fanbases (dps, harry potter, wednesday, etc.) but, we’ll see!

[scrapyardboyfriends]

Episode Thoughts…

Well I think that was my least favorite of the three episodes this week. Definitely less in depth than the other two as far as Robert’s character is concerned. I mean I understand the purpose was to get them to some kind of truce so they can drag this story out longer but I wish they had found a way to do that, which included a little more of villain John.

I mean John still watched him get spiked and waited till the last second to rescue him from Owen so he could put him in the back of his own van. We don’t really know what he told Vic. I also have to imagine he manipulated Vic into thinking Robert staying in a locked van all night was her idea. He probably said like “we should bring him in the house so he’s less confused but there is Harry to think about” and then she was probably like “no you’re right, it’s better he stays in the van.”

And then has Vic seen his creepy little non sanctioned syringe bag? That didn’t come from his official paramedic backpack. And why would you need to give a sedative to an already unconscious person?

It was definitely all very plotty. I mean I didn’t expect a whole kidnapping plot. They were never going to do that one week into him being back in the village. But I was kind of hoping John would take him off somewhere and at least contemplate doing something to him before he brought him back to save him. I don’t know. It is what it is. I guess.

I do also agree with the people who have commented on the glossing over of the spiking and that it would be pretty traumatic for the first date you try and have to do that to you. But I don’t really expect they’ll circle back to that now.

If I ignore all of the above, it was very fun watching Robert lunge out of the back of the van at John and I thoroughly enjoyed him punching him.

I thought the little potential foreshadowing hints of John commenting on Robert not being believed or telling Vic that it was all going to go pear shaped were interesting. I hope those little seeds are allowed to grow into something. I just want John to be more villainous.

I do think Oliver has been much more “alive” in these Sugden scenes than he has been in this entire story thus far so that’s a positive.

I liked getting to see Sugden land. I want that to mean something too.

And the little fake hug and truce as they promised each other they were still coming after the other was fun and soapy.

I agree with everyone that wants to let Robert move on from this for the moment and interact with other characters. I agree, give me my Mack scenes.

I do also want to see Robert continue to just not trust John and keep an eye on him. But yeah, John needs to step up his villain game before we all get bored.

[partyof4game]

My male MC having a more feminine face and getting free food because of his pretty face was fun for me lmao

I have canon for me that he realized this as a child and used it to get free food from the cooks, or from our mother (sister 😭), or anyone who looked long enough at his face. Like, are you going to deny a plate of food or a candy to this poor child with a charming face and eyes?

*MC putting on his biggest abandoned puppy face*

Actually! Can I have a scenario with my MC convincing Aslo with his pretty face, please? 😭

(No insta-love—Aslo is apparently easily convinced by MC, but in this scenario he at least plays hard to get)

I love that headcanon so much, and honestly I'm really glad the story so far has room to make it possible! Sometimes seeing these HCs and general experiences from players helps me see the story in a more macro way rather than micro. In other words, it's really fun and enlightening to read about them! 😂

Scenario below the cut!

What a fun little scenario, too. 😈Aslo is a sucker for a cute face. I think for setup it will be MC trying to convince Aslo to buy him an entire chocolate whipped pie, which is not only expensive, but Aslo knows that MC will share it with the other party members, which he thinks defeats the purpose of calling it a gift to him. Mostly MC wants to see if Aslo will actually do it despite clearly not wanting to.

---

Aslo stares at the chocolate pie, cream whipped into peaks with cherries topping each one, kept chilled on a cut slab of ice. Ten gold is exorbitant for a single pie, and if it had been anyone else asking him to buy it, he'd have told them to get stuffed. But...

He glances down at the man who he knows deep down is his other half, even if the other man doesn't quite realize it yet, is a little scared to admit the electric tension between them.

"Please?" his sweet love asks, his alluring, soft face turning up to look at him, large eyes imploring. By the mountain and sky, it's like staring into the eyes of a newly born cria, and he has to fight the urge to stroke his love's head, run his fingers over his hair and cup his face and... May the wind take him, but how can he resist that?

"Aslo? Can you? If you can't it's alright... I just thought it would be nice to do for everyone..."

He sighs, long and hard, unclenching his shoulders with effort. "Sure, sure," he makes himself say. "Anything for you, sweetling."

"Anything?" his love says, sounding both pleased and surprised before his lovely, lovely eyes turn towards a jar of strawberry preserves on a nearby shelf. "Can I have that, too?"

"Ah, yes, alright..."

And he can see the moment his love's smile goes from innocent to sly, and by the mountain, he knows he's caught in his love's web; so willingly caught. He wouldn't even dream of breaking free.

He bends down, pitching his voice low so he can rumble into his love's ear: "Don't worry about it, sweetling. I know you'll make it up to me someday. I'll be waiting to see what you come up with."

His love even flushes delicately. Amazing. He hopes to see it far more often in the future...

[phyllocnistis]

Faith Creek Girls Camp - Chapter 1

“This,” she continued, “is Teagan. She’s your new roommate for the next month. Can you show her the cabin?”

Bethany stared at the girl in front of her, jaw slack. This could not be her new roommate.

-----------

After finding herself bunking with a new and intimidating co-counselor at Faith Creek Girls Camp, God loving, obedient Bethany must make amends with the reality that everyone has their own interests. Teagan, her raunchy and unapologetically dykey co-counselor, decides to make it her personal mission to expand Bethany's mind and introduce her to new experiences, leading Bethany on a path to self discovery.

-----

This story is co-authored by myself and @m-mmoonshine and can be found here on this blog or over on ao3. Even chapters are written by myself, odd chapters by Morgan. We hope you love Bethany and Teagan as much as us!

Bethany

The bus was swelteringly hot despite every window being open as wide as possible. The younger girls at the front didn’t seem to mind, at least, they were too focused on the host of activities that waited for them in the following month. The sound of girls laughing and squealing in excitement could be heard over the sound of the bus creaking as it carried the group up winding, narrow roads. As the bus driver expertly maneuvered the pot-hole filled roads, Bethany closed her eyes and smiled. A cool breeze whipped blonde hair into her face.

“Finally,” she thought, “I’m back.”

Attending Faith Creek Girls Camp was Bethany’s favorite time of year. She’d been a camper for years before finally growing old enough to work as a counselor, something she’d been doing for a while now. So far this summer, she had already taken the trip up the mountain twice, a different group of excitable preteens scrambling off the bus in front of her, eager to learn about their Lord but more eager to have unrestrained, summer fun with their friends for five days. Bethany had always been an outlier; as a camper, she had enjoyed the tabernacle sessions, bible studies, and sermons more than physical activities like canoeing, volleyball, or archery. As an adult, though, she found it more and more gratifying to come back and teach these sports, explaining the importance of Christ and how he could fit into the lives of each and every one of the campers, even through an activity as mundane as rock climbing.

The sound of preteen girls screaming enthusiastically told her that they had arrived and she opened her eyes with a big smile, tucking windswept pieces of hair behind her ear. Bethany watched as the campers tumbled out of the bus and onto the pavement, looming pine trees providing shade from the sun’s rays. Grabbing her duffel bag, she reached for the small golden cross that hung around her neck, fiddling with it as she stepped off the bus and into the warm afternoon. The mountain air was thin, but fresh and crisp. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and as the last counselors who had ridden the bus exited, Bethany turned to face the group of impatient campers.

“Who’s ready for an unforgettable time?!”

—----

After Bethany passed the group of campers off to camp leaders, she turned and made her way to the bunks with the other counselors. Since she had already worked the previous month, all of her belongings were already here, minus the rotation of clothes she had taken home this weekend to wash. She had decorated her side of the shared room in a way that made it feel uniquely hers for the summer; a pennant banner hung above her perfectly made bed with the words “ I <3 GOD” stamped in bold red letters on it. On her nightstand, a picture frame sat displaying young Bethany and her best camp friend at the beach. She dropped her duffel bag onto her bed and looked around the rest of her cabin just as the sounds of campers could be heard busting into the far side of the cabin. This month, eight girls aged from 12-14, would be bunking in her cabin, separated by a log wall that ran perpendicular to Bethany’s bed. Last week, her roommate and co-counselor, Leslie, had moved out early, leaving her room half empty. It made her heart sad to not see Leslie’s box of embroidery floss on the desk or her life jacket hanging on the wall, but she couldn’t deny that she was thrilled to meet her new roomie: camp was for meeting new people.

After putting away her toiletries, Bethany checked the time and realized she was running late for the first counselor meeting. Pulling a cardigan over her shoulders, she quickly peeked at her reflection. Soft features and perfectly trimmed eyebrows stared back at her, not a hair out of line. She busted out of the cabin door, hiking her skirt up to her shins to keep it clean. Her sandals smacked the dirt path as she walked quickly down the paved walkway between trees she knew like the back of her hand. In no time, she was rounding the corner to the main pavilion and her heart swelled as she saw friends she hadn’t seen in years and the faces of new friends she hadn’t met yet.

When Emma, the camp director, was done giving her weekly spill (the same rehearsed speech Bethany had heard dozens of times at this point,) she had a chance to finally mingle. She pulled her cardigan tighter around her sloped shoulders as the sun began to dip behind the trees, cooling the air. One of her favorite friends, Maisy, was here this month. Maisy lived out of town and could usually only make it for one month out of the summer, but Bethany loved when she could. She had hoped that Maisy would be her roommate this year, but after she’d asked, Maisy had politely declined, citing her love of Cabin 2 over Cabin 4.

Understandable, Bethany thought, she didn’t want to leave her cabin either so she couldn’t blame Maisy. Still, she was excited to catch up. Bethany talked about the camp’s most notable events of the summer so far; like Hanna Sosa getting pushed into the lake or Lacey Loyd almost falling off the ropes course. Maisy looked less than impressed, softly offering Bethany an awkward laugh before turning to mingle with a group of friends that Bethany wasn't keen on. Instinctively, Bethany reached for her cross necklace, immediately understanding that Maisy may be growing distant from her and not truly embracing the camp spirit like they had as kids. This hurt her feelings and truthfully, scared her, though she didn't want to think about it right now.

Trying to ignore the feeling, Bethany turned to the rest of the group, saying hello to the other counselors she had worked with all summer just to ease her tension. At least she knew these people were reliable, even if they weren't her closest friends. Finally, she saw a brief opening to speak to Emma, excited to see if there was any news on her new roommate. She approached nervously, having always been intimidated by Emma’s ‘no nonsense’ personality. Emma looked up from her clipboard with a close-lipped smile.

“Ah! Bethany, just the girl I was looking for!”

Bethany felt her heart sink. Was she in trouble?

Why would Emma be looking for her?

Before she could get a word out, Emma turned and grabbed the arm of another counselor milling around and pulled her over aggressively, but not maliciously. The girl looked offended by this, glaring up at Emma with dark, brooding eyes.

“This,” she continued, “is Teagan. She’s your new roommate for the next month. Can you show her the cabin?”

Bethany stared at the girl in front of her, jaw slack. This could not be her new roommate. Teagan wore dark eyeliner around both eyes and a denim jacket covered in patches, some with words Bethany didn’t even recognize. Her hair was short, barely touching her shoulders and was unnaturally black, like she had dyed it herself. In her ears, more than a dozen rings sparkled against the firelight and for a moment, when she lifted her bag over her shoulder, her shirt raised up a little and Bethany thought she saw a tattoo on her hip. She was nothing like Leslie at all.

“You should close your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” Teagan said, breaking Bethany from her trance. Emma shot Teagan a glaring look, staring down at her with a tense gaze.

“Sorry,” she said as she offered a fake curtsy to Bethany,

“Where do we go?”

Teagan

Bethany's room was an absolute fucking nightmare. The banners on the walls, floral patterned clothes and stacks of bible book courses were not a welcome sight, though they were one she had fully anticipated. Last month, her mother had scolded her for not taking church “seriously” after she had come home from school and mocked the church’s pastor, challenging some of his teachings in front of the whole clergy. Her mother had been livid, threatening all sorts of punishments; from refusing to pay for her school to taking her truck away for the summer. She had eventually calmed down and decided Tegan could choose her own fate, offering her the opportunity to choose Faith Creek as a sort of “spiritual rehabilitation.” Seeing as she didn't have another way to pay for school and couldn't dream of not seeing her friends later in the summer, here she stood; staring across the room at her new, God-loving roommate for the next month.

“So.. What classes are you teaching?” Bethany asked, obviously trying to break the tension growing in the room. Her voice was sweet and bright, like a candied fruit. She stood on her side of the room next to her bed, arms crossed. The rest of the cabin was silent as kids gathered outside for evening icebreaker activities. Teagan could tell she meant well by her inquiry; surely, this Godly woman wouldn't be rude directly to her face. Still, her reaction to her appearance before had been visceral, a reaction Teagan normally loved from people, just.. usually ones she wasn't living with for extended periods of time.

“I, uh. Don't actually know. Rock climbing, I think,” Teagan answered, pulling out the papers tucked under her arm. Flipping through them all, she struggled to find the schedule she was looking for, weighed down by the lengthy pages on scripture, camp rules, and maps. Bethany watched for several moments before approaching cautiously, reaching a hand out towards the stack of papers in Teagan’s hand.

“Can I see?”

In no time at all, Bethany confirmed that this month, Teagan would be teaching rock climbing; supervising two groups, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Teagan vaguely remembered checking the “rock climbing” box on her work application, hoping her limited knowledge of belaying and alpinism could score her a “fun” assignment, as opposed to a less exciting class like a devotional or nature walks. She was pleased with this assignment, sure she could stick it out and get through the month.

Tired from the drive here, Teagan flopped down onto her bed with her hands behind her head and as if on cue, the front door to the cabin could be heard slamming as girls made their way back into the cabin laughing hysterically. The sound was grating on Teagan’s ears and immediately, she reached for a pillow that she held over her face to muffle it. Over the sound of laughter and through the feathers, she heard a cough, more like a throat clearing, and dreaded having to face Bethany. Slamming the pillow down onto her messily made bed, Teagan sat up and was met with disapproving eyes staring down at her, her arms crossed. She blinked purposefully and raised her eyebrows as if to say, “what gives?” Though she was trying her hardest to look tough, Teagan couldn’t help but chuckle under her breath at the sight of Bethany’s comically mad frown.

“Is something funny?” she asked, her eyes wide and quizzical. Though she must be angry, the softness in her voice and peachy glow in her cheeks made it hard for Teagan to tell.

“Not at all,” Teagan answered, standing and striding past her into the open cabin, their eyes locked until she actually stepped out of the room. The room fell quiet for a moment as the counselor appeared, but chaos quickly returned with Teagan’s surprisingly upbeat dismissal,

“What is up, Cabin 4!” Immediately, the sounds of shrill screams and laughter took over the room again and Bethany was left standing in her bunk, stunned, for a moment. Eventually, she found herself and returned to the main part of the cabin to help with the rowdy group.

Teagan knew the best way to get through this month would be to “fake it” until she could get off by herself and have a moment of peace. She had plenty of accelerants for that stashed in her car but truly, even just a dip in the lake on her own would put her at ease. So she did just that, pretending to love every second of camp life and following Bethany’s lead when it came to actually supervising. The campers warmed up to her right away, thinking she was just “too cool!” She watched Bethany seethe as the girls asked her questions about the patches on her jacket and about the way she did her makeup. Bethany interrupted,

“Okay girls, time for bed! Get your jammies and toothbrushes, we’re gonna walk down to the showerhouse!”

A choir of groans sang out as the girls reluctantly stood to dig through their suitcases. Teagan shot Bethany a look, intrigued by what she thought was.. jealousy? She returned to her room to get her shoes before joining Bethany and the campers at the front of the cabin, the group of them walking as a unit past the other cabins and the messhall to the showers. Bethany took a seat on a bench outside to wait as girls brushed their teeth and showered. Teagan watched as Bethany crossed her legs at the knees and the maroon fabric of her skirt tightened over her skin. Trying to ignore it and move on, she approached the showerhouse and leaned against it. She could feel her roommate’s stare boring into her as she leaned on the wooden wall of the building, staring out into the woods beyond them. Eventually, the feeling became too apparent and she had to look, turning her head abruptly to meet Bethany’s eyes. For just a moment, Teagan saw her eyes widen before she looked away, tucking her hands into her jacket and glancing back nervously only once. The two didn’t speak for the remaining 20 minutes it took for the campers to get ready for bed which only made it drag on agonizingly slow. Each minute felt like an eternity and by the time the group was on their way back to their cabin, Teagan was actually grateful for the sounds of girls screaming and laughing.

When they made it back, it was nearly 10 pm, time for the mandatory lights out. Bethany returned to the main room and took a seat at the front no longer wearing her cardigan. Instead, Teagan saw nothing but a fitted, grey camp shirt that wrapped around her in ways that seemed truly too unholy for this place. She leaned on the doorframe of their bunk as Bethany recited scripture and praised her Lord, confessing her love for Him. At least, that’s what Teagan thought she was saying; she was too focused on watching her to hear or retain anything she actually said. She couldn’t help but notice how Bethany lit up when she spoke of God, her eyes growing brighter and her smile wider. Teagan couldn’t help but notice the way her hands held the book, fingers delicately marking the pages most important to her. She was fixated on the shimmer that reflected off the necklace around her neck, catching herself very blantantly staring at Bethany’s chest before she removed herself entirely, turning and heading to their bathroom to brush her own teeth. By the time she was spitting minty water back into the sink, Bethany was back in their room and quiet whispers could be heard from the far side of the cabin, no doubt the campers telling scary stories. Teagan tried not to make eye contact as she offered a forced “smile” and walked by Bethany, their fingers briefly grazing one another’s in passing. Bethany turned her head to where Teagan had stood but by that point, she was already flopping into her bed again, oblivious to whatever Bethany needed. She was so close, if she could just make it a little longer, she’d be able to slip out and seek some sort of creature comfort. She bid her time and waited until she could hear nothing but the snores of teenagers and the soft breathing of her roommate, surely asleep now that 45 minutes had passed.

Only one floorboard had creaked as she stepped out of the cabin, one she marked the location of in her head before continuing. It was on the far side of the room she shared with Bethany and for a moment she was worried that it had woken her, turning her head to stare, hoping she hadn’t just busted herself. She stood still for several seconds, the breath caught in her throat, before she was confident that it hadn’t woken Bethany. The rest of the cabin she was less worried about. She was technically in charge, so there would be no reason for the campers to be suspicious. Quietly cracking the door open, she slipped into the cool night air, latching the screen behind her.

Bethany

Does she play me for stupid?

Bethany laid awake in a silent room staring at the wooden rafters above her. She had been a counselor for years now. Did Teagan genuinely think that she wouldn’t notice her sneaking out on the first night? She turned her head to confirm that she was actually gone, her eyes narrowing in distaste at the sight of the empty bed. Quietly, she stood and fastened her sandals before making her own way to the front of the cabin. Taking one last glace at the room full of sleeping campers, she turned and quietly latched the door just as Teagan had. She wasn’t entirely sure where she should look first until she remembered that Teagan had driven here herself. She set off with determination, making her way across the campground to the parking area to see if she could find her untrustworthy roommate.

The parking lot was empty. No lights were on, no engines ran, and nothing look disturbed, so Bethany turned again, unsure if she should just go get Emma or continue looking on her own. She thought back to how the campers had reacted to Teagan, seemingly loving her and wanting to know everything about her while offering Bethany the same lukewarm greeting she was used to from campers their age. When she was younger, she’d had a similar counselor to Teagan for a summer, and though she would never admit it, she had always liked her more than the others. She had been so unique, so cool. So pretty. Just then, a noise pulled her from her thoughts. Rocks tumbling near the lake caused her to snap her head to the side, bee-lining it for the noise she had just heard.

She tried to keep quiet as her sandals moved across the gravel towards the treeline. There was a small trail that lead down to the lake shore, usually only used for the counselor-only parties that were held at the end of each month. Bethany didn’t ususally make the walk out here at night; every week this summer she had been down by the lake before sunset and come back when it was barely dusk. Still, she slipped between the trees on the narrow trail and leaves grazed her bare arms as she made her way into the rocky opening. Immediately, she knew she had been right.

The moon was full tonight and shined down across the lake with a bright, glowing brilliance. Normally, Bethany would have loved this sight. The reflection on the water danced back at her in silver waves that couldn’t be dampened out by the darkness of the lake, even at it’s deepest points. The pine trees loomed over the far side of the lake and created a distinct skyline; triangular tips of branches seemed to pierce the few clouds that floated above. They were so far into the country at Faith Creek that the stars shined brighter than normal, too, unobstructed by city lights or smog. Unfortunately for Bethany, in the middle of it all, a figure sat illuminated by the moon’s glory, leaning back on her elbows, ruining the view for her. Bethany stood still and watched as the feeling of her nightgown tickled her as wind blew the fabric against her calves.

It didn’t seem like Teagan was… doing anything, just sitting there and admiring the evening, sort of like she was. Bethany began to second guess herself now. She had marched over here with a determination, ready to get Teagan thrown from the camp or at least from her cabin, but she started to wonder if she had misread the situation… Taking a deep breath, Bethany took a step forward and the trail crunched under her foot loud enough that she looked down, nervous the sound would give her away. When she raised her head again, Teagan was looking back in her direction, already rising to her feet. In a split moment, Bethany ran through her options. She could run, now realizing that she was out past curfew, too, she didn’t want to get caught either. She could hide in the brush off the side of the trail, though her nightgown was a bright white and Teagan would surely see it. Or she could do.. nothing. She ended up choosing the latter, deciding that she would hold her ground and confront the girl that was already making her summer hellacious.

Putting on her strongest face, she raised her head and pushed her shoulders back as she saw Teagan making her way to the trail where she stood. In just a second, her co-counselor was walking up to her with an inquisitive look in her eyes. She tried to read past the look and figure out what Teagan was actually thinking, but before she could determine anything, her thoughts were interrupted.

“I didn’t take you as someone who would sneak out.”

Her voice was low and soft as she spoke, careful not to raise her pitch. Bethany stared back at her, the “strong” face she had donned now having melted into a look of confusion as she thought about the words.

“I didn’t sneak out! I’m only here because you left in the middle of the night!” She could feel her own voice rushing as she hurried to get the words out, now annoyed that Teagan was accusing her of breaking rules for no reason.

“It’s 11 pm..” Teagan couldn’t help but crack a smile, tilting her head to the side as she continued. “Plus, don’t you think it’s gorgeous?” The question irritated Bethany.

“Obviously, I do, look at-”

“Then why don’t you just come sit with me?”

Bethany felt her face run red as the words sank into her. She wasn’t sure why, but she hoped that Teagan couldn’t see it in the dim light. Several seconds passed in an uneasy silence as the two of them gazed back at each other, Bethany’s mind racing. She hated being out of her cabin this late, there was no one in the bunk in case of an emergency! It would be her fault if anything went wrong! Still, the campers this month were older than usual and were sleeping peacefully back in their cabin, blissfully unaware of the crisis Bethany had found herself in. Waves could be heard lapping against the sand as she gathered herself, pursing her lips before she spoke.

“Fine. But only for a few minutes.”

Teagan stepped to the side and opened up the path for her to walk past, comically gesturing to Bethany like she was a game-show contestant. She narrowed her eyes at her and took a cautious step towards the sandy beach, thinking about all the trouble they could get in for being here. Still, her heart pounded as adrenaline coursed through her, excited about ‘breaking the rules,’ even if it was over something as mundane as stargazing. As Bethany got closer, she could see that Teagan had brought a towel to the beach to sit on. She shot an uneasy look in her direction, though Teagan did not see it. Approaching slowly, she lowered herself onto the yellow chevron pattern and crossed her legs to keep them off the sand, leaning back on her hands to get a better view of the sky. Seconds later, Teagan joined her. She stretched out her bare legs and crossed them at the ankle, leaning back on her elbows as she had been when Bethany approached. Bethany could feel warmth radiating off of her as the two shared a towel, staring up at the dark, moonlit sky.

[heyimkana]

kana are u just making a multiverse of jinwoo's at this point?? how many do you have???? - 💸

Literally what I listed in the last ask you sent me LMFAOOO maybe around 20???

There’s also Homewrecker!Jinwoo actually, though not in the way you think 😏

It’s about reader who’s married and has a four year old daughter, but both of them are being abused by her husband.

One night, when her daughter got sick, she took her to the hospital to make sure she was okay. Coincidentally, that was the same night Jinwoo visited the hospital to give the Elixir of Life to Jinho’s dad.

Jinwoo, reader, and her little girl stepped into the elevator together. But then, the lights flickered and suddenly everything went dark. They were trapped inside the elevator.

The little girl started crying, scared of the dark. Let's say her father (reader’s husband) used to lock her in the bathroom whenever she misbehaved. She kept sobbing, “Mama, please! I’m scared! I was good, Mama, I didn’t do anything wrong!” Reader tried to calm her down (she was close to crying herself from watching her little girl broke down like that), but her daughter wouldn’t listen. She was too scared.

Then, Jinwoo suddenly did something with his magic (maybe he created a little orb of light with his mana) and crouched down to show it to her. He smiled, so gently, and asked, “Hey, you wanna hear a funny story?”

The girl sniffled and nodded.

“I have a friend who used to be a giant ant. Really scary. Sharp claws. Big wings. Thought he was the king of the world.”

The little girl looked at him, eyes still watery, but now curious. "Giant ant..?"

“Mm-hmm. But now he wears a tiny cape and thinks he’s a stage actor.”

Then Beru appeared—floating in the air, small enough to fit in Jinwoo’s palm—and dramatically declared: “Verily, ’tis I! Destined from the womb to smite all foes, conquer dungeons, and rule o’er all creation! And yet—oh, cruel twist!—I now spend mine hours painting yon royal sister’s fingernails! What devilry is this? From dark lord to dainty manicurist—fie, what a fall!”

The little girl giggled. “He talks funny.”

Jinwoo rolled his eyes. “He thinks he’s in a drama. But honestly, I think he just likes attention.”

The girl stepped closer, wide-eyed. “Is he your friend?”

“One of the best ones I’ve got.” He held out his fist. “Wanna bump?”

She did, bumping her small knuckles against his and Jinwoo smiled, gently patting her head. “And now you’re one of my best friends too.”

The girl smiled—like genuinely smiled—and reader wanted to cry because it had been months since she’d seen her little girl smile like that.