#out of a spark of brilliance

[gojinka]

hey i really like your girls . but not as in your girl as you have one i mean like its not meant to upset you like idk if youre gay or you struggle with being lonely and dont get women and all i mean the women on your account. yes theyre verry pretty i love how you draw women i love women theyre bery pretty ...

i like the middle part where you for a moment consider the possibility of the women I draw being crafted out of a lost miserable lesbian type of hopelessness. like I draw girls and think “what could have been.” “my single baka life.”

[chuluoyi]

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒

- sylus x reader

you suspect something’s off when you catch your lover with the hunter girl, so you decide to give him the cold shoulder. his way of winning you back? trapping you in a bet—if he wins this underground fight match, you’re back to being his

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—brief smut, comfort, total fluff, assassin!reader (not l&ds mc), based on sylus' card radiant brilliance

note: this has been looong buried in my drafts since before my writer's block started :') again, a part of the assassin!reader that started with strictly (un)professional

Your lover— he is definitely hiding something.

“Mmph!” A moan escaped you mid-kiss as his palm suddenly cupped your right breast, squeezing and stroking it, while two of his left fingers thrusted inside you, getting you wet.

His fevered lips and tongue melded with yours, his wicked fingers driving you to the brink of madness—and oh damn, the devil that possessed them felt so heavenly—as he pressed you against the vanity, bending you over its edge.

A knowing gleam flickered in his eyes. “Mm, you talk too much, woman.”

Your thoughts blurred, teetering on the edge of control, yet deep within, a spark of aggravation incessantly burned, especially when you remembered the person you had caught him manhandling earlier this afternoon—

Miss Hunter.

“Sylus—! Stop!”

"Tch." He pulled away with a hiss as soon as you pushed his chest away with everything you had. Just like that, you were left high and dry; the emptiness his fingers had left behind made you instinctively cross your legs. "Why are you so uncooperative tonight?"

"You—" Gasping for breath, you clutched your slipping nightgown, glaring sharply at him despite the discomfort of the hard surface beneath you. "You really think you can shut me up... with sex?"

"I'm telling you, nothing happened." Sylus’ lips curled with a smug hint of satisfaction, only fueling your irritation. "Didn’t know my woman had such a jealous streak until now."

If there was one thing you’d learned from years by Sylus' side, it was that everything he did had a purpose. If it had been some random bimbo hanging around the casino or his resorts, you wouldn’t bat even an eye.

But this was the Miss Hunter—the very girl he had spent decades searching for, the one with whom he shared a bond so profound that he had forsaken everything just for the chance to find her again.

And compared to her, you were just his bedwarmer... who just happened to catch his eye.

"You two were kissing," you accused almost spitefully, the words laced with bitter edge.

His grin vanished, replaced by a look of distaste. "We were not."

You knew what you saw—he cornered her in the furthermost corner of the base, far away from even from the prying eyes of Luke and Kieran, and they were definitely just an inch away from each other. "Then what were you two doing?"

"Can't we talk just like acquaintances do?" The lack of viable answer gnawed at you. If there was nothing to hide, why didn’t he just say so and put your suspicions to rest?

"Will you do her like you do me?" The venom in your voice startled even you, slipping out before you could stop it. "Ha. I should’ve known..."

By now, he had this sour yet stern look in his face that made you almost shudder but you stood your ground. His tone was almost mocking, "Insecurity makes you so bitter, sweetie. Get yourself together."

It felt like a prick in the heart. Oh. As heartless as you were in the face of blood and gore, you still had it apparently when faced with your lover's conniving red eyes and sinful lips.

But more than that... as they said, heartbreak is one thing, but your ego is another.

"To hell with you!" you snapped, sitting up straight. Sylus blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the look on your face—was it showing the hurt? Or just plain defiance? Even you weren’t sure as you spun on your heel and stormed out of his room promptly.

Not for the first time, the very idea that he might be getting on with another woman twisted something inside you, the ache sharper than you expected. It suddenly saddened you to a degree that it brought mist to your eyes.

For the next three days, you ignored Sylus almost completely. He tried to get back to your good graces, but you paid him no mind, acting as if he didn't exist.

“Missus, please— just say yes!”

And caught in the crossfire, poor Luke and Kieran had become his reluctant messengers.

You unconsciously shot a sharp glare at the twins. Perhaps it was the mental strain you were putting yourself under, but you truly hadn’t meant to scare them more than they already were.

"Boss is really cranky when he isn't in a good mood," Luke pleaded, clasping his hands together. "Please just help us this time, will you?"

"He promises he’ll make it right!" Kieran chimed in with a hopeful grin. "As soon as he wins his match this weekend, you’ll see—there’s nothing to worry about!"

Sylus and his penchant for boxing. You knew these underground matches were something he indulged in now and then, and you'd let him be.

But this time...

"How are you so sure he's going to win?" You lifted your chin, a taunting smirk curling your lips. "And no, I'm not going. Tell him that."

"Missus, you have to see reason— there is no way Boss is having an affair—" Kieran insisted, shaking his head in frustration.

"Boss is whipped!" Luke cut in, throwing his hands up. "For you! Can't you see?!"

"..." For a solid five seconds, silence blanketed the room. You arched an eyebrow so high it made Luke look like he'd just spilled the world’s best-kept secret, while Kieran slapped a hand over his mask in exasperation.

And things were obviously not getting better—

"Ha. I'm what?"

You could see the twins visibly gulping the very second Sylus' voice boomed across the hall, and you rolled your eyes.

"Pfft," he let out this low chuckle as he made his way towards the three of you. "Hear that, sweetie? Luke isn't wrong."

"..."

"The little kitty's anger hasn't subsided, I see," he murmured, tilting his head to the side with a playful smirk, arms folded across his chest. "Such little trust you have in me."

You sighed. "Don't tempt me to hate you prolifically, Sylus."

"You wound me," he retorted, ruby-red eyes narrowed. "I have been nothing but honest and transparent."

You turned away, pressing your lips into a tight line. Deep down, you knew how childish all of this felt. Maybe it was nothing, after all. Maybe, just like he said, it was your insecurity twisting things.

And why are you so insecure, anyway?

"Keep your eyes on me, kitten."

Suddenly, caught off guard, you almost yelped as he tilted your chin towards him, forcing you to meet his gaze. Your heart raced wildly, but you fought to keep it in check.

"I win, and you’ll do what I say," his eyes flicking from yours to your lips, his voice a velvety whisper in your ear. "But if I lose... you can have your way—however you want."

Your pride took over. A second later, you jerked your face away, refusing to give him the satisfaction. To salvage your dignity, you let out an indignant scoff.

"Best hope you lose then."

You’d never been fond of crowds, let alone sitting in the stands of a boxing match.

And yet here you were, clutching a bouquet of fresh flowers—the twins had practically shoved them into your arms before bolting away—surrounded by the deafening roar of fans.

You would punish them later, you so would. It was humid and you were fuming. There was nothing interesting here, and to top it all off, Sylus’ turn to the ring was taking forever.

Until it didn't.

When he finally stepped into the spotlight, you caught sight of him on the big screen. And in that moment—when that devilish smirk curled his lips—you could’ve sworn he wasn’t aiming it at the crowd.

He was throwing it right at your direction.

And oh, how the rapid and traitorous thump-thump-thump inside your chest drowned out everything else, as if the roar of the crowd gradually faded at the realization.

How is it that he always manages to get your heart in his grasp?

. . .

When they said this sport wasn’t for the weak, they weren’t lying. No matter how tough you thought you were, you still flinched every time the opponent’s fist connected with your lover’s jaw.

Despite all the aggravation you harbored about him, watching him stumble and get knocked back felt like a punch to your own gut. In that moment, all you wanted was for it to end.

And when it finally was—when the referee raised Sylus’ arm and declared his victory—you exhaled a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief washed over you in a quiet, fleeting wave.

However, reporters and cheers quickly swarmed him, and the distance between you felt even greater then. There he stood, proud as ever, lofty as if standing atop clouds, surveying the world with thinly veiled contempt. Meanwhile, you…

You were still dissatisfied. Sylus had a way of winning everything he set his sights on, while you remained stuck with your own petty grievances and emotional baggage you subjected yourself to.

It was vexing, really. How you wanted him to win and not at the same time. How you wanted his everything and knowing you would never be able to.

“What’s the secret to winning this match?!” one reporter asked, voice brimming with excitement.

Sylus answered with a casual smirk. “I made a bet I absolutely can’t lose,” he said coolly. “So, I won.”

The girls in the stands erupted into deafening cheers at his response, their shrill voices forcing you to cover your ears.

The nerve. You scoffed, irked by his answer and by the crowd’s adoration. You decided you wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of you lingering here any longer.

Snatching up your bag and that damned bouquet, you marched toward the exit with long, determined strides when—

“Ooh? And who is this special person?!”

“Ah, look, there she is.”

You froze mid-step as the spotlight suddenly pinned you in its beam. Whirling around, your breath caught as you saw Sylus descending from the arena, his gaze locked onto yours.

What the hell?

For a moment, you froze in utter disbelief as he approached you with that effortless grace, as if the crowd around him didn’t exist. Before you could piece together your fragmented thoughts, he was already standing before you.

“Are you mad?!” you murmured in a hiss, your voice barely louder than a breath over the distant roar of cheers, yet pointed enough to pierce the air between you.

Sylus, however, only let out a snort, swiftly snatching the bouquet from your arms, and pulling you by the shoulders— his breath tickled you ear as he whispered:

“Got you.”

—and before you could react, he crashed his lips on yours in a bold kiss that at sent the crowd into an instant uproar of cheers.

“Whoa, whoa! The champion! Look how manly he is!”

“He has a girlfriend?!”

“Oh, my! To be that girl!”

“—!” You almost pushed him away, only to falter when you realized his kiss was anything but forceful. It was deep but disarmingly gentle.

Sylus pulled back just as quickly, his eyes twinkled with mischief as he took in your stunned expression.

“You’re mine now, sweetie,” he said with a smug grin, giving you a light pat in the head.

The way his eyes crinkle as he looks at you... Your cheeks burned, and your heart thundered in your chest, drowning the roars of the swooning crowd—

Because in that moment, you could’ve sworn there was nothing but pure adoration in those mesmerizing garnet eyes of his.

“You've gone and done it... What if anyone recognizes us?”

Later that night, freshly showered and wrapped in silk nightgowns, you sat at the edge of the bed, towel in hand as you dried your wet hair. You cast a glance at Sylus, who had just bathed with you and now lounged nearby with an unbothered grin.

The events from this afternoon still felt like somewhat of a dream to you. You had never been under that much of a spotlight before— too used to a life shrouded in shadows, quietly biding your time, preparing to brandish your blade when the moment came.

But through Sylus, every now and then, you caught a glimpse of what it felt like to stand on the other side of that darkness. And it felt freeing— like you could finally breathe, unburdened by the scent of blood and gunpowder.

"Wouldn't that be fun? Imagine the headlines," he shrugged nonchalantly. "The Onychinus leader and his missus... masquerading as a boxer and his fan for a day."

You huffed, shooting him a stink eye. "That's not even funny."

Despite the public display that Sylus had more or less pulled and made the two of you known as lovers even in underground world, there was still a gnawing curiosity at the back of your mind, feeding your insecurity—

The sight of him and Miss Hunter replayed again in your mind's eye. It was never fun finding them together in such close proximity.

And yet, in the end... he returned to you, still. Unspoken it may be, but Sylus had always taken your side so far.

You let out a long, resigned sigh. That caught his attention as he turned to you. "What is it?"

"Nothing," you quipped, slightly grimacing. "Forget it. I'm going to sleep."

Sylus raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on you. Even when you hid it, he knew what you'd wanted to ask and if you asked it now, he would tell you.

The way your face had fallen bothered him more than he'd like to admit. He rose from the recliner and moved to your side. "No, you won't be sleeping."

"What?"

He knelt beside you, gently taking hold of your leg, and pressed a kiss to your calf, his touch warm and unhurried as he met your gaze with a sly smile.

"Sylus..." you eyed him with incredulity, feeling yourself getting warm.

His red eyes crinkled. "Don't you want to ask me something?"

Your hand reached out to caress his face, and he leaned into your touch. That simple act alone brought a small, intrigued smile to your face. "No."

"Hmph. Really?"

"What?" You traced your fingers on his sharp jaw, admiring it. "You think I'll demand you for answers about whether you're two-timing me with Miss Hunter again?"

Sylus tilted his head, relishing the way your fingers cradled his face, staying quiet, however.

You were really great at this pushing and pulling game. It irked him to see how detached you seemed now when he knew a part of you had been fazed by it days ago.

He disliked it when you tried to hide what you were feeling. He hated it even more when you doubted him for anything. But seeing how unhappy you had been lately rattled him.

"Nothing happened," he said in a low voice, catching your hand and locking eyes with you. "Would you feel better if I had told you that since the beginning?"

"Who knows?" you replied with a soft shrug, a wry smile on your lips. "You didn't tell me before."

What a vixen. The thought simmered in his mind. Mine, though.

Like a cat pouncing on its owner, Sylus suddenly moved, going straight for your lips and pinning you to the bed. Intertwining his fingers with yours, he pried your lips open with his tongue.

Yet despite it all, you felt how gentle he was. The Sylus from before would just fuck you senseless and be done with it, but the one with you now... he treated you with an unexpected tenderness, as if savoring every second with you.

He pulled away only when you were breathless, the saliva string between your lips breaking as he gave you a moment to gasp for air. His gaze softened, lingering on your flushed face, a satisfied smile curling on his lips.

"You will see for yourself tomorrow. Tonight, however..." he trailed off, his lips hovering just above yours.

But you placed one hand on his chest and another on his neck, looking up at him with bleary eyes, the vulnerability in your gaze tugging at something within him.

"Actually, I'm a bit exhausted..." You found his intense gaze and blinked slowly. "So, can you be not as rough?"

"Ha." Sylus let out a snicker at your request, taking the hand you had on his chest and pressing a soft kiss on it.

What a precious little thing you are. Your face right now... It was a look he couldn’t resist, one that made him want to protect you and ruin you, all at once.

His smirk lingered. "Of course, sweetie. I'll go easy on you tonight."

And true to his word, he didn't break his promise.

Even as he pinned both your wrists above your head, capturing your lips in a heated kiss—

—as he dived between your legs, his tongue skillfully devouring your clit—

—and as you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

And later, when he pulled you into his arms and murmured softly until you drifted to sleep.

When you woke up the next morning, it was because of two things.

One— it was freezing. Your thin nightgown was definitely no match against the biting chill of a winter morning.

And two— Sylus wasn't here.

You wondered where he could have gone as it was his bedtime, but as you pulled the comforter closer to keep yourself from shivering, something caught your eye.

It took you a full three seconds to process it.

There was a ring on your finger.

"Huh...?" You were jolted awake by the sight of the glittering ruby. It was intricate, yet strangely nostalgic, reminding you of Sylus' eyes. How? Why?

You immediately turned to the nightstand, your gaze landing on a small jewelry box sitting neatly atop it. You scrambled for it, the name of the jeweler embossed on the lid caught your attention. It wasn’t from anywhere in N109 Zone.

It clicked to you at all once. So, that was why he was with Miss Hunter?

But more than that, what caught your heart was when you flipped it open and found a note inside, with a scrawled handwriting you would never mistake for anyone else's—

Because forever is too long and boring to be spent alone. So, your answer is…?

[girl-lostconnection]

For @nightunite. I actually came back with some Seal!Soap and some hurt/comfort of poly!141 x fruit bat!Reader. Hope this is satisfactory

Harbour seal!Soap who’s off the base whenever he can — getting back home as soon as possible, the favourite baby of his mama, the oldest son and pride of his family.

Harbour seal!Soap who has difficulty slotting into most teams, he’s not a pack hybrid, he’s not attuned to the thin threads of connection that wolves or bats or even cows can feel, he’s him and maybe that’s the problem?

Harbour seal!Soap who tries hard to blend in, because he is friendly, of course he is friendly, he’s the friendliest guy on base but whispers are that he smiles too wide, that his laugh is too strained, that his teeth are always out — sharp, menacing things.

Price takes one look at his file and thrusts the pup in Simon’s hands, hums to take care of the seal and Wolf!Simon isn’t even sure what the fuck is he supposed to do.

The lad is jumpy despite obvious brilliance, the lad is trying to smile so hard Simon’s wolf grumbles with the urge to paw at him, press cheeky pup in the ground, teach him some bloody manners. You don’t show your teeth off to the likes of Simon unless you want to have them knocked out.

But Soap wiggles his way in every conversation, eyes shiny and smiles wide up until Ghost corners him, looming like death himself — snarls that if he doesn’t want a big bad wolf to bite him, he’ll fucking stop.

Simon doesn’t know whether to act on his promise or laugh in disbelief when Johnny raises his head and grins wider, now showing off his own canine’s deliberately. Look at that, the pup can bite, can’t he?

Komodo dragon!Price just hums when he finds them tangled in each other and places a bite under Soap’s collar, teeth sinking in warm salty flesh, tongue licking off the blood.

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy, Price thrives on power — that’s the only thing he won’t compromise on.

Johnny grins and finds way in his arms as well. Too damn bad, captain, too damn bad. Harbour seals thrive on attention.

Their unit is all live wires and sparks and heavy heady tension — air so thick with perpetual hunger that they could carve their initials inside of a little heart.

It gets easier when Kyle arrives — he takes away some of the tension, he gets each of them, catching up on everything twice as fast as Soap did.

It scratches Johnny the wrong way, makes a sensitive small part of him whine that this is it, that Kyle will take his place because how can anyone not like Kyle? Kyle is handsome, Kyle is bright and so effortlessly charming Soap wants to whip out little notebook where sergeant speaks.

But at some point Gaz pecks a kiss to his temple and pulls him on the couch of the rec room. Warm, inviting, draping hand over his shoulders — draping wing over both of them.

Soap watches him — teeth sharp, jaws itching to try the pretty wings on the pretty Gaz, head plopping in his lap.

Kyle slots into their team like he always was there — fingers careful in Johnny’s hair, hands warm around Ghost’s shoulders, talons sharp on Price’s skin.

And then you arrive. Little bat with big eyes and big wings and some of the fluffiest hair Soap has ever seen.

You don’t slot in like Gaz, you are a little rougher around the edges, a little awkward with your approaches.

Bats are social creatures but not all of us take the best parts from our hybrid sides.

You are bloody amazing at what you do, your efficiency is not a concern but you don’t wiggle your way right in the team.

You hover on the outside, you eat your fruits alone (he isn’t even sure why you even eat them? Aren’t bats carnivores? Maybe you just like them) and in the dark, you watch them — always in the periphery of the vision. But never too close.

You remind Soap himself.

Small childish part of him wants to keep things that way, small childish part of him doesn’t like new people on the team, doesn’t like sharing attention.

But you don’t ask for any. You are just there.

It takes him month and a half and a stupid joke Ghost makes about vampires for you to reply that you are a) vegetarian b) a fruit bat and not a spectral bat for Soap to feel like someone kicked him in the face. Simon pauses, tilting head to the side, his tail stopping its friendly wag.

Your smile is too wide, your teeth are so sharp and you don’t try to fit in.

You try to stay away.

They don’t know you and you just let them know that they don’t. You just let them know that they haven’t tried to know you.

Soap spends the whole evening googling information about your species with Ghost hovering above his shoulder, dark eyes reading faster than Soap scrolls.

The next morning is the first time none of them comments on the amount of fruit you consume for breakfast.

Kyle slots in next to you, murmurs “gorgeous wings, love”, asks if you could help him with preening, offers you company for the morning drills.

Offer makes something in you flutter, sending spark of hope down your chest, your big eyes zeroing on warm friendly Kyle.

(Kyle will never admit how embarrassed he was to realise that you slipped through the cracks. Kyle will never admit that social “bird” part of him croaked with distress when he noticed that you are always a little behind. Never with them.)

Soap feels something in him clench when you glance in his direction and then shake your head at Kyle. Soap knows why you looked at him very very well.

He notices Price with your file in the afternoon, reading glasses on the tip of his nose, tail swaying in with something very similar to agitation. Price doesn’t know how to crack on you, you never fight for his right at the top of the food chain, you never contest his power. He has nothing to bite down on.

Soap isn’t sure you will give captain anything to hook on. Soap isn’t sure you feel like you can.

Johnny finds you late at night, ridiculously big bowl of fruit in your lap, his cheeks burning when your head snaps up at him and you put it away.

He and Ghost used to tease you about the amount of fruits and berries you consumed — you started eating less at dinners with them.

Soap’s throat bobs when he gulps and he shakes his head, plopping himself down on the carpet next to you.

He should have thought you’d find a way to catch up on your meals when no one looks.

When no one can make you feel wrong for eating what you like to eat.

Johnny extends his palm to you. You won’t eat while he’s here but he’d like you to. Maybe you will continue if he asks you to share.

Wikipedia page smacks his brain immediately, reminding that fruit bats eat alone and are very protective of their food.

Bloody awesome, Johnny, you might’ve as well tried to wrestle fruits out of your grip.

But before his panic forces him to hide his palm away you carefully place a date in his palm, your darker claws cool and pointy. Soap doesn’t know why but he stares, eyes gluing to him.

“Can do damage with these, eh?”, he attempts at having conversation, trying not to smile too wide. Not to show off too much teeth.

You hum out “depends” and in demonstration poke a piece of orange, skewing it on a thin claw.

Soap feels his brows arch, leaning closer, unbidden “how many can you stack on ‘em?” leaving his mouth before he thinks.

To his absolute delight you snicker and pass him the bowl.

He spends the rest of the hour stacking pieces of fruit and skewing berries on your claws and watching as you practically inhale them once he’s done.

When you two finish up the bowl, you both are covered in juice and are grinning like mad idiots but Soap never felt lighter.

He watches you grin back at him — wide and toothy — and feels something shifting.

Maybe he’s not the pack hybrid like Ghost or doesn’t have Kyle’s easy charm or even John’s acute understanding of dynamics within the team. But he is him and it seems like that’s exactly what you need.

Few months later Soap finds himself with you nuzzled in his neck, Kyle plastered over you two like he’s a big blanket, Simon reading something in the quiet low voice of his and John already crawling into den you call bed.

It’s warm and he’s squished by people who like him from every side and he finally belongs.

Soap presses a kiss to the top of your head and smiles wide when you raise it, giving him a slow sleepy blink. His smiles are wide and toothy.

His smiles are always welcomed with his team.

And so is he.

[romerona]

https://www.tumblr.com/romerona/779775449552371712/ethera-operation?source=share

Omgg do you have the charlie angels reader draft?!?! If so, could you post it someday? I LOVE charlies angels ✨️✨️.

Heyyy, so, yessss I do have a small one shot I think? I never thought would see the light of day, so I polished it a bit because I am more than happy to share itttt, actually thank you for asking lol <3<3<3

Only Angels fly this high!

Bradley Bradshaw x Charlie's Angel reader!

You were never just Maverick’s daughter.

You were the girl who swept your district's science fair four years straight, the one who could solve a Rubik's cube in under sixty seconds without even looking flustered. You knew every Avenger’s and DC's origin story by heart, had an unshakable love for Aragorn and your textbooks, and could quote Star Wars like scripture.

With your braces gleaming, frizzy ponytails bouncing, and socks that never once matched, you were a walking storm of heart, brilliance, and sunshine. A true geek with a gymnast's poise, a mind too quick to sit still, and a laugh that could fill a room before you even entered it. You were fire and fizz and full of wonder— Pete Maverick Mitchell's daughter, sure, but unmistakably, undeniably you.

When your dad disappeared on those long, classified missions—off saving the world in ways you weren’t allowed to know, you just packed your bag like clockwork and headed to one of two places. Sometimes, it was to your godfather, Uncle Ice, who’d ruffle your hair and tell you, with that steady calm of his, that even though you hardly looked like your dad, you had the same fire in your eyes. The same stubborn spark. The same refusal to back down. He said it like a compliment, like a promise. You loved him deeply, truly. He was a quiet sort of anchor, a man who never needed many words to make you feel seen.

But most of the time, you went to the Bradshaws’.

Carol always welcomed you like one of her own, with a warm smile, a hug that smelled like fresh laundry and vanilla, and a plate of something home-cooked waiting on the table. Over time, their house became your second home, the place where you memorized the sound of their old floorboards and where you felt safest when the sky felt just a little too big.

And then there was Bradley.

Older. Cooler. Already growing into the kind of person you could only dream of becoming. He had this effortless way about him—music in his ears, sun in his smile, the kind of person that made rooms quieter and your heart louder. You followed him around with books hugged to your chest, spilling facts about superheroes and black holes, always hoping he'd listen—and he did.

He never rolled his eyes. Never made you feel silly for talking too much or knowing too many things. He let you tag along, called you “kid” with a grin that somehow didn’t sting, and made you feel like being exactly who you were, loud laugh, wild ideas, frizzy hair and all, was something worth being proud of.

You adored him.

Not in a way that needed anything in return, but in that pure, clumsy way that only happens when someone older and kinder and just out of reach shows you what it feels like to be seen.

When Bradley left for college, you told yourself not to miss him. You tried to tuck the ache away somewhere quiet, somewhere small, behind schoolwork, hobbies, competitions and all the things you used to ramble about to him when he’d pretend not to listen but always did. It wasn’t just that he left; it was that things changed.

You only saw him once after that. At Carol’s funeral. The air that day was thick with loss, the kind you could feel in your throat. You spotted him across the room—older, more tired, a stranger in the shape of someone you used to adore. You exchanged a look. Maybe a nod. Nothing more. Heavy. Wordless.

Calls stopped. Messages faded. And after the falling-out between him and your dad, whatever thread had quietly tied the two of you together just… vanished.

But even as time tugged Bradley further away, you never drifted from your dad. If anything, you clung to him tighter. You sent him everything—snapshots of you mid-flip in your gymnastics uniform, shaky videos of your band performing at school, newspaper articles of your victories, long, rambling letters from chess tournaments detailing every single move like it was a mission report. When you got your college acceptance letter, you didn’t just call him, you sent a copy with a doodle you’d drawn of the two of you in matching aviator sunglasses, grinning like dorks.

Because he wasn’t just your dad. He was your rock. Your anchor. Your hero in a flight suit. And no matter how many people came and went, how many versions of yourself you outgrew, he was always the one constant, the voice on the other end of the line who never once stopped believing in you.

And then… you became something more.

Charlie's Angel.

Not long after you started college out in California, with wide eyes and ambition for your future, you were approached by a curious agency. The Townsend Agency. It wasn’t like anything you expected. There were no job postings or open interviews. Just a whisper, a test, and then a door you didn’t even know was there opened right in front of you.

What followed was a whirlwind training that pushed your body to its limits, missions that tested your mind and your morals, and partnerships that carved something fierce and beautiful into your soul. You weren’t alone in it, either. There were two other girls—no, women—who became your teammates, your family, your sisters in everything but blood. Together, the three of you tackled the impossible. Missions took you all over the world—scaling rooftops, decoding encrypted files on the fly, surviving car chases, shootouts, betrayal. It was thrilling. Dangerous. Meaningful. Just the kind of beautiful chaos you lived for. Like a good Mitchell. You always did love flying close to the sun.

That being said… you still haven’t told your dad.

Not because you didn’t want to. You did… do. You’ve come close a dozen times, standing at the edge of the truth with your phone in hand or your heart in your throat, thinking this is it. But it never felt quite right.

Because how do you tell Maverick, the legendary naval aviator, your fighter pilot of a father, that his little girl became a spy?

Not a doctor or a lawyer or a quiet observer behind a desk. No, you became an Angel, a full-blown, off-the-books, world-saving, chaos-wrangling secret agent. You jump out of planes sometimes without a parachute, trusting only your timing and a teammate’s hand to catch you. You've fought trained mercenaries twice your size in the back alleys of foreign cities. You’ve disarmed bombs with ten seconds left on the clock. Posed as arms dealers, infiltrated corrupt corporations, survived car crashes, scaled a glass building in Dubai with nothing but suction grips and nerves, hotwired a moving car in Paris while dodging sniper fire.

And somehow still walked away—bloody, bruised, but grinning with your sisters.

How do you sit your dad down and say, “Hey, remember how you used to panic when I scraped my knee on the monkey bars? Well, now I carry lockpicks in my heels and can kill a man with a paperclip.”

Your friends tell you to just do it. “He’ll understand,” they say. “He’s military. He gets it, he's done dangerous things all his life."

But you know better.

He was a father first. He always had been, even when he wasn’t physically there, even when he was halfway around the world, flying high above everything. His heart was always anchored to you. You were his little girl, his sunshine, his soft spot in a hard-edged world, who checked your helmet twice before you could ride a bike, who made you text the second you got somewhere, worried when you scraped your knee, when you stayed up too late studying.

He was Maverick. Top Gun. Hero to most. But to you, he was just Dad.

So no, it’s not easy. Not when you know the truth will make his pulse spike and his mind race to every worst-case scenario. Not when you can still picture his face the day you fell off the beam at your gymnastics meet and he looked like the world had ended.

But still… there’s a part of you that hopes—when the moment comes, when you do tell him—he won’t just see the danger. He’ll see the strength, the purpose, the pride.

That somewhere deep down, the Maverick in him will recognize the Angel in you... Today is not that day, though.

Not when you’ve finally managed to visit after months apart—not because you didn’t want to come sooner, but because life had a funny way of keeping you both busy. His schedule was packed with flights and trainings and whatever top-secret projects still pulled at the edges of his life. Yours… well, yours was classified. Let’s just say saving the world tends to mess with your calendar.

But now, with a rare stretch of time off, you showed up at his hangar-home like no time had passed at all. He met you at the door with that familiar squint and slow-building smile, arms pulling you into one of those hugs that made you feel twelve again, like the universe could shrink down to just the two of you and still be enough.

You showed off your latest toy—a vintage, growling Mercedes-Benz Heritage, sleek and silver, like something out of a Bond film. He gave it an approving nod, muttered something about it being too pretty to trust you behind the wheel, and you both laughed like no time had passed.

At some point, after he proudly showed you the new project he was working on—an old plane with more history than metal—you insisted on cooking. Said you wanted to treat him. He looked skeptical but stepped aside, letting you take over the tiny kitchen.

The thing is… you might know how to hack into secure government servers blindfolded. You can decode encrypted files while hanging out of a moving vehicle and disarm a bomb with nothing but a bobby pin, chewing gum, and sheer nerve.

But apparently, you still don’t know how long garlic bread is supposed to stay in the oven.

Smoke curled out of the toaster oven like a signal flare, thick and dramatic, as if announcing your failure to the whole Mojave. You stood there, spatula in hand, staring at what used to be garlic bread—but now looked more like a charred fossil.

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, coughing as you fanned the smoke with a dishtowel, trying to open a window that didn’t want to budge.

So, you stumbled out of the silver trailer—smoke still trailing behind you like you were escaping a failed op—waving the towel above your head, hoping to clear the air.

"Everything is fine, just give me a vacuum and a YouTube tutorial," you coughed, still fanning the smoky air like your life depended on it. The kitchen now smelled less like garlic and more like defeat.

Then you heard it—your name, called out in a voice that was both familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Warm but deeper. Steady. Older. You froze mid-wave of the dish towel, eyes narrowing as you turned around.

And there he was.

Bradley Bradshaw.

Holy. Shit.

"Bradley!" you gasped, the breath catching somewhere between shock and joy.

Before you could think, you dropped the towel, launched forward, and threw your arms around him. It wasn’t graceful—your elbow clipped his sunglasses, you nearly tripped over your own feet, and there was definitely still flour smeared across your shirt—but none of it mattered. The hug was tight, warm, all the things unsaid wrapped into a single, breathless squeeze.

“Oh, it’s been forever,” you said breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at him.

You were grinning wildly, eyes dancing, completely caught up in the joy of the moment. What you didn’t notice—not at first—was how stunned he looked.

He blinked, almost like he wasn’t sure how to catch up.

“Look at you!” you said, poking his chest with mock offense. “You grew a mustache!!!”

Bradley let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head as if trying to make sense of it all.

“And you… grew up,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud—like the realization had just hit him and slipped past his guard.

“Barely,” your dad chimed in from across the hangar, where he was wiping his hands clean with an old rag, smudged with grease from the plane’s engine. His voice cut through the moment like a well-timed punchline.

You turned just in time to see him eyeing the thin trail of smoke still drifting from the open trailer door.

“Please tell me you did not burn down my kitchen,” he said, eyebrows raised, half-exasperated, half-amused.

You held up your hands in surrender, cheeks flushed. “Not entirely! It’s still standing. Just… maybe don’t open the toaster for a while.”

“Great…” Your dad shot you a long-suffering look, then sighed like a man who’d seen combat but still wasn’t prepared for you in the kitchen. Then he turned to Bradley, wiping the last of the grease from his palms. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Yeah… uh, just happened to be nearby,” Bradley said, almost too casually. Then he lifted the takeout bag in his hand. “And—looks like I showed up just in time.”

He gave you a small smile, the kind that was soft around the edges and held a hint of something else—something unreadable and warm.

,You grinned at the bag like it was the Holy Grail. “Ohh, like a psychic… or maybe Lady Fate herself. What you brought and please tell me you brought enough for an unexpected mouth?”

“I did,” Bradley smirked, giving the bag a little shake for dramatic flair. “Thai. From a little spot near the base—place looks like a shack but cooks like heaven. One of those joints where they always forget the utensils, but never mess up the order.”

You gasped like he’d just told you he found buried treasure. “My kind of place. Who needs forks when destiny delivers Pad Thai?”

Bradley chuckled, handing you the bag with a knowing grin. “Hope you still like spicy, because I told them to go easy—and they still said ‘mild’ was more of a suggestion than a promise.”

You peeked inside the bag, the smell already making your mouth water. “Perfect. I like my food with a little danger. Keeps me humble.”

Your dad chimed in from behind you, grabbing plates “You say that now, but let’s see you talk tough after the first bite.”

You shot him a look. “Says the man who thinks pepper is a bold seasoning choice.”

The three of you settled in around the small table—plates spread out, drinks poured, laughter drifting lazily through the warm air. Conversation flowed easily, the kind that bounced between memories, light teasing, and just enough catch-up to fill in the gaps years apart had left.

You asked Bradley about his life, his job—nudging him gently with curiosity, dancing around certain topics with the kind of practiced grace that would’ve made Bosley proud. You didn’t lie—you just knew how to steer. How to let a story breathe without giving away the details underneath.

While delicately munching on a spring roll, you hummed quietly, savoring the flavor, then murmured without thinking, “I’ve been craving them like crazy since I came back from Thailand.”

Bradley, mid-bite, paused and looked up with a mild tilt of his head. “You’ve been to Thailand?”

You froze—not visibly, just a flicker of hesitation behind your eyes. The kind of pause most wouldn’t notice. But Bradley had always paid attention.

Still, your smile was easy as you nodded, grabbing your drink for cover. “Yeah. Work keeps me traveling.”

Bradley leaned back slightly, chopsticks in hand, eyeing you with playful suspicion. “Yeah? What do you do, exactly? Something fancy, I imagine, if that car outside is any indication. Since when do you have that kind of taste, huh?”

You raised a brow, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I’ve always had taste.”

He snorted. “Right. Last time I saw you drooling over a car, it was that busted-up ‘Back to the Future’ knockoff you swore was the coolest thing ever. What was it? That rusty little hatchback with spray-painted flames and a bumper sticker that said ‘Flux This’?”

You laughed, nearly choking on your spring roll. “Hey, that car had personality. It was vintage.”

“It was a safety hazard.”

“It was charming!”

Bradley grinned, shaking his head. “You’ve upgraded. I’ll give you that. So, seriously—what do you do now?”

You smiled sweetly, taking another bite of your spring roll with practiced nonchalance.

“I’m a private art conservator,” you said, repeating the same polished line you’d fed your dad years ago—the one you’d carefully crafted to sound just vague and boring enough to kill curiosity.

Bradley blinked. “A what?”

“Art conservator,” you repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I restore paintings and sculptures—help private collectors preserve rare pieces. Lots of travel, lots of delicate work, very serious,”

Bradley glanced at your dad, who didn’t even flinch, too busy digging into his pad see ew like this was Tuesday.

Then he looked back at you, eyes narrowing slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Seriously?”

You met his gaze, unblinking. “Dead serious.”

He leaned back in his chair, skeptical. “You? Art conservator? The same girl who once glued googly eyes onto her dad’s Elvis poster because—and I quote—‘It improved the emotional depth’?”

You shrugged, all cool confidence. “Every great artist starts somewhere.”

Bradley laughed, shaking his head. “Unreal.”

“Hey,” you said, pointing your chopsticks at him. “Don’t knock the hustle. Art is very fragile. Almost as fragile as, say… classified intel of the worlds economy on a microchip hidden in the frame of a nineteenth-century oil painting inside the vaults of the luvre.”

Both Bradley and your dad raised their eyebrows in perfect unison, like a synchronized team of disbelief.

You blinked, then raised your hands. “Kidding, pass the rice please."

Bradley chuckled and reached for the plate, shaking his head as he handed it over.

“See, that’s what I find unreal,” he said, his voice laced with something halfway between nostalgia and awe. “You were always… I don’t know. Too clever and smart for your own good.”

Your dad grunted in agreement, still chewing.

You tilted your head, scooping rice onto your plate with a lazy grin. “Is that your way of saying I was annoying?”

He smirked. “Terribly. But also kind of a genius. I always figured you’d end up running some multibillion-dollar tech company or… I don’t know, sending astronauts to Mars.”

You snorted. “Wow, aim high, why don’t you?”

He leaned his elbows on the table, studying you. “I did. You had that kind of brain, y’know? The kind that never turned off. It always felt like you were thinking ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

You paused for just a second, fingers tightening on the chopsticks before you smiled again, softer this time. “Still am, just not in the way most people would guess.”

Bradley narrowed his eyes slightly, playful but curious. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”

You returned to your food, casually scooping rice onto your plate, but you could still feel Bradley’s eyes on you—curious, watching like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t know he’d started.

“So,” you said, changing the subject with a too-bright smile, “what about you, Lieutenant Mustache? Still flying? Still breaking hearts?”

Your dad let out a soft snort, clearly enjoying the turn of the conversation.

Bradley leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, giving you a look. “I’ll have you know the mustache has become a very powerful asset.”

You raised a brow. “Does it come with a security clearance?”

“Practically,” he said with mock pride. “Still flying, still in uniform… just with slightly more facial hair and responsibility.”

“Terrifying,” you muttered, hiding a grin behind your drink—because in all honesty, that mustache looked damn good on him. Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. At least not yet.

There was a beat of silence after that, easy and warm. The kind that settles between people who’ve shared enough history to skip over the awkward parts. Three lives woven through time, scattered and now briefly realigned. It felt like no time had passed at all—and somehow like everything had changed.

Your dad stood with a quiet groan, stretching his back as he grabbed the empty soda cans and crumpled napkins.

“I’ll grab more,” he said casually. “Napkins, too, since someone eats like she’s still thirteen.”

You shot him a look. “Rude.”

“But true,” he replied over his shoulder, disappearing inside the trailer.

And just like that, you and Bradley were alone.

The hangar fell into a soft, ambient quiet—just the hum of the overhead fan, the distant creak of the cooling engine, and the sound of Bradley’s thumb absentmindedly tapping the rim of his drink.

He looked over at you, eyes thoughtful. “So… ‘private art conservator,’ huh?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Still hung up on that?”

“Just trying to picture it,” he said, tone teasing but curious. “You, in gloves, hunched over a painting with a little brush.”

You leaned in slightly, resting your elbow on the table. “What, you don’t think I’ve got the patience for restoration?”

“I think you’ve got the precision,” he said, eyes not leaving yours. “I’m just not used to you being quiet for long.”

You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that said you’re not the only one who’s changed. “People grow up, Bradshaw.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, gaze flicking down and then back to you again. “Apparently, they do.”

The tension between you wasn’t thick, but it was there, like static. Familiar and new, cautious and curious. It buzzed just beneath the surface, waiting- your phone began to ring.

The sudden sound made you flinch just slightly, dragging you out of the moment. You set your plate down with a reluctant clink and fished the phone from your pocket.

Bosley.

Your eyes flicked to Bradley for half a second—he was watching you, still relaxed but alert, picking up on the shift in your energy. You forced a smile, one hand already tucking the phone to your ear as you stood.

“Gimme a sec,” you said casually, stepping away from the table, from him, from that dangerous almost-moment.

You put the phone to your ear, trying to keep your voice casual. “Hello… Yeah, okay. I’ll be right in.”

You hung up, slipped the phone back into your pocket, and took a moment to school your features before turning back around. A practiced smile curved across your lips—effortless, easy. You walked back to the table like you hadn’t just been called back into a secret life.

Bradley was still seated, watching you with mild curiosity, like he knew something wasn’t adding up but didn’t know quite what.

“Everything good?” he asked, tone neutral but eyes searching.

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Work. Something I need to take care of.”

Before he could say more, your dad emerged from the trailer with two cans of soda under one arm and a bundle of napkins in the other.

“Alright, I brought backup—oh.” He paused, catching the shift in your expression, one you always wear when you need to leave impromptu. “You leaving already?”

You gave him an apologetic look. “Duty calls.”

He sighed, handing over a soda anyway. “Figures. You show up after a year, almost burn my kitchen down, steal my spring rolls, then vanish.”

You grinned and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Classic me.”

Your dad chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t be a stranger and text me ass soon as you get there.”

"Of course and don’t worry I'll come back as soon as I can."

You turned to Bradley, catching his gaze again—still curious, still trying to piece together the puzzle of who you were now.

“Guess I owe you a proper catch-up,” you said softly.

He stood, nodding slowly. “Yeah. You do.”

And just like that, you slid into your sleek silver Mercedes, the engine purring to life beneath your fingertips like it knew exactly where you were going—and why. One last glance in the rearview mirror caught the faintest reflection of your dad watching from the hangar, soda in hand, and Bradley still standing by the table, napkin clutched loosely in his fingers, brow furrowed like he wasn’t quite ready for you to disappear again.

You gave a small wave—half playful, half I’ll be back—then pulled out of the dusty lot, tires crunching against gravel as the sun dipped lower behind you.

Back to the mission.

Back to the life they didn’t know about.

Back to saving the day, as usual.

Y/N: Heyyy hope you enjoyed ittttt. There's something about Top Gun x Charlie's Angels that just scratched my brain just right, y'know? One of my favs movies ever.

[solxamber]

Ruler of My Heart - Rook Hunt x Reader

Rook has always pursued beauty, and he sees everything. But has he ever been seen?

Guys I think this is my magnum opus

Rook Hunt knows.

He’s always known. It isn’t a mystery or a slow realization—it’s been as plain to him as the sky above. People find him weird. Unsettling, even. He sees it in their sidelong glances, in the stiffening of their shoulders when his shadow stretches a little too close, in the hesitation before they answer his questions.

Rook has always been acutely aware that his form of admiration—raw, poetic, unfiltered—is too intense for most people. A word too many, an observation too sharp, and suddenly what he sees as praise becomes a warning in their minds.

He’s eccentric, people say. Too much, too strange, too loud in a way that whispers louder than the wind. But these opinions have never truly bothered him. Why should they? He enjoys the strange edges of the world. Where others see cracks, he finds beauty. Where others dismiss a thing as mundane or odd, Rook sees brilliance that demands appreciation.

And he will appreciate it. He refuses to live a life silenced by the fear of judgment. No, non! He will not reduce himself to palatable fragments. C’est ridicule! His every expression of admiration is a song, a soliloquy. Why should he hold back when he finds someone magnifique? Why water down compliments to a tasteless gruel when he could present a banquet of adoration?

Still, it has its costs. He knows that, too.

It’s not easy to be the odd one out—the boy in the feathered hat, lurking in the shadows not out of shame but with fascination. He sees beauty in everything, but beauty rarely returns the favor.

The people he admires most often keep their distance. His enthusiasm makes them uncomfortable, and he can feel the subtle shift in their tone when they speak to him—half polite, half wary, as if they don’t know what to make of him.

He is strange, and strange things are lonely.

That’s not to say Rook isn’t happy in his own way. He is. He has his hunts, his bows, his poetic musings. He can walk under the moon and call it his lover. He finds joy in solitude, and he has long since made peace with the thought that his admiration will rarely be returned.

Ah, but to live an unloved life is still a life worth living, non?

Yes, it is. But.

But then you come along.

The moment Rook Hunt sees you sitting in the courtyard, casually munching on your snack, he stops dead in his tracks. Something inside him shifts—no, sings—as he observes you, unguarded and at ease beneath the afternoon sun.

You aren’t conventionally beautiful. Non, pas du tout. Your features don’t fit the polished ideal found in portraits or poems, the kind that makes others stop and marvel. But beauty, true beauty, has never been so simple for Rook. No, no, no. To him, beauty lies in life’s overlooked moments—the glint of amusement in an eye, the curve of a real smile, the way a person occupies space without apology or artifice. And you… oh, mon dieu, you are fascinating. You exist not like a spark that demands attention but like a warm hearth: quiet, inviting, and so terribly rare.

He lingers at a distance, watching you offer your snack to anyone who passes, a gesture of care so unassuming it feels like magic. With each kind word, each cheerful smile you give to your friends, his admiration grows—uncontainable, overwhelming.

It grips him, this compulsion to speak, to sing your praises aloud. Of course, he knows how people react to him—how they find his earnestness unsettling, how his florid language is often met with discomfort. But he doesn’t care. How could he care when there’s someone like you in the world?

He must tell you. If he doesn’t, it will feel like sacrilege.

And so, he strides toward you, heart pounding with the thrill of imminent expression, knowing—knowing—he’ll scare you off, that you’ll recoil like so many others before. But this is who he is. He cannot suppress it.

“Ah! Such generosity! Such radiance!” he exclaims, sweeping one hand over his heart in a grand flourish as he appears before you. “To sit here so calmly, offering your bounty to others—mon dieu, it is a marvel! A light in the mundane! I find myself utterly spellbound.”

He expects the usual—perhaps an awkward laugh, maybe a hasty excuse to leave, or that look people give him, the one that says: Ah. It’s you. But he cannot stop now. Even if you flee, his admiration demands to be shown.

“Such grace in the way you greet the world! Such warmth, such beauty!” He leans in, voice softening into something more reverent. “Do you realize the gift you give, simply by being?”

And yet… you do not flinch. You don’t stammer, or shift uncomfortably, or glance around for a way out. Instead, you meet his gaze with a smile—soft, genuine, unbothered.

"Thanks,” you say, as if he’s merely complimented the weather. “That’s really sweet of you.”

Sweet of me? Rook’s breath catches. Sweet? You think him sweet? It’s such an innocent word, so lacking in judgment or wariness, that it nearly undoes him.

And then—mon dieu, mon coeur!—you tilt your head slightly and add, “I like your hat. It suits you.”

His heart trips over itself, fumbling in surprise. Compliments toward him are rare things, and certainly not ones so… easy. So natural. There’s no mockery in your voice, no edge of caution. Just honesty. Genuine admiration, directed at him.

He can feel his pulse thrumming through his entire body, a strange, heady mix of disbelief and joy. His carefully curated poise—years of presenting himself as unflappable—teeters precariously. For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t know what to say.

Then, as if the universe hasn’t gifted him enough miracles for one day, you pat the bench beside you. “Wanna sit?”

He stares, stunned. This isn’t just an offer of company. It’s an invitation. A quiet gesture that says: You are welcome here. Stay if you want.

Rook lowers himself onto the bench, the movement careful, as though the spell of the moment might break if he’s too sudden. And before he can even catch his breath, you offer him a piece of your snack with that same warm, open smile.

“I’ve got extra,” you say casually.

Mon dieu. He accepts the food, holding it like a precious gift. "Merci, mon ami," he murmurs, a rare softness in his voice. His usual theatrics fade, replaced by something quieter, something more real. In this moment, he is not the Hunter, not the ever-watching observer of beauty—he is simply a person, grateful to have been seen.

The world shifts around him, as it always does in the presence of beauty. But today, it feels different. Today, for the first time in what feels like forever, he is the one invited to stay.

Rook watches you from the treeline, hidden in the shadows as only a hunter can be. The forest is quiet, save for the soft brush of the wind through the leaves and the faint hum of your voice—gentle, carefree, a song without words. You sit cross-legged at the edge of the forest, paintbrush in hand, completely absorbed in your work.

He’s seen many artists in his time. Some work with grand, sweeping gestures, others with sharp, frantic strokes, chasing perfection like it might slip away. But you? Ah, mon ange, you are different. There’s no urgency in your movements, only presence—fully immersed in each moment, yet untroubled by mistakes.

He notices the way your brow furrows slightly when a brushstroke goes astray, how your lips twitch in a smile when the colors blend just right. Each flick of your wrist, each dip into the palette, feels like a dance, and Rook finds himself swaying in time with it, captivated.

Then, as if the universe conspires to charm him further, a small rabbit hops from the underbrush, drawn to the quiet kindness that seems to radiate from you. You pause your work, placing the brush aside to gently stroke its fur, whispering something soft and sweet before letting it bound away.

The sight strikes him with the force of an arrow straight to the heart. Enchanted. Captivated. Irrevocably lost.

And just like before, the itch in his chest grows unbearable—this need to express, to convey in words what blooms inside him. Rook Hunt has never been shy about his passions, and the urge to approach you, to spill his admiration at your feet, is nearly overwhelming.

But before he can speak, you look up—and you smile at him.

Not startled. Not wary. Just... warm, like he’s an old friend who belongs there, beside you. As though his presence is neither strange nor inconvenient. It catches him off guard, this unassuming acceptance. That simple smile undoes him in a way that even the grandest spectacle never could.

In that moment, Rook knows—ah, oui, mon coeur!—he is smitten. Not just with your quiet artistry or your kindness to creatures, but with the way you see the world. The way you seem to see him without judgment.

You gesture to the space beside you on the grass, an open invitation. He accepts with a rare, uncharacteristic quietness, folding himself gracefully into place next to you.

There are no flourishes now, no grand pronouncements. He is content, for once, to simply sit in silence, to be in the presence of something beautiful without the need to name it aloud. He listens to the soft scratching of your brush on canvas, the hum of your tune under your breath. It’s a kind of peace he rarely allows himself—the peace of simply being.

Time flows differently here, in this small, private world the two of you occupy. He forgets the need to perform, to chase beauty through words and declarations. He simply is.

And then, as if to grant him yet another gift, you turn the canvas around.

It takes him a moment to understand what he’s seeing. His own face stares back at him—not a mirror reflection, but something far more intimate. There’s no exaggeration, no caricature, only the version of himself as you see him. There’s warmth in the eyes, a softness in the lines. It is not the hunter, not the performer. It is simply Rook.

For a moment, he can’t speak. The brushstrokes, the colors, the subtle details—they all tell him, I see you.

And for the first time in a very long while, Rook Hunt feels truly seen.

"Magnifique," he breathes at last, voice soft with awe. But this time, it’s not for the art. It’s for you.

You smile, a quiet laugh in your throat, and offer him the brush. "Your turn, if you want."

He takes it carefully, fingers brushing yours as he does. There’s no need to speak further. Not now. Not when this moment, this quiet understanding between you, is more eloquent than any words he could conjure.

And as the sun dips lower in the sky, Rook Hunt paints. And for once, he paints not to capture beauty, but simply to share a moment with someone who finally sees him.

Rook finds beauty in everything.

In the brightness of joy, in the trembling flicker of fear, in the raw depths of misery. Even in tears, he sees something resplendent, something worthy of admiration. But today—ah, mon dieu—something is different.

You sit alone in the classroom, tears streaking silently down your face, your body slumped in defeat. And for the first time, Rook's heart trembles in a way he cannot define. You are still beautiful—he can see that clearly—but the sight of your sorrow grips him, not in awe, but in a peculiar pain he isn't used to. A pang in his chest that tightens with each tear you shed.

He has long accepted that people do not seek him for comfort. His presence, so often strange and unsettling to others, is rarely the balm that soothes wounds. Yet he cannot stand by and watch this—cannot let your sorrow unfold without trying, at least, to offer something. Even if it’s only the quiet company of someone who understands the ache of heartbreak too well.

So he steps forward, his usual poetic flourish tempered by a softness, a quiet yearning to help. You startle at his approach, wide-eyed and surprised, but instead of shrinking away, instead of masking your pain with false pleasantries, you do something Rook never expected.

You ask him for a hug.

It’s simple, so simple, and yet it undoes him. There’s no hesitation, no wary glances or awkward excuses. Just you, with tear-stained cheeks and trembling hands, reaching out for him.

“Please,” you say, voice small but steady.

Rook's breath catches. He moves without thinking, his arms wrapping around you with a gentleness that surprises even him. He holds you close, feeling your warmth, the quiet sobs you try to stifle against his chest. He says nothing, for once letting the silence speak for itself.

And in that moment, as your tears soak into his uniform and your fingers clutch at his coat, Rook knows. Ah, oui—he knows now with a clarity that leaves no room for doubt.

His heart, so often in pursuit of beauty, has found its ruler.

You're perceptive. You’ve always been the type to notice things, the small details, the subtle shifts in people’s behavior, the things they try to hide. But for all your awareness, Rook Hunt remains an enigma.

He is too much. Too loud in his praise, too sharp in his observations, too intense in everything he does. People shy away from him, unsettled by his fervor, his dangerous precision. But where others find discomfort, you find yourself intrigued. There’s something more behind that mask of boundless admiration, behind those poetic words and that sharp, unblinking gaze.

So when he approaches you, as he often does with his bold energy and unwavering smile, you welcome it. You wait for the moment you can unravel the mystery that is Rook Hunt, to understand what lies beneath that overwhelming exterior. But somewhere along the way, in the midst of trying to see through him, something changes. He has become something precious, something irreplaceable to you.

And one day, when life has hit harder than usual—when the weight of it all pushes you down, and tears fall freely—you don’t have the energy to hide. You sit alone, breaking quietly, unaware of the world around you. But Rook notices. Of course he does.

He approaches, his usual dramatic flair muted by something softer, more careful. This time, he doesn’t wait for an invitation. He kneels beside you, a steady presence, and before you know it, his arms are around you. There’s no hesitation, no need for words, just the warmth of him, holding you close when you need it most.

And in that moment, through the haze of your grief, it becomes clear. You can feel it in the way your heart stirs at his touch, in the safety you find in his embrace.

Your heart has chosen him, declared him its ruler, and there is no going back.

You’re standing on the balcony, admiring the stars, lost in their distant glow when—thud. A shadow drops from above, landing lightly beside you on the second-floor balcony as if gravity is nothing more than a mild suggestion.

Your heart races despite yourself, but you know exactly who it is before even looking. You turn to see Rook grinning at you like he hadn’t just jumped from the roof in a completely casual manner.

“Bonsoir, mon trésor!” Rook exclaims, adjusting his hat dramatically, as if he didn’t just cause your heart to leap out of your chest.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to suppress a smile. “You know, Rook, most people take the stairs. It’s, you know, safer?”

He gasps, hand over his heart in mock offense. “Ah, but where would be the beauty in safety, mon cher? The thrill of the unknown, the leap of faith, it’s magnifique!”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “One of these days, you’re going to miscalculate and break something.”

“Ah! If it were to happen in your presence, then it would be a wound most worthy,” he declares, placing a hand on his chest as if preparing for some grand tragedy.

“Is this where I’m supposed to be flattered?” you tease, giving him a playful nudge.

Rook sighs, then suddenly—unexpectedly—he drops to one knee before you, taking your hand in his as he gazes up at you, his eyes shimmering in the starlight. The playfulness fades into something more sincere, more intense.

“My heart,” he begins, his voice soft yet filled with fervor, “it yearns for you. Every beat, every breath is consumed by thoughts of you, mon amour. You have become the keeper of my soul, and I—” he presses your hand to his chest—“am forever yours.”

You blink, caught between amusement and warmth, your smile softening. “Rook, you know, you could’ve just asked me out like a normal person.”

“Mon trésor,” he says dramatically, “there is nothing ‘normal’ about love! It is wild, untamed, and as vast as the stars above.”

You laugh, a soft, breathless sound, and you find yourself leaning in. “Alright, Rook. Under the stars then,” you whisper, brushing your lips softly against his.

For once, Rook is silent—save for the way his breath hitches—before he kisses you back, tender and sweet beneath the endless sky. When you pull away, you smile down at him, your hand still in his.

“I guess that makes me your keeper now, huh?” you say with a grin.

“And I am honored,” Rook replies, standing up to meet your gaze, his eyes filled with nothing but adoration. “For my heart could not have chosen a better ruler.”

this is a little character study on rook and I just like him a normal amount I swear

Masterlist

[fiastomatocheek]

STILL GOT YOU EVEN WITHOUT THE RING

pair: dad!luke hughes x f!reader

genre: domestic fluff, romantic comedy, slow burn, slice of life, tooth-rotting sweetness.

warnings: excessive fluff, marriage shenanigans, mild secondhand embarrassment, very sweet domestic scenes (may cause soft sighing), mentions of parenthood (baby care, toddler toys), luke panicking over nothing.

summary: one thing luke never takes off is his ring, unless it’s to bathe lucy or play a game. so when you find it sitting, almost too carelessly, on the bathroom sink one night, something about it feels… weird. not bad. just weird. luke never misplaces things like that. but instead of asking about it, you pocket the ring and decide to have a little fun.

fia’s note: okay so this totally wasn’t in my plan to write like at all but i found this little thing tucked away in the depths of my google docs (seriously, it was buried), and i thought… huh. why not finish it? i forgot how much i actually liked the vibe of it. there’s just something really fun about teasing luke, and once i got back into it, the words kinda wrote themselves. also! just want to say that the original spark for this came from a fic i read by @/rafedarling. some scenes and ideas here are inspired by her work, so all the love and credit for that brilliance. anyway, i hope you enjoy this little unexpected piece, it’s playful, a little soft, and very luke-coded.

tagging team fia ! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs @alwaysclassyeagle @nokiaholland @macka @smiley-roos

You were tired, achy in that full-body parenting way, but the hot water soothed every edge.

And that’s when you saw it.

Luke’s ring.

Just sitting there. On the edge of the sink.

Not in the drawer. Not on the little trinket tray you kept for moments like this. Not neatly tucked away like he always did when he had to take it off for a game or to bathe Luce when your hands were full.

Just… abandoned. Carelessly. Recklessly.

And something about that made you stop.

Not because you were mad, Luke was never careless with his ring. He was thoughtful in ways most men weren’t. He wore that ring like it was a second skin. Kept it on during interviews, on the team plane, even while chopping onions (and getting emotional, but that was another story).

He’d only ever take it off for two reasons, one is to avoid scratching Lucy’s delicate skin during bath time and two is for hockey games.

Even then, he handled it like it was breakable. Like it meant something beyond gold.

So to see it just sitting there, like he’d shrugged it off without a thought… it not with jealousy or fear. Just a strange kind of what happened here?

You stared at it for a moment. Then slowly, quietly, you picked it up, held it in your palm then you just slipped it into the pocket of your pajama pants.

He wouldn’t lose it. You’d never let that happen.

But he didn’t need to know that yet.

By the time you stepped out of the bathroom, Luke was sprawled across the bed. Luce sat on his chest in her footie pajamas, one sock halfway off and a tiny, soggy cracker clutched in her fist like it was treasure. She was mid-lecture, baby gibberish pouring from her mouth as she tapped her hands against his cheeks.

“Luce, Daddy’s in trouble,”

Luke murmured quietly to her, as if she were the only one who could understand.

“Mommy’s gonna be so mad.”

You smirked to yourself. So he did realize.

You didn’t say a word. Just padded across the room like you hadn’t heard anything, wrapped a towel around your shoulder, and began your usual nighttime routine at the vanity.

Luke was watching you like a man watching his life flash before his eyes.

You dabbed toner onto your cheeks, applied your moisturizer. Ran a brush through your hair, all while he squirmed under Lucy’s weight, pretending everything was fine.

He offered nothing. No apology. No confession. Just a really nervous silence.

When Lucy finally settled, thumb in her mouth and head drooping, you scooped her up and whispered goodnight after tucking her into the crib, and then you climbed into bed beside Luke, who was now unusually quiet and very still.

You reached for his left hand, tracing the bare spot where the ring should have been. Pretending not to notice about his missing ring.

“You know, babe,” you said thoughtfully,

“I read this story today. A woman found out her husband lost his wedding ring. She didn’t even yell. Just filed for divorce. Said it was a sign.”

Luke visibly stiffened.

His voice was strained. “That’s… harsh.”

You shrugged, still gently playing with his fingers.

“I mean, I guess when something meaningful just goes missing, it makes you question things.”

You could practically feel his heartbeat pick up.

He opened his mouth, probably to confess or explain, but you simply kissed his knuckles and whispered,

“Anyways, goodnight babe. It’s late.”

In the early morning, Luke was already an anxious mess.

You didn’t have to say a thing. He was already tearing through laundry baskets, peeking under the couch, and retracing his steps like a man who’d lost his passport on a travel day.

Lucy sat in her high chair chewing on banana slices while you nursed your tea and tried not to laugh.

You noticed he checked the pantry. Twice.

“Hey babe,” you said casually, so innocent. “Where’s your ring?”

Luke froze mid-step.

“My… uh. My ring?”

You blinked at him innocently. “Yeah. Your hand’s kinda… naked.”

“Oh… I just took it off for Luce’s bath last night,” he said too quickly.

“Didn’t wanna accidentally bruised her.”

“Totally understandable,” you said.

“Can you grab it? I have to take mine in to be cleaned this evening. Might as well bring yours too.”

He nodded stiffly. “Yea. Absolutely. Be right back.”

You sipped your tea. And he never came back with the ring.

By lunchtime, Luke had checked the fridge again.

Jack’s betrayal came just before dinner.

‘Jack: @You girl have mercy on my dumbass brother he really didn’t mean to lose it 😭😭😭’

You stared at the message and bit the inside of your cheek. So that’s what this had come to. Luke had gone to Jack for help. Not you. Jack. The human with zero ability to lie.

You didn’t respond.

Instead, once Lucy was asleep and the house was quiet, you called Luke into the living room.

“Luke Hughes, we need to talk.”

He looked like he might cry.

“I just want to understand,” you said, sitting across from him.

“Why didn’t you come to me?”

Luke’s hands fidgeted in his lap.

“I didn’t mean to lose it. I swear. I thought I left it in my shorts pocket, and then I checked and it wasn’t there. I didn’t wanna stress you out, and—”

“I panicked! And then you said that thing about the divorce and I thought you knew and—”

You held up a hand.

And then, slowly, pulled the ring from your pajama pocket and held it up between two fingers.

His jaw dropped.

“You had it?”

You nodded. “Found it last night. Thought I’d let the drama play out.”

He buried his face in his hands. “You are so evil, babe”

You giggled, getting up to sit in his lap.

“You should’ve come to me. Not your brother.”

“I thought you’d be easier on me if I had backup!”

You snorted. “Since when do you need backup?”

“I don’t know!” he moaned.

“I’ve never lost anything important before.”

“You lost your car keys three times last week.”

“Yeah but this is the ring. You know the one thing that shows the world I’m yours,”

You slid it back onto his finger. “Well. Now it’s back where it belongs.”

He kissed your shoulder, arms wrapping around you tightly.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“And Jack?”

“Oh, he’s not safe either.”

From upstairs, Lucy let out a soft wail.

“I’ll get her,”

Luke said quickly, pressing one last kiss to your cheek before jogging upstairs.

[lscullzthegreat]

Of Course all the Sons of Fëanor are beautiful but

Maedhros is beautiful like a fire. bright and warm at his best, but hopelessly uncontrollable at his worst, capable of so much destruction and yet so necessary to sustain life, he is a source of comfort, a burning log in the fireplace, and source of despair like the roar of forest fire.

Maglor is beautiful like a bird. with the voice, and melodic ability of a songbird, the sharp eyes and hair of a raven, and every bit as hopelessly stuck as a canary in a cage doomed to sing heedlessly until its little heart gives out.

Celegorm is beautiful in the way poisonous things often are. He is the bright red berry against a green bush, he is the sheen on a snakes scales. the flash of yellow against the blue of the sky of a hornet. the bright bud on milkweed. Everything about him draws you in everything about him screams for you to leave him alone.

Caranthir is beautiful like a bolt of lightning. There and then gone, unseen until it strikes in a moment of brilliance. Unthought of until it's far too late.

Curufin is beautiful like a sword, Sharp and piercing and cold. a reflective weapon that often reminds people of his father, the inlay of stones and jews on the hilt does nothing to hide the swords purpose, the engraving of flowers on the sheath does nothing to hide the danger, cleaning it does nothing to hide the blood

The Ambrussar are beautiful like a comet: blazing, and bright, a phenomena to spark hope, something to make a wish on, something to draw people together. something that burns out in an instant, something that's gone before you can give it its own name

[mandalhoerian]

(1) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Ferrying passengers and cargo between the mainland and the outlying islands is your family's livelihood. Life at sea holds its surprises, yet the routines remain reassuring — docking and departing, tourist antics, more docking and departing...

And there's the seal of course — the local celebrity trailing the ferry each day as though he's on the payroll. You think it might have been brought about by giving into his every whim and accidentally becoming his favorite person to be around in the process. But who would’ve guessed the truth, that he's actually a selkie who's spent years shadowing you, believing himself to be escorting his chosen bride all along?

genre: fluff, comedy | wc: 4K | read on ao3

next >

note: this is inspired by the giggly leg-kick inducing selkie raf fanart here by @/beechu-beechu!!!! i adore this raf to the moon and back, and all the seal videos i've watched (crybaby learns to swim) has prepared me for this moment. i hope you'll stick around for this very un-edited mini-series!

Your chest tightens pleasantly as you breathe in deep draughts of briny air, mist clinging to your tongue and lips, sharp and salty, anticipation of yet another day with your marine friend nudging your footsteps faster over slick cobblestones that echo softly against the buildings that line the street. Dawn hasn’t quite shaken off the night, draping everything in gauzy shadows, stretching slender fingers of soft gold across the rooftops, making you feel the gentle bite of the morning chill grazing your skin in a tingle of needles against your cheeks.

Ahead, the harbor emerges from the last traces of darkness, boats bobbing lazily against moorings that creak and groan like old friends in conversation as dockworkers shuffle around, silhouettes bent under cargo, and in comfortable and hushed chatting somehow overtaken by the screams of seagulls. Among them, your family's ferry waits patiently at its berth, outline illuminated by the muted brilliance of the rising sun — a scene so delicately composed you think it might’ve been painted by Edward Hopper himself each and every time you witness it.

“Hey hey, Elias!” you call, raising a hand to greet the old fisherman, his weather-creased face somehow aging a couple more years while he picks through a tangle of nets with focus.

He lifts his head, eyes crinkling fondly beneath his salt-stained cap. “Ah, mornin’, lass!"

"Brought something with me today. I want to see if it helps with the bait bucket problem."

"Boy is addicted to easy pickings, I doubt that. Wee nyaff owes me half a season’s catch by now.” Elias's rumbling chuckles have warmth rumbling through your chest. “Can’t fault him for his good taste in company when he has treats delivered to his doorstep, though.”

“Nice try,” you say, your tone mock-stern, a smile tugging insistently at the corner of your mouth. “But flattery’s not buying you extra coffee today.”

His laughter echoes briefly before it’s swallowed by the soft slosh of water beneath the docks, and he peers out across the idly rolling tide, affection blending with mild irritation as his fingers start working faster.

"That's fine," he says. "Having you back is enough. My poor boat needed a break from all that terrorizing."

You laugh at that with an embarrassed, heavy heart.

Six months have melted away since you traded your graduation cap for the familiar sight of gulls wheeling above the docks. You’d returned home carrying equal parts eagerness and obligation, drawn back into your father’s orbit, hoping, perhaps, to ease some of the burdens he’d never openly admit were weighing him down.

Leaving for university felt like stepping aboard a departing train, thrilling and dizzying as it rattled toward a glittering unknown named the future. City life was a constant hum you were ill-prepared for — nights brimming with noise, friendships blazing bright but fleeting as sparks — but somewhere along the way, that excitement quietly dimmed, and in its absence grew a tender longing, whisper-soft, for a simpler past, back when your world was defined by the comforting cadence of the ferry schedule and the friendly bustle of seasonal visitors.

So, under the spotlight of shame, coming home felt oddly disjointed at first, as though stepping back into a photograph that had stubbornly refused to fade, preserved, untouched by time — the docks still busy at dawn, fishermen hauling in their catches, schoolkids racing, backpacks swinging wildly, the scent of fresh bread spilling from the bakery door at exactly eight sharp every morning. Life moved here in steady, predictable rhythms, each beat familiar enough to lull you into comfort, yet somehow magnifying a subtle, restless niggling deep within your chest.

Because beneath the comforting yet burdensome familiarity that's a bed of nails at night, you can't shake the quiet sensation that returning was more retreat than progress.

You feel it most keenly when whispers trail in your wake, pointed glances exchanged between curious neighbors whose mouths curve around your name like a secret. They wonder aloud — in voices just low enough to feign politeness — about how university might have shaped you, or perhaps, more poignantly, left you unchanged.

You can feel their quiet amusement, the delight in the idea of the girl who once dreamed beyond the island now anchored firmly back in place, tethered once more to the ferry ropes and her father’s stubborn pride.

Not that Dad would ever breathe a word of needing assistance. Pride is his quiet strength and silent curse, a barrier more solid than the island's rocky coastline. You'd notice him sometimes, catching fleeting moments when he believes no one was watching — rubbing the weariness from his shoulders after hefting crates heavier than he’d admit, wincing just a little as his knees protest bending to secure the moorings, lips pressing into a thin, shaky line. It makes your heart twist like a wet rag, knowing his stubbornness masked vulnerability, and you'd resolved, quietly yet firmly, that your presence would stay constant until further notice.

Besides, the arrangement came with undeniable perks — a roof overhead without rent’s shadow hanging over your head, meals rich with nostalgia’s comforting flavor, and the cradle-like sway and creak of deck boards beneath your feet. It's more than enough compensation, more than fair payment, for the small surrender of uncertain ambitions to the nonjudgmental embrace of home.

By nonjudgmental you mean the weight of being allowed to take time in figuring your stuff out inbetween all the nausea-inducing sessions of admitting to yourself you're absolutely lost and don't have the slightest idea what you're going to do next.

So, yeah. Things are going great.

Still, despite everything, there’s at least one soul whose very presence smooths away any lingering doubts you had about returning home.

Well — perhaps not exactly a person.

There he is, your seal companion of years, lounging right there on the loading ramp as though he's claimed ownership of the whole harbor, proudly blocking Dad’s path as usual.

Today, Raf’s gray coat catches the clementine of the morning sun like liquid bronze, sleek fur glistening wetly, shimmering with subtle gold beneath droplets of seawater, and tiny flecks of fish scales cling stubbornly to his whiskers, the glittering remnants of his breakfast. You try your hardest to summon a stern mask of reprimand to your face — someone needs to teach this cheeky little shit some manners before either you or Dad dive headfirst into the sea because of Raf's sunbathing spot choices — but one glance into his wide, guileless eyes instantly dissolves your resolve into warm-hearted resignation.

With a mock-exasperated sigh, you lean down, scratching softly beneath his chin and tracing scratching circles in the thick fur around his neck, and Raf immediately responds, rolling onto his side and enthusiastically clapping his flippers together like an actor performing a rehearsed trick. You feel like he's Pavlov-ed you into yielding to his desires by rewarding you with cuteness, and burst into laughter, the sound rippling sweetly across the bay.

"Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie," you coo softly in a sing-song voice that's the usual ritualistic greeting you have for him, smile brightening as you reveal a small stash of dried salmon you'd slipped into your bag. "I didn't forget my promise."

Raf perks up immediately, twisting himself with a delighted wriggle that ends with his tail thumping happily against the ramp, peering upward, eyes large and pleading, more expressive than any puppy’s. A heartbeat later, he's flopped dramatically onto his side, one flipper thrust skyward in hopeful invitation, and your cheeks ache from the persistent grin stretching across your face, but that hardly matters.

For a few joyful minutes, you're lost in a game of enthusiastic 'handshakes,' finishing with good, thorough tummy scritches before starting to feed him.

"Keep spoiling the damn thing, and he'll forget how to fish altogether," Dad grumbles affectionately as he passes by, hoisting another heavy crate bound for one of the smaller islands. You resist the urge to tease him about who’s really spoiling whom around here — considering how easily he gives in to your own puppy eyes — and instead settle for an innocent shrug, shaking the salmon bag, unaware of Raf following the notion with his neck elongating impossibly due to his unbelievable flexibility.

"Aww, come on. Look at that irresistible face! You can't help but want to give him whatever he wants!"

"Mm'begh, egg, ggeaaaghh," snorts Raf, wiggling under your pets, and even Dad is amused enough to pause and raise his eyebrows at the silly seal before moving along.

After a minute of playful petting, you pull yourself upright and stretch, wondering how many fish in the ocean smell this fresh and clean. The scent alone reminds you of childhood summer vacations splashing around, blissfully ignorant of any underlying responsibilities or cares.

"Get your fat cat off the ramp before he trips one of us up."

On cue, Raf slaps a fin theatrically against his rounded belly, releasing a snuffling grunt that sounds suspiciously like a tiny piglet rather than a seal: "Mmpppshh."

"Don't listen to him," you reassure Raf solemnly, as though comforting a wounded toddler. "You’re not fat. You're just… well-built. Big bones."

Your half-serious tone earns you several enthusiastic thwaps of Raf’s wet flippers against your calves, making you laugh despite your best efforts to feign sternness. "UUUUAAAAAAGH!!!"

With an exaggerated sigh, you give in, bending down for another pat. "Alright, easy there, handsome. Time to get to work."

Yet Raf, predictably, sees this only as an invitation for more attention, rolling onto his back once again, flippers splayed wide, belly fully exposed in expectation of being cradled like a newborn. Maybe he just wants another belly rub. Or maybe he senses how much you cherish these little interactions, savoring the warmth of mutual affection like it's as essential as breathing. It certainly seems to keep him lively and robust — after all, you’re with him far more than anyone else. There are countless days spent sharing scraps from lunch, swimming side-by-side from island to island, or teaching him new tricks as thinly-veiled excuses for play. Even Dad has remarked (with a teasing grin that you pointedly ignore) that Raf seems more like your best friend than anyone else in town.

And really, what's the harm? Spoiling a seal who clearly enjoys your company hardly counts as indulgent. It's simply mutual happiness, a comforting addiction you've willingly embraced: the velvety smoothness of dark-gray fur beneath your fingers, the hidden strength of his sleek body, the endearing little huff he gives when your windbreaker tickles his sensitive whiskers. All of it — absolutely addictive.

"You know exactly how unfair this is," you finally giggle softly, deciding to have mercy on your heart (and Raf’s belly) for now. "Come on, buddy."

"Ppppfffrrrshh."

With a playful little bounce, Raf balances briefly on his foreflippers, wobbling theatrically before launching himself gracefully off the ramp into the calm water below, sending a silvery plume everywhere, and he surfaces once, twice, three times — each pretty leap arching through the dawn-tinted waves, always teasing, never coming nearer than a safe distance of about ten feet from where you stand as he glides easily in lazy circles around the ferry’s bow, waiting patiently for you to climb aboard.

Slowly, the bleary-eyed commuters begin filing onto the ferry, faces etched with lingering dreams and shoulders hunched beneath the invisible weight of daily responsibilities, and you greet each with energetic warmth to start off the day, offering an amiable nod and a reassuring smile as they pass.

"Coffee’s fresh if you need it, other beverage options and food are available as well in the passenger cabin's buffet," you inform, trying to be a comforting balm to their early-morning weariness. Relief flashes briefly across some tired eyes as you watch people go in and out with hands that tighten gratefully around steaming cups, savoring the warmth like precious embers that ward off the chill.

The tourists follow closely behind after your usuals, pouring aboard in a cheerful wave of bright-eyed excitement as they clutch tightly to their guidebooks, maps, and expensive cameras, animated chatter in various foreign languages floods the deck and shoos away the remnants of the sleepy calm, their infectious enthusiasm cascading over you, a vibrant hum that makes even the most mundane tasks feel fresh and lively.

A woman leans eagerly across the railing, eyes searching for something in the water, but doesn't break any safety rules. She must be a seasoned traveler. "Will we see the famous seal today?"

You cast her a self-satisfied glance, nodding knowingly toward the shimmering expanse of the harbor. "I'd say the odds are pretty high, given he's basically imprinted on this ferry," you promise, and as though summoned by your certainty, Raf’s sleek form breaches the gentle swell, fur catching the sunlight in an iridescent cascade. "Right on cue — there's our local star."

A wave of delighted murmurs and gasps ripples across the deck, the enthusiastic click of cameras rising like an orchestra chef's signal as Raf begins his performance, slicing effortlessly between waves and drawing dramatic curves through the water, slowing his movements deliberately to let the ferry glide past before starting his 'warm-up laps' again. Tourists are absolutely losing it over getting to see something like this up close, every splash and proud bob of his glossy head eliciting cheers and applause that would scare every single sea animal around the perimeter. But not Raf. He's used to it by now.

"So, everyone — meet Raf!" you call out above the enthusiastic chatter, pointing with a flourish toward the glossy head bobbing in the waves. "He's friendly enough, so don't panic if he hops aboard for a visit. But keep your distance — not because he'll bite, mind you, but because he'll bruise your ego when he pretends you don't exist. He enjoys your admiration strictly from afar. He's a star like that."

A cheerful chorus of laughter, aww-ing and agreement rings out in response.

Taking advantage of the good mood, you repeat the safery regulations and warnings before you busy yourself assisting passengers, guiding them to their seats and helping stow bags in the compartments tucked beneath. You have to announce the route the ferry will take and how long the stops will be, and then, the ferry is pulling smoothly away from the docks, leaving the harbor behind and setting course over waters shimmering brilliantly beneath the sun.

Several adventurous tourists stake out prime spots along the ferry's edge, though many soon retreat inward, driven away by sharp gusts whipping their hair into tangles and peppering their faces with chilly, sharp salt spray. You stroll leisurely between the seats, pausing here and there for pleasant banter about the scenery, local delicacies, or family holidays gone awry, keeping the conversations is easy and light, and you're met with appreciative nods and smiles.

Out across the waves, sunlight dances like scattered jewels, creating diamond-dust illusions whenever a gust scatters spray towards the sky. Every now and then, Raf's sleek form slices effortlessly through the glittering waves, drawing joyful gasps and delighted pointing from your captivated audience.

To anyone coming aboard for the first time, Raf gives every impression of being charming, approachable — even sociable. A casual observer might assume he’s perfectly at ease with human company, considering how effortlessly he weaves himself into the daily bustle around the ferry, acting every bit the seasoned local soaking up attention. At first, you’d happily fallen for the same illusion, even rejoicing a bit at the idea that he was genuinely warming up to people when he started making regular appearances.

Reality, however, quickly proved less rosy. That endearing exterior was, and still is, hiding a nasty streak you could swear was deliberate, because Raf seems to delight in luring people in, coaxing them into thinking they've made a furry new friend — only to abruptly turn aloof, snubbing them with the ease of a ghoster. It’s as if he takes twisted pleasure in watching visitors wilt in disappointment, and so you've learned to offer friendly yet firm warnings upfront: admire him, laugh at his antics, but don't get too cozy or you’re bound to wind up nursing a heartbreak.

Suddenly, there are gasps among the crowd.

Well, mostly screams at first, before turning into delighted giggles.

"Look, over there!" A child shrieks with uncontainable excitement, sprinting eagerly toward the railing at the ferry’s side deck.

Your head snaps up immediately, and a laugh escapes you before you can suppress it. You didn't think your overly confident companion could still manage to surprise you after so many months spent sharing the sea.

Raf has flopped his way onto the ferry once again. Like he belongs, the cocky little shit. Raf glides gracelessly across the deck, flippers waving with dramatic flair — almost comically bird-like — until gravity decisively interrupts his attempted elegance. His slick body careens straight into a pole, skidding downward with a recoiling thud and ending the journey facedown right beside your boots.

"Oh, so gracious of you to rejoin us, Your Majesty," you tease affectionately, nudging him with your toe. "Seems like you get lazier with every trip. Keep hitching rides like this and we'll have to start charging you."

A squeaky little noise slips from Raf's throat, quickly followed by a sneeze-snort that's frankly too adorable to handle. You can't help yourself — you adore every silly, ridiculous part of this creature with those impossibly round, innocent eyes.

A couple kids swarm over as soon as they gather confidence to approach him. "Can we pet him?"

Look at that. Like clockwork.

With a gentle hand, you stroke his back, fingers gliding down his sleek, slippery fur from head to tail, quietly rewarding him for tolerating the children's excitement. "Alright, Raf is a little jumpy sometimes, so we can only pet him one at a time, okay guys? Remember, slow and gentle. Don't spook him."

One boy bravely kneels, gingerly scratching beneath Raf’s chin, giggling when Raf playfully nudges him with an almost haughty flick of his nose. Another child, more timid, holds out her palm for Raf to sniff and squeals when Raf leans forward to bump her inconspicuously enough to topple her onto her backside. The first wave of curious kids gets the others clustering around when they see there's nothing to be afraid of, and soon enough, squeals are louder than the ferry itself as parents linger close by, protective yet smiling fondly at the playful interactions between their children and the beloved seal.

You know Raf better than anyone, how he's around people — the cautious way he approaches, simultaneously wary and irresistibly curious, how those large, ink-dark eyes study every new movement with intent fascination, watchful yet hesitant as hands reach toward his glossy fur. It speaks volumes about his trust in you that he tolerates curious bombardments of attention every day, only flinching or skittering backward when a visitor's gesture becomes too swift or unpredictable for comfort, just as he's doing right now with these children (whom he's generally more tolerating towards.)

Occasionally though, someone ends up with an accidental nip — never serious enough to break skin, usually just leaving behind a faint pinkish mark and perhaps a startled expression. But thankfully, these incidents are rare, mostly limited to times when you're not around to ease his nerves and mediate with the person who just wants to pet him and most likely (always) in the wrong about boundaries of a wild animal.

And right now, some time after with the fawning of children and parents taking photos in an unofficial queue, you recognize his signals immediately — the way he blows raspberries and starts shifting restlessly — clear indications he's becoming overwhelmed. As soon as you see him squirming to indicate he'll start galumphing away from the eager crowd any second now, you swiftly intervene, encouraging nearby parents to corral their energetic kids and give him some breathing room.

"Alright, that's enough excitement for this morning!" you call cheerfully, ushering everyone back to their seats. "We'll be reaching our destination soon — please find your places and settle in."

As the passengers reluctantly scatter back to their seats and Raf bounces away to get back into the safety and comfort of the sea without even a glance back at you like he's blaming you for his peril, one woman remains beside you, her eyes lingering appreciatively on Raf as he glides effortlessly back into the waves. "You’ve trained him remarkably well."

That comment leaves an acidic residue in your stomach. You've never thought of Raf as an animal you had to tame into shape, or that he needed to be disciplined like a dog. It isn't about interfering with wildlife and never treating him as a pet either (though you also were very well aware). He simply is a companion you were grateful to have in your life that terms like training have always been demeaning to hear pertaining to him.

"Honestly, Raf is the cleverest sea critter I've ever known," you reply with genuine affection, quickly adding, "Though I wouldn't exactly call it 'training.'"

Her eyebrows lift with mild intrigue. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, nothing formal or complicated. Mostly just treats and encouragement, getting him comfortable around us, making sure human attention is positive for him. Simple stuff," you explain, resting casually against the railing. "He took to accepting snacks from my hand on his own — didn't even have to teach him. He just picked it up naturally, even posing nicely when tourists want photos. Mind you, he used to drive fishermen mad. My friend Elias still swears Raf sabotaged his fishing line out of spite."

Her grin broadens, matching yours, and a strong gust ruffles her blonde pixie cut like fluff from a dandelion caught in the wind. "He sounds ready for the big top. You might just have yourself a circus performer," she jokes lightly. "He seems to put on a real show whenever you're around."

Your smile dims a bit — remembering those early days weren't always so playful. The faint scars on your arm still ache whenever it rains. "I wish," you admit, wrists flexing. "But Raf gets nervous fast and ultimately does his own thing. If he listens to me at all, it’s only because he's comfortable. We grew up together, more or less. Maybe he sees this place as a secondary rookery, I don't know."

She tilts her head in subtle amazement before nodding. "You must really care for him. I’ve never seen someone handle a wild animal so naturally."

"Having his trust is special," you reply earnestly, gaze drifting toward Raf as he circles alongside the ferry, rolling with the waves as though he were just another seabird drifting with the wind. "It's rare to earn that kind of bond with a creature as smart and free-spirited as him. I’m incredibly lucky."

"He really does make one want to believe in selkies," she adds, leaning back against the rail as though preparing for a lengthy conversation.

"Selkies?"

An amused little chuckle answers before words do. "Surely you've heard of them — magical beings said to be able to shapeshift between a seal and human form." Her mouth curves into an odd smile. "It's very sad actually, the stories of the female selkies. They can shed their sealskins at will and take on a human form, but if they lose their coats, they have no choice but to stay ashore forever." She lowers her eyelashes, softening her features. "And even worse — according to lore, some men claim the skins and force the poor women who already have their mates into marriage."

"That's horrible," you reply, swallowing hard. Just thinking of Raf being bound to anyone in such a violent way makes your fists clench instinctively. You may not believe in supernatural fairy tales, but the thought of him being trapped sickens you, even for pretend. "Those men ought to be taken out to sea and keelhauled till their flesh is bloody fish bait."

The image that phrase conjures definitely has her smiling ear-to-ear.

"What about the male selkies? Is the tale genderbent in their case?"

"Well... Selkie men are seducers."

"What?" you almost scream. "That's radically different than—"

"I know," she cuts you off with a reassuring tone. "True to how the society was like back then, they had a lot more freedom. Nothing about coat-stealing or anything. Just women who are unsatisfied in their lives and relationships, also lonely fishermen wives, who summon a selkie lover by shedding seven tears into the sea at high tide on a full moon. And interestingly, those selkie men truly love their human lovers and their offspring. If their genre is romance, the stories of female selkies getting forcefully married are just horror."

"Realism, I guess," you say, trying to wrap your mind around the details.

You briefly picture Raf as one of those legendary beings. Knowing he wouldn't touch any human being with a five foot pole, you imagine it would be nothing short of wishing for a genie in a bottle but summoning a trickster spirit instead.

[lani-sun]

☆ ritualistic ☆

synopsis: jake reminds himself it’s just biology. just the instincts of his newly-acquired form urging him to take, to claim, to keep. and maybe, just maybe, he could’ve controlled it. (had you not made everything so damn difficult, of course.) avatar!jake sully x fem!scientist!reader

warnings: there's no plot here friends i am SORRY, kind of dark!jealous!jake if you squint, slight enemies to lovers, graphic, descriptions of lust bc imagery goes wild here, explicit sexual content [18+ MINORS DNI], dom/sub dynamics, dubcon, dirty talk, slightly sacrilegious?, dacryphilia, major major size kink, biting/marking, jake sully being himself should be an inbuilt warning, let's pretend (for the bio minor stem girly in me) that the lab is somehow perfectly clean and non-contaminated after this pls

☆

jake finds you in the lab, your eyes scrunched into crescent moons underneath scuffed safety glasses hooked loosely behind your ears. his own pin back against the underside of his head instinctively, attuned to the rhythmic, near-silent reverberation of your breath. in. out. in. out. your gloved hands (ancient latex, he notes with a disgruntled twitch of his nose) shake incrementally as you peer into the microscope you're hunched over, adjusting the brilliance of the light painting your petri-dished specimen in a silvery glow. the sound you release when you get it just right—faint, pleased, unfairly absentminded—is enough to send a spark of something foreign down his spine. something delirious, fervent in nature. something that grits his teeth on instinct, clamps down on his jaw like barbed wire, like an insatiable beast clawing at the bars of its enclosure, crying out for the feeling of your flesh (futilely human, extremely off-limits) in its hands. and god, he's not supposed to think about you like that. not supposed to want you the way he did. not when his body isn't meant for you, not when he feels the chains of his forced entrapment in a life confined to a wheelchair coming undone at the sight of freedom. at the sight of you. in this form, he could take you. hell, he could have you. bite into you. he swipes his tongue across his top row of teeth, feeling for the elongated hooks of his canines. yeah, he'd like that.

he settles on making himself known. as his low hum of greeting fractures your reverie, your gaze snaps harshly to his, ricocheting of the surface of his skin. (and he likes it, the aggravation simmering under the surface of your composure. he's always had a soft spot for brats. for an animal to tame.) he swears he can hear the startled hitch in your breath, can sense the shaky, half-jump in your heart rate. "mornin' doc," he chirps, lips quirking up at the sight of the exasperation already etching itself into your features. you rip your safety glasses off, shoving them into a pocket of your lab coat before yanking your mask down with an irritated huff.

"i cannot with you today, sully." a muscle in the delicate column of your neck bounces under his unyielding stare as you reach underneath the metal tabletop to grapple for a pipette, balancing it in the junction between your thumb and index finger. sticky, cloying heat gathers in his veins, a tangible ache hunting for purchase in between his temples. take, it begs. take her.

you continue, oblivious. "and i told grace to change the code on the damn door—"

he clears his throat. reminds himself that fantasizing about you while you're within arm's reach of him is a decision better left unmade. "aw, c'mon, don't be like that. 'm not gonna stay long. not smart enough t'be a scientist like you, pretty."

you huff. "that's an understatement. go out and do—other things, then. stop bothering me." you yelp when his hands (heavyset, gorgeously sea-blue) meet the slim neck of your microscope, slapping them away with a flick of your wrist. "jake!"

a chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat as he backs away, arms raised mockingly in surrender. "show me what you're workin' on." his tail flicks across the backs of your thighs as he stalks around the table, diminishing the space between you. inch by inch. breath by breath. prowling. you track him warily, but a sharp gasp—low, so low he swears he's imagining it—slips through your gritted teeth when his palms flatten against the counter on either side of your waist, your shoulder blades nearly pressed to the junction of his navel and thigh. you jolt when his tail curves downward to wrap around your ankle (fragile, he thinks, so breakable) and squeeze.

"hey—" you warn, the force with which you grip the lab bench beneath you burning half-circle indentations of your fingernails into your palms. "what are you—"

"show me," he coaxes, voice like honey down the curve of your spine. "teach me, if you wanna. 'm not complainin'." his face goes slightly slack when you shift your weight, the cotton of your coat brushing against his tensed lateral muscle. your proximity is stifling. suffocating. he nearly tackles you to the floor when your hand tentatively encases his wrist, the illusion of distance accompanied by an empty threat of resistance. (he just can't help himself, you see. hunting prey is in his biology; he has to do it to survive. and you understand that, don’t you, sweet girl?)

"teach you?" your voice is erogenously breathless, spine fleetingly rigid. ramrod-straight, enraptured in the suggestive slide of his skin against yours. he resists the urge to outline the arc of your back with his knuckles. with his tongue. "not a service i offer, sully. not for you."

"who's it for, then?"

you shoot him a dark look over the incline of your shoulder, a brooding lilt scripted in the slant of your brow. an unavailing warning to his wandering hands. "why does it matter?"

the scent of you floods his senses as you shift, and his focus momentarily gives way to antiseptic and dampened soil, lemon and fresh chamomile, pine and vanilla-tinged sweat. a lingering body lotion, perhaps, or a coveted perfume. (and oh, are you trouble. trouble in the form of gentle hands, soft eyes, fragile bones. trouble in the way your defiance bleeds like a salted wound, roving gaze shirking under the weight of his shadow. it is raw, the way he longs to sink his teeth right into your godforsaken throat, apologies already teasing the tip of his tongue, just waiting for him to extinguish the fire he started—).

"just wanna know who's been spendin' time w' my girl." jake's chest vibrates with amusement against the dip of your nape, but the salacious slip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth betrays him. the heat of you burns through his layers (well, layer) of clothing, akin to an open flame. taunting him. tempting him. his gaze drops to the flex of your neck, the hypnotic flutter of your pulse thrumming dangerously close to the surface; the involuntary twitch of his fingers is only customary. only natural. "you're in 'ere too much, baby. gotta get you out."

"here's where the money is, jake," you counter, and his stomach seizes when your elbow brushes the braided cords of his tewng [loincloth]. "all the samples from the valley still need to be cataloged, and norm brought me a—"

jake's voice slices through the air, crackling roughly with unbidden contempt, an edge of resentment he can't quite bring himself to swallow. "you're gettin' samples from that asshat now?"

you crook a brow. "well. he offered." (he battles the depraved urge to clasp his hand around the dainty column of your throat, to press his chest flush against the arch of your spine. to school you in the art of possession, of ownership, of instincts that slither through bone marrow, of urges that writhe beneath his skin like a sickness, ravenous and unrepentant.)

his jaw flexes lazily, tongue pressing heavy against the inside of his cheek. his restraint is a brittle thing, straining beneath the weight of something starved. something venomous. "'s that right?" his teeth flash pearly-white. "doin' a lot for you, isn't he?"

you whirl on your heels to face him, snaring his gaze in yours. your vexation rises, fiery and unmistakably overeager, but a viscous want accompanies it, swirling in the whites of your eyes. it grows bolder under his earthy stare, a mere captive to the deepening hunger stretching wordlessly between you. it lingers, needlessly persistent in its provocation—the constant standoff of shallow breaths and locked jaws, of tongues bitten raw and fists clenched around unfulfilled promises of restraint. his stare tumbles downward to the wicked curve of your mouth, and he swears he can taste the startled exhale of breath that leaves you. gotcha.

"ever heard of overstaying a welcome, sully?" your expression dissolves into schooled imperturbability.

his braids follow the movement of his head as it tilts, azure skin glimmering aquamarine in the lab's sterile lamplight. your eyes track the slow sway of each woven strand, the way the beads threaded into each end collide sharply in sync—hypnotic, deliberate. erotic, almost. "careful, doc. keep talkin' like that and i might just start thinkin' you don't like me very much."

"i don't," you respond swiftly, but a flicker of suspicion contracts his pupils. he doesn't believe you for a single damn second. (and you're so pretty when you lie, aren't you? pretty girl, so resistant to an orbit your body is meant to sustain. saliva coats his mouth. the things he thinks of doing to you are despicable. downright lewd, even. he thinks of folding you in half. he thinks of molding you to his pleasure until you can't tell his name from your own. he thinks of making you cry. and he should feel guilty. he should chain himself to contrition. but he doesn't. he never has. he never will.)

he leans in. grins in wolfish pride when your pulse skips one, two, four beats. "you're a good liar, pretty. gotta give you that."

you jerk forward instinctively when one of his hands slides to your stomach, forcing the arch of your spine to coalesce with the unforgiving edge of the table. the other dips under your coat, captivation evident in the way his palm stretches effortlessly around the fullness of your waist. it is nearly consumption, an unfurling desire hell-bent on catharsis. on bitter-blooded ecstasy. (it is only nature, he reminds himself. it is only his new body, adjusting to the unfamiliarity of want for an object he cannot have. cannot attain. he's not himself. he's not thinking straight.)

"jake." a tinge of nervousness colors the syllables of his name as your mouth parts around them. he drops onto his haunches just as you reach for him, eluding the desparity of your touch. your hand flexes in midair, barren. "what are you—"

"bet norm's thought about this." his voice is a rasp against your skin, curling warm in the crook of your neck. his nose brushes the tender slope of your pulse point as his words wash over it, savoring the frantic thrum of your heartbeat against his lips. "bet he's wonderin' what you feel like under all these—" a pause. intentional, drawn-out. with an arbitrary flick of his wrist, he slides your lab coat off your shoulders, his fingers ghosting across the expanse of bare skin he can see. "clothes."

"what the fuck are you talking about?" there is no bite to your bark, a weak imitation of pious resolve hovering in the air between you.

"y'don't think so?"

"jake, stop."

he heeds the urgency in your tone, leaning back on his heels. (he knows you're fighting it. fighting him. stubborn, sweet girl, ankles deep in quicksand. so damn eager to play the ethical upper hand. so devoutly attached to your cool-blooded composure. so resolute in slipping from his grasp. flighty. he grits his teeth. then again, he's always liked butterflies. they look so pretty on their backs.)

your shudder of breath betrays you. "this isn't—we can't."

his eyes narrow—watching, knowing. he can smell it on you, the quiet betrayal of your body, the want fused to the rhythm of your pulse. it pools in your gaze, a laceration bound by silence. his fingers trace idle patterns along your thigh, evocative of ink kissed into parchment. a silent mantra hums beneath his touch—mine, mine, mine. "don't you want it?"

"jake."

"it's a yes or no question, pretty."

"that's not fair." your lower lip juts outward, crowned by the swell of your trembling inhale. "you've don't even like me. and you're a pain in the ass. i'm not letting you take my clothes off just 'cause—"

"who says i don't like you, huh?" he presses his nose to your sternum, grinning viciously when you choke. "i like you tons, baby."

"you didn't let me finish. i'm not letting you take my clothes off just 'cause—"

"who says i was gonna take your clothes off?"

your fingers sink into his hair, curling along the sharp cut of his jaw, thumbs hooked around the curves of his ears. controlling, captivating. taking what is already yours. he is gold wrapped in skin, inescapably sweltering beneath your touch. liquid longing fills the void of cloying stillness, his gaze dragging lazily over your lips, your throat, the shell of your ear. your echoed stare is a live wire, leaping frantically from feature to feature. "you talk too much." the words ghost from your lips like silk. like a promise of calamity, of disaster.

his ears twitch, tracking the staggered cadence of your breath. "you keep lookin’ at me like that,” he drawls, smirk broadening, "and i’m gonna start thinkin’ you wanna do somethin’ about it."

and for once, you do.

you yank him forward, crushing your mouth to his with enough force to bruise. his answering groan reverberates down the channel of your throat as his teeth catch your lower lip, eyes eclipsed by the storm-black of his pupils. he does not hesitate to lay claim. does not hesitate to anchor your body against his, swallowing your startled yelp. it is animal, the festering in his chest. lust. it makes devils of good men. makes massacres of soldiers.

"'s this what you wanted? huh?" his hands palm the outline of your chest, marveling at the artificial ribcage his fingers provide. (he resists the urge to nip at the indentation of your collarbones, at the dainty bone lining the column of your throat). your hands scramble for his biceps when he slots an arm underneath your thighs and single-handedly places you on the counter. "yeah, y'did."

"shut up," you whimper, and oh, fuck, his teeth ache. there is no bite to your bark, a weak imitation of resolve hovering in the air between you. "j-just shut up."

"nah." jake stands as he slots a thigh between your legs, parting them around the intrusion. his mouth moves south to taste the damp skin of your pulse point, salty musk exploding on the base of his tongue as he sinks to his knees. (and he'd pray to you, if he could. would bring you trinkets at an altar made of gold. would stroke his cock right there, at the edge of your world and his, begging for you to touch him.) "i think y'like it when i talk." his nostrils flare. "can smell it on you."

the cotton of your shirt doesn't stand a chance; it tears like aged paper beneath his hands, splitting stitches merely rendered a casualty of his need. your entire body jolts, mouth poised in a soundless gasp as his name tumbles out of your mouth, caught in a dangerous balance of shock and rapture. his grin widens. "could fit all of you in 'ere," jake breathes in wonder, fingers unfurling against the expanse of your ribcage, cyan thumbs hooking under the padded fabric of your bra. "in my hands."

"god." the word rips from your throat, breathless, a prayer to something holy. something sacred. your head drops forward in surrender, forehead pressed against the sharp curve of his collarbone. his hands are everywhere—everywhere, everything, all at once—as the clasp of your bra gives way and his tongue draws forward to trace agonizingly slow circles against the side of your breast, just an inch from the growing tightness throbbing beneath your skin. "someone—someone could see us—"

"let 'em." it is sacrilegious, your little whimper, the way it escapes from the corner of your mouth. it instigates sin. calls upon forces beyond his better judgement, beyond plain, good common sense. beyond right and wrong. his fangs graze your nipple, and a harsh breath catches halfway up your throat, the hand in his hair tightening around his kuru {braid} instinctively. he chokes roughly, slicing through the silence with a drawling inhale. (careful, pretty.) a shameful blush paints your cheeks in mahogany as your hands trail downward, tracing the corner of his mouth with the pad of your thumb. (there is but a single strand of mangled control holding him together, and the second he snaps—).

all it takes is one, broad palm flat against your sternum for your shoulder blades to kiss the cold metal of the table underneath you. pinned. (trapped). he tears into you like scripture. devouring not with mercy, not with patience—but with reverence. with ecstasy. it is simply a testament to the ruinous want stitched into the carbon-fiber of his bones, a hunger that has kept him starving, aching, waiting. your breath stutters, wrecked and disparately shallow, slipping from your lips in uneven waves. (he has never wanted anything the way he wants you. has never even known he could want something this damn much. and yet here you are, in front of him, his pretty little girl—). you lift your hips obediently when his hands slip under your leggings, earning a low hum of approval as he tugs at the panties clinging wetly to your cunt, leaving both in a haphazard tangle around your ankles. his thumb presses into your pulse, feeling for frantic jump in your heartbeat.

"look at you," he drawls, tone akin to that of a drawn-out prayer. his entire frame shakes, an embodiment of fraying restraint. "so pretty f'r me. fuckin' wet, too."

you only realize he's dipped inside you when the tip of his middle finger brushes the silken, pulsating center of your core, a stretch so deep it borders on cruel. your entire body jolts as your mouth falls open in in a soundless cry, fingernails clawing uselessly at the table’s edge. his groan bleeds through your ribs, settling into the hollows like a symphony only your bones remember. en echo of something long buried. "jake. jake, oh, fuck—"

"that's my name, baby," he mutters, thumb smearing through your slick, cautious circles gathered methodically around the tingling bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. (your arousal smells like rain, like velvet rose, like a hazy memory of a garden at dawn gnawing at his fraying conscious.) "jesus fuck, can't even get two fingers in 'ere, pretty. how're you gonna take my cock like this, huh?" the sound that rips from your throat in response is nothing human. his fangs flash crystal, scissoring hand devastatingly carving out space to fit himself in between the thighs of a body not meant to hold him. a body not meant for his hands to touch. (but it would take divine intervention to stop him now. he is a hound, an animal spoiled rotten by the scent of flesh. your flesh.)

your hips jerk at the unexpected sight of his middle and ring finger sinking into his mouth, leaving your empty cunt clenching around nothing. your pupils blow wide as he hums against the sweetness of you on his tongue, swiping the muscle downward to catch the droplets of milky white lingering across his knuckles. (he finds himself wondering if your tears will taste as good as your cunt does). his name escapes your lips in a whisper, trailing gently over the softness of your skin. your pulse is a wreckage beneath his palm as his mouth crashes over yours once more, the prickling rhythm erratic against the rounded edge of your ribs.

then—he moves. presses his weight over you, drags his mouth down the line of your jaw, your throat, the shallow depression of your clavicle. "been thinkin' about this," he rasps as your hands flutter uselessly at your sides, scrambling for purchase against the line of his torso. he ruts his hips ever-so slightly forward, harshly reminded of the painful hardness throbbing under his tewng {loincloth}. "for so long. fuckin'—jerked off t'you. had a real nice dream, once."

your voice is unbearably soft, enslaved to single-minded pleasure. "you d-dream about me?"

jake's breath hitches, heat grazing the sweat-slick line of your throat. "yeah, baby. tons." his steady stare brushes yours, sapphire flush painting his freckles in a shade of liquid ivory. "gets worse after seein' you. can't sleep for days w' you patterin' around in 'ere." he raises a hand in a slow arc, fingers wandering along the tender line of his temple as the other works the strings of his tewng {loincloth} loose. it falls, forgotten, and—oh. oh. your lips part around a soundless gasp, any sense of decorum failing you. the sight of him eclipses language itself, glowing pre-cum slathering his length in a starry sheen, flushed tip carved from material far more primal than skin. than muscle, than bone. you swallow, pulse skipping, and his cocky-eyed grin only grows.

shameless, he nocks the dripping slit against the tender mess of your folds, coating himself in your slick with an unbidden groan. "wanna take samples? 's better than norm's, i promise."

"jake—oh my god." he swallows your exclamation as his mouth claims the expanse of yours, hands branding heat along your ribs, your waist, the soft, trembling flesh of his thighs. his fingers wrap around your hips and pull, the blunt, aching weight of him nudging at your entrance. you whimper, dizzy with desire. "g-go slow," you slur, clambering for his shoulders, arching your back in an effort to appease the burn pulsating under your skin. light explodes behind your closed eyelids as he slowly—slowly—sinks the first inch inside; you seize, lower stomach contracting around the foreign intrusion. the stretch sings through you, the thick head of his cock cradled between your legs, and yet jake forces himself still, a vein pulsing in his forehead.

"lemme in, c'mon, pretty," jake pants, exhaling roughly through his nose. his cock throbs restlessly inside you as instinct claws at his spine, shaking with the urge to chase the relief of being fully sheathed, of simply forcing you down the rest of the way. he grits his teeth when you mewl, glimmering tears clinging to your waterline.

"'s not gonna fit," you howl, and guilt lances through him. (that's what he does with pretty things, isn't it? he breaks them. it's in his nature, written in the code of his biological being. he can't help himself, he's so sorry, pretty girl—)

"fuck," he chokes, languish enshrining the syllables in agony. his tail wraps around your calf, soothing. easing. "fucking shit, i'm so sorry, pretty—"

"hurts more when you stay still," you whisper, eyelashes damp where they flutter against the heat of your cheeks, and jake's breath pans over your throat in a sinking shudder. your vision spotlights as his fingers pull upward, reaching between your parted lips to gather the saliva pooling at the corner of your mouth. he kisses the shell of your ear as he strokes your spit lazily over his length, whining lowly at the lewdly-wet squelch. "d'you hear that?" his voice is enthralled. "that's you and me, baby."

your gaze flickers skyward, unfocused and glassy. mindless. (always thinking, aren't you, baby? he's happy to help you turn it off, if you'd let him. happy to strip you down to something soft, something malleable in his grasp—something that belongs only to him. it’s only fair. it’s what you deserve). a dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, sharp with satisfaction. (yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?).

he gives you no warning before taking hold of your hips, molding your lower body in a high arch, and sinking the rest of the way in.

"jake—!" his name leaves you in a breathless sob, a prayer, a curse, a requiem. you're nearly catatonic, twitching like you’ve been electrocuted as you spasm beneath his hands, the girth of him infiltrating the marrow of your bones, the lining of your ribs, the edges of your lungs. the dull ache in your stomach intensifies as his hips rut up, your head smacking against the ground as his ridged cock rams lecherously into the spongy entrance of your cervix. jake punches out a strangled laugh as your stomach mounds obscenely (frighteningly, if he were being honest with himself) to accommodate the sheer size of his length, a shaky hand reaching forward to feel for himself underneath your layers of quivering muscle. you jolt with a sharp cry, feet kicking helplessly in midair as tears spill in shimmering rivulets down your flushed cheeks. “so-“ he cuts himself off when your cunt, unable to squeeze around the girth of him, flutters achingly. begging for release. "tight. knew you'd be so fuckin' tight—"

he doesn't wait. can't. his hips roll forward, dragging another devastatingly thick thrust through the vice-like grip of your cunt, the sensation of him rearranging you from the inside out. his hand slips between your thighs (greedy, insistent), feeling for the slick heat pooling there, brushing over the tender, swollen knot of your clit. he drinks your shaky squeal, chest rising and falling in rapid succession as he folds forward, tongue swiping across your upper row of teeth. "jake,” you sob, a wrecked little thing, hands fisting in his braids, grasping for something, anything. "'m gonna cum—oh god, i wanna c—please, can i, jake, please—"

"w'me," jake manages to hiss, tongue swirling patterns into the wounded skin of your clavicle. the blunt tip of his cock twitches as his thrusts shallow, a moan purred into the junction between your neck and shoulder. the tightness in his stomach ebbs as the wet slap of your pelvis against his reverberates in the air, a symphony of noise escaping your throat as he fills your womb in thick, unrelenting waves of searing warmth. you sob raggedly in relief, convulsing under the weight of his palms, cleaving lines of deepening crimson in his back. (pretty little thing. so good for him. you'd let him do this every night, wouldn't you? would let him bury himself to the hilt until he flooded your cunt with his seed, would let him turn your pristine skin a splotchy, bruised shade of fuchsia.)

he thinks with his teeth, lovely girl, and you've got such a pretty neck.

note: WOW WHY DID THIS TAKE ME FOREVER?! i was so smut-stumped for whatever reason, so i apologize for the rushed ending and for the fact that i forgot to include jake taking sips of CO2 while he was in an oxygenated lab LOL (the stem girl in me is screaming at them having sex IN THE LAB). this one's for @pandoraslxna!! love always from lani!!

[lotuswish]

˗ˏˋ what loving you feels like to them (pt. 7 - diasomnia) 𓆩𓆪 .ᐟ

synopsis: have you ever wondered what falling in love feels like for each twisted wonderland boy? this series explores love from their perspective— how their personalities, experiences, and desires shape what loving you means to them.

featured character(s): malleus draconia, lilia vanrouge, sebek zigvolt, silver.

content warning(s): none.

a/n: woo, the final part of this series! after two months of writing, rewriting, proofreading, and endlessly nitpicking, it’s finally complete and posted—feels good to wrap this up! what loving you feels like to them might occasionally use the same words, but those words mean something a little different for each of them. it might sound familiar, but it's still their own!

link(s): (masterlist) (pt. 1 - scarabia) (pt. 2 - savanaclaw) (pt. 3 - heartslabyul) (pt. 4 - ignihyde) (pt. 5 - pomefiore) (pt. 6 - octavinelle) (pt. 7 - you are here)

malleus draconia

loving you feels like a paradox to malleus draconia—both a yearning ache and a soothing balm, a forbidden fruit and the sweetest blessing he never dared to imagine for himself. it’s a sensation so foreign yet so natural, like finding a home in a place he never knew existed. for someone who has lived years surrounded by grandeur yet plagued by solitude, loving you is both the most terrifying and the most precious experience of his life.

he has lived a life of solitude, surrounded by awe but never companionship, respect but never intimacy. his world is vast, his power nearly limitless, but it has always felt empty, a hollow kingdom with no one to share it with. loving you feels like standing in a darkened hall and suddenly seeing it bathed in light. it is warmth where there was only cold, music where there was silence. you bring him into a world of emotions he never thought he’d have, filling his existence with vibrancy and depth.

malleus has always been feared, revered, and set apart—kept at arm’s length by the weight of his power and status as the heir to briar valley’s throne. loving you feels like unlocking a door that had always been closed, revealing a world he never thought he could enter. you treat him not as a king, a fae, or a being of immense power, but as simply malleus. the way you meet his gaze without fear, laugh in his presence, and speak to him as an equal fills the void within him he never even fully understood. your love is a bridge between his world and a life of connection he thought was forever out of reach.

but loving you is also a quiet fear, one that coils in the depths of his heart. you are fragile, mortal, fleeting. he knows that time, the same force that has shaped him and his long life, will inevitably seek to take you away. this knowledge makes every moment with you feel both infinitely precious and heartbreakingly finite. it makes his love intense, protective, and almost reverent. he finds himself holding you closer, memorizing every detail, every breath, as though he can somehow defy the inevitable with sheer will.

loving you feels like the answer to a question he’s been asking for centuries, a fulfillment of a longing he could never put into words. it’s bittersweet and overwhelming, but it’s a gift he cherishes beyond anything else. you are his greatest treasure, not because you belong to him, but because you choose him. and he, in turn, chooses you—fully, completely, and forever.

lilia vanrouge

loving you feels like eternity to lilia vanrouge—a thread woven into the centuries of his long life, yet distinct and irreplaceable in its brilliance. it’s a reminder of the beauty in fleeting moments, something he’s come to cherish after watching so much of the world change, break, and fade with time. for someone who has lived longer than most can fathom, loving you feels like a rarity, a spark that rekindles the part of him that thought he had seen it all.

to lilia, love has always been a complex, bittersweet thing. he’s seen how fragile it can be, how it can grow and flourish yet wither all the same. but loving you doesn’t feel like a burden or a fleeting indulgence—it feels like a choice he makes every day, one he makes joyfully. it’s the way you challenge him, intrigue him, and bring a warmth to his heart that he hasn’t felt in ages. loving you feels like finding something entirely new, even in a world he’s walked for centuries.

loving you awakens his playful side even more. he teases you, relishing every laugh, every flustered reaction, and every small moment you share. but beneath his jokes and mischief, there’s a depth to his affection—a steadfastness that reflects the wisdom and loyalty he’s cultivated through the ages. for lilia, love isn’t just passion or fleeting excitement; it’s a quiet certainty, an unshakable bond that weaves itself into his life with a permanence he never thought possible. loving you reminds him that while his life is long, it’s the connections he makes that give it meaning.

there’s also a protectiveness to his love, though it’s never overbearing. lilia understands the fragility of life better than most, and it makes him treasure you even more. he knows that time is fleeting for some, but he refuses to let that deter him. instead, he chooses to savor every moment with you, to live in the present and create memories that will endure in his heart, no matter what.

loving you feels like a song—a melody that lingers long after it’s played, something he hums to himself even when you’re not around. it’s sweet and playful, with notes of melancholy, but above all, it’s unforgettable. loving you is his way of defying the inevitability of time, of saying that no matter how many centuries pass, there are things worth holding onto, and you are one of them.

sebek zigvolt

loving you feels like duty and devotion entwined for sebek zigvolt.

sebek has always lived his life with purpose, driven by an unwavering loyalty to malleus draconia and the ideals of the briar valley. to love someone romantically is an unexpected experience for him—one that initially conflicts with the sense of duty that has defined his existence. yet, loving you doesn’t feel like a betrayal of that duty; instead, it becomes an extension of it. loving you is another cause he throws himself into with all the ferocity of his spirit. it is both a challenge and a privilege, one he approaches with the same intensity and focus that he dedicates to all things important in his life.

to sebek, love is both a challenge and a revelation. it’s not easy for him to reconcile his affection for you with the unyielding focus he’s maintained toward his goals. at first, loving you feels inconvenient, like an unwelcome distraction from his responsibilities. he struggles to understand it, to put it into words, because he has always prioritized duty over personal desires, leaving little room to reflect on his own wants. but the longer he spends with you, the more he realizes that loving you isn’t a weakness—it’s a strength. it pushes him to be better, not just as a knight or a protector, but as a person.

loving you also brings out a side of him he rarely shows—one that is quieter, and deeply earnest. it’s in the way he fumbles over words when he tries to tell you how much you mean to him, the way he blushes fiercely when you catch him staring, and the way he trains even harder because he wants to be someone you can rely on. his love for you is almost overwhelming in its intensity, but it’s also pure and steadfast, a reflection of the unshakable loyalty that defines him.

but loving you is not without conflict. sebek struggles to reconcile his pride and his affection, often fumbling to express his feelings in a way that doesn’t betray his dignity. his words may come out louder or harsher than intended, his actions more grandiose than necessary, because he does not yet know how to soften for you. still, his love is earnest, as unwavering as his loyalty to the draconias. you teach him that love is not about perfection, that it’s okay to be flawed, to grow, and to lean on someone else.

loving you feels like finding balance. it doesn’t take away from his loyalty to malleus or his pride as a knight, but it reminds him that even the strongest warrior needs moments of rest, that even the most disciplined heart deserves happiness. for sebek, loving you is a fire that burns steady and bright, not dimming his resolve but giving it new purpose. you are his anchor and his inspiration, and he loves you with all the intensity of his being.

silver

loving you feels like peace to silver, a quiet but profound warmth that wraps around his heart and stays with him, even in the stillest moments. it is not something he sought out or expected, but something that came naturally, like the first light of day creeping over the horizon. for silver, love is not loud or dramatic; it is calm and unwavering, a feeling that settles deep in his soul and grounds him in a way nothing else ever has. it feels like solace, a rare and precious thing in a life that has always been shaped by duty.

loving you feels like clarity. silver has always lived with a sense of purpose, devoted to his training and his role in protecting malleus draconia. his focus has always been outward, on those he serves, but loving you shifts something inside him. for the first time, he feels like he’s allowed to focus on himself—not in a selfish way, but in a way that makes him realize he is more than his duty. with you, he feels seen for who he is, not just as a knight or a protector, but as a person. and in that, he finds a quiet kind of joy.

but loving you is also vulnerable for him. silver is not used to putting his feelings into words; he is a man of action, not flowery speeches. he shows his love in the way he listens, in the way he instinctively stands closer to you when he senses danger, in the way he remembers the little things that make you happy. for silver, love is something he expresses through quiet gestures rather than grand declarations, but it is no less profound. in fact, it feels deeper because of its simplicity, like an unspoken understanding between you.

loving you feels like balance. silver has always walked the line between the human and fae worlds, a child of both but also of neither. with you, he doesn’t feel like he has to choose. you accept every part of him—the human side that longs for companionship and the disciplined knight who feels an unshakable sense of duty. your love doesn’t ask him to change or to prove himself; it simply asks him to be. and in that, he finds a sense of belonging he didn’t realize he was missing.

for silver, loving you feels like rest. it feels like finding a place where he doesn’t have to stand guard, where he can let his guard down without fear. it’s steady, like the rhythm of his heartbeat when you’re near, and gentle, like the warmth of the sun on his face. it is a quiet love, but it is deep and unshakable, and he treasures it as one would a dream they never want to wake from. with you, silver has found something worth protecting—not out of duty, but out of love.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[astroxrion]

How to Seduce 💋 Based on Your Venus sign 🍒

Venus in Aries

You seduce through raw desire. You lock eyes like you’re already undressing them and make your interest so obvious it stuns. You spark the chase then walk away just enough to ignite obsession. Your hunger is irresistible and contagious.

Venus in Taurus

You lure them in with stillness and touch. Every word is slow, every glance deliberate. You let them taste comfort before pulling them deeper with pleasure. Your body speaks louder than your voice and your silence leaves them aching.

Venus in Gemini

You seduce through conversation that crackles. You tease with words and vanish with timing so perfect it haunts them. You make them laugh then say something so sharp it lingers. Your unpredictability keeps them chasing what they can’t define.

Venus in Cancer

You seduce like a secret shelter. You draw them close with tenderness then trap them with emotional precision. You make them feel understood before they know what they needed. You love like a memory they never stop trying to relive.

Venus in Leo

You captivate with presence. You walk in like the room belongs to you and love like a spotlight that burns. You give affection like gold and make them feel special just for being near you. They crave your warmth even when you leave them cold.

Venus in Virgo

You seduce with detail and discipline. You learn their weaknesses in silence then serve love like a ritual. You don’t need big moves. One perfectly timed glance or correction and they’re unraveling. You make them feel chosen by precision.

Venus in Libra

You lure through elegance and balance. You offer just enough attention to make them question if it was real. Your smile is a trap and your softness disguises your strategy. You mirror their desires until they forget what they wanted before you.

Venus in Scorpio

You seduce through stillness and intensity. You say very little but your eyes confess everything. You study them like prey and wait for the perfect moment to strike. When you let them in, they feel possessed. Your silence seduces louder than sound.

Venus in Sagittarius

You intoxicate with energy and freedom. You flirt like a flame, here then gone, lighting something primal inside them. You show them a life they didn’t know they craved. You seduce by making love feel like a spontaneous escape from reality.

Venus in Capricorn

You seduce with power and poise. You are reserved but your gaze tells all. You make them work for your softness and when they earn it you give it with devotion. Your control excites them. Your stability makes them stay and crave more.

Venus in Aquarius

You seduce with absence and brilliance. You hover just out of reach and they lean in closer every time. You challenge them to think harder and feel differently. You love like a revolution and leave them wondering how you got under their skin.

Venus in Pisces

You seduce like a dream that feels real. You blur lines until they forget where you end and they begin. You love with softness so deep it disarms. Your presence is spiritual and erotic. They crave you like something holy and forbidden.

[aquamarixx]

breaking the internet

blue lock longfic series pairing hiori yo x reader contains slow slow slow burn, post blue lock timeskip, afab!reader, angst, fluff

SYNOPSIS

Hiori Yo may be one of Bastard München’s most technically gifted players, but he’s hardly the most popular. Stoic, soft-spoken, and an unapologetic introvert, Hiori’s tactical and supportive play style tends to get overshadowed by his flashier, extroverted teammates. Fame was never his goal—until, unexpectedly, it finds him.

When a mid-season slump raises doubts about the team’s future, an insightful article by an up-and-coming sports journalist shines a new light on his understated brilliance and strategic approach. Her piece goes viral, drawing fresh interest in both the team and Hiori, and challenges the flashy “egoist” narrative with a deeper look at his impact.

As her articles captivate fans and bring unexpected attention to Hiori, their interactions both on and off the field spark a fan-fueled fascination. Their chemistry is undeniable, to say the least, and Bastard München’s marketing team jumps on the opportunity of pairing them in official content. 

What begins as a mere marketing tactic quickly becomes more personal. As their chemistry continues to captivate fans, Hiori finds it harder and harder to ignore the person who believed in him before anyone else did. He wants her to keep watching him, to see the player he’s becoming — and for the first time, he doesn’t mind the attention.

And maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one getting caught up in the unexpected connection under the eyes of the world who’s watching, waiting and hoping for something more.

CHAPTER LIST (ongoing)

chapter one (1.6k words) after Bastard München's third loss, Hiori Yo finds a spark of hope in a warm, unexpected article by a cute keen-eyed journalist

chapter two (2.6k words) Hiori discovers Miss Journalist might be a loyal fan of his — and learns the hard way that stalking someone on Winstagram can quickly get complicated.

chapter three part 1 Miss Journalist follows the day-in-the-life of Bastard München for the midseason promos, unexpectedly bringing her closer to Hiori in ways she didn’t anticipate.

chapter three part 2 after one video and a candid photo, Miss Journalist and Hiori go viral as their chemistry together off-camera stirs up unexpected fan attention, leaving them both wondering what’s next.

chapter four (5.3k words) a whirlwind of chaos and laughter turns into something much more when Miss Journalist and Hiori Yo can't ignore the spark between them any longer.

chapter five (4.1K words) a win turns bittersweet for Hiori when the person he wants to share it with the most seems just out of reach—as he sees Miss Journalist running towards someone else.

chapter six (5.1k words) a series of misunderstanding and lack of communication finally leads Hiori and Miss Journalist to talk, once and for all.

chapter seven (4.9k words) Hiori and Miss Journalist share more than just a passionate night, opening up about their relationship and the uncertain future that lies ahead.

chapter eight (3.9k words) when some clout chaser claims to be the mystery girl in the photo, Hiori shuts down the rumors and teases about the girl who truly has his heart

chapter nine (6.6k words) sparks fly as Hiori finds himself with unexpected realizations and plenty of "oh" moments, proving that love and self-discovery often come hand in hand.

chapter ten

chapter eleven

author's notes: i have hiori yo brainrot for weeks now. and i just have to get this out of my system because i fear for the lack of hiori fanfics for my himejoshis out there (if there are any huhu) it is a very lengthy synopsis so bear with me, it's my first time writing a fanfic will update the chapter list as soon as i have the energy to finish it

[charlvr]

- you're the only reason that i came

Pairing. Megan Skiendiel x Reader

w.c. 4.8 k

Y/N never liked parties—too loud, too bright, too easy to disappear in. But Megan shines. She sparkles. And maybe, that was enough of a reason to stay.

The rooftop party is alive, shimmering with glittered bodies, dizzying laughter, and too-sweet cocktails passed around like secrets. The bass from the speakers thrums up through your legs like a second heartbeat. It's relentless, vibrating through the floor and lodging itself somewhere in your ribcage.

You’re not even really in it. You're hovering at the edge of the venue, more a reluctant observer than an active participant. Still, you’re clutching your obligatory drink—something citrusy and fluorescent that Sophia had shoved into your hands hours ago. It’s more a prop than a beverage, though. A way to keep your fingers busy. To look like you belong.

You don’t.

Not in this mess of wealth-drenched recklessness. This fever dream of young immortality, where the night feels infinite and consequence doesn’t exist. You blink as another camera flash slices through the dark, catching sequins and posed happiness in its glow, and you can only hope that whatever photo was taken won’t be slapped across the front page of TMZ tomorrow. You sigh, already foreseeing the PR disasters this party was sure to bring come morning.

And there, in the center of it all, she gleams.

Megan Skiendiel.

Of course.

Your eyes find her instantly. They always do. She stands by the DJ booth, laughing at something Manon said, her head tossed back, the sound genuine in a way that makes your chest tighten. Her silver dress catches the light like she wants to be seen—like she was born to shine. People gravitate toward her like planets caught in orbit. Even in this crowd of Hollywood's best.

You sip your drink. It’s gone warm, diluted to the point of being flavorless: just a vague suggestion of something that once tasted better, but you swallow. You barely taste it, anyways.

You’re not even sure why you came. 

Yoonchae had bowed out easily enough. With a soft “I’m tired,” and a reminder that parties aren’t really her thing, no one had even fussed.  You should’ve followed her lead: thrown on a hoodie, sunk into the couch, and let the night pass without you. Maybe watched something dumb and comforting. Fallen asleep to the sound of nothing. You weren't the partying kind either. Never had been.

But still. Here you are.

And it was because of her.

Megan.

The girl who made everything look easy. Like she was born knowing how to move, how to shine, how to carry the weight of expectation without ever looking crushed by it. She moved like gravity barely applied to her, like she existed in a different atmosphere than the rest of you—lighter, freer. Where pressure cracked your voice or tangled your feet, Megan met it head-on. She doesn't just survive. She thrives. She lets it shape her, not break her.

You've watched her push through the same eight counts over and over in a rehearsal rooms that reeked of old floor polish and sweat. Her body would tremble with effort, sweat slick down her spine, exhaustion written in every line of her muscles. And still, she would find space to laugh. To toss a joke across the room and spark a wave of breathless laughter. Like pain was just another beat in the rhythm. Like giving everything wasn’t a sacrifice: it was the reward.

And maybe anyone else would’ve been untouchable in that brilliance. Maybe someone that gifted, that driven, would’ve had the right to be distant. Cold. A little sharp around the edges.

But Megan wasn’t.

She always saw you.

Even in the chaos. Even when the mirrors fogged and the music blared and your insecurities screamed louder than your voice. She’d catch your eye. Send you a wink, or nudge your arm, or flash you that lopsided grin that said 'You’re not invisible. I’ve got you.'

And there had been day. An interview.

You were all lined up beneath the glare of studio lights, stylists flitting around like moths, dabbing sweat, fixing hair. The questions started fine—surface-level, rehearsed. The kind your team had practiced with the group a million times before. “Any new music?” “We have been in the studio...” “Favorite pastime?” “Seeing what Eyekons are up to.” "Big collaborations in the horizon?" "Oh, you'll get us in trouble!" But then one of the interviewers had turned to you, just you, smile tight, voice syrupy-sweet and slicing, and you straightened your back in anticipation.

“Y/N. You're a little hard to read, aren't you? Some fans say you're often too quiet—like you're not fully... in it, sometimes. They think that you're not as dedicated to the group. What do you say to the doubters out there?”

You smiled. You always smiled. Gave an answer that was safe—something soft-edged and non-committal. The kind of reply that wouldn’t make headlines. The kind that earned you a nod of approval from your team behind the cameras. 

But inside, you were a little less composed. A little less secure. A flicker of embarrassment. A moment shame. A spotlight you hadn't wanted.

Later, in the greenroom, silence pressed in like cotton soaked in static. Everyone else was distracted—phones out, halfway out of their stage clothes. Save for your odd question, the rest of the interview had gone without a hitch. Nevertheless, the rest of the girls had taken time to check in with you after, their worries waved off with a simple, 'I'm okay, really. It had just been a silly question.' And yet- you found yourself sitting stiffly on the couch, hands clenched in your lap, fighting off the sting behind your eyes.

You’d seen the comments, of course: opinions that felt more like insults than critique. Fans posting about how you always stood out, how you weren’t as talented, as genuine, as likable. How you didn’t belong. You knew it was part of the job, hell they trained you for this part of the job, but that didn’t always make it easier.

Then Megan sat beside you. She didn’t say anything at first, just leaned in, shoulder to shoulder, steady and warm. And then, in the softest voice you’d ever heard from her, she said, 'They don’t get to define you, you know. You do. And you’re doing great.'

Simple words, but they hit like thunder. So simple. So small. But somehow, it undid you more than anything else could have. Because it was her. Because she meant it. Because she didn’t have to care, but she always did.

You swallowed the tears. Managed a smile. Whispered thank you. Focused hard on a stain in the carpet just to keep yourself from shattering, but her words had helped, given you the strength to keep going. 

Maybe something shifted that day. Maybe that was the moment you started to fall.

Or maybe it came later, quieter.

A night off in Tokyo. Just the two of you under too-thin hotel blankets, a stack of Ghibli movies queued up on her iPad. You’d peeled off your makeup in silence, slurped down convenience store ramen side by side, your shoulders brushing in the kind of easy closeness that didn’t need words.

Somewhere between Whisper of the Heart and Howl’s Moving Castle, the talking started. About childhood. First auditions. Families. Regrets. The kind of things you don’t even realize you’re saying until they’re out in the open between you, fragile and real.

And you remember her like that, back lit by soft blue light, her face open and alight, listening to you like everything you said mattered.

Maybe that was the moment when something inside you cracked—not in pain, but in wonder. Because Megan was everything. And somehow, impossibly, she still had room to be kind.

You don’t know when it started, not really. Only that it did. And that it never stopped.

Until eventually, somewhere along the way, your admiration melted into something even more molten. Dangerous. The kind that twists your stomach every time she brushes past you or says your name in that low, laughing way.

You don’t remember if the HYBE contract explicitly forbids falling for a bandmate—but it might as well. It’s written in the silences, in the knowing looks from staff when your legs touch on the couch. No one says don’t fall. They don’t have to.

And yet, here you were.

Because earlier, between mouthfuls of rice balls in the practice room, Megan looked at you and asked, “You’re coming tonight, right? I mean, it’s gonna be a shitshow. But I want you there.”

And like the idiot you were, you had said yes. Rationalizing your decision with promises that you wouldn't stay long. Just enough to be polite—show your face, then disappear. But then Megan had spotted you from across the room, and her whole face lit up. Not just a quick smile, not just the polite recognition you were used to. It was real. Bright and unguarded, like seeing you there had changed the shape of her night.

And just like that, leaving stopped feeling like an option.

You find yourself near the edge of the rooftop now, where the music fades to a low thump behind closed doors and the wind cuts through the humidity, cooling the sweat still clinging to the back of your neck. Below, Los Angeles stretches out in glowing silence, a constellation of buildings and headlights. The kind of city that holds a thousand stories at 2 a.m., most of them never told to anyone who matters.

You let yourself breathe. The air up here tastes different—less performative, somehow. Less rehearsed. Or maybe that was the alcohol finally kicking in. 

“Hey.”

You flinch.

It’s her.

Megan stands a few feet away, backlit by the spill of warm light from the stairwell. Her face is flushed, kissed pink from too much dancing or maybe laughing too hard. There’s a small smear of glitter near her temple, catching the light like a secret. And her hair—God, her hair—is orange now. A blazing, copper-bright kind of orange that shouldn’t suit anyone, but somehow makes her look even more impossible. A far cry from the soft, dark brown she used to have when you first met, when she still felt like something you might one day understand.

Management had changed it, said it would make her stand out more.

You’d almost scoffed out loud. Megan didn’t need to change a damn thing to stand out. She always had. Not in the loudest way, not in the desperate, look-at-me kind of way. No, Megan glowed quietly. She walked into a room and the air changed, like someone had opened a window. Her laugh could cut through tension like sunlight, and her presence had weight, even when she was still.

And now, here she was, smiling at you.

“You hiding over here?” she asks, with a tilt of her head and that teasing lilt that always makes your stomach clench.

You force a smile, trying to will your pulse to behave. “Just catching my breath.”

Her smile widens a little, soft but knowing. “You hate this kind of thing.”

It’s not a question, and you don’t bother pretending otherwise.

She steps closer, not pressing, just… present. “Why’d you come?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Her gaze is steady, but not demanding. Curious, open. She never tries to make you speak before you're ready.

Finally, you murmur, “You asked me to.”

That makes her pause. You watch it happen. Then she lets out a short laugh. “So if I asked you to go skydiving, would you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Maybe. Would I have to wear heels?”

She laughs—real laughter, full-bodied and unfiltered—and it hits you like a jolt to the ribs. It’s not just the sound, it’s the feeling of it. Like you’d done something right without trying to. Like you’d given her something small but true.

You can’t stop watching her. The way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs. The way she tucks a strand of orange hair behind her ear, even though the wind is already tugging it loose again. The way she sees you, like you’re not just part of the backdrop.

“I’m glad you came,” she says after a moment. “I was worried you’d ghost.”

“I almost did,” you confessed.

She nods like she knew you would. Not in a hurt way. Just... honest.

The silence that settles between you isn’t awkward. It feels earned, like something you’ve both been building toward without quite realizing it. The rooftop hums with the distant bass of the party, but it might as well be miles away. Out here, the world feels smaller. Softer.

Megan leans on the railing beside you, her arms folded loosely. Her shoulder brushes yours, warm and grounding. You could pretend it’s accidental, but you don’t move away. Neither does she.

“You ever think about what it’d be like if we weren’t… here?” she asks, her voice quiet enough to get lost in the wind. “If we weren’t idols?”

You glance over at her. She’s not looking at you, but you don’t mind too much. The question makes you smile—amused, though not surprised. This is what Megan is like. All loud laughs and bright eyes in front of the cameras, spinning jokes and charm like it costs her nothing. But underneath all that shine, there’s something else: quieter, steadier. She keeps it hidden from most people, tucks it beneath the glitter and noise. But every now and then, she lets you see it. And maybe that means more to you than it should. 

“All the time,” you finally say, and it’s the easiest truth you’ve ever told.

She hums, thoughtful. “I’d work in a bookstore,” she says after a beat, smiling faintly at the thought. “Somewhere quiet, with tea and mismatched mugs. Maybe fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. I’d write little notes on the bookmarks. Recommendations and stuff.””

You glance at her, amused. “You’d lose your mind,” you say. “You can’t sit still for five minutes.”

She laughs and nudges your elbow. “I could learn. You don’t know.”

“You’d also have to read a hundred back covers a day,” you point out gently.

Megan pauses, then rolls her eyes like you’ve caught her in something. “Okay, yeah, that might be a problem.” She grins, bumping your elbow with hers. “Okay, maybe a dance studio instead. Something small. Kids classes. I’d play terrible pop songs and teach them how to pirouette.”

“There she is,” you murmur, smiling.

She turns toward you, grinning like she knows she’s ridiculous and proud of it. The city lights reflect in her eyes, “What about you?”

You hesitate. “Something where I don’t have to talk to people.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Lighthouse keeper vibes.”

You nod solemnly. “Solitude. Ocean. Brooding.”

She laughs, but then quiets. Her voice is softer when she says, “You’re better at that than you think. Talking, I mean.”

You don’t respond. Not because you disagree, but because if you tried to explain how much that means coming from her, your voice might fail you.

She looks away then, giving you the space you didn’t ask for but needed. Her fingers curl around the railing, knuckles pale in the cold.

There’s a moment, just one, where you imagine reaching out and tracing that line of her hand, just to see if she’d let you. You don’t. But the thought stays lodged in your chest.

The wind picks up, tugging strands of Megan’s hair loose until they whip across her face. She laughs, this time the sound light and effortless, and lifts both hands to brush the strands back. Under the rooftop lights, her hair glows—fire and gold, touched by something that doesn’t quite feel real. Almost magical.

You watch her, like always do. 

You’re not sure when it started. This new ache that now lives quietly in your chest. A need to be close to her, to soak in her light for as long as you can. You never planned it, never wanted to feel like this. Like your heart might just stop beating if you were away from her for too long. But now that it’s here, blooming quietly under your ribs, you can’t make it stop.

And the worst part is, you don’t even try to.

You trust her with things you’ve never said aloud. With the softer parts of yourself you usually keep hidden. And when she looks at you, not the version you perform, but you, something bright sparks. Like maybe, for just a second, you belong in her light. Like maybe you glow a little too.

Deep down you know it won’t take you anywhere good, though. You know how these stories end. But here, on this rooftop at the edge of the night, you choose not to care. You let yourself indulge in the what-ifs. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel something real.

There’s something selfish in it, you know.  Still, you let yourself lean in. Just a little.

Your thoughts drift back to her question from earlier. What if things were different? If Megan asked you to run, if she held out her hand and told you to follow, to jump and fall, you think you might. 

You’re still holding on to that thought when suddenly, she grabs your hand. 

“Come on,” she says, eyes dancing.

You blink, caught off guard, not realizing how deep you'd drifted. How far into that soft, dangerous place inside your own head you'd gone. “What—?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just grins and jerks her chin toward the far end of the rooftop, where the party gives way to a sleek rectangle of rippling blue. 

You follow her gaze, and that’s when you get it.

“The pool?!” you ask, incredulous.

She just shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Clothes and all,” she confirms, her grin growing wider. She’s practically vibrating with energy now, orange hair clinging damply to her neck, eyes wild with the thrill of it. “Let’s go.”

“You’re insane.”

She flashes her wild grin, teeth gleaming under the string lights. “Only a little.”

And before you can say no—before your brain can catch up with your heartbeat—she takes off running, her hand still wrapped around yours, and of course, you follow.

The water hits like ice, a slap that steals the air from your lungs. You sink for a second, clothes ballooning and dragging, then break the surface with a gasp. All around you, laughter erupts. The lights from the rooftop dance across the rippling pool in fractured beams, and beside you, Megan pops up, slicking her orange hair back from her face. Her makeup’s gone patchy, glitter smeared across one cheek, her lashes cling together from the water. The kind of look your management would probably scold her at the sight of. But to you, she’s breathtaking. Radiant. Not the version of Megan that shows up in magazine spreads or music videos, but the one who lives behind it. Alive in a way that makes the rest of the world feel distant, almost fake.

You’re both laughing like kids who got away with something. And maybe you did. Maybe, somehow, this sliver of the night belongs to no one else. Just you and her and the sound of your heartbeat crashing in your ears.

She turns towards you, water beading down her jawline, and looks at you like this—this, you, her—were the only things that mattered.

Your chest tightens and something sharp blooms there. An ache so full, it makes you dizzy. Something you didn't have a name for.

“You’re insane,” you say again, your voice rough from laughter or maybe something else.

She smiles like she knows. “You’re just mad I beat you in.”

“You dragged me,” you shoot back, half-heartedly splashing her in return.

She lets it hit, still laughing, head tipped back, water cascading down her shoulders. “You could’ve resisted.”

And that’s when you really look at her.

Not just a glance. Not just see.

You look.

The way her bottom lip is stained pink from biting it when she’s focused. The small “ 气” tattoo tucked just behind her left ear, barely visible under wet strands of orange hair. The way the corner of her mouth twitches when she’s fighting a smile but doesn’t want to give in yet.

And you adore her.

Gods, you adore her. Not in the way people adore stars or songs or stories. You adore her like it’s been stitched into your body, like the very shape of you has grown around her presence. Like she’s a language only you were ever meant to learn, fluent in all her moods, her silences, her tells.

“No,” you say. And the word is out before you can stop it.

It’s too fast. Too sure. Too honest.

“I couldn’t.”

The admission slips from your mouth like it had been waiting there all along, just biding time. Weeks. Months. A lifetime. 

And it wasn’t the words themselves that were dangerous. Not really.

You’ve said things like this before. Plenty of times.

In Weverse Lives with Lara and Daniela, giggling into the camera, hamming it up for the fans. You’ve draped yourself over Yoonchae like the doting older sister everyone expects, tossed hearts at the camera like confetti. You’ve even “confessed” your undying love for Megan in half a dozen interviews, voice syrupy and loud, a wide, exaggerated smile pinned to your face so the subtitles could catch it.

So no, it wasn’t the words.

It was the way you said them. The slight tremble that gave you away. The silence that followed. The way Megan blinked at you—too slow, too thoughtful—and didn’t fill the quiet right away like she usually would. That half-second pause felt like forever, and your heart clawed against your ribs, begging for retreat.

Then, finally, she gave a small laugh, shaking her head.

“Haha, okay,” she said, voice light, teasing. “Maybe I didn’t give you much of a chance.”

It’s almost enough to let you breathe again. To make you believe she misinterpreted your confession. 

Almost.

Except there’s a flicker in her eyes you can’t read. A question she doesn’t ask. Or maybe a knowing she doesn’t want to name, either. 

You managed a breathless laugh, too. You tried to make it sound real. But something in you pulled tighter.

And then, like she couldn’t help herself, she added, “Don’t say stuff like that, Y/N… or I’ll start thinking you’re in love with me.”

That time, your breath catches. Not in your throat. In your chest. 

You don’t say anything.

You can’t. And that silence is more damning than any words you could have said.

Megan tilts her head, still smiling, but there’s a new edge to it now. Like she’s testing something. Waiting for the punchline.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, the silence stretches. Thick. Fragile. And you can feel her gaze start to sharpen in the quiet. Curious. Then, concerned.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, moving closer.

The water ripples around her, cool against your overheated skin. You don’t back away. You just freeze, standing perfectly still as she draws near. Too near. Close enough that you catch the faint, clean scent of her shampoo. Close enough that you could reach out and touch her. To know how soft her skin would be under your thumb. Her jaw. Her collarbone. The curve of her wrist.

She’s not even trying to be seductive. Doesn’t have to. She just exists like this, and somehow, that wrecks you more than any staged intimacy ever could. You tell yourself it’s the drinks. The tequila you barely tasted. The sparkling cocktail someone handed you in the kitchen. The sweet burn of it all, the dizzy thrum in your chest that’s making you feel like this. But all of it would be a lie. 

It was her.

It was every sleepless night you’ve spent staring at your ceiling, trying not to think about how her laugh lingers in your ears. It was the countless times she’s brushed past you, her perfume curling around your throat like a whisper, the way her presence tilts the world, every time she walks into a room. It was the ache that’s been growing inside your chest, and every time you’ve felt your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out. 

You wonder if she realizes you’ve memorized her. You wonder if she’s memorized you back.

Her voice is quieter now, but it still feels loud, "What is it? What's wrong?”

You can’t bring yourself to answer. Can't even try. Because what's wrong is that you want her so badly, it feels like grief.

What’s wrong is that you’re considering ruining everything—everything—for a feeling you can’t even say out loud. The group. The friendship. The rhythm you’ve built with her over months, years. All the small, precious rituals: sharing headphones on long rides, laughing too hard in dressing rooms, exchanging looks across rehearsal rooms that say we’ve got this without a word. 

Everything you’ve worked so hard to keep clean. To keep your heart contained. And yet—

You feel her touch before you see it, her hand reaching out, her fingers brushing a soaked strand of hair from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that undoes you. That simple motion breaks the last shred of resolve in you and splits open the heart in your chest. The pads of her fingers are warm even in the cold water, soft against your skin, and it feels so unbearably tender you almost lean into it without thinking. She doesn’t pull away right away, but when she does, it's like she's afraid of what she's done.

“You’re shivering,” she murmurs. Her voice is lower now, and there’s something raw inside it. Something that sounds like it hurts to say.

“So are you,” you whisper back.

She smiles. But not like she had earlier. It’s smaller now. Slower. Almost sad.

And that’s when you realize: she feels it too.

The ache. The weight. The fragile, trembling thread stretched between you.

She’s not just being kind. She’s not just being Megan. She’s feeling it—all of it. Just like you are.

The air thickens. The silence is deafening, vibrating with everything neither of you have said, with everything you can’t say. Her eyes drop to your mouth and return, quickly, like she hadn’t meant to look. But she did. You saw it.

Her gaze searches yours, asking something wordless and terrifying. And for a second you wonder: Is she going to kiss me?  And then, worse: What if she doesn’t?

What if this is just a moment. Just adrenaline and night air and the hush between songs. What if you’re projecting everything you want into her silence? What if she’s not leaning in for a kiss, but for comfort? For warmth?

But no. Her expression says otherwise. Because Megan doesn’t look confused. She looks like she’s finally allowing herself to feel something she’s been holding back just as long as you have. And with devastating clarity, you’re forced to accept that you’ve known.

You’ve always known.

You knew in the soft, vulnerable way she asked you how you were doing after rough days, when everyone else was too wrapped up in their own fatigue. You knew in how she touched you: lightly, instinctively, like she couldn’t help it. A brush of fingers. A hand on your back. Knuckles bumping yours under the table, not entirely by accident.

You saw it. Felt it. And you looked away.

Not because you didn’t want it. But because you did. Because seeing it meant admitting how close you were to the edge. How much harder it becomes to resist when you know she’s right there with you, trembling the same way. 

And the ache—that terrible, beautiful ache—was never about unrequited love. It was about the forbidden kind.

The kind that could shatter everything. The kind that isn't allowed to exist in your world, where every expression is analyzed, every touch dissected. Where a glance can start rumors, and a kiss could end careers. The kind that ruins you.

Megan leans in.

And still, there’s time to turn away. To laugh. To swim to the other side of the pool and pretend this moment never happened. But you don’t move. You stay exactly where you are, because every part of you is aching for this.

She kisses you.

Softly. Tenderly. Like she’s memorizing your mouth with hers. Like she’s apologizing for the months spent not kissing you. Like she’s telling you everything she doesn’t have the language for. And you kiss her back.

Because how could you not?

Your lips tremble against hers, not from the cold, but from the weight of it all. The months of quiet want. The slow, suffocating thrum of pretending. The kiss is nothing like you imagined, and somehow, it’s exactly like you imagined.

There’s no fire. No hunger. Just this fragile, reverent yearning.

A single kiss. But it feels like a lifetime.

And when Megan finally pulls away, her forehead presses gently to yours. Her breath mingles with yours in the narrow space between you, neither of you speaking. There’s nothing left to say.

The kiss was perfect.

And somehow, that made everything worse

—

rusty as hell, but its all in good fun :)

listen to. parties by tom odell

[jijournal]

Drop The Beat, Steal The Heart | D.M

summary: Hogwarts’ most popular DJ gets summoned to throw the party of the year—but when the birthday boy starts watching you like your a spell he can’t resist, things quickly turn electrifying. Get ready for beats, banter, and tension that drops harder than any remix.

wc: 1.4k+

cw: dj!ravenclaw!reader @ every party in hogwarts, dj!ravenclaw!reader x draco, songs mentioned are not from HP and not even from the 1990s, draco who literally can't resist reader, down bad draco.

READ: Once "love me like you do" is mentioned, play the song! If you do this, gosh it hits so hard.

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY DRACO!!!

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It all started in fourth year.

The Ravenclaws were throwing a victory party after the Quidditch semifinals, and it was—frankly—tragic. The butterbeer was lukewarm, someone tried to spike the pumpkin juice with a spell that made it fizz like a Dementor's bathwater, and the music? Absolute torture. Broken charm loops stuttered through the room like a dying phonograph, two different songs were clashing over each other, and at one point—Merlin help you—someone conjured a harp. A harp. At a party.

You stood near the back, arms crossed, lip curled, watching your peers suffer through what could only be described as musical war crimes.

Enough was enough.

With a flick of your wand and a muttered incantation you'd been perfecting in your dorm, you hijacked the room’s archaic spell-sound system. Your enchanted wireless—specially modified with some borrowed Muggle schematics and an irresponsible amount of magic—lit up with violet sparks. The speakers gave a hiss, a pulse of static... then dropped.

The Weeknd's “Blinding Lights” exploded through the room like a thunderclap. Bass booming. Lights flickering. Every head snapped up as the beat took hold—and then all hell broke loose.

Someone shrieked in joy. A Gryffindor chucked their shoe in celebration. People climbed tables. Confetti charms burst midair. Bodies moved like they were under a spell—which, technically, they kind of were.

And you? You just smirked, twirling your wand in your fingers, the spell still glowing at the tip.

You didn’t just fix the party.

You became the party.

Word spread.

Since then, you’d been the DJ of Hogwarts. Gryffindors praised you like a god. Hufflepuffs made you mixtape cupcakes. Even Ravenclaws, with their thesis-length playlists and “curated vibes,” bowed to your chaotic brilliance.

But the Slytherins? They didn’t ask.

They summoned.

So when Pansy Parkinson found you lounging in the Great Hall, writing some lyrics on parchment, headphones glowing purple and silver, it wasn’t a request — it was a decree.

"You’ll be DJing Draco’s birthday party," She said breezily, dropping onto the Ravenclaw bench at lunch like she owned it. She was wearing serpent-green eyeliner and a look that dared you to argue.

You blinked, taking off your headphones. “I’m sorry—was that a question?”

“No, darling,” she said sweetly. “It’s an order. Room of Requirement. Ten PM. We’ve already prepped the fog spells.”

You sighed dramatically. “And if I say no?”

She gave you a dangerous smile. “Then I’ll cry. And Draco will pout. And do you really want to be the girl who ruined Malfoy’s birthday?”

You stared at her.

Then smirked. “Fine. But I’m bringing strobe charms. And no one’s allowed to touch my booth unless they want to be hexed into the Stone Age.”

Pansy grinned. “Knew you’d see reason.”

The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. It looked like a club ripped out of a Milan fashion show—black marble floors, glowing green chandeliers, floating drink trays, velvet couches in dramatic corners. Enchanted fog swirled over everything. And at the center, your DJ platform rose like a throne.

You stood behind your setup—crop top glittering, hair styled for maximum bounce, eyes rimmed in silver glam. With one flick of your wand, your decks lit up. The air shimmered with potential.

You grabbed the mic. “Let’s get loud, Hogwarts!”

The beat dropped into Drake's “One Dance”—remixed with a thunderclap charm that shook the walls—and the crowd exploded.

Every house was there. Gryffindors jumping like maniacs. Ravenclaws with color-changing drinks. Hufflepuffs forming a line-dance of doom. And Slytherins? They were pretending they weren’t into it, but their shoulders betrayed them.

And him.

Draco Malfoy.

Leaning against a pillar with one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of firewhisky. White button-up slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His silver-blond hair a little tousled like he didn’t care—except you knew he definitely cared.

And he was watching you like you were a flame he couldn’t help but lean into.

You rolled your body to the beat. Slow. Teasing. Wicked. Your hips moved like you knew exactly what you were doing and truthfully, you did. The room pulsed with your energy, the floor shifting with heat and rhythm, but all of it blurred around the way Draco’s gaze tracked you.

He took a slow sip from his firewhisky, his lips barely touching the glass as his eyes darkened, devouring every movement you made. He was still, coiled like a serpent, watching you like a secret he wanted to unwrap slowly.

You smirked and switched the track into a mashup of The Weeknd's "Die For You" and SZA’s “Low.”

“HEY EAGLE!” someone shouted. “YOU’RE A WIZARDING ICON!”

“DJ!” another screamed. “PLEASE STEP ON ME!”

You blew a kiss at the crowd, spun in your booth, and let the music melt into a remix of "Kiss It Better" by Rhianna that soon transitioned to "Positions" by Ariana Grande—crowd control charms at max. Bodies moved like waves. Lights flickered in time. Sweat, magic, and adrenaline painted the air.

And every time you glanced at the birthday boy—he was still watching. Sipping. Like he wanted to devour the whole scene and you with it.

After your fourth set, sweat glistening on your forehead and your heart pounding from the energy pulsing through the room, you finally stepped down from the DJ booth, leaving on "Love Me Like You Do" by Ellie Goulding for the 'getting drunk' music.

Someone immediately pressed a glittering, frosted drink into your hand—its chill a welcome contrast to your flushed skin. A nearby Hufflepuff leaned in with a wide smile, whispering, “You’re literally the life of Hogwarts.”

You laughed, breathless and exhilarated, basking in the glow of the crowd’s adoration. The music still thrummed through the walls, but your mind was already drifting, seeking a quieter corner to catch your breath.

Turning sharply, you almost collided with him

You're the light, you're the night.

Draco Malfoy—who caught your elbow with a steady hand, his icy gaze locking with yours. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice low and calm amid the chaos.

You looked up at him, flashing a sly grin. “Enjoying the party, birthday boy?” you teased.

He gave a dry chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching into something like a smile. “It’s tolerable.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh wow. That’s basically a love letter coming from you.”

Instead of letting go, he kept his hand lightly on your arm, anchoring you in the moment. “You’re unreal,” he said quietly, his tone thick with something more—admiration, maybe something like awe.

"You flirt with the music, tease the crowd, make even the portraits blush. And Merlin, I can't believe someone can do all that and still look at me like I’m the one worth noticing.

Your breath caught, your heart stuttering in your chest. You blinked up at him, the air between you electric and heavy.

“I don’t dance,” he admitted, his voice dropping softer, more vulnerable, “but every time you roll your hips like that, I forget how to breathe.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that promises trouble. “So breathe with me,” you dared him. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back up to your eyes, hesitation warring with desire in their depths.

The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the faint pulse of his heartbeat in sync with your own. His fingers brushed your wrist, lingering just long enough to send sparks down your arm, as if testing his own restraint.

You leaned in just a fraction, your lips barely brushing the curve of his cheek as you whispered against his skin, “You’ve been staring all night, Draco. What are you waiting for?” His breath hitched, and you could see the flush rising in his cheeks, the pulse pounding at his throat like a frantic drum. Yet still, he held himself back, barely.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, low and rough with barely contained longing. “If I kiss you right now, I won’t stop.”

You tilted your head, a wicked smile curling your lips. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

The tension coiled tighter, a delicious electric ache between you. The music continued to hum in the background, but all you could hear was the relentless pounding of your heart in your ears.

Then, as if the universe were waiting for the perfect moment, your music rig pulsed with life, signaling the chorus.

So love me like you do, la-la love me like you do.

Draco let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Seriously? we're about to kiss with this song?” you didn’t flinch.

“Fitting, isn’t it?” you tease. His gaze locked on your lips, eyes dark and burning with intent.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate—like he’d been counting the seconds since the first beat dropped, biding his time, waiting for a moment when the rest of the world would fall away.

His lips met yours with a kind of quiet certainty, soft but hungry beneath it, like he needed to be sure this was real. His hand slid up to your jaw, fingers curling just under your ear, tilting your face as if he wanted to memorize the angle. The warmth of his palm sent a shiver down your spine, grounding you even as your knees threatened to give out.

You gasped softly against his mouth, and he took that as invitation, deepening the kiss with a slow-burning hunger that made your head spin. Your hands found the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric between your fingers, desperate to anchor yourself to something—anything—as the world blurred into fog and light and heat.

His other arm circled your waist, tugging you flush against him. There was no more space between you, no more tension—only release. His mouth moved against yours like he knew exactly how you liked to be kissed—like he’d imagined this a thousand times and was now trying to make up for every second he hadn’t done it sooner.

He tasted like firewhisky and trouble. Sweet and sharp and utterly addictive. The kind of kiss that felt like a secret and a promise all at once. Somewhere in the room, music pulsed and people shouted, but none of it touched you. Not here. Not inside this space of want and heat.

You broke apart just enough to breathe—your foreheads pressed together, your lips still brushing, your pulse hammering wildly beneath his thumb.

And he whispered, low and wrecked, “Told you. I don’t stop.”

You grinned, breathless. “Good.”

Then, he kissed you again.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

“THE DJ’S SNOGGING MALFOY!”

From somewhere in the throng, Pansy raised a glass high and shouted triumphantly, “FINALLY.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[samazing0831]

How to Break a Curse - Fred Weasley x Reader

Fred Weasley has always known how to flirt - except with you. Because with you, it would've meant something. Too much. And so he kept quiet. Even after the war. Even after you'd both survived everything but the truth.

But when a compulsion curse forces Fred to speak every truth he's ever buried - including the ones he's hidden from himself - you're called in to help. What starts as magical diagnosis becomes an unraveling of everything between you: school memories, missed chances, and the love you both spent years refusing to name.

Now the spell is breaking. But what if you're not ready for what comes next?

What if the truth is still too big to say?

6.1k words

A/N: This fic is for the Fred girlies who like emotional damage, slow-burn mutual pining, and the catharsis of finally saying the things that have gone unsaid for years. If you love accidental confessions, ancient magic, post-war grief, and the slowest of slow burns - this one's for you.

Fred Weasley never told you how he felt.

Not when you bandaged his hand after a failed fireworks charm in fourth year.

Not when Snape paired you together in Potions and you spilled Amortentia all over his notes - and he didn’t care, because your laugh sounded exactly like the fizzing of a sweet joke just before it exploded.

Not even after the war, when you’d grown into your own kind of brilliant, training under the best curse-breakers while he rebuilt the shop and himself at the same time.

You were always in his orbit. Close enough to touch. But never quite his.

He flirted with everyone. Everyone except you.

Because it would have meant something. Too much.

So he didn’t say it.

Not until the day the curse made it impossible not to.

The last thing Fred remembered before the spell hit was the sound of George saying, “You absolute idiot, don’t eat that -”

Then:

Snap.

Spark.

Dark.

Then:

Truth.

The owl arrived with an irritated rattle of wings and an urgent red seal.

You barely glanced up at first - still hunched over a centuries old scroll, ink smudge on your fingers, neck aching from the angle you’d been craning for hours. You were in the middle of translating an ancient ward-breaking glyph from a Celtic tomb, halfway between brilliance and burnout.

But then your eyes caught the Ministry mark.

You unrolled the parchment with growing unease.

“Urgent magical accident. Diagon Alley. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Spontaneous compulsion spell - patient unable to lie. Curse-breaker assistance required immediately.”

When you saw the name, you cursed under your breath - not because it was Fred Weasley.

But because it was Fred Weasley.

You muttered something unprintable under your breath, grabbed your satchel, and Disapparated without even changing out of your work clothes.

Wind whipped at your scarf the moment you reappeared on the cobbled edge of Diagon Alley. The early evening air was brisk, tinged with wood smoke and the sugary scent of something exploding several doors down.

You climbed the stairs to the flat above with dread curling low in your stomach. You hadn’t seen Fred in months - not since that mutual friend’s wedding, where he’d danced like a man trying to forget something.

You hadn’t forgotten anything.

The door creaked open before you knocked.

“Of course it’s you,” Fred groaned, flopped across the old settee with one hand over his eyes. “Of all the curse-breakers in Britain…”

You dropped your bag by the fireplace and gave him a once-over: flushed cheeks, twitchy fingers, and a slightly panicked glint in his eyes.

“You look like hell,” you said flatly.

Fred blinked. “You smell amazing.”

A pause.

Your brow raised.

“I - I mean -” He turned desperately to George, who was seated on the armrest with a half-eaten Cauldron Cake. “See? I’m broken.”

George choked on his cake, coughing through a laugh. “Oh, he’s so broken.”

Fred didn’t stop talking for the next ten minutes.

It wasn’t that he meant to - in fact, you could see the moment he realized he couldn’t help it, eyes wide with horror as each confession tumbled out of his mouth like a poorly warded truth serum.

“I used to doodle your name and mine in the margins of my Charms notes but made them invisible.”

“I definitely faked a nosebleed once to get you to fix it. You touched my face. It was a whole thing.”

“I flirted with Angelina to distract from the fact that I was in love with someone else. Obviously, it didn’t work.”

You stared at him.

“I -” he began, horrified, “I didn’t mean to say that. Wait. No. I did. I just didn’t mean to say it now.”

You slowly closed your diagnostic journal and looked at him - not the patient, not the prankster, but the boy you used to pass notes to in the library. The boy you tried so hard to ignore, even when he sat two rows over, turning your insides to jelly every time he laughed.

“Well,” you said, rising to your feet, “this is going to be interesting.”

The day faded into a dusky blue-gray outside, street lamps flickering to life below the window. You’d stayed longer than you meant to - partly for professional reasons, partly because Fred had finally stopped talking and fallen asleep, and partly because…

Well.

Because being in that flat again felt like stepping backward into something half-familiar and half-forbidden.

You moved quietly through the room, setting up the last of the diagnostic wards around his bed for overnight monitoring. A soft glow followed your wand tip, encasing the mattress in a protective shimmer.

That’s when you saw it - a photo, old and curling at the edges, tucked just under his lamp.

You reached for it without thinking.

It was one of those enchanted prints from Hogwarts: you and Alicia laughing on the lawn, books open but forgotten. Behind you, Fred photobombed with both thumbs up, mid-wink, grinning like he knew a secret.

He’d cut the photo unevenly to frame just you.

He caught you looking.

“I’ve had that since sixth year,” he said softly. “I never showed anyone. George would’ve never let me live it down.”

Your fingers lingered on the edge of the photo. Something in your chest tightened - an old, bruised feeling you’d never let surface until now.

You remembered that day.

You remembered the way Fred kept circling, teasing Alicia, always just barely brushing by you.

You thought it was a coincidence.

But now… now you weren’t so sure.

Truth, unfortunately, doesn’t sleep.

You’d only been back at the Weasley flat for one day and already regretted not charging triple.

The spell was something you hadn’t seen in years - an ancient truth-compulsion enchantment originally designed by paranoid Ministry officials during the early wizarding trials. It latched onto emotion. Instinct. Buried thoughts.

It wasn’t just a compulsion to speak.

It was a pressure point in the soul - twisting at instinct and memory, unraveling the threads people usually kept hidden. The deeper someone buried a thought, the faster it rose to the surface. Emotion made it worse. Shame made it impossible. The spell clung to those things like a bloodhound with a grudge.

In short: Fred was a live wire with absolutely no filter.

And he hated it.

Morning light spilled through the window of the flat like a spotlight on bad decisions.

You were in the sitting room again, running another scan - wand calibrated to a specialized focus stone, fingers ready, voice neutral. Fred sat on the edge of the couch, slouched forward slightly with the grim posture of a man preparing to embarrass himself in real time.

He was trying not to look at you.

Bad idea.

“Honestly?” Fred muttered as you hovered a spell-focus over his chest to measure magical resistance, “I can feel your hand through my shirt and it’s killing me. Thought you should know. For science.”

You didn’t blink. “Noted.”

“You’re very professional. That’s frustrating.”

“You can stop talking any time.”

“I really can’t,” he said miserably. “Also, your hair looks really soft today.”

You dropped the focus on his stomach.

He wheezed.

You stepped back calmly, scribbled a note, and pretended not to notice the color blooming at the tops of his ears.

By mid-afternoon, the flat had grown stifling - too small, too loud, too filled with unsaid things that Fred might accidentally say. You relocated to the front of the shop under the guise of needing open space for magical threshold testing, but really, you just needed to breathe.

George had roped Lee Jordan into helping restock a shipment of Fainting Fancies, while you and Fred camped near the warded entrance with a stack of charm protocols and a battered diagnostic wand that sparked if you angled it wrong.

It was mostly boring.

Until you added a layered pressure charm - subtle, but enough to press against the edges of his aura, and casually asked, “How do you feel under magical strain?”

“Terrible,” he said automatically.

You nodded, taking notes.

He paused.

“Also I think about kissing you at least once a day, and it’s so inconvenient.”

You froze.

Fred’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t supposed to come out.”

You didn’t move..

“It’s not new,” he rushed on. “Since sixth year. That stupid Amortentia lesson Snape had us paired up in? Yours smelled like ink and cloves. Mine smelled like you.”

You looked up sharply.

Fred winced. “See? This is awful. You’re going to run back to the Ministry and leave me to rot.”

You let the silence stretch for just long enough to make him sweat.

Then, finally: “I’m not leaving,” you said, quiet but certain. “But you do need to shut up before you give yourself a heart attack.”

“Too late. Already dying. Will definitely haunt you.”

You shook your head, trying very hard not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirked. “But charming.”

“Unfortunately.”

That night, the flat settled into a soft quiet - the kind that only comes after a day spent pretending not to feel what you’re feeling.

You stayed in the spare room, door slightly ajar. Moonlight filtered in through the window, painting silver lines across your notebook as you sat cross-legged on the bed, journal open, mind racing.

Fred had always been flirtatious - you knew that. He’d turned it into an art form. But this… this wasn’t practiced lines or clever banter. It was too raw. Too uncertain. Too honest.

He wasn’t performing anymore.

He was unraveling.

You traced the edge of the page in your journal, half-distracted.

You’d written his name dozens of times today.

Across the hall, Fred lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might answer all the questions he was too afraid to ask out loud.

Somewhere between blurting out his feelings and realizing you hadn’t run screaming for the hills, something had shifted.

You weren’t just a memory of laughter in a Gryffindor common room anymore. You weren’t just a ghost from a chapter in his past.

You were here. Now.

And the truth was out in the open.

Fred wasn’t sure if that terrified him or freed him - maybe both - but one thing was certain:

He’d waited years to tell you any of this. And now that the dam had cracked, the only thing he wanted was to keep going.

Even if it killed him.

The day had been nonstop mayhem.

One of the Pygmy Puffs escaped. George accidentally sold a pair of reversible boxers that swapped genders and houses. And Fred? He knocked over an entire display of Banshee Buttons with his elbow, triggering a five-minute wail so loud it shattered two Sneakoscopes and scared a tourist into buying one.

You barely had time to recast the floor-warding spells before locking up.

Now, hours later, the three of you collapsed in the flat upstairs. The lights were low, the fire warm, and half-finished bottles of Firewhisky and butterbeer were scattered across the floor like trophies. You were curled up on the loveseat. Fred sat on the rug nearby, back against the sofa, legs stretched out. George was perched on the windowsill, swirling a cocktail that glowed faintly green.

“This batch might actually kill people,” he said cheerfully. “Which means it’ll sell brilliantly.”

You raised your butterbeer. “To war crimes in candy form.”

Fred clinked his bottle against yours. “Cheers.”

You were all exhausted, a little buzzed, and laughing in that slow, golden way that only happened late at night, when the chaos finally settled and the quiet came.

Which is exactly when George decided to ruin it.

“So,” he said casually, not looking up, “how long did your little school crush on Freddie here last?”

You blinked. Fred turned his head toward you, eyebrows lifting.

You scoffed. “What?”

“Oh come on,” George said. “Everyone knew. Back at school - all those stolen glances over cauldron smoke. The time you tripped over your own robes when he winked at you in Transfiguration?”

“I tripped because Ron threw a Quill-Chewing Chizpurfle at my head,” you muttered.

George smirked. “Right. Sure you did.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t a big deal. Everyone had a crush on Fred back then.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Did they?”

You waved it off, too quickly. “It was school. We were sixteen. It didn’t mean anything.”

The silence that followed landed like a hex.

You didn’t notice it at first - not until Fred sat up straighter. His drink hung forgotten in his hand.

When he spoke, his voice was too quiet to be casual.

“I certainly didn’t have a crush on you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked at you - really looked - and in the firelight, his eyes weren’t playful. They were glassy. Raw.

“It wasn’t a crush,” he said again. “A crush was what I had on Angelina in fourth year. It lasted three weeks and ended when she jinxed my eyebrows off. I had a crush on that Slytherin in fourth year who looked like she’d stab someone with a sugar quill.”

He gave a single, humorless laugh.

“You?” He ran a hand through his hair, searching for words. “You were different.”

George, to his credit, said nothing.

Fred turned back to you. His voice steadied - low, but certain.

“I noticed you before you ever noticed me. You were the one person I couldn’t joke with the same way - not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t trust myself. Because you mattered.”

Your breath caught.

“I used to memorize where you sat in class,” he said with a crooked smile. “So I’d know where not to sit. Being near you made me forget punchlines.”

Your heart was thudding now, traitorously loud.

“And during the Battle…” His voice faltered. “I didn’t see you at first. And then I did. You were hexing a Death Eater - twice your size, might I add - with your arm bleeding down to your fingertips, and you still yelled at me to keep moving.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I thought I was going to lose you. And that night, when you limped past me holding your wand like it was the only thing keeping you upright - I wanted to say something. Anything. I even wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t.”

Silence.

Then:

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” Fred said softly. “And now this bloody curse is dragging it out of me like some sort of humiliating game and - Merlin, I wish I’d just told you before. When it was mine to give.”

You stared at him, the past rewriting itself behind your eyes.

George stood quietly. “Right. I’m suddenly feeling very much… like I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, disappearing down the hall with his drink and saintlike timing.

You were still staring.

“I thought you were just… Fred,” you said finally. “Friendly. Charming. Untouchable.” 

He looked at you then - broken open, not smiling.

“You were always the untouchable one.”

The flat was still.

Outside, Diagon Alley lay hushed beneath a soft coat of snow, the lamplight glinting off frost-laced eaves. Inside, the fire had dwindled to embers, casting sleepy gold shadows across the floorboards. Fred was curled on the couch beneath a frayed Gryffindor blanket, hands wrapped around a mug of cooling tea.

You sat beside him - not touching, but close enough to feel the space between you hum with everything unsaid.

Neither of you had spoken much since George had retreated to bed with an overly dramatic yawn and an oddly well-timed exit. That conversation - that confession - still hung in the air like dust, impossible to ignore.

You could feel Fred watching you from the corner of your eye.

But you didn’t look.

Not yet.

You were flipping through your spell journal, feigning focus, when Fred flinched.

Your head snapped up. “What was that?”

He winced, one hand going to his side. “Just a flare. Feels like something’s… pushing out.”

You shifted toward him instinctively. “You didn’t say anything earlier.”

“I didn’t want to -” He stopped, then gave a crooked smile. “Didn’t want to interrupt the awkward silence.”

You rolled your eyes, already tugging the blanket aside. Your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.

“Lift up,” you murmured.

He obeyed.

Beneath his ribs, magic shimmered faintly beneath the skin - a bruised glow ripping with each breath.

You pressed your wand gently to its edge. “This’ll tingle.”

Fred didn’t flinch.

“I trust you,” he said.

You froze.

Just for a second.

Those words landed deeper than they had any right to.

Whether Fred noticed or not, he didn’t let on. He just watched you - quiet, steady, while you worked.

When the charm finished settling and the light faded, you lowered your wand and leaned back with a quiet breath.

“Thanks,” he said, still watching you like he wasn’t quite ready to stop.

“You should’ve told me it was getting worse.”

He shrugged. “I figured if I ignored it, it might go away.”

You gave him a look. “Has that ever worked?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “No. But that didn’t stop me from trying. With everything else, too.”

The fire crackled. SIlence stretched - not uncomfortable, but fragile.

Fred set down his mug, slowly, like it had become too heavy to hold.

“I thought if I told you,” he said, his voice quiet and raw, “I’d lose you.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Back in school. After the battle. Even when you walked in yesterday. I thought if I said something real, it’d break whatever version of you I still had.”

You stared into the fire. Your chest ached.

“But now…” Fred exhaled, low and shaky. “Now I think I’m losing myself instead.”

You turned toward him.

Really turned.

Fred Weasley - the one who always had a joke, a smirk, an escape route - looked worn thin. Like the weight of years, of unspoken truths, had finally caught up.

“I didn’t want it to be a curse that made me say it,” he murmured. “But it did. And now you know. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You hadn’t realized you were leaning in until you noticed the shift in his gaze - down, briefly, to your mouth.

His breath caught.

So did yours.

And for one suspended heartbeat, you both leaned closer.

Heat. Tension. Gravity.

But then -

Fred paused.

Just enough to pull back.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his eyes dropping.

You eased back too, your heart aching and alive.

“No,” you said softly. “Don’t be.”

Because you weren’t ready. Not yet. Not tonight.

But your hands still tingled from touching him.

And your chest was still tight from almost hearing everything you’d once told yourself not to hope for.

The room went quiet again.

But this time, the quiet wasn’t empty.

It was full of maybe.

And maybe it was almost loud enough to believe in.

The library at Grimmauld Place smelled like parchment and ghosts.

Dust curled in the corners. Enchanted books drifted lazily above their shelves, still dutiful after decades of neglect. Overhead, the chandelier flickered with an eerie blue light, casting shadows that shifted with the turn of every page.

You and Fred sat opposite each other at the long oak table, a fortress of books stacked between you - most cracked open to smudged entries on psychological hexes, emotional compulsion spells, and ancient, half-forgotten curses. The kind of magic people whispered about, but rarely wrote down.

Fred’s hair was a mess, and his jumper had a new hole scorched into the sleeve from a misfired detection charm. He looked exhausted.

You weren’t faring much better.

But there was something about this - about being here, late, together - that made the silence feel full rather than empty.

You ran a hand through your hair and murmured, “Found something.”

Fred glanced up.

You slid a battered tome across the table. The page was marked with a shaky scrawl and a rust-colored fingerprint. The entry read:

Spell Type: Veritas Malefica

Often mistaken for a standard truth compulsion. Rooted in grief-based magic.

Enchantment reacts violently to emotional suppression - not lies told to others, but lies told to oneself.

Fred blinked slowly. “What does that mean?”

You swallowed. “It means… the more you try to bury what you’re feeling - especially from yourself - the worse it gets.”

He leaned back, the realization settling like stones in his chest.

“So I’ve been making it worse,” he said, voice hollow. “Every time I pretended it didn’t matter. Every time I told myself it wasn’t -”

He didn’t finish.

You looked down at your hands. “You’re not cursed because you lied to other people, Fred. You’re cursed because you’ve been lying to yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp - it was heavy. Knowing.

Then Fred laughed - just once. Bitter and tired.

“Of course it’s emotional repression. I couldn’t have just accidentally swallowed a cursed sweet like a normal idiot.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

But then: “There’s something else.”

He looked over.

You hesitated, then pushed forward. “I think I’m the trigger.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Every time the curse flares - it’s when I’m nearby. When I ask you something real. When we’re close.”

Fred stared at you.

Still, you didn’t stop.

“I’m not saying I’m bad for you. I’m saying… I’m the one person you’ve spent years pretending you didn’t feel anything for.”

His eyes dropped away. “Because if I didn’t pretend,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

You nodded. “I know.”

Silence settled again - quieter now. Expectant.

And then you said it.

“I liked you too, you know.”

Fred’s head lifted. His gaze found yours - sharp. Breathless.

You weren’t smiling. You were just honest.

“I used to sit two rows behind you in Charms and laugh at your jokes - even the terrible ones. I’d take the long way to class if it meant running into you. I noticed when you stopped joking with me after sixth year. I noticed everything. But you never said anything, so I thought…”

“That it wasn’t real,” Fred finished, barely above a whisper.

You nodded.

A beat passed.

And then - Fred said the thing that mattered most:

“I think that’s when it started. The lie. The one I kept telling myself - that I didn’t feel anything. That you were just… someone I missed a chance with.”

Your breath caught.

Fred leaned in, just slightly, voice raw.

“And the more I lied, the worse it got. The more I smiled and flirted and joked like it didn’t mean anything… the louder it got inside my head. Until the curse made it impossible to ignore.”

You didn’t speak.

And, for once, neither did Fred.

He just looked at you - unguarded. Quiet. Like he was finally allowing himself to be seen.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was warmer now.

Not because anything had been fixed.

But because nothing was hiding anymore.

The day after Grimmauld Place, something shifted.

Not in a catastrophic way. No slammed doors. No shouting. No curses gone awry.

Just… distance.

You weren’t cold. You weren’t avoiding him - not outright. But Fred felt it. In the extra beat between your replies. In the way your laughter skimmed the surface but never quite sank. In how your hands were always busy - labeling jars, reorganizing shelves, rereading the same page for the third time.

And Fred - who had spent most of his adult life performing noise in place of honesty - didn’t know how to survive the quiet.

So he filled it.

Poorly.

By midday, he was back to tossing out jokes. Half-hearted ones. Ones with all the punch of a wet sparkler.

“Careful with that,” he said, nodding at a crate of Sneezing Sparkles. “Wouldn’t want you bursting into glitter again. Not without warning me first. I need time to emotionally prepare.”

You didn’t look up. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Fred winced. He couldn’t tell if you were irritated, distracted, or just… elsewhere.

He hated it.

He hated not knowing.

By the time you’d locked up for the night, the air between you was taut - stretched thin by all the things unsaid.

Fred lingered behind the counter, pacing. You were counting inventory. Precisely. Methodically. Like precision could protect you.

“You’re not… avoiding me, are you?”

You glanced up. “No.”

He nodded too fast. “Right. Cool.”

You went back to counting. “I just needed space.”

“From me?”

You hesitated. “From everything.”

Fred leaned against the doorframe, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Is this about what I said?”

You didn’t answer.

Which, of course, made it worse.

Fred smiled - the brittle kind, the kind that hurt to wear. “Because I can take it back, you know. If that’s what you need. The curse is still having a laugh - I’ll probably say something worse tomorrow. Might as well get ahead of it.”

You closed the ledger. “Fred -”

“No, seriously,” he cut in, too fast, too loud. “We’ll pretend none of it happened. I’ll go back to flirting and making things weird in a fun way. We’ll rewind. Reset. Or maybe -” He laughed, sharp and thin. “Maybe I’ll just stop talking altogether. That seems safer.”

You stared at him. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, voice rising. “But neither is falling in love with someone who’s not ready to hear it.”

The words echoed - harsh and hollow.

Fred froze, eyes wide, as if he’d just heard himself speak.

You swallowed. “Fred…”

“I didn’t mean to -” He stopped. Exhaled. Then, quietly, “No. I did. I meant to say it. I’m not sorry.”

You didn’t move.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said again, softer. “And I hate that I didn’t say it years ago. Before the shop. Before the war. Before I was a complete and total jackass to you in school. Before I let a damn curse speak for me.”

The room went still.

And you?

You didn’t say it back.

Not because it wasn’t true. Not because you didn’t want to.

But because you weren’t ready.

The words were there - somewhere beneath your ribs, curled like a secret. But they hadn’t found their shape yet. They hadn’t learned how to stand.

And Fred - as much as it ached - deserved more than almost.

So you looked at him - open, aching, real - and said:

“...I can’t say it right now. Not like this.”

Fred didn’t speak. Just nodded. Once. Slow and sharp, like something cracking.

Then he turned away.

That night, the flat was quiet again.

But this time, it wasn’t full of maybe.

It was full of waiting.

The ancient ritual site felt like it was holding its breath.

A ring of weathered stones stood half-sunken in the frostbitten earth, their surfaces carved with runes long faded by time but not by meaning. The clearing was silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the bare trees - a hush that felt less like absence and more like reverence.

You stood with Fred in the center of the circle, boots crunching softly against brittle grass rimmed with ice. The winter air curled at your sleeves and stung your nose, but the real chill came from the magic itself - thick and waiting, like fog with a heartbeat.

Above, the sky stretched iron-gray, heavy with unshed snow. The clouds did not move. The world did not move. It was as if everything - time, wind, fate - had stilled to bear witness.

You turned to him, wand at your side. He hadn’t spoken since you both Apparated. Just stood beside you, solid and tense, like he was bracing for something he couldn’t name.

“This is the last chance to back out,” you said softly.

Fred shook his head, jaw tight. “I don’t want to be forced anymore. Not even into the truth.”

You searched his face, looking for doubt. All you found was exhaustion - and resolve.

“Even if that means you don’t say it again?” you asked, voice low. “Even if that disappears with the spell?”

A beat passed.

Then: “I’ll say it again,” Fred said, almost in a whisper. “I’ll say it as many times as you can bear. As long as you let me.”

It nearly undid you - the quiet certainty in him. The gentleness. How hard he was trying not to sway you.

You raised your wand.

Your hand trembled as you drew the final rune, its golden light blooming to life beneath your feet. A delicate warmth pulsed outward - soft, not showy. No sparks. No lightning. Just a subtle kind of release, like a breath held for too long finally leaving the body.

Fred gasped - once, sharply - and staggered a step back. Then stilled.

The pressure - that slow, suffocating undertow he’d learned to live with - had vanished.

No more tug beneath his magic.

No more invisible leash between his chest and his tongue.

It was gone.

And what remained was just him.

Unfiltered. Unbound.

Uncertain.

He looked up at you, and something in his face had shifted. Not dramatically - but undeniably. His eyes, usually full of mischief or guarded deflection, were open in a way you hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Luminous.

Like someone standing in the wreckage of something invisible but heavy - and trying to figure out what to do with the air that came rushing in.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Because the spell was broken.

But the moment wasn’t.

You didn’t want to rush it. Didn’t want to shutter the fragile, aching stillness. So you stood there, breathing the same winter air, magic still humming faintly beneath your boots, waiting to see what - if anything - would come next.

Nothing did.

Fred offered a faint, searching smile - one that didn’t ask for anything, only promised.

Then he turned, and you followed him home.

Back at the flat, the silence continued - softer now, but not without weight. You sat on the edge of your bed, coat still buttoned, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.

Fred had gone to his room without a word. Not out of coldness. Just… to give you space. To let the choice be yours now.

And that was what gutted you most.

Because for so long, he had been the one stuck between wanting and not being able to say it. He had been cursed, compelled, uncertain.

Now, he was free.

And you were the one who didn’t know what to say.

You paced the length of your room, again and again, like maybe motion could organize the ache in your chest. Like maybe you’d trip over the answer in your own footsteps.

The curse was gone. You’d done what you came to do. You’d given him back his voice.

So why did it feel like you were the one unraveling?

Because he hadn’t said it again.

Hadn’t kissed you.

Hadn’t needed to.

And still - still - you felt the gravity of him in every breath. Still, your bones ached with the pressure of something half-formed.

The truth?

You wanted to run to his door and say it first.

But you didn’t know how.

The words lived inside you now - no longer curled and waiting like they had been. They were restless. Rising. Trying to find shape in a mouth that wasn’t ready to give them sound.

You pressed a hand to your chest. It felt like mourning something you hadn’t even lost. Like standing at the edge of a choice so big, you couldn’t see where it ended.

Because the spell was broken.

But your heart was still spellbound.

And for the first time in all of this…

The choice - terrifying, impossible, real - was yours.

The snow had stopped sometime after sundown, leaving Diagon Alley blanketed in a hush that felt almost reverent. The night sky stretched out in every direction — wide, open, impossibly clear — the stars above pricking like tiny wounds in navy velvet. Below, the last shops were shuttering, the alley buzzing faintly with the warmth of distant laughter and clinking glass.

But up here, it was quiet. Up here, it was just you and him.

Fred stood near the edge of the rooftop, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his coat, his breath curling into soft clouds that disappeared into the night. He looked different now — not visibly, not in any way you could point to — but something in his posture had changed. It was like he’d dropped something heavy that had been pulling him sideways for months, and now he was learning how to stand up straight again.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to say.

You let the silence stretch.

It was the first time in ages he wasn’t being pulled by magic — wasn’t under its thumb, its push, its pressure. For the first time, everything he felt was real. Every look. Every word. Every breath between us.

And that meant he had to choose now. Really choose.

You stepped closer.

He turned at the sound, his gaze finding yours fast — startled, raw, searching. Like he wasn’t sure what he’d see when he looked at you. Like part of him was still afraid you wouldn’t come.

But you had.

“Hey,” he said, soft.

“Hey.”

You moved to stand beside him, your coat brushing his, your fingers twitching at your sides with nerves you hadn’t expected. The wind had teeth, but you barely felt it.

The weight between you wasn’t a curse anymore. It was something else now. Something human.

“Cold up here,” he said, his voice too casual, too quiet.

You smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d mind. You used to say the cold made you feel alive.”

He huffed a laugh, something wistful and a little hollow. “Yeah. That was before I knew what feeling alive actually felt like.”

You turned to look at him — really look. “How does it feel now?”

Fred hesitated. Then, slowly, he met your eyes.

“Loud,” he said. “Like everything’s louder. Brighter. Sharper.”

“And scary?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. That too.”

You could see it — the flicker of uncertainty. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or masks. There was no spell smoothing the way, no magic buffering the vulnerability. It was just Fred. Scared. Honest. Free.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you said. “I just wanted to be here. To see you. You.”

Fred blinked, jaw tightening. “But I want to say it.”

Your heart skipped.

“I’ve wanted to say it for a while,” he continued. “Even when I wasn’t sure if it was me or the curse talking. And when we broke it, I thought… if it was real, it would still be there. And it is. It is.”

He took a shaky breath. “I love you.”

The words fell out in the quiet like they belonged there. Like they’d been waiting for the right moment to land.

You didn’t answer right away.

You stepped forward, slow and steady, until there was barely space between you. Then you slipped your hands into his coat, fingers wrapping around his — solid, grounding.

“I know,” you said gently. “And I believe you now.”

Fred’s eyes filled. He laughed — a watery, disbelieving thing — and then leaned his forehead against yours.

“No magic,” he whispered.

“No magic,” you echoed.

Just breath and cold and stars. Just you and him and the night around you holding its breath.

And then, you kissed him.

Soft, certain. Real.

It wasn’t a rush or a rescue. It wasn’t a promise or an apology. It was a beginning — honest and slow, stitched together with everything you’d fought for.

Fred kissed you back like he finally had permission to feel — really feel. His hands rose to your waist, your cheek, your jaw, not desperate but careful. Like he didn’t want to forget a single detail.

When you finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, your foreheads stayed pressed together. You could feel him smile, wide and shaky and undone.

“Still cursed,” he said, voice barely there.

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled wider. “Hopelessly. By you.”

You laughed against his lips. “You idiot.”

“You love me anyway,” he said.

You kissed him again.

Not because a spell told you to.

But because you’d fought for this.

And it was yours now.

All of it.

[astrologydray]

Pallas through the degrees

Each degree gives Pallas a specific tone—some degrees make you a warrior strategist, others a silent psychic, a healer, or a visionary. These tell us how your brain sees the world’s patterns… and how you’re built to solve what others can’t.

0° – Bold and raw strategist; you jump into problems instinctively.

You trust your first hit of intuition and usually nail it before others finish processing.

1° – Strong-willed and fiercely independent in thought.

You’re devoted to your own logic and don’t wait for validation.

2° – Steady, grounded thinker; your intelligence moves slow but deep.

You don’t miss anything—especially when money, loyalty, or long-term value is involved.

3° – Mentally flexible and witty; you process everything through language and vibes.

You’re sharp in conversations and catch subtle patterns quickly.

4° – Deeply intuitive; your intelligence is emotionally rooted.

You read people’s moods and hidden needs without them ever saying a word.

5° – Creative problem solver with childlike spark.

Your strategy often involves humor, art, or playful genius.

6° – Precision thinker; you can spot the flaw in a system instantly.

You’re wired for service, health, and smart solutions that actually work.

7° – Balanced, aesthetic thinker; you see symmetry and fairness in everything.

You solve relational issues with clarity and grace.

8° – Intense psychological strategist.

You’re gifted at seeing what’s not being said—and using that to shift the whole dynamic.

9° – Expansive thinker; your wisdom is philosophical or global.

You’re great at connecting patterns across time, cultures, and beliefs.

10° – Structured, executive strategist.

You organize thoughts into blueprints for success—you’re made for leadership.

11° – Abstract thinker with a gift for innovation.

You’re a mental rebel, always scanning for a smarter, freer way forward.

12° – Quiet mystic; you receive patterns through feeling, not logic.

You download wisdom from the subtle or spiritual realm.

13° – Laser-focused and unshakable.

You’re not afraid of chaos—you can find the center and take control.

14° – Clever, adaptable, and always three steps ahead.

You’re a mental shapeshifter who solves problems with a joke or a twist.

15° – Charismatic and radiant thinker.

You shine when you’re expressing your vision creatively or publicly.

16° – Skillful, steady, and rooted in logic.

You’re great at mastering the basics and building smart, sustainable results.

17° – Diplomatic mind; you can charm and out-think at the same time.

You keep things fair but always strategic.

18° – Powerful, intuitive, and emotionally complex.

You work behind the scenes and can dismantle a problem from the inside out.

19° – Bold belief-based thinker.

You fight with facts and fire—and your opinions usually stick.

20° – Wise beyond your years with a CEO brain.

You apply ancient logic to modern goals, and people trust your judgment.

21° – Inventive thinker with a rebellious edge.

You challenge every norm and usually win.

22° – Quiet and fated intelligence.

Your wisdom feels karmic—almost like you’ve been solving the same soul puzzle for lifetimes.

23° – Imaginative strategist with a dreamy edge.

You solve problems through visuals, feelings, or fantasy worlds that make more sense than reality.

24° – Functional brilliance; you create efficiency like it’s art.

Your logic is beautiful, earthy, and helpful.

25° – Dramatic, compelling thinker.

You perform your intelligence and captivate people in the process.

26° – Deep strategist with a love of hidden systems.

You see patterns in power, pain, and transformation—and know how to work with all three.

27° – Visionary problem solver; you teach others how to think bigger.

Your wisdom is bold, clear, and influential.

28° – Structured and legacy-driven wisdom.

You’re here to make real moves with your mind and leave a mark through strategy.

29° – Karmic closure; you’ve been carrying this sacred intelligence across lifetimes.

Your pattern recognition is profound, and your solutions often feel final, fated, or deeply healing.