#yet they still kept the title... for whatever reason

[ravespect0r]

while tsumi to batsu is the first vocaloid song I remember listening to, I feel like what made me truly get into vocal synths wasn't a song but rather a video that had a title like "all 60 utaus" (it might've been more I don't remember that well), which was actually just a niconico reupload of a cover medley that also served as a ranking of the most popular utaus at the time. like I watched a bunch of other utau rankings and medleys after that but THAT specific video was my cocomelon

update: holy shiiit I found the exact medley I was talking about. I completely forgot that the ending was like that. now I get why I rewatched it so many times

[pencil-n-pen]

I WANT AN INNOCENT LOVE

.☘︎ ݁˖

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alexandria! rick grimes x fawn! fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: you’re a new addition to alexandria. Rick’s just looking out for his group. That’s the only reason he finds himself drawn to you. Nothing else.

cw: LEGAL age gap (it is big, i imagine reader in her early 20s) canon typical depictions of violence, Rick is kinda mean to reader at first, Rick kind of struggles with the age gap a little, dom! Rick, slight possessive rick

tags/tropes: shy and skittish reader, she’s not used to dealing with people but she’s not helpless, honestly she’s just a sweet and soft person who became what everyone becomes in the apocalypse, hurt/comfort, insecurity, touch-starved reader a bit, YEARNING, no saviors or whisperers just Rick and everyone living happily in alexandria. Daryl is also here and he’s kind of like ur uncle bc i love daryl and i say so

a/n: i have nothing to say other than this is so insanely self indulgent it’s not even funny. nobody asked for this but writing it has kept me sane while i’m couch ridden. everything is terrible rn but rick grimes <3333

songs i listened to while writing: We'll Never Have Sex by Leith Ross, Work Song by Hozier (Rick's theme song) you were mine by Esha Tewari, Do I Wanna Know- Hozier's Cover, Somethin' Stupid by Nancy & Frank Cinatra, Lover, You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (i'm so not normal about that entire album) Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers, Little Bit by Lykke Li (the original not the remix)

title taken from Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers

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₊ ⊹❀

You were just a little thing when you showed up at the gates.

All wide-eyed and skittish at the tree-line, clothes hanging awkwardly off your frame. Scuffed and dirty, when Rick goes up to the tower to scout you out.

You don’t quite come close enough for anyone to get any kind of information on you. Name, age, where you’ve been, what you’re doing at the gates.

These are all questions Rick, as leader, needs answers to.

If he could just convince you to get close enough.

Under different circumstances, he’d just let you do whatever it is you’re planning on doing, but the lurking is starting to make people uneasy. And he figured he ought to do something to ease their concerns. Easiest way is to either get you inside the walls or find answers to those questions.

You’re real good at staying out of reach, though. And you never stay in one place for long. By the time two weeks have gone by, you’ve made it around the entire length of the walls. Just to end up right where you started: the gates.

It’s just past the crack of dawn- dew is still lingering on the plants and grass and the sun’s rays have yet to actually provide warmth. Rick is up, making his rounds and checking in when one of the guards on rotation lets him know that you’re at the gates. Only time you’ve ever been that close.

So they’re opened, and you amble in— light-footed and unsure. Honestly, you remind him a bit of Daryl with your obvious hesitance to be in the company of other people and clear inclination towards nature. But where Daryl is hard edges and reclusiveness, you’re… softer.

A small group of people —curious onlookers, mostly— forms behind Rick as he saunters towards you, and he watches the moment you see the reality of your decision and begin to regret it.

He comes to a stop a few feet away from you, letting the silence hang in the air for a bit.

He finally takes you in with his own two eyes, without the aid of the binoculars, and he examines. Catalogs the nervous twitch of your hands and scuffs and scrapes he can see on the visible scraps of skin. Eyes the way you worry your lip between your teeth and can’t decide if you’re going to keep staring at him or look away- your mind clearly torn between vigilance and submission.

“You finish your tour of Alexandria?” He asks dryly.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Are you the leader of this safe-zone?”

He nods. “Sure am.”

You begin fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly. The small motion draws his attention back to your hands, where me notices bandaids practically covering the entire surface of your skin. He files the information away in his head for later.

“Are you currently accepting new members?”

He can’t help but crack a smile at your question. The way you phrase it and your nervous demeanor remind him so much of the times before the dead started walking— you look like a college student looking for a job, not somebody trying to find refuge here, after the end of the world.

“Depends,” He rests his hands on his hips, and he notes the way your eyes dart to the gun at his side before back up to him, “You got any skills to offer? You alone? Or do you got a group waitin’ for you?”

Your lip is raw from where you release it from your teeth.

“I’m really good at mending. I’m a proficient hunter. I can hold my own in a fight. And I’m alone.”

At the admittance of your lack of company, you shift back a few steps, a subtle re-distribution of weight.

Ain’t been socialized a whole bunch, Rick thinks to himself. He’s willing to bet you either don’t have a lot of positive experiences with large groups of people or you just plain ain’t been around em’ much.

He hums. “You killed anybody?”

“Walkers or live?”

“Either.”

You shift your shoulders. He’s starting to wonder just how many nervous actions you have.

“I don’t think anybody lives alone who hasn’t killed walkers.”

“And the living?”

You don’t move, but your eyes look to the ground, not at him.

Shame. Fear.

“Twice.”

“How come?”

“They wanted my supplies. Wanted me dead. I decided I didn’t want to die.”

He looks you over again. You really are a cute little thing. He thinks, absentmindedly in the back of his head, that something like you shouldn’t have bloody, bandaid covered hands. Shouldn’t have a kill count.

But he dismisses the thought. The end of the world leaves no room for those unwilling to do what’s necessary.

He dips his head. “We’ll get you settled in,” He jerks his head to the some of the guys behind him. “They’ll get you sorted out. Get along, now.”

You slink past him, distance carefully measured as you go.

Your eyes don’t quite leave him, though. There’s a moment- either you pause or his mind slows. Maybe a bit of both. But the air stills, and your gaze locks on him for the first time since he saw you, nestled in that tree line. The memory is clear and vivid- the sun shining through the trees, dappling you in shades of amber and grey. And then he’s here, and you’re looking up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and the sun has risen just enough that it casts a similar glow, the only difference now he can see up close just how the light catches on your face, just how he knows your features would look so different, so much softer if you were cleaned, if someone minded the cuts and scrapes.

And then you step away, and he snaps out of his reverie. He blinks a few times at your retreating form, shakes his head, and then busy’s himself with other work. There’s always something to be done.

But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get the image of you gazing up at him, bathed in the early morning sun out of his mind.

—

A few days pass, and Rick sees little of you. He’s almost positive it’s on purpose. The few times he does see you, you look scared. And then, generally, you manage to make some sort of fleet-footed escape. The repeated spotting and fleeing reminds him of the time he accompanied Daryl on a hunt and startled a doe.

He can’t quite figure out why you’re afraid of him, though. He remembers being fairly decent to you when you arrived, and tried coaxing you towards the gates politely before you’d shown up on your own.

The sight of your scared expression ends up stuck fast in his head, usually super-imposed over the image of you on that morning at the gates. Two different versions of you, neither making any sort of sense.

He decides that it’s probably best that he stick away, if he scares you. You’ll settle, your ruffled feathers’ll smooth.

And he’ll stop thinking about you.

—

Neither do you settle or does he stop thinking about you.

He watches you from a distance, careful. You just… don’t relax. Ever. You creep away from every possible opportunity to connect with others like it might grow jaws and bite- you shrink back or freeze. Like you think if you play dead, if you don’t move, they’ll leave you alone.

He’s wondering what you hoped to accomplish by seeking refuge in Alexandria if this is how you act. You’re going to have a bad go of things if this is your plan. Or maybe you plain haven’t even thought that far.

He snags Daryl’s arm as he passes by.

“Wha—“

“The new girl,” Is all Rick says, still watching you remarkably avoid everyone who passes you. “She’s real skittish.”

Daryl follows his eyeline, finding you easy enough.

“Mm. She ain’t settlin’?”

“No.”

Daryl just hums again. “Well, she ain’t got nobody, does she?”

“So?”

The hunter shrugs. “Can’t relax. Ain’t got nobody to watch her back, take a watch. She’ll settle. Might take her a bit of time.”

Rick huffs. “She’s afraid of me.”

“No she ain’t,” Daryl snorts, “And since when does Rick Grimes care whether other people like him well enough?”

Rick doesn’t respond, just keeps watching you.

Daryl follows Rick’s gaze, then breathes out a low sigh.

“She is a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

“That is not what this is about.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Sure it’s not.“

“She’s half my age. I could damn well be her father.”

“But ya ain’t.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is the point, Rick?” Daryl sighs again, crossing his arms. “Either do something about it or move on. You got too many people dependin’ on ya for you to be eyeing up flighty young girls.”

Rick rolls his shoulders. “You make me out to be such a creep.”

The other man claps him on the shoulder. “Then stop acting like one.”

He attempts to take Daryl’s advice to heart. It’s an annoying truth that Daryl always knows exactly what Rick needs to hear. Not necessarily what he wants to hear, but what needs to be said.

And he is being creepy. He shakes his head as he walks away. Watching you, thinking about you. He can’t. That’s— you’re too young to be thinking any kind of thing like that.

No matter how there’s this half second, before you look scared, where you almost look relieved. No matter how he wants to personally take care of the bumps and scrapes on your face, wants to take off the bandaids and examine what’s beneath them.

Daryl was right. He needs to focus. Carl, Judith, everyone- they need him.

You’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

—

You’ve gone missing.

Rick has been doing his best to heed Daryl’s advice— he stopped looking for you in the crowds, stopped trying to figure you out, stopped watching you from afar. He even made a fairly decent attempt to stop thinking about you. Not that the effort proves especially fruitful, but he tried, damnit.

All of those efforts go straight out the window when Daryl tells him that no one’s seen you since yesterday.

It takes him two seconds to grab his gun and follow Daryl out the door.

He barely remembers to tell Carl where he’s going, which scares him, because he doesn’t quite understand what’s been so invasive to his mind and day-to-day activities about you. Your eyes, the soft curve of your cheek, how you might feel in his hands.

They cloud his judgment. Make him do stupid reckless things like search Alexandria high and low for any sign of you.

He doesn’t find any. He searches the place you’re staying— nothing. Only sign of life is the unmade bed and bandaid wrappers in the trashcan by the bed.

He sighs deep and low as he stands over your bed. “Think she had enough? High-tailed it?”

Daryl leans against the doorway. “Nah. She likes it here well enough. She ain’t stupid enough to leave a good thing like this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve spoken to her?”

Daryl shrugs. “Few times. She don’t like talkin’ too much, but I think she figures her and I similar.”

“She wrong?”

He scratches his beard. “A little. She fears situations and people the way a prey animal does. S’ why she’s a runner.”

Rick mulls Daryl’s words over as they scan the rest of the place but, of course, find nothing. There are no signs that you, specifically, live here. Nothing personal. Just the unmade bed and the bandaid wrappers in the trashcan.

The pair of them turn the entirety of Alexandria over in a matter of hours. He’s just about to call it quits, either wait for you to come back or send out a search in the morning when Daryl comes back over, telling him you’re at the gates.

As in, outside of them.

Opposite of how things went when you first showed up at the gates, people clear a path as he stalks towards you. They give the pair of you a nice, wide bubble. Even Daryl stays a few feet behind him.

The first thing he notices is that you’re covered in blood. From the way you’re holding yourself, most of it isn’t your own. There’s a backpack slung over your shoulder, but it’s not your usual one.

You won’t meet his eyes.

He stops an arms length away from you. “Where the hell were you?”

You shift backwards, away from him ever so slightly. “Scavenging.”

“Mhm, interestin’,” He says, rubbing his jaw, “Because the last scavenging party was yesterday. And you came back with everybody, so I’ll ask again. Where were you.”

Your eyes flick up from the ground for a moment, eying the people that have gathered to stare. He watches you mentally count them all, then attempt to put more distance between yourself and everybody else. Emphasis on attempt, because the second you take a step back, you stumble, wincing before righting yourself and going right back to scanning the crowd.

He works his jaw, anger and annoyance simmering just under the surface of his skin. He’s not going to get anything out of you here.

He grabs your wrist and turns, set in the direction of the medics.

He drags you along behind him, ignoring the little huffs or sharp intakes of pain when you walk a little too hard or too fast on your bad ankle.

You trip a few times as you go, and when you almost take Rick down with you, he sighs, pausing and turning.

The expression you give him is full of fear. He realizes, in the moment, that you might not remember where the medics are, so as far as you know, he’s angry at you and dragging you to a secluded area.

Guilt strikes him hard and fast, right in his chest.

Damn.

It’s too early to feel guilty about the random girl he allowed into Alexandria. Frightened eyes and shy nature aside.

He shakes his head once. “We’re going to see a doctor. Here, put your arm around me.”

He has to lower himself a little for you to drape your arm across the back of his neck. Your fingertips brush his shoulder, and he can feel the way you’re shaking.

It’s slow going from then on, with Rick acting as your crutches.

“Where were you? And don’t bullshit me.”

“Scavenging.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” You nudge the backpack still strapped to your back. “I was… looking for something. I can’t look for it with the others.”

“What the hell is it that you can’t look for it with the others?”

“A body.”

Your response hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

“…Family or friend?”

“Friend. Haven’t found her yet.”

Something clicks into place in his mental file about you. He feels like he just gained a new piece of the puzzle.

He readjusts your weight over his shoulder, tucking you a little closer and steadfastly pretending he doesn’t hear the little gasp you let out at the contact. Whether it was from pain or surprise, he can’t let himself think about it.

“Don’t go out by yourself. If you need to look, take Daryl with you.”

You sag a bit into him. “Okay.”

He glances down at you from the corner of his eye. You’re… pliant. You’d agreed quickly, and showed absolutely no fight or unwillingness when he, admittedly, manhandled you. You’d followed dutifully behind him and then simply allowed him to position your arms the way he wanted them.

There’s another little parasite that burrows into his brain right there. Right as he’s got you in his grip.

He slows to a stop, a little question forming in his head. He slips the arm that had been wrapped around your waist away, instead curls his fingers across your chin and jaw. He tilts your head up, looks down at your face, searching it for… something.

He meets no resistance. You only stare up at him, doe eyes blinking. He tilts your head to the left, then to right, and still, nothing.

Huh.

He lets go, and you shudder, a full body shiver. And he thinks, in this moment, that he could do whatever he wanted, and you might let him. He could break you, like this.

It’s a very dangerous thing, he decides. Because he doesn’t want to break you. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants to peel back the bandaids and see what’s under them. He wants to scrub the dirt from your face and give you soft clothes —his clothes— not those tattered rags that hang off your body.

You might let him do whatever he wants, but you’re the one who holds this power over him. You’re the one who made him sick— filled his head and clouded his judgement and made him the kind of man he never used to be.

But he can’t say any of that. Can’t even act on it. Not with someone young enough to be his daughter. He has a daughter for Christ’s sake. And a son.

So he just wraps his arm back around your waist and helps you to the medics.

—

“Rick,” Daryl says one afternoon, leaned on the post on the porch, “You’re drivin’ me crazy, here.”

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help with that.”

“The fawn.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The fawn?”

“You know. That nervous little thing you keep pretendin’ you don’t want in your bed.”

“Daryl.”

The man just keeps fiddling with his crossbow. “What?”

“I can’t just— she’s half my age.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I got kids to think about, and—“

“Carl don’t give a shit and Judith is ten. Only thing she’s concerned about is sneakin’ sweets.”

He entertains the notion in his head, thinks about what pursuing you might be like.

Something occurs to him.

“She ever get close to you?”

“No,” Daryl huffs, always knowing exactly what Rick means, “Keeps about an arm’s distance away. No matter what. She’s been inchin’ closer recently, but not by much.”

His hand on your face, moving it this way and that without any resistance at all, your body pliant in his grip—

“Hm,” Is all Rick says, crossing his arms.

“Why fawn?”

Daryl shrugs. “Looks like one. Kinda acts like one, around you.”

“No she doesn’t.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Yes, she does. And based on the way you’ve been actin’, you like it.”

He opens his mouth to refute the point because no, he doesn’t like it, he just constantly thinks about how far he could take it, what you would let him do, if he could make you his.

And then he thinks ‘oh.’ Maybe he does like it.

He drops his hands to his hips. “What exactly am I supposed to do, then?”

“I don’t know. Ain’t my area of expertise.”

“You’re the one who knows her better, said I was drivin’ you crazy.”

“So? I don’t know jack shit about romance, Rick.”

“Well, you keep calling her a fawn. How different can it be?”

Very different, his mind supplies. You know that.

Now it’s Daryl’s turn to sigh. “Don’t overwhelm her. She’s a nervous little thing, but she likes you. Once she figures out you ain’t gonna hurt her, she’ll latch on.”

“That’s specific. You deal with fawns a lot?”

He snorts. “No. I’m fuckin’ guessin’ here.”

The two men fall into silence, Daryl fiddling or cleaning his bow— Rick ain’t paying that much attention to him.

He’s thinking about you. You, you, you. Your eyes and your face and your hands and the figure you carefully keep hidden under layers of clothing, even under the hot Virginia sun.

Fawn, he thinks to himself.

Fitting.

—

He doesn’t make a plan or something stupid like that. He just thinks. And then he decides.

“You’re really coming with us?” Glenn asks, pack slung over his shoulder.

“Yep,” Rick says, holstering his gun, “Goin’ stir crazy in there. Just needa get out for a bit.”

You’re quiet as you get your things in order, but the group doesn’t bat an eye. They’re used to your silence, it seems.

You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him, though. You look away every time you think he’s looking at you, but he’s good at looking at you out of the corner of his eye, so he sees it.

Throughout the run, you hover near him, never quite going out of range of his field of vision. He’s impressed by how quietly and efficiently you work- you spot things even he wouldn’t have. All the while watching for walkers, and of course, subtly eyeing Rick.

Despite being the leader, he heads up the back and watches for stragglers. He didn’t really come out cause he was stir-crazy, anyway.

He came out for you. He wanted to watch you work, wanted to do it with you.

To your credit, you work well with the others. You’re a woman of few words with them, but you help where you can and stay civil. Even if you don’t quite get close to any of them.

Except Rick.

As they’re scavenging an abandoned house, a few walkers shuffle out from the trees. Not enough to be a problem— the group outnumbers them easy. But you’re all busy getting supplies and he’s trying to keep an eye out, so he takes them out, one by one.

It really isn’t a huge thing for him, couple walkers ain’t really a big deal, but you notice.

Your eyes are trained on him, clothes now dirty with blood and gore.

He tilts his head, then makes his way over to you.

“You, um,” You say as he gets closer, voice a little hoarse, “Are you alright?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. It’ll take more than a few walkers to take me out.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He snorts a little laugh. “You ain’t too good at this whole conversation thing, huh?”

You flush, looking away. “Sorry. I’m just not… used to having them.”

You look up at him, earnest. “But I’ve been practicing!”

Oh, lord have mercy over his poor soul. You’ve done a full 180– turned from being afraid of him to very obviously wanting his approval.

“That’s good, that’s good. Who you been practicin’ with?”

“Daryl.”

“Now, that ain’t no good.”

You frown, shifting in place. “It’s not?”

“Well, it’s good that you’re tryin’,” He amends, “But Daryl ain’t good for conversation practicin’. He’s a little too much like you. Much too inclined to just sit in silence.”

“Oh.”

You pause, taking your lip between your teeth and mulling something over in your head.

“Would you, um.” You look up at him, clearly nervous.

And he can’t help himself really, from leaning down into your space a bit, a low “Hmm?” humming from his chest.

Your reaction is instant. This close, he can see the exact moment a flush crawls across your face, to even the tips of your ears.

And he’d suspected, you know, based on your behavior with him. But this— cold hard evidence that he makes you nervous. That you want him on you.

It’s cute. Real cute.

You steel yourself against your own nervousness, and he wants to coo at you.

“Would you practice with me?”

He leans back against the post, slides his hands into his pockets. “Course. Ain’t much to it.”

You smile. It’s small, a quiet sort of thing, but it’s there. He made you smile.

You gesture to the house behind you. “I’m. Gonna go back to scavenging. Um. Thanks.”

You turn on your heel, fleeing back into the house. He watches you go, something settling right into place in his chest.

You stick a little closer to him for the rest of the run.

—

After that day, you begin seeking him out. You don’t approach him right away, preferring to to trail behind him for a little bit before finally making a move.

The move being a quiet: “Hi, Rick.”

Today’s no different, other than it being a little later when you do find him. He’s taking a little stroll around, as is his usual. It… settles him, to see everything alright with his own two eyes.

Settles him even more when he hears the quiet patter of your footsteps behind him.

He chuckles. “Afternoon, darlin’.”

Your foot steps speed up, fall into step somewhat beside him. “Hi, Rick.”

“Hi,” He says, smile tugging at his lips. “How was your day?”

You clasp your hands behind your back as you walk. “Good. Weren’t many walkers on today’s run. I got something for Judith.”

“Oh? Let’s see it, then.”

You take something out of your pocket and hold it out to him.

It’s a pocket knife. One of those multi-tool ones.

And it’s pink.

“I know it’s a cliche, the girls knife being pink, and she is only ten, but I saw it and I thought of her, and—“

“It’s perfect,” He interrupts before you can start spiraling. “She’s gonna love it.”

You deflate almost instantly. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure.”

You walk for a few minutes before remembering the point of you coming up to him.

“Um. How was your day?”

He huffs a little, too fond to be upset. “Fairly decent. Ain’t got too much going on now.”

“That’s… good?”

He shrugs. “Just a little borin’. How’s that ankle of yours?”

This is usually how your conversations go. A few easy, back and forth questions. Easing you into talking to people, keeping conversations going. You’ve slowly gotten more confident. You talk a little longer, voice sounds a little more expressive.

“Fine.” You say, a little too quickly.

He narrows his eyes. “Really? No pain at all?”

It’s the looking away that sells it. You never look at him when you’re lying. Can’t stand to.

“No. It’s fine.”

He kicks his foot out a little, the toe of his boot just barely catching your ankle.

It’s a little more effective than he wanted. You let out a little yelp of pain and stumble forward, ankle almost immediately buckling.

He darts forward, catching you under the stomach with one arm.

You hang there a little, arms dangling.

“Fine, huh?” He hefts you up, so you’re back to standing upright, though now, visibly favoring your ankle. “So what’d the doctor tell you when I dropped you off?”

“Rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”

“And which of those four have you been ignorin’?”

“…”

“Hey,” He says, tapping the side of your jaw with two fingers. “Don’t lie to me.”

“All of them,” You wince, “I just didn’t want to be useless. I can walk on it fine. You haven’t even noticed until now!”

Your voice goes a little high at the end, a little desperate.

He thinks about how animals that are lower on the food rung don’t show pain. A deer will break a leg and keep walking until it drops, till it slows too much and something picks it off.

But you ain’t an animal, and nothing’s gonna pick you off.

“That’s true,” He says, “But that don’t make it right. You’re just prolonging the healing process.”

You look down. “…You were mad. I didn’t want to make you more upset by being useless.”

Ah. So that’s what it’s all about.

His approval, once again.

“I’d rather have you useless for a week than useless forever because you didn’t rest properly,” He ignores the hypocrisy of it, the fact that he’s ignored medical advice more times than he can count.

“I really am fine, mostly,” You say meekly, “It’s stopped hurting when I walk. It’s just a little unstable.”

“I still want you taking it easy for a little, you hear me?”

You nod.

“Nah,” He moves, standing in front of you, more than a little in your personal space, “I wanna hear you say it. Use your words.”

It’s a little test of sorts. To see how you’ll respond. What you’ll say. If you’ll listen.

You swallow, eyelashes fluttering. “I hear you. I understand.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Take it easy.”

“That’s right,” You’ve been nice and obedient, so he figures you deserve a little reward. “Good girl.”

He hears your sharp intake of breath, watches your eyes get a little glassy.

Aw, that’s all you wanted. Just wanted to be someone’s good girl.

His good girl.

He nods towards your place. “Get along, now. Do I have to walk you to your door?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’ll go. I will. Uh— bye.”

He watches you scamper away, gait a little uneven, hands clenched at your sides.

I can get used to this.

—

It becomes a little thing, after that.

When you’re not busy with your own responsibilities, you’re usually with him. Either right beside him, or trailing a few feet behind. Your company is quiet and calm, like waves from a lake lapping gently at the shore.

You also begin to settle in with the rest of the group. You’re still more inclined to be near Rick or, if he’s not available, Daryl, but once you become comfortable talking with people, Maggie and Glenn are quickly added to your slowly growing roster of safe people.

Judith has loved you ever since she found out that you’re the one who gave her the most beloved pink pocket knife, and enjoys babbling and talking your ear off about nothing the way that ten year olds do.

Carl grows to appreciate your presence too, finding solace in the fact that you don’t feel the need to fill silence with conversation.

You still act different when Rick is around, though. Especially when it’s just the two of you.

With everybody else, you’re subtly but very strictly independent- despite growing close with the group, you still maintain a slight distance with most of them, and prefer doing things yourself, by yourself. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

But when you’re alone, just Rick and you, those hard edges soften, and your little personal bubble pops. He’s steadily growing obsessed with the change.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. Having such a cute little thing follow him around, hanging off his words. Most days, it’s all he can do not to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to bed.

And then one day, he does. Kind of.

It must be the middle of the night, but the second he hears the knock at his door, he’s wide awake.

He hushes both Carl and Judith back to bed, then creeps to the front door with his hand on his gun. He has never, in his entire life, been awoken in the middle of the night to good news.

When he opens the door he sees you. And Daryl, but he’s really focused on you. You’ve got tears streaming down your face, you’re wearing a strange combination of sleep clothes and the clothes he’s seen you wear to do runs. Your boots are on, but not tied.

“Wha—“

“Caught her sneaking towards the gates, all shaken up. Figured it’d be wiser to take her here then back to her place.”

Daryl pats your head once. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

Then Daryl’s gone, and you’re standing on Rick’s porch, still crying.

“Alright, come here now.”

He barely manages to get the door closed before you fall into him, face pressed to his chest and hands grasping the front of his shirt.

He hesitates for just a moment before wrapping his arms around you.

“Shh, shh. You’re alright, you’re alright now.”

He presses one hand to the nape of your neck, keeping you tucked close as you crack, just a little bit, nearly silent tears staining his shirt and tremors wracking your body.

Eventually, he guides you over to the couch, situates himself before helping you into a more comfortable position. He wraps your arms around his neck, your legs draped across his lap and the couch.

He keeps one hand pressed to your neck, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.

He presses his cheek to the crown of your head, breathing in deep and slow, a curl of satisfaction rising in his chest when you unconsciously mimic his breathing, silent sobs slowing, tremors fading.

Once you’ve calmed down enough, he speaks.

“What’s got you so worked up, huh? What happened sweetheart?”

The pet name slips out of his mouth unbidden, but honestly, he wouldn’t take it back.

“Nightmare,” You sniffle. “Daryl was gone and it was my fault and you hated me.”

“Well, none of that happened now, did it?”

You shake your head.

“No, that’s right. Daryl’s just fine, and I ain’t upset with you. You’re alright.”

You take in a few shaky, shuddering breaths.

He shifts, readjusting and tucking you closer to him. “Now, how come you didn’t come to me? Daryl said you were headin’ to the gates.”

You go a little rigid. “Didn’t think I was allowed. Didn’t want to wake you up for something stupid.”

“Oh, none of that now,” He nudges you away a little, taking your face in his hands. He needs eye-contact while he says this, “You need something, you come to me. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what time it is. You come to me, you understand?”

You nod, lip wobbling a bit. “I understand.”

He thumbs your cheekbone. “Good. Now come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

In the morning, the kids are a little surprised to see your rumpled form at the kitchen table, but both recover fairly quickly. Judith especially, who rejoices at the prospect of someone other than Carl or her father whom she can hold hostage with inane, ten year old questions.

But you never quite shake that haunted look in your eyes. Like there was something else— something more in that nightmare, something that dug its little claws in and stuck fast.

It’s all he can do but pray it doesn’t last.

—

It becomes an unspoken thing that wherever Rick is, you’re nearby. Kind of like a little puppy, following him about and hoping for a treat.

He indulges you, because he can’t really help himself in the face of those eyes.

He also knows it’s the easiest way to get you to smile, which he’s been trying to bring about more, since the nightmare. You’ve shaken that haunted expression for the most part, but every now and then, it’ll come back, if just for a few moments.

You’ve been absent most of the day today, off on a run, and he wishes it didn’t get under his skin so much to not have his favorite girl right there behind him.

You’re his stress relief, and you don’t even know it. Don’t even do anything really, just kind of linger about with your adorable little face and occasionally help with your cute little hands. He’s hopelessly obsessed.

You’re smiling when you get back, bee-lining straight for him.

“Well, well,” He says, resting his hands on his hips, “What do we have here?”

“I got you something,” You say, practically vibrating with excitement, slinging your backpack off and rifling through it.

“Oh, something for me? Can’t wait to see it.”

You pull an honest to god polaroid camera out of your bag.

“You said once that you wished you had pictures of your kids to carry with you, and I found this, and it still works, and it still has film in it. I checked.”

You thrust it out to him, and he extracts it carefully from your hands, holding it with an almost reverence.

A camera. A working film camera.

You shuffle in place, and he realizes he’s been staring at it in silence for more than a few minutes. “…Do you like it?”

“I love it,” He says honestly, voice just a little scratchy, because he doesn’t understand how someone can survive the zombie apocalypse, and still end up so damn kind, and so damn sweet. “I’m so touched, sweetheart.”

You beam up at him. If you had a tail, you’d be wagging it. He’s never understood cuteness aggression until this very moment. He just can’t. He wants to squeeze you as hard as he can or just punch a wall or some stupid shit.

God, he’s pushing forty, he needs to get this under control.

“I was really excited when I found it. Tara took a picture of me to test it.”

You pull out a little polaroid picture, film developed, and he takes that with reverence too. In the picture, you’re smiling, that same soft, little smile you do when you’re really happy about something and don’t know how to express it. Your hands show two peace signs, a knife clutched in one.

That’s my girl, he thinks.

“Might just have to keep this,” He says, dumb smile on his face.

“Really?”

“Really. You know, it’s good luck to keep a picture of a pretty girl with you.”

“Pretty?” You squeak, flushing. It’s so easy to make you flustered. He loves it.

“Mhm,” He says, tucking the photo into one of the compartments on his belt, keeping it safe. “Real pretty, I’d say.”

“Oh.” You say, more than a little breathless. “Um.”

Oh, your poor little brain.

“You need a minute?” He snorts.

“Maybe?”

He chuckles, patting the top of your head. “Oh, you’ll be fine. Better get used to it.”

“You’re pretty too,” You blurt, then your eyes widen comically. “No, wait, I meant—“

He laughs, a real, actual laugh. “Me, a grown ass man- pretty. That’s a good one.”

You bury your face in your hands, a tiny little whine escaping your throat.

“Aw, come on, now. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m very flattered you think I’m pretty.”

“S’ not what I meant.” You mumble.

“No?” He says, prying your hands off your face. “What’d you mean, then?”

You look away, unable to meet his eyes.

“You’re… handsome.” You whisper the last part, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Aw, what’d I do to deserve a young thing like you thinking an old man like me is handsome?”

You mumble something again, a little too quiet for him to hear.

“…afe.”

He leans down. “What was that, now?”

“You’re safe.”

Oh.

That’s… not the answer he was expecting.

But he likes it.

Rick is a leader. A protector.

And you need him.

“I make you feel safe?” He hums, resisting the urge to step closer to you because you’re very much out in the open and he knows how you feel about wide open spaces, especially when there’s people in them. He’s torturing you enough as it is. “That why you linger around me, huh?”

Feeling bolder at his interest, you nod.

“You make me feel like… something special. Protected.”

Yes.

He’s always known that he needs to be needed. That he’s the kind of man who requires being a leader, taking care of what’s his, protecting.

To have verbal confirmation that he’s made you feel safe, protected, it’s.

Well it’s a lot more than he can unpack in front of the gates.

“Pretty little thing like you needs protectin’.”

You frown.

“Not because you’re incapable,” He amends, hands raised, “But because I rather like doing it.”

You lean closer, and he follows, heat rising—

“Please, save us all the pain of havin’ to watch, Rick.”

He grins, nose brushing yours, then steps back.

“Maybe stop creepin’ around, Daryl.” He calls to the other man, who just shrugs, ambling on by.

But Daryl does have a point. He doesn’t want an audience. You’re not that kind of girl.

Instead, he reaches down, snakes an arm around your waist and leads you away from the open space, towards his house instead.

“Come on, sweetheart. Think you’d rather be somewhere quiet for what I’m about to do.”

The heat radiating from your body and the shiver he feels under his palm is all the confirmation he needs.

His little fawn, finally his.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

[yukkiji]

third time's the charm

you’ve had a quiet but unwavering crush on tsukishima kei throughout high school. from his sharp rejections in first year to the subtle softening of his guarded heart by third year, your persistence slowly breaks through his walls. between harsh words, stolen glances, and small acts of kindness, you both navigate pride, vulnerability, and the slow burn of something real — making you wonder if maybe, just maybe, third time’s the charm.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. tsukishima kei x fem!reader ft. the first year gang (hinata, yachi, yamaguchi, kageyama)

genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, grumpy x sunshine,

wc: 4.4k

author's note: i got bit carried away with this one with the amount of words, since this a bit inspired by me having a crush on the same person during highschool and was always rejected lol thank god he always rejected me though hahahahha

it started with a rejection.

it was not the quiet, apologetic kind. it wasn't even a vague, gentle letdown.

you had barely even finished the words "i like you" before tsukishima kei, obviously unmoved, muttered a flat, "no thanks. i'm not interested."

you blinked at him under the afternoon sun, heard thudding in your ears, too stunned to process the way he turned and walked away. no sugarcoating. it was just typical tsukishima. just cold, brutal honesty.

and yet—somehow—you didn't give up.

you first met tsukishima kei through yachi hitoka.

you were from a different class, but the two of you had been friends for a while—neighbors in the same apartment building, often walking home together or sharing snacks after school.

one afternoon, yachi had roped you into helping her carry boxes of water and first aid supplies to the gym. she had just been recruited as karasuno’s new volleyball manager and was still fumbling her way through the responsibilities.

you didn’t have any real reason to say yes—you weren’t particularly into volleyball, and you weren’t especially interested in sports. but you owed yachi a favor, and her pleading eyes were hard to resist.

that’s when you saw him.

tall, aloof, and sharp-tongued, tsukishima wasn't exactly what you'd call approachable. but something about him fascinated you. maybe it was the quiet fire behind his eyes, or how he seemed to carry the weight of ambition without ever admitting he cared.

you didn't know what possessed you to like him.

maybe it was the way his eyes narrowed in concentration or how he always looked vaguely annoyed with the world, yet never missed a block. maybe it was how he ignored the chaos around him, but occasionally paused to push his glasses up in a way that made your chest flutter.

whatever it was, it rooted itself in your chest.

you started showing up to their practices more often, usually using yachi as an excuse. “just helping her out,” you’d say, even though at this point, everyone knew better. you never minded being there, quick to lend a hand with anything yachi needed—water bottles, towels, stats, errands. you blended in so easily that before long, you became the team’s unofficial third manager.

kiyoko even offered you the position formally once, but you gently turned it down with a smile. helping out was enough. you didn’t need a title.

you started small—an energy drink with a bright post-it that said “good luck!” (delivered by yachi, of course). then a neatly wrapped onigiri for one of their practice matches. a chocolate bar with a tiny sticker that simply read “for #11.”

yachi always handed them off with a knowing grin, and though tsukishima never said much, you noticed he never refused them either.

a few weeks later you confessed.

he didn't even blink. "no thanks, i'm not interested"

it stung.

you should've stop.

but you didn't.

"it's okay!" you smiled. "i'll still cheer for you."

tsukishima scoffs, before walking away.

you kept your promise. when it was the final match of the miyagi prefectural spring qualifiers against shiratorizawa, you were there—cheering him on from the stands, sitting beside yachi, nerves buzzing through your fingertips.

tsukishima glanced your way from time to time. every time he did, he'd scoff and look away like he hadn't been caught. like the flush at the tips of his ears didn’t give him away.

“tsukki’s blocks are on point today,” yachi said, eyes wide in awe.

“i’ve noticed that too,” you murmured, leaning forward in your seat. “maybe it’s because this is the finals. if they win, they’re going to tokyo.”

“or maybe it’s because you’re here,” she added, nudging your side.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

before you could respond, the whistle blew—sharp and sudden. your gaze snapped to the court just in time to see kiyoko hurrying over, and tsukishima walking off, cradling his hand. from where you sat, you could just barely make out the smear of blood trickling down his pinky.

your stomach sank.

“he’s okay,” yachi said quickly, catching your expression. “probably just a jam. he’s had worse.”

you nodded slowly, though the worry didn’t ease. you weren’t their manager, and you couldn’t exactly follow him to the infirmary. all you could do was wait.

a few minutes later, he was back on the court—bandages wrapped neatly around his hand. he didn’t look at you this time, but you let out a quiet sigh of relief.

they won.

karasuno won.

the gym erupted in cheers and celebration. you followed yachi down from the stands to meet the team. the air was thick with sweat and adrenaline and the sweet buzz of victory.

amid the noise, you caught sight of tsukishima, slipping away toward the changing rooms. the bandage around his hand had started to unravel, the makeshift tape peeling from the corners.

“wait, kei,” you called softly.

he paused mid-step, turning with that familiar tired glance. you held up a small first-aid kit you’d snagged from yachi’s stash.

“let me help,” you said, voice low. “your pinky—it’s not taped properly.”

he hesitated, clearly reluctant. then, with a resigned sigh, he muttered, “fine. just be quick.”

you sat with him just outside the infirmary, the sounds of celebration still echoing faintly behind you. gently, you took his hand, cleaning the scrape with practiced ease.

“you’re not a medic,” he mumbled, eyes narrowed as he watched your hands.

“no,” you said, focusing on the wrap, “but i’ve had practice with sprains. and you’re not exactly gentle with yourself.”

he scoffed under his breath but didn’t pull away.

you worked in silence for a moment, your fingers brushing against his in quiet concentration.

“you didn’t have to do this,” he said after a beat.

“i wanted to,” you replied, eyes lifting to meet his. “you were amazing tonight.”

he looked at you—really looked at you—and for a second, something passed between you. unspoken. uncertain. not ready to be said out loud.

you tied the final bit of tape and gave his hand a soft pat. “there. try not to break more fingers next time, yeah?”

he clicked his tongue, eyes flicking away. “you’re annoying.”

you stood with a light laugh, brushing your hands on your skirt. “yeah. but i show up.”

you turned to leave, walking back into the noise and warmth of celebration, hoping he felt the meaning behind those words.

because you always had.

and when you didn’t go to see them off when they left for tokyo for nationals. and you couldn’t watch in person either—there was just no way you could skip your classes.

yachi, currently standing at your apartment door with her usual concerned pout, was pleading for you to come with them.

"please? just this once?"

you sighed. "i really can’t skip, yacchan. i’ll get in trouble if i do.”

she muttered under her breath, “tsukki’s gonna be in a foul mood if you don’t come.”

"what?"

"nothing," she said quickly, avoiding your eyes and pouting harder.

you handed her a small omamori and smiled. “give this to kei. tell him good luck.”

yachi gave you a look—half teasing, half fond—before carefully tucking the charm into her bag. “don’t you ever want to give up?”

you shook your head, firm. “nope.”

“well, who am i to stop you anyway.”

she delivered your apology and your good lucks to the team like she promised. and when she handed the charm to tsukishima, she couldn’t help but grin at him, smug and knowing, before walking off to join kiyoko.

back at practice in tokyo, hinata pouted, “it’s weird not having her around, isn’t it?”

yamaguchi grinned. “tsukki’s been extra grumpy. coincidence?”

“i am not,” tsukishima snapped, shooting them a glare.

yachi giggled nervously. “you do seem… quieter than usual.”

he shoved his glasses up. “don’t be ridiculous.”

but he didn’t deny it.

when second year rolled around, your feelings didn’t fade. if anything, they deepened. you still showed up to every game and practice matches and even made special chocolate for valentine's (you also made for the rest of the team since you've gotten close to them at this point). sometimes, even protein bars or sports drink after practice which is of course, delivered by yachi.

your persistence has become a running joke among the team.

yamaguchi once asked you with a laugh, "are you planning on confessing again today, or are you giving him a snack break first?"

you just grinned. "depends on his mood."

but underneath the teasing was a fondness—a recognition of how constant you were.

"he pretends he doesn’t care," yachi whispered during lunch, poking at her food, "but i saw him keep the wrapper from the chocolate you gave him."

you paused. "really?"

she nodded quickly. "he doesn’t throw your stuff out anymore. i think that’s progress."

you had no illusions. tsukishima wasn’t the type to fall headfirst into anything, let alone a high school crush. he was cold, calculating, and painfully aware of how others perceived him. but still, you kept showing up. and something began to shift.

you noticed it in little things.

he’d stop walking away so quickly when you talked to him.

he’d take the snacks directly from your hand instead of through yachi.

he’d grumble, "tch, unnecessary," but still pocket the sweets.

and when a third-year on the basketball team tried to flirt with you behind the gym one day, tsukishima appeared like a shadow.

"she’s busy," he said, stepping in just slightly in front of you.

"didn’t think you cared, tsukishima."

"i don’t. but she has bad taste, so someone has to keep her alive."

you were too stunned to respond.

but later that day, you gave him a lemon soda. he didn’t say thank you, but he drank it in front of you this time.

there was a time when you were helping yamaguchi and yachi pin up the last batch of sponsorship posters for the upcoming spring tournament when he said something that lingered longer than it should’ve.

“he gets grumpy when you’re not at games,” yamaguchi said casually, smoothing the corner of a poster against the wall.

you paused mid-staple. “what?”

he glanced at you, lips tugging into a grin that was far too knowing. “he’ll never say it out loud, but if you’re not there cheering, he’s just… off. his blocks aren’t as sharp. he gets snappy. i think he’s gotten used to having you around.”

you looked away, biting back a smile. the flutter in your chest was immediate—warm and foolish.

but then you remembered the way kei always scoffed when you stood too close. the way he rolled his eyes when yachi teased him. the way he’d say “you’re annoying” like it was a reflex.

you knew better than to read too much into it.

still—you showed up.

you always did.

your second confession came during the school festival.

the night air was cool against your skin, carrying the faint scent of grilled food and melted candy. the laughter and chatter of your classmates echoed in the distance, muffled by the steady beat of your heart as you walked toward the back of the school building.

fireworks lit up the sky above, loud and brilliant—explosions of crimson, blue, and gold that danced across the clouds and cast flickering shadows against the rooftop. the world felt briefly suspended in light.

and there he was.

tsukishima kei stood near the railing, just out of view from the main festivities, bathed in the soft glow of firework shimmer. his arms were loosely crossed, posture relaxed but solitary, as if the weight of the night pressed too closely in crowded spaces.

you hesitated at first, your fingers tightening around the hem of your sleeves. but you took a step forward anyway.

“kei.” you called out, gently.

he didn’t look surprised.

his eyes flicked toward you, half-lidded, unbothered. the familiar indifference was there in the slight tilt of his chin, the unimpressed slant of his brow.

“let me guess,” he drawled, his voice a little more subdued than usual, “another confession?”

you smiled, small. not embarrassed, not hopeful. just honest.

“yeah.”

a beat of silence followed. he didn’t scoff this time. didn’t shake his head or turn away. he just… looked up. toward the sky. toward the bursts of light painting the clouds.

“you’re wasting your time,” he said at last, tone flat, like he was stating a fact more than trying to hurt you.

you nodded slowly, the corners of your lips dipping in acceptance. “probably. but i still like you.”

another silence stretched between you. but it wasn’t heavy.

it felt like the space after a long breath. like neither of you needed to say anything else to fill it.

kei didn’t walk away this time.

he stayed there, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes on the horizon as the last few fireworks painted gold into his blond hair and soft shadows under his eyes.

he didn’t say thank you. or i’m sorry. or don’t.

but he didn’t push you away either.

his shoulders had relaxed slightly. the usual edge in his stance—the one that screamed don’t get close—had dulled. and though he didn’t look at you, he didn’t seem to mind your presence.

so you stood beside him, close enough to hear the way his breath caught with each firework burst.

the world was quiet in that little space you shared. no declarations. no grand romantic gestures. just the sound of distant music, the echo of fireworks, and the stubborn truth you carried in your chest.

you took his silence as progress.

because sometimes staying said more than any rejection ever could.

by the third year, something between you had changed.

you weren’t just a background character in his day anymore. you were there—persistent, present, and impossible to ignore.

you weren’t loud about it. never demanding, never clingy. but your presence threaded itself into his routine like a habit he didn’t remember forming.

you learned the rhythms of his life: when he had exams and needed space to study, when his knees hurt after long practices and he walked with just the slightest wince. you started carrying an extra pain patch in your bag without saying why. you knew when he wanted silence—those days when the weight of everything made him sharper-tongued than usual—and when he needed a distraction, even if he never asked for one.

he learned things, too. things you hadn’t meant for him to notice.

that you liked melon bread more than any other snack, even though you pretended not to be picky. that you always hummed softly under your breath when you were nervous—little melodies that stopped just short of forming actual songs. that your smile was always a little brighter, a little fuller, whenever you handed him something: a drink, a small note, chocolates during valentine’s—even when you knew he wouldn’t react the way you hoped.

he caught himself watching you more often than he liked to admit.

once, during a water break at practice, you were talking to yachi near the gym doors. your laughter filtered in easily, soft and light. tsukishima glanced your way—just a glance—and lingered too long.

yamaguchi caught him.

“you like her, don’t you?” tadashi asked later, a little too casually.

“shut up,” kei muttered, not looking up from the sports drink he was pretending to be way too interested in.

tadashi grinned. “you literally growled at that guy from nekoma for asking her where she bought her jacket.”

“he was being weird.”

“jealousy looks weird on you, kei.”

“i will end you.”

but even that was different. because he didn’t deny it.

and maybe that meant something.

still, it wasn’t all teasing and harmless glances. there were moments where something heavier settled between you—where kei seemed at war with himself, tugged between pride and something softer he didn’t quite know how to carry.

after a tough loss at an practice match—one that hit harder because it was close—he sat outside the gym alone. the sky was already going gray, the air damp with oncoming rain. everyone else had filed into the bus, too tired to say much.

you didn’t ask for permission. you just stepped off the bus, walked quietly over, and sat beside him.

you didn’t say anything. just handed him a canned coffee—his favorite kind, the bitter one you personally thought tasted like disappointment—and let the silence breathe.

ten minutes passed. long and quiet and a little raw.

finally, he spoke.

“you don’t have to keep trying.”

his voice was low. tired. defeated in a way you rarely saw from him.

“i’m not worth it.”

you turned to look at him, blinking slowly, your heart pulling tight.

“you don’t get to decide what’s worth it for me.”

his shoulders tensed, jaw clenching briefly. he didn’t look at you. but he didn’t move away either.

he didn’t say anything after that.

you stayed until he finished the coffee.

then nationals came around. when you heard karasuno had advanced to the semi-finals and made it back to center court, you were determined to be there. you were ready to pull some strings if you had to—but luckily, the vice principal was kind enough to approve a school trip for students to support the volleyball team in tokyo.

the nationals were everything.

for karasuno, it was the culmination of years of growth, grit, and stubborn perseverance. for you, it was watching him—the boy who once scoffed at your feelings—rise higher than anyone expected, one perfectly timed block at a time.

you cheered until your throat was raw. you clutched your chest with every rally. and when they secured third place, you stood in the stands, tears in your eyes and pride blooming so fiercely in your chest it almost hurt.

you were proud of all of them—of kageyama’s precision, of hinata’s impossible speed, of yamaguchi’s quiet bravery—but mostly, you were proud of him.

tsukishima kei.

he had changed. not loudly, not in some grand sweeping arc. but little by little, he had let himself care. you saw it in the way he threw himself into every play, in the way he smirked after a well-timed block, in the way he started calling his teammates by name.

but still, you didn’t confess that day. not yet.

because this time, you needed it to be real. not a question, not a whim, not a gamble.

late that night, when the stadium had emptied and the streets had quieted, you found him.

the gym was dim and nearly silent, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights and the distant clatter of janitorial carts somewhere down the hall. he stood near center court, his jersey still clinging to him with sweat and exhaustion. his head was tilted back, eyes tracing the ceiling as though he were still replaying the match in his mind.

you stopped in the doorway, watching him quietly for a moment.

“karasuno did amazing,” you whispered, the words reverent. like praise. like prayer.

he didn’t look at you, but his voice came low. “could’ve done better.”

you stepped closer, your footsteps echoing softly on the polished gym floor. “tsukki…”

he turned, eyes meeting yours finally.

“…this is the last time.”

his brows drew together, faintly. he said nothing, but you could feel the tension in the air tighten, like the pause before a serve.

“i like you,” you said, voice shaking but certain. “i’ve liked you for three years. but this is the last time i’ll say it. if you reject me now, i’ll stop.”

the silence stretched, taut as a string pulled too tight.

then he sighed. looked away.

“you’re so stupid,” he muttered, the words quiet but harsh. “wasting your time on someone like me.”

you bit your lip, but still smiled through the sting. “probably.”

something shifted. his shoulders, usually squared and defensive, lowered a fraction. and then—he stepped closer.

“you never left,” he said, softer now. “even when i was an ass. even when i pretended not to care.”

your breath caught. he wasn’t looking at you directly, but his hands were fidgeting at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“i noticed,” he admitted. “everything. the snacks. the cheering. the stupid little notes you kept sneaking into my locker. i noticed all of it.”

his voice cracked slightly, like the admission cost him something.

“i just… i didn’t know how to deal with someone who actually gave a damn.”

you didn’t move. you didn’t speak.

then his hand lifted—hesitant, trembling just barely—and his fingers brushed against your cheek. awkward. gentle. like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face.

“i don’t want you to stop,” he whispered.

you let out a shaky laugh, relief bubbling up in your chest like the end of a long, aching winter. “took you long enough.”

and finally—finally—he leaned in.

you met him halfway.

the kiss wasn’t perfect. it was hesitant and slightly off-center, and you could feel the tremor in his fingers where they now cupped your jaw. but it was soft and real and so full of everything unsaid over three long years. years of cold shoulders, soft glances, unnoticed favors, and a hundred quiet hopes.

when you pulled away, breath mingling, your forehead rested against his, and for a moment, everything was still.

and then—

“tsukki kissed her!!”

hinata’s voice echoed across the gym like a fire alarm.

you both froze.

tsukishima turned slowly, murder in his eyes.

yachi stumbled into view, wide-eyed with panic. “we weren’t spying!”

“you were literally hiding behind the curtain,” you deadpanned, not even bothering to sound surprised.

“i tried to stop them!” yachi insisted, flapping her arms like a terrified bird. “they dragged me into it!”

yamaguchi emerged next, dragging a snickering hinata by the collar while kageyama followed, red-faced and visibly trying not to make eye contact.

“i swear to god,” tsukishima muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “i will kill all of you.”

“totally worth it,” hinata whispered loudly to yamaguchi, who was grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

“told you she’d get you eventually,” yamaguchi added, clearly far too smug for his own good.

you glanced at tsukishima. he was glaring, his cheeks faintly pink, jaw clenched like he was weighing the pros and cons of turning around and walking into traffic.

but his hand was still resting lightly against your back.

so maybe, you thought, as you looked at him—just maybe—he didn’t mind being caught after all.

graduation day arrived too soon.

the campus buzzed with a bittersweet energy—laughter ringing out over caps and gowns, tearful hugs exchanged in hallways, and the steady click of camera shutters capturing fleeting moments. you held your diploma in one hand and your future in the other, but your eyes searched for him.

and there he was.

standing beneath the arching cherry blossoms, hands in his pockets, tassel swinging lazily from his cap. the same spot where you’d confessed to him just a year ago. the same courtyard where everything had changed.

you walked over, heels crunching lightly on fallen petals, nerves fluttering even now—because even after everything, this still felt surreal.

"still not tired of me?" you asked, voice light, teasing—just enough to cover the emotion behind it.

tsukishima glanced your way, and for a moment, the world hushed.

he rolled his eyes, but the edge that used to come with it was gone—softened into something warm, familiar. he was smiling now. that small, rare smile he saved just for you.

"not even close," he murmured.

and then he leaned in, fingers brushing your jaw with quiet certainty, and kissed you. there was no hesitation this time. no guarded edges. just the press of his lips against yours, firm and steady and full of promise.

because you waited.

because you stayed.

because you never gave up on him—not even when he pushed you away, not even when he said nothing at all.

and against all odds, tsukishima kei had fallen in love.

with you.

and in that moment, with cherry blossoms drifting like confetti around you, you knew:

it had been worth every awkward silence.

every rejection.

every year of trying.

because this—this—was everything.

bonus scene.

years passed.

the sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood floors was replaced with roaring crowds, giant jumbotrons, and professional-level pressure. but some things hadn’t changed.

you still sat in the stands, heart in your throat, cheering louder than anyone else. you still kept your eyes on him—watching every block, every play, every subtle tilt of his head. the arenas were bigger now, the spotlight brighter. but to you, he was still kei. still the boy who used to hide behind sarcasm and side comments. still the boy who kissed you under cherry blossoms.

that night, his team had clawed their way to victory in a five-set thriller. the final point had the crowd erupting. you stood in the stands, clapping until your hands stung, pride burning in your chest like a second heartbeat.

afterward, you made your way to the side entrance—where the press couldn’t follow. you waited behind the barricades, bundled in your coat as the late winter air nipped at your cheeks. the cold settled in your bones, but you didn’t mind.

you always waited.

eventually, he appeared. his warm-up jacket was unzipped halfway, hair still damp from a quick rinse, duffel bag slung casually over his shoulder. he looked tired—but content. the kind of tired that came from giving everything he had.

his eyes scanned the crowd, ignoring reporters and staff—until they landed on you.

and softened.

"you always wait," he said, stepping closer until he stood on the other side of the gate.

"and you always win," you replied, smiling despite the chill.

he chuckled—low, breathy. real. he stepped past the barrier with ease, his hand catching yours before pulling you into his arms. his embrace was firm, grounding, like coming home.

his chin rested atop your head, and for a while, neither of you said anything. just the quiet thrum of distant cheers and the beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

then, softly, almost like a secret:

“remember when you said you’d stop confessing if i rejected you again?”

you smiled into his chest. “yeah. i meant it, too.”

a beat of silence. then he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his gaze steady.

“i’m glad i didn’t.”

and then he kissed you—without restraint, without fear. it was deeper now. certain. the kind of kiss that didn’t ask questions anymore—it just knew.

you kissed him back with every piece of your heart.

because time had passed, but love had only deepened.

because he had chosen you—again and again and again.

and somewhere deep in your soul, you understood:

this was still only the beginning.

[evilmenenjoyer]

City of Love

Pairing: The Salesman x fem!Reader

Summary: Months after winning the Squid Games, you receive an unwanted visit from the man who's been haunting you since the very beginning.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), drinking, sex in a public place, some murderous thoughts. Don't be fooled by the title, it's very much not a fluffy romantic fic lol.

*

The City of Love.

At least, that's what everyone calls it. It felt like the place to be after all the horrors you had endured in the past year – horrors you don't dare to say a word about to another soul. Friends and acquaintances have told you about how great it is, how beautiful, how magical. About how just a few days here will heal any woes in your heart.

Of course, it didn't work. Now you're just depressed in Paris.

It's not all bad. The Eiffel tower looks just as pretty as it does in pictures, especially late at night when it lights up and sparkles. The historic architecture and cobblestone streets are a nice break from the modern buildings you're used to from Seoul, so different it almost erases the memories sometimes. Never for too long. Just when you think you're slipping back into something resembling normalcy, they return in your nightmares in the shape of blood, pink jumpsuits and children’s games.

This afternoon, it takes the shape of a ghost – a tall, handsome man, whose face you’ve only ever seen in dreams and in the subway lines of Seoul.

All color drains from your face in a matter of seconds, all that pink winter flush.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiles, like you're an old friend. It nearly throws you off your balance by how natural it looks, like he's not forcing it.

“Beautiful city, isn't it? Especially at this time of the year.”

This can't be happening. The whole reason you left South Korea was to put distance between yourself and those horrific games, and all the people associated with them. To just run into one right here, in a different continent, mere months after your victory; it makes you feel like you're about to pass out.

You stand up from your seat and walk right out of the patisserie, leaving your ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate nearly untouched on the table.

You knew, somehow, that he would follow you, but you still prayed he wouldn’t. That it had been your imagination, or the PTSD, or anything other than the Salesman himself crossing paths with you in Paris.

“I expected a warmer welcome,” a voice behind you says, making you pause your stroll down the street. Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately – you still haven’t completely lost track of what's real and what's not, and you can tell that voice is real, clear as day. He’s real and here and that terrifies you to your very core.

Turning around to face him, you hate how he still looks every bit as infuriatingly handsome as he did the first time you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, your voice shaky and not nearly as incisive ad you’d like it to be.

“Visiting,” he replies. He turns to gaze at the scenery around you. In your hurry to get away from him, you didn't even realize you ended up at the Pont Neuf, the old bridge crossing the Seine River. Dusk settles around the two of you, the purple-ish color of the sky reflected on the river, almost too pretty for this situation. “Like I said, France is quite nice during the winter.”

You scoff. “You expect me to believe it's just a big coincidence that you and I ended up in the same place, five thousand miles away from home, at the same time?”

“Small world, isn't it?”

“I’m serious. I did everything you people wanted. I beat the games, I took the money and I kept my mouth shut. You were supposed to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Did what we wanted?” Something in his smile changes, shifts from warmth to something more sinister. “We never forced you to do anything. Remember that. You brought whatever happened on yourself.”

Cold air rushes over you, drawing a shiver out of you. It's not snowing yet, but it start might soon. It's hard to remember you were once excited for it.

He reaches out, ignoring the warnings in your eyes as he runs a finger over the smooth fabric of your scarf, then wraps it around your neck one more time. It’s almost a tender gesture, if he was someone else entirely. It should have you flinching, or slapping his hand away. Instead, it only makes you freeze in your spot.

“Yves Saint Laurent,” he notes. “I see you’ve been making good use of that money.”

It doesn't sound accusatory, but it feels like it anyway. Even after months, it still feels wrong to use the money, despite all the literal blood, sweat and tears it took to get it. Like you should be gathering it all in a pile and setting fire to it in protest. But what would that change? Why shouldn't you be allowed to use it to build a new life for yourself?

So you stayed in five star hotels. So you bought a few more pairs of Louboutin shoes than necessary. Therapy was out of the question, so this was the next best thing you could come up with for the time being. Best-case scenario, a therapist would think you're a nutcase. Worst case, they’d turn you in to the authorities for confessing to multiple murders you had committed at the Squid Games. You didn’t want to take the risk.

“I thought that was the idea,” you say. The Salesman’s hands are still on the fabric, merely touching it, but that doesn't stop your mind from picturing him gripping it, pulling on it until you suffocate in the garment you bought as some empty, mediocre sign of victory.

“It suits you.” He lets his hands fall with no damage to your throat or to your respiratory system. “Much better than those knock-offs you used to wear.”

It disturbs you that he even remembers that. As far as you know, you were only one of the hundreds of people who had played ddakji with him at the subway station. You remembered every second of it, replayed it in your mind over and over again, but there was nothing particularly memorable about you back then. You lost most rounds. You hoped against hope that he would ask you out, even after your cheek was red and stinging.

That was a different version of you. One that smiled more, even with all the hardships in your life. One that was too naive to realize she was selling her soul to the devil from that very first game of ddakji.

“Since the city brought us together,” the Salesman says, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

It would be impossible to keep the surprise from your face if you’d tried. Those are words you would've loved to hear all those months ago, and now that he says them, you can barely draw enough air into your lungs to tell him to fuck off.

“Why? So you can kill me the second we’re off the street?”

He chuckles, like he finds your confusion amusing. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn't that why you're here?” Why else would it be, after all? Maybe it's part of their sick games; to give one person the illusion of victory, let them enjoy the money for a few months, then go after them and kill them. Or worse, pull them back in.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could do it anywhere.”

You suppose there's no arguing with that, but you're not sure if it makes you feel better. Good news: you're still breathing. Bad news: you're still breathing only until he allows you to.

“You still didn't tell me why you came after me, then,” you point out.

“Let's have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

You must be insane for even considering this. The naive girl that had first seen him in the subway, coming home late at night from work, would be enthusiastically urging you to go. You’re supposed to know better than her.

“One drink,” you say. “Then you go home and never contact me again.”

His smile widens. “I know a nice place.”

*

He brings you to a piano bar just a few blocks away from the bridge. It's a fancy place, the kind that makes you feel underdressed even in your designer clothes. He blends right in – not only because of the sleek, tailored suit, but because of his demeanor, the natural elegance with which he carries himself.

Not for the first time, you wonder if he was born into wealth, or if he was ever like you. Someone who had to claw his way out of poverty. You can't picture it, but there's so much you don't know about him. It's what makes him so scary and confusing to you, but also so damn intriguing.

He orders for you before you have the chance to open your mouth. Dom Pérignon, two glasses. You raise your eyebrows once the waiter walks away.

“Are we celebrating something?”

“Your victory.”

The response makes your stomach drop. “I don't want to celebrate that.” Not with anyone, but especially not with him.

He gives a small shrug. “Just a special occasion, then.”

The dimmed, warm lights of the bar make the place feel so intimate, almost romantic in a sense. You don't know what to make of it, so you force yourself to look away from him, even when you can still feel his stare unflinching on you. Luckily, the waiter shows up just in time, pouring you both glasses of the bubbly drink and leaving the bottle in a bucket on the table.

You turn back to the Salesman, glaring at him. “I said one drink, not one bottle.”

“You never specified,” he replies, fake innocence in his eyes. “Gives us more time to catch up. Maybe even play a game, for old time’s sake.”

The mere mention of a game makes you want to run away, to lock yourself in the restroom and refuse to come out. It has to be intentional; he has to know what kinds of things would be running through your head, after everything you’d gone through. You take a long gulp of the champagne, nearly done with the entire glass in one go. You can't let him get to you like this. You do your best to look unbothered.

“Do you walk around with ddakji tiles everywhere?” you ask. “Just in case you find someone who wants to play?”

That earns a soft laugh out of him. “No, not ddakji.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a standard deck of cards.

“Have you ever played blackjack?”

You have, but hesitation is written all over your features. “What if I don't want to play?”

“Do you think I’d force you?” he asks, like you're a fool for even thinking so. “Like I said, you were never forced to do anything. It's your choice.” He sips his own champagne in a much classier, more contained way than you. Like he's happy to draw this out for hours, rather than wanting this night to be over as soon as possible. “But you’ve beaten much harder games before. This should be nothing for our big victor, right?”

There's a challenge in his voice, in his eyes. You should know better than to fall for it. So why is there a part of you that still feels like you have a point to prove? That feels like, with a little bit of luck and skill, you can finally beat this man at his own game?

“Fine.” You cross your arms over the table. “Let’s do this.”

Pleased with your answer, he shuffles the cards in his hands. You watch him, almost as mesmerized as you’d been watching him play ddakji at the subway station. It's so hard not to get lost in it, but you refuse to look away in shyness and hesitation again, keeping your eyes on him as you sip the rest of the champagne in your glass.

He refills it before placing four cards on the table: two facing upwards for you, one face-down and one face-up for himself, the dealer.

The rules are simple: your cards all together need to get as close to 21 without going over. Whichever one of you gets the closest wins the round. You have a nine and a four, totaling thirteen. The Salesman has a five, and a card that's invisible for you. 

“Hit me,” you say, figuring your odds can't be too bad.

He places one more card to your pile: a seven. Twenty in total. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, already triumphant even before the end.

He reveals all his cards to you: the five you’ve already seen, a nine, and a three. Seventeen. Your smile widens, relief washing over you like you’d just escaped a near-death experience. You don't think beating a game, no matter the kind, will ever not feel like this again.

“Not bad,” he compliments. He reaches into another pocket for his wallet, drawing a hundred euro note and pushing it towards you on the table.

You just stare at it with an eyebrow raised, baffled and, frankly, a bit offended. With the tip of your index finger, you push the bill back to him.

“Do you really think I still need your money?”

“It's just symbolic,” he argues, but still tucks the money back into his wallet. “Of course, we can bet on other things too, if you’d prefer.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever you want. You won.”

“Whatever I want?” A grin stretches across your lips as you lean forward on the table. “Like a dare?”

He leans forward as well, like he wants to meet you in the middle. His eyes never leave yours. “Like a dare.”

You wonder just how far he’d take this game, if he would do something outrageous or serious just because you told him to. Maybe not. But even this is the kind of power that you never, ever imagined you would have over this man.

“Okay. Let me see your wallet.”

He hands it over without a fight. You rummage through all of it, ignoring all the cash and instead looking for something else, anything personal. But there's nothing. No family photos, no old receipts, not even a condom tucked inside one of the pockets. At last you find his ID license, the name Park Ha-Joon listed beside a smiling picture of him that looks so normal you almost want to laugh.

“It's not your real name, is it?”

He smiles. “Smart girl.”

“It was worth a shot.” You close the wallet and hand it back to him.

He shuffles the cards, hands them over again. Seven and six. You tap the cards in a sign for him to hit you with one more.

“Do you really want to know why I came to see you?”

Your eyes snap in his direction, not even looking at the new card that’s placed in front of you. 

“I thought you’d be one of the first to die in a place like that.” He looks focused on the game as he talks, “When I found out you were the winner, I wanted to see it for myself.”

Your throat tightens, making it hard to draw in my next breath. You look around yourself, as if trying to make sure you're really here and not at that disturbing colorful scenario, or at the bunk beds in the dorm. Still the piano bar. Warm lights, soft chatter of conversation, piano notes ringing through the air. The mental image of that place still doesn't vanish from your mind.

“See what, exactly?” you ask, even though you know it would be better not to.  

“If you truly earned it, or if you’re just one more piece of trash who got lucky, like all the others before you.”

Your hand must twitch, an involuntary movement you're not even aware of, and the Salesman places another card to your pile. You look down at it in horror, realizing all the cards together total to twenty-three.

“I didn't say hit me,” you protest.

“You tapped. You know that's the sign.” He looks over the cards again, as if just noticing the source of your distress instead of directly causing it. “Too bad.”

It's not fair, and you both know it, but you doubt pointing it out will make a difference. You bite your tongue around any words as well as the lump that's formed in your throat, tears trying to rush to the surface. Your gaze meets his and holds it.

“Are you going to slap me?”

He’s still for a moment, considering it. It's one thing to hit you in the face in a mostly-empty subway station late at night, and another entirely to do it in this sophisticated bar, with all these people around as witnesses. Still, you don't doubt that he would do it. You hold yourself back from flinching when his hand comes out, bracing yourself for the impact.

It never comes. Instead, his hands merely cup your cheeks, tilting your face to face him fully. He looks at you like he's studying you, his expression unreadable.

“Not now. I want something else,” he says. “A round of shots.”

His grip on your face is firm, but he runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone, like wiping away a teardrop that never fell. A gesture that can only be described as affectionate, and it's messing with your head way more than the slaps on the face did.

You nod.

He holds on for just a second too long before he lets you go. He orders the shots to the waiter – you pay no attention to the brand, or even the type of booze –, and you don't say another word until after they're placed in front of you on the table, small glasses so clean they gleam under the light.

“I crawled my way out of that hell,” you tell him. “You have no idea what I had to do to survive. You don't get to sit here and tell me I didn't fucking earn it.”

He looks more amused than anything. “To kill for necessity, anyone can do. It doesn't make you as special as you think it does.” He nods towards the shot on the table, reaching for his own. “Drink.”

You count one, two, three in your head before throwing the shot back, unable to suppress a grimace when the drink comes down your throat like liquid fire.

“Why do you wanna get me drunk so bad?”

He empties his shot glass as well. “Drinking together ensures none of us has an advantage.” He picks up the deck of cards again, before you ever have the chance to tell him you’ve had enough of this game. The words die down in your throat.

One more round. Your cards add up to seventeen.

It’s too risky to ask for one more card; anything higher than four would mean an instant loss. Only then you notice the sweat under your palms, the rush in your ears overpowering the piano music in the background. You force yourself to take a deep breath, to remember that your life is not on the line anymore and losing doesn't mean certain death, even though it feels like it.

He reveals his cards. Eighteen.

“Fuck.”

He seems pleased with himself, accessing you as you brace yourself for whatever he has in mind for you now.

“Come a little closer,” he orders.

You frown, but you find yourself obeying without much questioning, getting up from your chair to slide to the seat next to him on the booth.

He pours you both more Dom Pérignon, and this time he doesn't have to tell you to drink. You focus on the way the bubbles dance inside your mouth, if only to have something to distract yourself from his proximity, from the faint smell of his cologne or from the fact he still hasn't told you what he wants from you for losing this round

His hand lands on your thigh.

You jump in surprise, and his hand tightens its grip there, digging into your skin and keeping you in your seat. Your eyes widen and search for his, a question clear in them.

With his free hand, the Salesman pushes the cards in your direction. “You’ll be the dealer now,” he says, “and for each time you lose, I get to keep my hands on you for one more round.”

Say no, you tell yourself. Say something. A better, stronger woman would throw the champagne in the glass on his face and walk right out of this bar. Instead, you find yourself still as a statue, a sudden rush of warmth overflowing your senses – first, it rises to your face, coloring your cheeks red, then it travels lower to the pit of your stomach and down right into the space between your legs.

You can’t even tell if it’s the alcohol, spreading through your bloodstream and bringing a buzzing sensation to your head that’s not all unpleasant, or the fact you haven’t been touched like this in what feels like forever, or simply the man sitting next to you. How many times had you fantasized about this, until you realized that he was the catalyst of your ruin?

Maybe even a few times after that.

You take the deck of cards. He grins like he knew you would, like a master pleased with a dog following his command. You want to wipe that look off his face, but you can barely concentrate enough to properly shuffle the cards.

If you felt like you were fighting for your life before, it’s nothing compared to right now. The hand doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch until the very final moments of the round, when you realize the two of you are tied. A fingertip slides up the fabric of your stockings until it stops at your knee, your skin erupting in goosebumps following the movement. Your heart beats so hard inside your chest you can barely hear the chatter of people around you as the bar fills in with people.

You lose the next round, and the next, and the one after that. You can’t even tell if you’re doing it on purpose anymore.

With each passing minute that you don’t push him away, that you allow him to test and cross your boundaries, he gets more daring, drawing shapes in the perimeter of your leg and curling into your inner thigh. Your chest rises with a breath that comes tumbling out, the sound of it way too close to a whimper for your liking.

You can tell he notices it instantly, observant and apparently fluent in your body language like he’s spent years of his life studying it. He takes the opportunity to let his hand wander under your skirt, to the spots it hadn’t covered yet.

That’s enough. You need to win this next round.

It’s like, for once, God listens to your prayers. Your cards add up to an even, perfect twenty-one to his nineteen.

He retrieves his hand as if on cue. You thought you would be gasping in relief, but what comes out instead is a pitiful, almost desperate don’t.

He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t as in stop?” he asks. “Or as in don’t stop?”

Your body answers the question for him before your mind can even process what happened, grabbing his hand and pulling it to the spot where it was. Your skin comes ablaze the second he touches you again, like his touch is charged with electricity.

“Did you know,” you can feel his breath so close to you when he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “that you were the first person who ever challenged me to play ddakji at the subway? Usually it’s the other way around. Nobody but you ever made the first move.”

It’s hard to concentrate on his words like this, with his body leaning into yours and his hand that still touches you under the table and– whoa, that is not your thigh. The solid press against your core makes your whole body twitch, but you don’t jerk away. You try to focus on the memory.

“I didn’t give a fuck about the game,” you reveal. “I just wanted you to notice me.”

“I know.” He draws small, precise circles over you. “Do you ever think about how I would’ve left you alone otherwise?”

Of course you do, more than you would ever admit. But having him confirm it hurts. It’s bad enough to know you’re the one who caused all the trauma you’ve been through since meeting him, that you could’ve just carried on with your life, shitty as it as, if only you weren’t a foolish girl with a crush on a stranger. But to be in his arms right now, your head falling over his shoulder and your lips releasing a tiny whimper; it just makes it all the more fucked up.

“Was it worth it?”

The smile on your lips is devoid of any humor. “Never.”

“Let me prove to you that it was.”

Just like that, everything stops. He scoots away from you in the booth and stands up, bringing all the heat with him aside from the faint lingering warmth on your face. He leaves a few bills over the table, enough for the entire tab, and walks away.

He doesn’t head towards the front door, instead making his way to the opposite direction. You watch him, confused, for a few moments before you trail after him, past the kitchen and the restrooms until you see the red glow of an exit sign.

A chilly breeze rushes over you the second you step outside, and you expect to see him walking into the dark narrow street. But he’s waiting for you, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He raises his eyebrows in that same condescending way he’s done all night, daring you to make the next move.

You don’t hesitate for even a second longer. You grab a fistful of his impeccable suit jacket and pull him closer, crashing your lips together.

From the start, it’s not sweet or gentle. He digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise, wasting no time before he lifts you up into the air and pins you against the wall. You gasp into his mouth, parting your lips and practically begging his tongue inside. Your legs part almost in unison, allowing him to settle between them and effectively trap you, his larger frame blocking any exit.

As if you would dream to get away.

In one swift movement, he reaches between your legs and rips at the fabric of your stockings, the sound echoing through the empty street. You’re already making quick work of his belt; or trying to, frustrated by your lack of mobility from his position. He doesn’t seem willing to let you go, so he does it himself instead, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself from the confines of his underwear.

You’ve soaked through your panties in whatever time it took to play all those rounds of blackjack. It felt like it was drawn-out for hours, but you know it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes. He moans when he feels it, before he even pushes into you – a heavenly, otherworldly sound, one you want to hear again and again. You push your hips towards him, feeling yourself throb when he rubs his length over you, burning hot where skin meets even though everything around you is cold. He rewards you with another sound that you drink right in as you deepen the kiss, happy to never have your lips separate from each other ever again.

He pushes the fabric of your panties to the side and thrusts into you without a warning, drawing a strangled, sharp gasp from you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the invasion, setting up a punishing pace that pushes you against the wall hard with every thrust. You claw at his back, losing the ability to form coherent thoughts, helpless to stop it as he all but consumes you like this is his last chance to.

“Ah– fuck,” you have to break away from his lips to attempt to draw in some air, your breaths and sounds interrupted by the rhythmic, vicious snaps of his hips into yours. He takes the opportunity to tilt his head and follow the line of your jaw with his lips, to mouth kisses and graze his teeth over your throat.

Hands find their way under pieces of clothing, trying to cling to as much bare skin as they can. He does most of the work, still holding you up in the air with the help of the wall (you curl your toes just to test the waters, the ones on the foot closest to the ground, and they barely touch the pavement), bouncing you on his cock however he sees fit, and it’s embarrassing how close you are already just from this.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good.”

It’s intoxicating how vocal he is, all the grunts and moans he breathes into your neck, how it rips more sounds out of you than you would usually make. The street is completely silent save for the two of you, not another soul in sight. You could kill him right here and he would never see it coming. Gut him with the knife tucked away in your purse, leave him on the pavement gasping for his last breath. Who would catch you? You have enough money to run to yet another country, to give yourself a new identity and reinvent yourself as many times as you want.

The purse is on the floor where you’d carelessly let it fall, out of reach. Still you run your hands down over his bottom, feeling for any guns or weapons he may have tucked into the back of his waistband, or hidden in his pockets. There’s nothing, but you don’t have a lot of time to be disappointed about it before you’re coming with a high-pitched, broken shout, like your orgasm has taken you by surprise. He holds you up, squeezing you against the wall for support, the only thing stopping you from falling straight to the floor.

The Salesman follows right after, a stream of goods and fucks and your name falling from his lips as he spills deep into you. You wish you had it in you to be offended, to tell him off for it. But all you can think about is how much you wish you knew his name so you could shout it, gasp it, whisper it, for as long as he keeps holding you this tight.

[wonysugar]

ex-bestfriend ewb aeri uchinaga

a/n : no actual moodboard(tm)… no title…. what the fuck is wonysugar even about at this point. also! too many words to consider this a drabble but also not elaborate enough to consider a full fledged fic… take this as a mini-fic and whatnot

cw : heavyyy somnophilia but consent is like kind of established beforehand but not really since they technically don’t fw each other so it’s kinda cnc… whatever any of that means, cheating, masturbation, scissoring, fingering, clit play, aeri’s high as FAWKK. and she breaks into reader’s room, lawl

you guys had fought that day.

like you do any other day, at this point.

apparently! you were talking shit about her stupid, artificial and joke of a relationship to other people. of course you would do that, you had nothing else better to do after all. it’s not like you had exams and other priorities to worry about on a day to day basis!

while it is true you said her and her boyfriend weren’t a good match, it’s not like you spent day and night speaking on her. you simply once stated a fact. nothing more, nothing less.

of course, she didn’t believe that whatsoever.

in fact, she was absolutely convinced you did more than that. she was convinced you actively prayed on her relationship’s downfall, how could she not? it was so painfully obvious; to the way you eyed her down in the bus whenever she talked to him, the way you glared at him whenever he looked in your direction, the way you’d smirk and whisper things to your friend whenever you saw her walking down the halls, stealing glances from her—hell, the more she thought about it, the more it seemed like you were jealous of her.

yeah, that’s gotta be it, you were jealous of her!

…is what she believed, anyway.

the truth was, yeah, you were envious… but it was definitely not of her. you couldn't give less of a fuck about him, frankly.

you were envious of him, though. he got all the attention.

aeri was your best friend before becoming his girlfriend. you’re the one who watched her grow up into what she is today, and she was the one to witness your development into young adulthood. you guys went from pushing each other on swing sets and doing your basic addition homework together to getting high together and… what, making out in her room when her parents weren’t home?

hell, he probably didn’t even know you were her first kiss. she probably swore up and down he was her first, anyway.

nonetheless, due to multiple accumulated misunderstandings, that all stopped.

your numerous years of pure friendship and love were killed with nothing but a few crossed wires.

now you just tell each other empty threats and roll your eyes at one another. cute, right?

whatever, you thought to yourself, you’d done enough reminiscing for the day. soon enough, you slipped under the covers of your comfy bed wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and pyjama pants. it was a rather chilly night, you physically couldn’t allow yourself to sleep with no pants on, as saddening as that might’ve been for you.

that being said, you still kept the window open. you enjoyed the feeling of the cold yet light breeze kissing your face whenever you dreamed.

feeling yourself slowly dozing off, your eyes fluttered shut as the minutes pass. eventually, after a few hours, you’re deep in sleep, practically snoring as you’re tightly hugging your teddy bear, laying on your back.

exhausted would be an understatement; you were beat.

so beat that you couldn’t possibly shake awake at the sound of somebody audibly breaking into your room.

that somebody being none other than aeri.

what the fuck was she even doing there? even she herself wasn’t sure. one thing she did know, though, was that she was gonna make you regret ever saying anything about her relationship. of course, she wasn’t thinking rationally whatsoever; the weed in her system had killed every ounce of reason left in her, and she found it more practical to operate with her feelings.

and the feelings in question? they told her to break into your house through that same window you so conveniently left open!

she stepped foot closer to you, watching you sleep. you were absolutely clueless on what was going on near you.

aeri had always found you pretty, but you looked especially breathtaking in that moment. you looked so… peaceful, serene. seeing you like this made her nostalgic; she yearned for the moments where you would look at her with an expression just as warm as that. the moments where she’d talk about something as trivial as a corny song her favorite artist at the time released and you would just... sit there and listen.

you would always listen attentively to whatever she had to say.

her man rarely ever did that. he was always too busy to even look at her when she talked. yet, he's the only one she gives her whole attention to.

funny how that works, huh.

then, she noticed how your graphic tee had seemed to drag itself upwards, unintentionally yet entirely revealing your stomach, as well as the fact itself that you weren’t even wearing a bra underneath.

was that the reason she got on top of you? no, of course it wasn’t; she had a prove to point, that’s what! the point being that you ran your mouth about something that doesn't concern you, and that she was gonna rightfully ridicule and humiliate you for it. she had no problem with touching you in such a suggestive manner.

yeah, she hated your fucking guts now and would rather die a horrible death than sit in the same room as you for more than 5 minutes… but you’ve always had a great body, and even greater tits, that was undeniable.

so, she gently pulled your t-shirt upwards, leaving space for her head and eventually got to licking on your chest while you slept. entranced by the feeling of your nipples grazing her numb tongue, she kept her eyes hooded as she watched out for your reaction. you did squirm around a bit once she started fondling the other breast with her hand, but that was about it. that went on for at least 10 minutes, right? she didn't keep count.

all she knew was that you would’ve felt nothing but pure shame if you knew what was being done to you at that moment. that was the point of this. not because she was dying to touch you, obviously, but because she wanted you to be aware of the power she truly has over you. instead of fucking her boyfriend, like you oh so clearly wanted, she was practically fucking you instead.

you were still in a deep slumber despite all that; you should have already woken up by then, but you didn’t. fortunate for her, although she couldn't help but ask herself, have you been getting enough sleep recently?

nevermind that, she was too into the act of leaving hickeys all over your chest to think about it. aeri didn’t want to think, she was high out of her mind. in fact, she stank up the whole room with the smell of marijuana, she was practically hot boxing you in the comfort of your own bed, whilst you slept. not a single thought of hers was rational, and chances are that's why she had gotten so hot and bothered over ‘ridiculing’ you.

perhaps that's also why she eventually slipped off your pyjama pants and gently hovered your clothed slit with her fingers, getting lost in the feeling of your lips on her fingertips. fuck, your panties were pretty damp, what had you been dreaming of before she got in here?

"you fucking bitch..." she mumbled to herself. she felt herself throb at the sight alone, and that pissed her off. the sensation of her digits dragging along your visibly desperate pussy didn't help, either. her blood ran embarrassingly hot and soon enough, she finished off by completely stripping you of your underwear, unable to contain her desire for any longer. your bare cunt now to the air, exposed and vulnerable only for aeri to see. it glistened under the moonlight that subtly broke into your otherwise dark room through the window, kind of the same way she did.

it was hypnotizing, so much so that aeri could've sworn she was practically drooling from the corner of her mouth. she was so close to just leaning and making out with it, but... she couldn’t. she had other, more important things to attend to; her own warm pool growing in between her legs.

she couldn’t help it, she had to swiftly glide her dominant hand across her lower stomach into her shorts. with a huge sigh of relief, her breath hitched as her middle finger quickly landed on her throbbing clit, rubbing circular motions immediately upon contact. her hooded eyes stayed fixated on you, entranced by the mere sight of you; asleep, your core exposed and vulnerable, just for her.

it didn’t take long for her to slowly slide in two digits inside of herself, biting her lip whilst she fought back a whine, still staring at you. she wanted to touch you so badly, she wanted to use every inch of you to get off, to humiliate you, but that would’ve been too risky. so, she was perfectly content with just pumping her fingers in and out of her entrance for now, quiet squelching sounds filling the silence of the room.

fuck, the weed in her system just made it so, so much better. she was dripping wet just thinking about how confused you would be if you were to wake up. nobody would exactly expect to be immediately greeted by the sight of aeri fucking herself on them right upon exiting dreamland, so that would be a totally valid reaction for you to have.

an adorable one, at that.

she didn’t have to worry about that though, she kept two of her other hand’s fingers inside her mouth whilst simultaneously fingering herself, way to muffle the occasional sounds that slipped out.

that’s, once again, what she believed, anyway.

what she had seemed to forget about you was that you weren’t that heavy of a sleeper, no matter how exhausted. truth was, the nipple sucking was enough to kinda rouse you up a bit, but she was lucky enough to not have fully woken you up, since you quickly drifted back to sleep afterwards.

that wasn’t the case for what came afterwards, however.

aeri, despite her initial plans of playing it safe, had moved on to feeling your wetness on hers; she bit back a gasp as soon as her clit came in contact with yours, soon enough rubbing against it as she held one of your legs in a careful way, leaving space for hers. her mouth agape whilst she looked down at herself grinding, rolling her hips back and forth onto you, the sensation out of this world. fuck, you were so wet for her, and you didn’t even know it.

how embarrassing was that for you.

anyway, she was so caught up in making herself feel good that she hadn’t even noticed you wake up!

“w-what the…” you mumbled, incoherent. then, your groggy eyes widening once you figured out what was actually happening, you raised your voice, “what the fuck?!—“

she shushed you immediately, covering your mouth with her palm, “sh-shut the fuck up… you’re gonna wake up the whole house.”

and she won’t? first thing you heard waking up was a loud ass whimper coming out of her!

onto more important questions… what the fuck was aeri doing in your room? why did she look so fucked up? was she high? what was she grinding onto? why did your body feel so good? why was it so cold in your room? what did she do to you before this? you didn’t have a single clue on anything happening, you felt… used, taken advantage of, objectified by your own ex childhood best friend.

and fuck did you love every second of it once you actually processed everything. was that weird? the thought of her eventually cumming her brains out to you and not to her stupid ass boyfriend was enough to turn you into even more of a mush, despite barely being conscious.

“f—fuck, aeri—“ you'd moan out,

“i know baby, it feels—mmh—good, d-doesn’t it?”

it did, it really did. so much so that you had to cover your mouth with each roll of the hips she did on you, as to not let any potential noises slip out.

aeri had decided to leave the confrontation for much, much later; when she isn't actively chasing the climax of her pleasure. plus, you looked way too good for her to even want to tell you off, it'd make her feel bad. at that moment, all she wanted was to see you lose control under her. your muffled moans like music to her ears, she got more and more lost in the feeling, dizzy and overwhelmed with euphoria. she felt the knot in her stomach get tighter and tighter, until... it snapped.

biting onto the phalanx of her index finger to surpress the moans fighting to escape, her orgasm hit her like a truck, hard.

you, on the other hand, didn't get to cum from just that, however, and that's exactly why she took it upon herself to make you finish on her tongue, eager to taste your juices and hers combined on your cunt.

before the night was over, you both talked it out. granted, it was difficult considering she was still high as shit and you had almost just gotten knocked out from having the best orgasm in fucking years, you still talked. you worked it out on the remix, if you will!

you weren't surprised when news spread on campus that uchinaga aeri had recently broken up with her boyfriend, a few days later.

[hatethysinner]

I had a cute idea for a fic! It would be really cute if the main character would be taking a stroll around at night and come across Remmick as he’s busking with his banjo and she gets him to sing an old Irish folk song 👀

ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ

ᴡᴄ: 2.8k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this song. please see maybe happy ending and all the other musicals on broadway this season if you can, truly an unmatched year! have y'all clocked me as an obnoxious theater kid yet 😭? dare i say it's the reason i have a speck of writing talent. anyways, i adored this idea because serenades have my heart and it'd be my first time writing one (it was so hard omg), so here she is! not too long relative to my other works because it really didn't need to be, but i hope y'all enjoy it all the same. i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: nauseatingly sweet pathetic remmick fluff, serenading, excessive mention and meaning placed on fireflies

The fireflies were out again.

They drifted low across the tall grass like they had nowhere else to be, blinking in slow, rhythmless patterns. Like stars that had come down to earth, curious and aimless. The night held them close and cared for, letting them hang in the humid air with nothing but time on their wings.

You’d seen them before, of course. All your life. But some nights, like tonight, they moved differently. Slower. Softer. Like they knew they were being watched. Like they were dancing just for you.

The Delta always felt quieter at night.

It was a quiet no one really trusted. Folks whispered about it, said the dark down here wasn’t like the dark in other places. Said the trees listened. Said the water could keep a secret. You weren’t sure if you believed all that, but you knew one thing for certain: the stillness didn’t scare you.

Not the way it should’ve.

You’d made a habit of it, these late walks. When the air got too thick with thoughts, or the day clung too heavy to your skin, you’d slip outside and let your feet wander. Down past the back fields, across the brush-lined path, until the water showed its silver face and the frogs started to hum. Sometimes you’d bring a jar and catch a few fireflies, just to watch them flicker in your palm. Sometimes you’d sit and count how long you could go without hearing a single manmade sound.

It calmed you. Cleared your head. Gave you something to hold onto when the world felt too loud.

They told you not to.

Warned you, gently but often, that a girl out here at night wasn’t safe. That anything could happen. That there were things in the trees older than time and twice as hungry.

But the quiet had never hurt you.

And the moon, hanging full and watchful above the cypress branches, had never turned its face.

So you kept walking.

Your boots crunched gently in the grass, damp from where the dew was already beginning to gather. You brushed aside a low-hanging branch and stepped over the uneven bend in the path, the one you always forgot was there until it nearly caught your ankle. The creek whispered up ahead, a soft, steady hush, like someone trying to soothe a restless child.

And then,

A sound you didn’t expect.

Music.

You stopped.

Not bugs. Not frogs. Not the wind through the reeds.

Something else. Faint and careful. The pluck of strings, soft but clear. A banjo, you realized, but played low and slow, like whoever held it was afraid of being heard. It had no clear tune yet. Just gentle wandering notes, testing the air.

You tilted your head.

The fireflies blinked around you, catching in your eyelashes and drifting past your cheeks. One landed on the fabric of your shoulder, pulsing like a heartbeat.

You took a step toward the sound.

Then another.

The grass parted beneath your feet, damp and forgiving. The trees thinned out just enough to let the moon through in ribbons. You kept your breath even, your pace light. Didn’t want to scare off whatever strange magic had found its way here tonight.

And still, the music played. Threading through the dark like it belonged.

Like it’d been there all along.

And then you saw him.

Closer than you expected.

Much closer.

You’d followed the sound as if it were drifting from far across the creek, notes carrying on the wind like feathers. But when you stepped past the last veil of tall grass and turned just slightly toward the right, there he was.

Not even ten feet ahead.

Seated with his back to you on a split log bench, angled just enough for the moon to catch on the curve of his shoulder. The banjo lay loose in his lap, not cradled so much as resting there like it belonged. His fingers moved slow across the strings, too gentle to make real music now. Just small sounds. Ghost notes.

He was lean. Pale. His shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Collar loose and open, the dip of his neck catching the moonlight in a sharp, wet gleam. Sweat, maybe. Or something older.

Your breath hitched.

You hadn’t meant to spy on anyone. Didn’t want to. But when you realized how close you were, when you caught the slope of his shoulders and saw the way he rocked just slightly with each flick of the strings, something in your chest went tight.

There was no business for a man, any man, but especially one like him to be out so late. It didn’t sit right. There was no law in the woods, and even if there was, it wasn’t made for you.

You shifted your weight back slowly, trying to step away before he saw you. No sound, no sudden movement. Just a soft, silent retreat.

And then, snap.

A branch underfoot.

Loud enough to crack the night in half.

The man turned so fast it stole the air from your lungs.

You froze.

His head whipped toward you like he’d been yanked by a thread, and suddenly you were caught in the full force of his gaze.

He wasn’t just pale.

His skin carried a strange, ageless warmth. Undertones like honey diluted with cream. Touched by moonlight but not drained by it. Like the sun hadn’t reached him in a long while, but hadn’t quite forgotten him either.

Sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw. A mouth that didn’t always know what to do with itself when it settled closed. Soft one moment, tense the next.

And his eyes. Lord.

Blue. Not light, not sky. Deeper than that. Like river water just before it turns black. Old. Tired.

Too large.

Too deep.

Too lonely.

With that faint, impossible pulse of red flickering behind the color, beating slow as a second heart. Like the fireflies floating between you.

And his teeth,

You wouldn’t have noticed, maybe, if the moon hadn’t hit just right. But it did. And there, under the gentle curve of his lips, two fangs caught the light. Not long. Not alien. Just... unmistakable.

He stood.

Not quickly. Not with menace.

But slow. Measured. Careful.

Hands half-raised like he meant to calm. To motion that he existed in peace.

You caught the glint of something at his throat. A simple gold chain, sitting warm against his chest, right in the hollow where his shirt gaped open.

Neither of you spoke.

Not at first.

The music was gone now. The banjo left where it sat on the log, strings still reverberating faintly. The wind had gone still. Even the cicadas hushed.

Just your breathing. Just his.

Just fireflies blinking all around you, slow and golden, their pulses barely out of sync with the red behind his eyes.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Ain’t know anyone else walked this stretch,” he said, voice breathy and rough, like it had been a while since he used it. Southern, but not quite. Something twisted at the end of each word. Something careful that he was trying and failing to mask. “Apologies if I startled ya, miss.”

His gaze didn’t shift.

Didn’t dart away.

But he looked almost… nervous. Like you’d caught him with something private. Something delicate.

You should’ve turned.

Should’ve run.

But you didn’t.

You looked back at him, heart still thudding, breath still short, and said:

“You didn’t startle me.”

A pause.

“You play real nice.”

His mouth parted.

Just slightly.

Like he hadn’t expected kindness.

“Oh,” he said. “Well. Thank ya kindly. That's very sweet of ya.”

He cleared his throat, glancing away from you for just a moment. Tried to stand a little straighter too, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that they weren’t holding the banjo. Or being watched by another human being.

“I- uh- I'm Remmick,” he said softly. “I like the quiet.”

His voice sounded careful. Like every word had to be weighed before it left his mouth. You caught the way his fingers twitched, half-reaching for the banjo again like it might steady him.

You nodded, finding your own voice beneath the pulse in your throat. “Me too.”

You told him your name.

He repeated it, soft, almost reverent, like he was tasting it. Like he wanted to make sure he got it right, to hear how it sounded in his own mouth.

He seemed to breathe easier at that. But then his eyes darted back toward the creek, then down at the ground, like maybe he’d overstayed already. His voice lowered, small and unsure.

“If ya’d rather be alone, I can go. Wasn’t meanin’ to trouble anyone.”

The words were earnest, almost clumsy. Like he meant them, but didn’t want to mean them. Like leaving was the last thing he wanted.

You glanced down at the fireflies drifting lazy circles around your boots, blinking like they were eavesdropping on the conversation. The moon made the water shine with silver streaks behind him. His banjo sat quiet at his side, one thin string still vibrating softly from where his hand had left it.

You didn’t know why the words came so easily, but they did.

“You don’t have to leave.”

His head lifted a little too fast, as if he hadn't expected that answer.

“Y’sure?” he asked, voice catching just slightly.

You smiled, small. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

The muscles at the corner of his jaw relaxed. He looked down, then back at you, the corners of his mouth tugging into something tentative. Not quite a smile. Something gentler.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The fireflies blinked between you, soft and patient.

Then his hand slid over the banjo again, almost hesitant. “Don’t usually have much of an audience.”

You tipped your head, voice light. “That’s a shame. You sound like someone with stories to tell.”

He let out a quiet breath of a laugh, the sound almost surprised. Ran a hand through his hair, tugging gently at the strands near the back of his neck.

“I got one or two,” he murmured. “Old ones.”

The quiet stretched again. Comfortable this time. The kind of quiet that felt like the Delta itself breathing around you.

Softly, you asked, “You know any songs with words?”

He hesitated. You saw it ripple across his face. The nervous flicker behind his eyes, the way his fingers hovered just above the strings.

After a moment: “...One or two.”

You didn’t push. Just stood there, letting the space between you settle.

Another firefly landed on the edge of the banjo’s frame, its glow reflecting faintly in his dark blue eyes. He watched it for a moment like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

And then, finally, his voice broke the stillness again. Faint. Shy.

“I can play you one… if you’d like.”

You nodded, breath light. “I’d like that.”

His eyes met yours again. Misty, uncertain, but grateful. You could've sworn a ghost of a smile had appeared on his lips, before it quickly flew away.

His fingers hovered over the strings for a moment longer as he sat back down, like he had to coax himself forward.

And then, soft and low, he began.

“Oh, the summer time has come…”

The words slipped out like a secret. Barely above a whisper. Unsteady at first. You saw the nerves tighten his throat as he sang, as if even speaking the melody was some kind of quiet confession.

The fireflies blinked in rhythm, their lights pulsing soft as the notes floated into the air. You held your breath without meaning to. Something about his voice, so painfully gentle and kind, wrapped around you like warm cloth.

“And the trees are sweetly bloomin’…”

His gaze kept falling to you between the lines, unsure whether to meet your eyes or drop his own. And each time his eyes caught yours, he seemed to find a bit more footing. Like your presence steadied him, grounded him.

“The wild mountain thyme Grows around the bloomin’ heather…”

You wondered, suddenly, how long it had been since he sang for anyone. Or if he ever had at all. The intimacy of it left your chest tight. Not romantic, not quite. But full. Like standing in a room too small for all the quiet things neither of you could say.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The chorus came softer, steadier. His fingers strummed with more confidence now, like the melody was finally guiding him instead of the other way around.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

You watched his lips form each word, how his jaw tensed just slightly with the shape of every vowel. The moonlight caught faint on his chain. The gold glimmered like a second pulse beneath his throat.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

The breeze stirred between you, lifting the humid air off your skin. And still, he played. Like this space, this moment, belonged to both of you and no one else.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

His voice dipped even lower as the next verse began. His eyes didn’t stray this time. They stayed locked on yours, as though the rest of the world had slipped away.

“I will build my love a bower By yon cool crystal fountain…”

The words stirred something in your ribs. Quiet, curious. A fragile ache you didn’t dare name. He sang them like a promise not meant for you, but falling in your lap anyway.

“And round it I will pile All the wild flowers o’ the mountain…”

The fireflies blinked again, drifting closer between you both, like they too wanted to listen.

You didn’t dare look away.

Not when his voice, his fingers, his eyes had all softened into something so painfully vulnerable it made your breath catch.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

The melody carried through the night, through the hush of the trees and the slow lap of the water. Even the frogs seemed to quiet, as though giving him room to finish.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

His hands slowed on the strings as the final chorus slipped from his mouth.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The last note lingered, floating light as a feather before dissolving into the warm night.

Neither of you moved.

The space between you was still there. The gap. But it no longer felt like distance.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came. Nothing fit.

So you just smiled, small and warm.

His breath hitched like that smile was worth more than any words you could have given.

And around you, the fireflies kept on blinking.

The silence stretched for a long moment after his final note. The soft night held it gently, like neither of you dared break it too soon.

Then, without a word, you stepped forward.

The grass whispered beneath your feet. The fireflies parted for you like little floating lanterns, blinking gold as you crossed the space between you.

Remmick didn’t move. Only watched. Quiet, careful. As if the smallest shift might startle you back.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the log beside him. Not close enough to touch, but closer. Much closer than before.

The distance between you narrowed to a small breath of air, shared under the wide Mississippi moon. His eyes flickered toward you once. And then back to the strings. Like even that one glance was almost too much.

He swallowed softly, throat working. You caught it out of the corner of your eye.

His voice, when it came again, was even gentler than before.

Another song.

No introduction. No hesitation. Just music.

And you listened.

Song after song, old ones you half-knew, others that sounded older than the land itself. His voice was steadier now. Richer, somehow. The nerves had melted away. He wasn’t singing to fill the air anymore. He was singing to you. Or maybe with you.

And when your lips finally, softly, quietly joined his on a chorus, neither of you spoke of it.

Your voices braided together like threads of silk.

For a while, you simply sang. As if the night had always been meant for this, for the two of you trading melodies under the low hum of cicadas and the blinking dance of the fireflies.

Hours passed unnoticed.

At some point, the moon shifted higher. The breeze cooled. But neither of you made any move to leave.

Remmick’s eyes, every time they lifted to meet yours, were full of something so profound, so reverent, it made your stomach tighten. Not desire. Not hunger. But something deeper. Something that looked like worship.

He never reached for you.

Never brushed your hand.

But you felt him there, anchoring himself to you with nothing but the weight of his gaze, the softness of his song.

Eventually, as the stars began to pull pale against the hint of coming dawn, his fingers stilled on the strings.

Neither of you said a word.

Instead, you both simply sat there as the fireflies blinked their slow farewell.

And for the first time that night, Remmick spoke again.

His voice was barely a whisper, but full of something that made your chest ache.

“Thank ya for stayin’.”

You smiled.

And in that quiet, you both simply stayed.

Together.

[fanwarriorfictions]

Not Again- Part Three

Azriel x Rowaelin daughter reader

Summary: The inner court has many questions about Y/n and her world. Missing home even more, all she wants is to fly and clear her head, luckily, her babysitter indulges her

Series Masterlist

-Part Three-

Azriel knew this was going to be a long day from the moment he woke up. Surrounded by his shadows who would not shut up for three gods damned seconds. She’s awake, awake, awake, upset, won’t eat, upset. The little busybodies had snuck off while he slept, and apparently they were very concerned about the state of the female next door for whatever reason.

He found himself dressed and in the hallway waiting for any sign of her, when he didn’t receive one in the ten minutes he’d stood there he’d finally crossed the hall and knocked three times on the door.

She was still in there, he knew that from the way his shadows kept trying to slip through the cracks towards her. And he could feel the shield of air she’d placed around the room, hiding the sounds of her approaching footsteps.

The door swung open and Azriel couldn’t explain why his breath caught in his chest. The house had gifted her new clothes, the traditional night court style that Amren preferred to wear, in the deepest darkest night court black. The silk cropped shirt hugged her curves, and the flowing high waisted pants left a small sliver of skin on display. Beautiful, pretty, black suits her. His shadows whispered again and again and again, he was about ready to lock them away for a moment of peace.

“Here to take me to the dungeons yet?” She asks, lifting her arms towards him as if expecting cuffs, amusement glittering in her eyes as she watches his eyes lift from her waist, “what’s on the table today? Just some light interrogation? Maybe a bit of torture?”

“Breakfast actually,” he replies dryly, “the others will be here shortly.”

“Well that’s no fun,” she pouts, dropping her arms to her sides, “lead the way then, shadowsinger.”

The title rolls off her tongue, that accent swirling and dripping with charm. A small smirk on her lips as she notices his hesitation, turning his back on her still felt like a bad idea, even though he didn’t glimpse a single dagger on her, he’s sure she wouldn’t need it.

She seems fine, less tense than the night before, a mask of cool amusement and charm, yet his shadows seem concerned, upset, they’d whispered all morning. As they walk he keeps one eye on her, taking in the way she examines every surface, every turn, every nook and cranny. She was mapping out the halls in her head, memorizing the ways out, smart. If she wanted to she could shift into that magnificent hawk form and fly through the halls and off the balcony before he could even try to catch her.

They turn into the dining room, Rhys and Feyre already sat at the table. The table set for several people, Azriel assumed the rest of the court would be here soon, Cassian flying them up from the River House. Elain would stay back with little Nyx, her mate there to protect them both.

“Good morning,” Feyre says, voice reserved yet kind, “I’m Feyre.”

Y/n grants her a small smile, bowing her head slightly in greeting. She doesn’t say anything, opting to examine the room around them like she’d done in the halls, nervous. She didn’t let it show on her face, but Azriel could tell, could see the tension in her shoulders.

“Please, sit,” Rhys says, gesturing to the seats across from them, “the rest will be here shortly.”

“Should I be worried about that?” Y/n asks, her tone is light, that cool amusement hiding the faint look of panic that flashes through her eyes.

Azriel’s shadows writhe at his sides when he sees that look, something about it settles wrongly. She had nothing to fear from them, but how would she know that? Strangers who had found her vulnerable, who had tried to look into her mind, who she knew next to nothing about.

Feyre laughs lightly, “no, no, of being talked to death perhaps, but I swear, no harm will come to you.”

That seems just good enough to Y/n to coax her to sit across from Feyre, her eyes glance warily at the foods laid out between them and instead of filling her plate like the High Lord and Lady across from her she simply leans back in her seat and watches. Azriel takes the seat beside her, pointedly filling his plate with mounds of eggs and bacon and bread with jams.

She won’t eat, eat, eat, eat, she needs to eat. Shadows angrily whisper in Azriel’s ears but he forces them away as he hears the sounds of his family grow closer down the hall, Cassian’s booming laugh echoing into the room. He can see the moment Y/n tenses, her body readying for a fight that would not come.

“A rambunctious lot you’ve got here,” she says coolly, that mask of indifference slid into place.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” Rhys sighs.

Cassian is the first to come through the door, followed by Nesta who rolls her eyes at her mates back.

“Is this the female who handed Azriel’s ass to him?”

The tension in Y/n’s shoulders slip every so slightly and Azriel feels himself relax too. He was prepared to leap inbetween his family and her, to protect which one he wasn’t sure.

“You say that like it’s such an impossibility,” Mor says as she and Amren step through the doorway, “I’ve seen plenty of females hand you your ass, Cassian.”

“But it’s Az,” Cass laughs, “Mister dark and broody spymaster caught off guard by the second female falling on his lap.”

“She did not fall into my lap,” Azriel sighs, “she was in the-“

“Whatever,” Cassian interrupts, waving his hand, “close enough.”

Azriel rolls his eyes at his brother’s antics, recognizing them for what they were, a way to break any tension, to make this seem like a simple breakfast instead of the interrogation it was sure to become. One glance at Y/n told him she wasn’t buying it for a second.

Her eyes travel over them all, stopping briefly on Nesta as their eyes lock. Both females had that cold stare that could freeze oceans. Though she’d given back a majority of the cauldrons power, it still lurked behind Nesta’s steely eyes, that silver fire rolling in warning. Y/n looked just as lethal, those cold eyes almost glowing with the power lurking below her skin, wether it was ice or fire, Azriel wasn’t sure he wanted to find out which she’d use first.

Nesta seemed satisfied with whatever she saw in Y/n’s eyes, grabbing her mates hand to drag him to their seats beside Feyre. Mor slipped into the seat beside Azriel, Amren taking the seat beside her.

“Well,” Rhys says with that charming grin, “now that everyone is here I’d like to introduce our lovely guest, Crown Princess of Terrasen, Y/n Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius.”

“Now that’s a mouth full.” Mor whistles as she piles her plate full of sweet pastries and fruits, “lovely to meet you, Princess.”

“Y/n will do.”

“Wow, you weren’t kidding about the fangs,” Cassian says when her sharp canines peak through her lips.

Azriel keeps one eye on the female next to him as he pretended to be interested in the food on his plate. Her arms were crossed over her stomach, her mask not slipping despite the eyes weighing her down.

“What is this place?”

Rhys raises a brow at her, “would you like to eat first before we get to the nitty gritty?”

Y/n nods towards the food, “I’d like to know exactly who and what I’m dealing with before I accept food from fae I don’t know. Didn’t anyone ever teach you stranger danger?”

Eat, eat, tell her to eat. Azriel tries to quiet the shadows, getting annoyed with how insistent they were. As if she heard them, Y/n glances at him, frowning at the little wisps that stray to close to her.

Rhys looks ready to give her a sarcastic response but Feyre rolls her eyes and butts in, “you are in Velaris, the heart and soul of our territory, the Night Court.”

“You’re the leaders of this place,” Y/n states more than asks.

“High Lord and Lady, few of many on this continent,” Feyre nods, “how’d you know.”

“I’ve dealt with plenty of royals,” Y/n shrugs, “Queens and Kings, Lords and Ladies, Emperors and Empresses.”

That peaks everyone’s interest, Azriel can feel the curiosity in the air. When Quinlann had arrived, she’d been at war with the Asteri, the ruling power of her world, despite having kings and queens, they all answered to the immortal, intergalactic parasites, as Quinlann had put it. She and her mate had succeeded in ridding their planet of the monsters, but who knew where else these creatures lived.

“What is your home like?” Mor asks, the question seemingly harmless, but depending on the answer could bring a whole world of consequences.

Y/n examines her, not missing the hidden question beneath is your world a threat to our own, “much like your own it would seem. We’ve been at peace for the last 25 years. Until a gate opened up and ripped me away from my family.”

There’s the briefest change in her then, that mask slipping just enough that Azriel recognizes it, grief. She’s upset, homesick, won’t eat. It made sense now, she’d said she’d been with her father when the gate had taken her, when she’d been dumped onto a foreign land surrounded by strangers she couldn’t understand. She must have been terrified.

“Before you ask, I have no idea how or why the gate opened, or why it took me,” she continues, “it shouldn’t have been possible. None have been opened since the lock was forged during the war.”

“War?” Cassian’s brow raises in question, “what lock?”

It seems to set her back into a memory, her eyes not entirely focused on the male who’d asked, “the war against the Valg. Demons from another world who liked the taste of ours. The fight against them spanned over centuries, over multiple wars, my ancestor was able to lock the King away with a stolen object not meant for her to use, but for that there was a price demanded from the gods who’d made the lock in the first place, an heir of her blood to forge a new lock, to open a gate and send them to their true home, my mother. Queen Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, she almost died paying their price, and in the end they betrayed her anyway.”

Anger simmered in her eyes, Azriel could feel heat radiating off of her, that fire under her skin wanting to come out.

“What became of them?” Rhys asks.

She takes a moment to rein that fire in and then she meets the High Lord’s eyes, “she killed them all.”

A silence ripples through the room, her mother had killed her world’s gods. Were they like Midgard’s asteri, Prythian’s daglan, or maybe their own kind of nightmare.

“She locked the gates, fell through time and space, through hundreds of worlds, guided back by my father who would not let that mating bond slip through his fingers. When she’d come back, she had a fraction of her power left, the power that could end the valg Queen and King and save them all.”

“How did they win?” Nesta asks in the quiet that follows.

A smile, not a smirk finds Y/n’s lips and Azriel’s shadows dance towards her. He barely keeps them in check, one resting on the edge of her chair before it was reined back in. He catches the curious look sent his way by Rhys. He’d surely hear more of that later.

“My Aunt Yrene,” she says, “a healer, the valg were vulnerable to their touch, she took the evil shriveled soul of the valg King and turned him to nothing but a black stain on the floor. We put a rug over it.”

A surprised laugh slips out of Mor, “please tell me it’s hideous.”

“The tackiest thing I’ve ever seen, they let me paint on it as a child. It’s covered in bad stick figures of my uncles.”

They’d asked her questions until it was nearing lunch time. Cassian had about fallen out of his chair when she’d told them of the witches and their wyverns. From the look in Amren’s eye, Y/n knew that if she’d ever met Manon, the world would tremble in fear.

Rhys had been particularly interested in her mother’s journey through worlds, he had an uncanny feeling about it that he couldn’t quite explain. Feyre and Nesta had been shocked to learn that her mother was half human. Mor had asked her millions of questions that she could barely keep up with.

During it all, Azriel had been silent at her side. No questions on his lips but she could see the wheels turning in his head, could almost hear the whispering shadows that danced closer and closer to her every chance they got. She’d felt one drifting over her elbow for a moment before Azriel had glared right at the curious little shadow and it flew back to his side.

They’d slowly stopped their questioning and then they left one by one, Amren had left to look into this worlds knowledge on Wyrd markings and gates, Cassian and Nesta had said something about a training session, Rhys and Feyre needed to go relieve the third Acheron sister from babysitting duty and Mor had desperately wanted to see her nephew.

And just like that, it was down to Y/n and Azriel. She assumed he was still on babysitting duty, despite their apparent trust in her. She didn’t blame them for being cautious, Wyrd knows she’d not let a single one of them out of her sight if the roles were reversed.

Y/n stood stretching out her sore muscles, an involuntary groan slipping past her lips as she lifted her arms above her head. They’d been sitting there for hours and her body still aches from the events of yesterday.

“You didn’t eat anything,” his cool voice startles her, deep and slightly gravely.

She glances down at him, noting the way his eyes drag up from that small sliver of skin at her waist. The clothes we’re comfortable, yet much more revealing than anything she’d been used to. She can’t help the smirk that rests on her lips as she looks down at the handsome male, she could get used to clothes like this.

“I’m not hungry,” she shrugs, moving through the room, glancing towards the huge windows that showed the vast city far beneath them.

“You haven’t eaten since you’ve been here,” he says, eyes tracking each of her movements.

“Oh? And how would you know that,” she looks pointedly at the shadows, “I thought I told you to keep wandering eyes to yourself.”

He simply shrugs, “they do what they want.”

“Clearly.” She turns towards the door, “are you to play babysitter all day? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

She’s out the door before he’s has the chance to reply. The place was massive, she’d memorized the walk from her room to the dining hall, but the amount of halls that laid around told her she’d only seen a small portion of what the place had to offer.

“Would you care for a tour?” Azriel’s suddenly standing to her side.

“Babysitter and tour guide,” she snarks, exploring down the hall, “A double threat.”

“I’ve been told to keep any eye on you.” He looks down at her, “and that’s what I plan to do.”

“Oh I have no doubt about that.” She turns into a large living space littered with comfortable looking couches and chairs, a doorway leading to a balcony against the far wall. “I’m sure you’re a male who takes his duties very seriously.”

She moves towards that door, towards the open air beyond, Azriel following close behind. She could feel the wind beyond, begging to caress her wings, she’d shift and fly for hours and hours, maybe she could fly home.

“You could make this easy for both of us,” he says, letting a shadow block her path, “and quit trying to run away from me.”

“Now who said I was trying to run away,” she flashes an overly sweet smile over her shoulder, one that she can tell gets under his skin.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he almost growls, “but if you choose to make this harder than necessary, I have no problem tying you to a chair.”

She snorts, “Kinky, but no thank you, I’m not interested.”

He doesn’t respond, that carefully crafted expression not shifting an inch, though his shadows give him away. They writhe around him, reaching for her and pulling back over and over, like he was trying not to strangle her.

“Tell you what,” she says, “I’ll stick around you like glue if you let me go for a quick flight.”

She doesn’t hide the longing glance she gives the balcony, whenever she was stressed or upset her and her father would go flying, they would fly until she was ready to talk about what was eating at her, or until she tired herself out and he would take her home and tuck her into bed just to go fly the next morning. Y/n couldn’t think of a time she’d been more stressed than now, stuck in a foreign world with no way home, surrounded by powerful fae who she didn’t trust not to bury a dagger between her shoulders the second she turned around, depsite how kind they had been.

“Fine.”

Her eyes meet with warm hazel, surprise not hidden on her face. She would’ve thought he’d fight back harder, keeping her here, where she couldn’t fly away was safer, easier. But he’d agreed, and she gives him the first genuine smile she’d had since she’d arrived and says, “Thank you.”

He nods once, “after you.”

She’s out the door in seconds, shifting with a flash of white light, and diving over the edge of the balcony towards the city far far below.

Azriel was regretting his choice to let her fly, simply due to the fact that she was so damn fast. Despite the chill in the air, she flew over Velaris with such speed, the air biting his wings as he tried to keep up. She zigzaged over the city, following streets up and down, from the cliffs of the house all the way to the open mouth of the Sidra. They flew over the bridge into the Rainbow, the artists quarter and almost like an invisible string tugged her towards it, they ended up at one of the many amphitheaters.

Music of practicing artists flowed out, preparing for a concert later that evening, there was no single melody, a mesh of different tunes that somehow melded together into a new song of its own.

Y/n landed on a high wall of the amphitheater, that flash of light, and then she was sitting precariously on the edge, as if there wasn’t a steep drop directly behind her to the streets below. Azriel landed next to her, carefully sitting down with a comfortable distance between them. It felt wonderful to rest for a few seconds, letting the sun warm his wind chilled wings.

He watches her, the way she leans towards that music as if she couldn’t help but be drawn to it. There’s a longing look in her eyes, a sadness that cracks that carefully constructed mask to pieces. Azriel wants to comfort her, he’s overcome by the sudden need to fix whatever is wrong, but he was never good at that, so he just sits beside her, mouth firmly shut.

“One of the first things my mother did after the war was rebuild the theaters,” she says quietly after several minutes, “my earliest memory is sitting in the Queen’s box, they’d written a symphony about the final battle, it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I can still hear the horn that signaled my mothers arrival.”

Azriel listened carefully, “Your mother seems to be a brave warrior.”

“She didn’t have a choice but to be,” Y/n whispers, “Most of my family didn’t.”

“You seem to be a warrior yourself,” he says, “were you given a choice.”

Her eyes don’t stray from the players below, “Yes and no, my parents insisted I train, they wanted me to be prepared for anything, I wanted to anyway, mostly because I wanted to grow up to be just like them. My father is one of the strongest fae warriors in the world, Rowan Whitethorn, soldiers talk about him around camp fires like he’s a myth. He and my uncles, his cadre, oversaw my training. My mother too, she’d once been a renowned assassin, I’d begged and fought with her to teach me everything she knew until she got sick of me and relented.”

He could see that, the way she struck fast and quietly during their first encounter, she moved with the grace of a dancer, struck with the strength of a warrior.

“Quite the family,” he says, searching for anything to lighten the mood, something Rhys or Cassian would say, “I’m sure bringing home boys was interesting.”

She laughs, and he can’t help but enjoy the sound, “you have no idea, not only do you have to impress my parents, but also the kings and queens of several nations. I made the mistake of bringing a boy home when Manon was visiting from the witch lands. She tried to introduce him to Abraxos, I don’t think I ever saw him again.”

From what they’d heard of the witch Queen, Azriel hoped the boy had just fled the kingdom, instead of becoming dinner.

She goes silent, and a shadow whispers in Azriel’s ear, she wants to go home, sad, very sad.

“Would you care to eat now?” Azriel asks, raising to his feet, “I know flying works up my appetite.”

She flashes him a saccharine smile, one that does its best to hide the pain but it can’t hide her eyes, “are you asking for a date? I thought I told you I’m not interested.”

He rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the slight twitch of his lips, “Trust me, Princess, you’re not my type either.”

She climbs to her feet, and Azriel finds that stretch of exposed skin at her waist as she turns to him, the scent of pine, snow, and embers drifting towards him on the wind.

“I’m everybody’s type.” Her tone lowers, dripping with charm, the kind that could make men and women crawl on their hands and knees. “Think you can keep up this time?”

Without warning she jumps off the back of the tall amphitheater. Azriel has a brief moment of panic, shadows whipping out to try and catch her, wings flaring as he goes to dive after her. Then, brilliant white light blinds him for a second, and that red tinged hawk shoots past him, letting out a cry that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

He swears, jumping off that ledge and shoots into the sky behind her.

[kyleoreillylover]

Love Hurts

Liv Morgan x Fem!Black!Reader x Rhea Ripley

Summary: Who really is to blame when Rhea learns through from one Liv Morgan that love hurts when you don't take good care of it when she takes you from her?

a/n: im back!!! took a mental health break, with college, but im easing myself back into writing! missed you all <33

tagged: @southerngirl41 @venusesworld @jeysbae @reci1996 @tbones450 @steakwithasideofmashngravy e@selena-tyler-564@saintaquarius @whatdoeseverybodywant @raya-hunter01 @hope4more

The moment Liv Morgan came to you with that offer, you didn’t give her an answer. Not yet.

You were torn. Rhea Ripley, your longtime friend, was distant—cold even. Focused on revenge. Every conversation felt like an excuse to keep you at arm’s length. You tried to reach out to her, to remind her of the bond you shared, but she was consumed with Liv. Ever since Liv had put her on the shelf, Rhea seemed determined to push you away.

“This is between me and Liv,” she told you, every time you tried to be there for her. She kept locking you out, making it clear that whatever this was, she didn’t want your help. It hurt. It hurt like hell.

And that’s when Liv’s voice started to sound more reasonable in your head.

“She doesn’t care about you the way I do.”  “You could be more with me.”  “They’ve never seen your potential like I do.”

She never pressured you for an answer, not directly. But she was always there—waiting. Every week on RAW or SmackDown, Liv was by your side. Even when you didn’t ask for it, she found ways to help you win your matches. A distraction here, a well-timed assist there. She made sure you knew she was watching your back. You’d shoot her a glare, but she’d wink and blow a kiss, making it impossible to stay mad.

She followed you to your locker room, showed up at your hotel room with takeout, and cracked jokes until you forgot the weight pressing down on your chest. The way she smiled, it was like she already knew what your decision would be. All you had to do was say the words.

And it wasn’t just Liv. Finn, JD, Dominik, and even Carlito—all of them kept dropping hints, planting seeds. They were planning something big. Liv told you they’d kick Damian out after SummerSlam, that they wanted to align themselves with her. They didn’t push you too hard either, but they made it clear: If you join us, you’ll finally have people who see you as family.

It was the way they talked about it—family. Not like what you had with Rhea. Not anymore. Every time Rhea brushed you off, it chipped away at your loyalty. It made you wonder if Liv had been right all along.

SummerSlam

The night of SummerSlam arrived, and you still hadn’t given Liv a straight answer. She told you she didn’t need one—"You'll do what feels right when the moment comes," she whispered with a smirk.

You walk down the ramp with Rhea Ripley, matching her pace, your face unreadable. Tonight’s match is everything for Rhea—a chance to reclaim her title from Liv and settle the score once and for all. She had finally let you back in for this. She needed you, or at least that’s what she made you believe. When you walked out with Rhea that night, she looked over her shoulder at you like old times. The crowd cheered for the two of you, but everything between you felt off—fractured. Still, you stayed close, keeping up the appearance of solidarity.

But even as you stood by her side, something felt off. It wasn’t the same. There was no warmth, no trust. Just strategy and expectation.

The match is brutal—Liv and Rhea tearing each other apart in the ring. It’s fast, chaotic, and exactly what you expected. And then, the moment arrives. The referee goes down, hit in the chaos. Rhea struggles to her feet, her back turned to you as she fights for control.

And just like that, the choice becomes clear.

You step forward, your heart pounding in your chest. Rhea never sees it coming. You drive your forearm into her spine, sending her crashing to the mat. The crowd erupts in disbelief, a mixture of boos and shocked gasps.

Liv looks at you from across the ring, her eyes wide and glimmering with excitement. A wicked smile spreads across her face. She knows what this means.

You help Liv drag Rhea’s limp form toward the center of the ring, watching as she hits her with an oblivion. When the ref stirs and crawls back into place, you stand over Rhea, stone-faced, as the three-count slams the mat.

Liv Morgan retains her title.

And the second the bell rings, Liv jumps into your arms, wrapping her legs around your waist in pure exhilaration. She hugs you tight, her head against yours, and you can hear the smile in her voice as she taunts Rhea:

“I told you... I’m their real best friend now.”

The crowd showers the arena with boos, but Liv doesn’t care. Neither do you. This moment—this victory—belongs to you both.

The next week on RAW, everything felt different. Liv made good on her promise to spoil you like Rhea never did. New gear, tailored to perfection. Expensive makeup, champagne waiting in a private dressing room just for the two of you. She draped her arm around your shoulder, smug as she showed you off to anyone who looked your way.

“This is what it feels like to have someone who really cares,” she whispered before JD walked in with Dom and Finn. They grinned at you, treating you like you’d been one of them from the start. Even Carlito gave you a fist bump, as if to say, Welcome to the family.

Together, you walked out for a promo, the boys flanking you and Liv. The crowd’s boos filled the arena, but you didn’t care. You had them now. Liv stood in the center of the ring, arm wrapped tightly around your waist, grinning as the audience seethed.

Finn took the mic and addressed the elephant in the room: “Rhea and Damian betrayed us first,” he declared, voice cold and deliberate. “They stopped treating us like family. So we moved on. And now... we’re stronger without them.”

You stayed silent but couldn’t help the way your chest swelled at the word family. This was what Liv had been promising all along. The boys welcomed you. Liv cherished you. And Rhea... she’d never given you this.

When Rhea’s music hit, you instinctively stepped in front of Liv, shielding her. Rhea stormed down the ramp, fury in her eyes, and the crowd erupted in cheers. But you weren’t afraid. Not anymore.

Rhea slid into the ring, jaw tight and fists clenched. She glared at Liv and the Judgment Day standing at your side. Her voice trembles with both anger and heartbreak. “You betrayed me,” she hisses at you, fists clenched.

Before you can reply, Liv steps forward with a smug smirk. “Betrayed you? Rhea, you betrayed her first. You shut her out. You don’t know how to treat family, Rhea. Not my fault I'm better at you at that.”

Rhea snarls, taking a swing at Liv, but you catch her arm mid-air. There’s a moment of tension—anger in her eyes, pain in yours. Then, in the heat of the moment, Rhea slaps you across the face.

The tension snapped, and the brawl was brutal—grappling, fists flying, neither of you holding back. You heard Liv shout your name, and suddenly, she was there, slamming her title into Rhea’s back with a sickening thud.

Rhea crumpled, and Liv wasted no time. She grabbed your hand, pulling you out of the ring with her. As you reached the ramp, Liv glanced back at Rhea, a malicious grin curling her lips. “She thought you were hers,” Liv whispered, loud enough for Rhea to hear. “But you’re mine now.”

She laced her fingers with yours and raised your arm, laughing at Rhea’s fury as she lay in the ring. Finn, Dom, JD, and Carlito followed behind, grinning as they embraced you both like sisters-well, except with Dom and Liv. 

"Family," Finn said again, clapping you on the back. "And no one messes with family."

Liv leaned into your side, her breath warm against your ear. "I told you," she whispered. "You made the right choice."

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

[fleurdeserre]

Artist Turned Muse

Fandom: 恋与深空 | Love and Deepspace (Video Game) Category: F/M Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Main Character/Qi Yu | Rafayel; Qi Yu | Rafayel/You Tags: One Shot, Crack Fic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person, POV Rafayel, POV Second Person, Light Angst

Summary: Rafayel knows you're lying to him but he doesn't know what the reason behind it is. So the best logical conclusion he comes to is that you are seeing someone else.

A/N: disclaimers: - english isn't my first language, so sorry for any potential mistakes - this is a crack fic written purely for funsies with a pinch of angst (cause it's Rafayel), don't take it too seriously - the fic begins with Rafayel's POV and then it changes to reader's POV

you can read the fic here or go to ao3 (hyperlink in the title)

Rafayel knows his girlfriend has been up to something as of late. He just couldn’t figure out what exactly it was. 

At first, he ignored it. Well, no, he didn’t actually ignore it, more like he just pretended it didn’t bother him—a tactic he was very well-accustomed to.

How did he know something was off, you might ask. Well, first of all Rafayel knows his beloved, thank you very much, so it’s no surprise that the first thing to tip him off was her lying to him. He knows she couldn’t lie to save her life—unlike himself, of course.

So, naturally when he asked her what plans she had for the weekend and she pulled out a half-assed excuse about some kind of reading she needed to catch up to, he knew immediately it wasn’t actually the case. This girl is so bad at lying, Rafayel has no idea why she still even tries. The birthday preparations she tried to make in secret should’ve been proof enough to discourage her from ever trying to lie to him again.

Rafayel, guided by that logic, has tried jogging his memory to remember if there were any anniversaries or other special occasions worthy of celebration and came to the conclusion that there were none. That realization frustrated him to no end because that meant he had no clue what was actually happening with his girl.

Days, then weeks kept going in that same manner with her always making excuses and disappearing for several hours, not answering her phone and keeping her text messages short. He thought he did something wrong and she was just pissed at him but that also wasn’t the case because there were no indications of that apart from her disappearing all the time.

Then it finally hit him. 

She must be seeing someone else. The betrayal he felt the moment that thought settled in his head was like no other. It was way worse than her forgetting him back when they first met because, here she is now clearly remembering him, being with him and yet still disappearing on him several times a week. Oh, this is unbearable. 

What will he do if that’s truly the case? What can he do, really?

It’s not like Rafayel isn’t giving his all to this relationship. What more could she possibly want and why wouldn’t she simply ask it of him? 

If we’re being completely honest, Rafayel is having a full-blown breakdown over this. 

Like, if she wanted someone else to spice things up a bit, she could’ve just told him. Sure, Rafayel would’ve probably cried over it but at the end of the day he’d suck it up and do whatever she wanted hoping it was just a phase. If, on the other hand, it was the worst-case scenario and she fell in love with someone else…

Well, that’s not something Rafayel wants to consider. If push comes to shove, he’ll just improvise like he always does praying for the sea to have mercy on him.

He tries not to overthink all of this but it is getting more and more difficult with each passing day with each excuse and lie even though when she’s with him, she’s no different than she’s always been. She’s loving, teasing, and caring. She cuddles with him like she used to, makes sure he doesn’t starve to death while working on a new piece, and makes love with him like it’s their last day on Earth.

Rafayel loses sleep over the predicament he’s found himself in. And worst of all, he can’t even paint—he can’t put his emotions into art, the one thing he’s always praised himself for being good at. Every time he tries, he just stands there for a while with the paintbrush held mid-air, unable to make the first stroke. Then when he finally makes himself move, do something—anything—he is left with a bitter sense of disappointment. 

It’s all just…not right. He truly feels like a fish out of water (pun intended). 

Not only is she blatantly lying to him, she also hides stuff from him now. She never used to do that before and Rafayel is oh so ready to start ripping off his hair if she continues whatever it is she’s doing now. He’ll go bald at the ripe age of twenty-four. It’d be plastered all over all sorts of billboards too… “An artist gone bald: the downfall of the infamous Rafayel’s hairstyle” or something like that.

Okay, dramatics aside, it is weird. A few days ago, she was on her phone and he dropped onto the sofa right next to her. The moment his head touched her shoulder she locked her phone and put it aside. She thought she was being so nonchalant about it too, but Rafayel isn’t crazy, it wasn’t his imagination playing tricks on him. When he asked her what she was doing she said she was making a list of groceries. Rafayel obviously wasn’t dumb enough to buy that because she wasn’t even typing.

Maybe she was reading someone’s messages? was all Rafayel could think of that sleepless night.

There was that other time, a week ago, when he went to visit her unannounced just because he felt like it and was around the area (not really). He had to wait for her to open the door for two minutes! He knew she was home—the lights were on—but she still made him wait outside the door to her apartment. When she finally let him in, she said, “Oh, sorry, I was making a smoothie when the blender’s lid malfunctioned and the contents were all over my shirt, so I had to change into something else.” 

Sounds valid but here’s the catch. When he went to the kitchen it was perfectly clean and the blender was full. It didn’t look like even a drop of its contents was spilled. Weird.

Also, she didn’t let him go anywhere near her bedroom. It’s not like they usually have a habit of hanging around there when her living room is way cozier and much more spacious. It was still weird…

Today is the day he puts an end to all of this. He can no longer live like this. If there’s something she doesn’t want him to know about so as not to hurt him, he needs to know what it is because staying in the dark hurts him even more. He’s starting to second-guess every single interaction they are having these days.

~~~

It wouldn’t be a lie to say that these past few weeks have been a lot: with all the wanderer fighting you had to combine with spending time with Rafayel as well as working on your secret project. Still, you’re proud of yourself for putting your mind to doing this. And it’s going pretty well if anyone asks you; you were expecting it to turn out way worse.

It’s been a while since the thought first came to your head. It happened when you were finally able to convince Rafayel to show you his true form: tail, scales, and all. He was absolutely mesmerizing, it felt as if you were witnessing the eighth wonder of the world. Quite frankly, you were stunned and unable to find words for a good minute. His tail was such a beautiful rich shade of blue and sparkling with droplets of water that it felt downright criminal he was keeping it a secret for so long. Still unable to voice anything coherent you ran your hand down the scales in wonder.

“Do you think I’m a monster now?” he asked when the silence stretched for too long, with a level of uncertainty that broke your heart.

A monster? You couldn’t believe your ears weren’t deceiving you.

“Rafayel, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” you said with no hesitation.

This silly man, you thought to yourself. He has no idea how truly amazing he is inside and out in any and all his forms.

You had to show him just how stunning and gorgeous he was. And just like that your mission under the code name “Artist Turned Muse” began.

Then came his drawing lessons…

You asked Rafayel to teach you because of an assignment for a work-related event that you totally didn’t make up. It was all a lie, of course. However, you soon found those lessons to be counterproductive and your teacher quite distracting. So, you had to find some other way to make it work.

A friend of yours who frequents all kinds of workshops has been recommending to you quite a few of them for a while now. When she started listing them all, one of them hit close to home. 

“That’s it!” you exclaimed, then hummed to yourself. Paper mache was something you could work with; you were pretty good when it came to working with your hands. Though, it’s been a while since the last time you did anything of the sorts, so you were probably really rusty. That’s why you decided to go to that workshop your friend suggested.

Fast-forward four weeks later, you’re very close to finish and the mini merman Rafayel seems quite close to how the real one looked. You’ve spent quite some time on research, buying materials, and crafting and painting, of course. Additionally, you somehow managed to keep it all a secret from Rafayel, which, truth be told, was the most difficult part of this but you really wanted to make it a surprise.

One day he even showed up at your place uninvited; your hands and clothes were all covered in glue and you had to change and wash up as fast as you could. When he dramatically asked why it took you forever to let him in, you made up an excuse—the first thing that came to your mind—Rafayel seemed to believe it though, because no additional questions came.

Now you’re looking at your creation, it’s almost done, only some finishing touches left. You trace the prominent fleshed out scales of the tail with your fingers. It probably needs some glitter, though using the glue gun to make beads reminiscent of water droplets was a great idea. The goofy little smile you drew on mini Raf’s face makes you huff out a laugh.

That’s when you hear the door to your apartment open. Right away you jump off the chair you were sitting on. There are only two options here: either someone’s breaking in to rob you, or it’s Rafayel who has keys to your apartment, and at this moment you’re not sure which one is worse.

In case it’s really a robbery—which is highly unlikely given that it’s still daytime—you pick up your gun before stepping out of your bedroom. Seeing Rafayel with his hands crossed across his chest in the middle of your living room, you exhale closing the door behind you and putting your gun aside.

“Hello? What happened to knocking?” you try to lighten up the mood with a joke but Rafayel is still frowning for some reason.

Rafayel heaves a deep sigh and says, “I know you’ve been lying to me for weeks. And I know what you’ve been doing behind my back.”

Oh-oh. How did he even find out? That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is he’s upset, like, really, really upset. You weren’t expecting him to take it this badly, though.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean to lie to you…” you say looking at your feet guiltily. Man, surprises are truly exhausting, you’ve spent so much time and effort to keep it a secret and now you’re being reprimanded like a kid for it.

“But you did. I hate it when you lie to me, I’d take a knife in the heart over a lie to my face any day,” Rafayel sounds serious, like never before. 

He’s being a bit too dramatic considering the circumstances, in your opinion, however it is true that he’s very sensitive, so it hurts to hear him this vulnerable. “I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone behind your back.”

Somehow, Rafayel looks even more hurt after those words leave your mouth. “So, you weren’t even considering the option of not doing it in the first place?” He looks like a puppy that’s been repeatedly kicked in the gut and you’re starting to regret every life choice that has led you to this point. This little project of yours was supposed to empower him and make him feel accepted and loved by you but he just looks like he’s witnessed the biggest betrayal of all.

“I—I didn’t think you’d be so against it, to be honest.” The guilt is swallowing you whole at this point; you just want to hide your head in the sand.

“Why—how could you think I wouldn’t be against such a thing? I mean, I probably could deal with it but at the very least you should’ve said something to me beforehand!” And he’s angry again, huffing and puffing. His cheeks are flushed and you’d say he looks cute if not for the hurt etched into every inch of his face.

“Can we at least talk about it honestly now?” he sounds resigned. “Can you tell me the whole thing from the start?”

“Okay,” you nod and finally get closer to him sitting on the sofa beside him, so that you’re face to face. “I first thought about doing this when you showed me your tail,” you start and hear Rafayel’s breath hitch. He looks teary-eyed—though not a single tear falls—and more vulnerable than ever. Oh God, you knew he was very self-conscious and insecure about his lemurian form, you should’ve never tried anything like making a replica of it. “I’m sorry, Rafayel, I should’ve asked you if you were comfortable with me doing anything like this, it was stupid.” Considering how much of a touchy subject Lemuria is for him and how for centuries humans have been using lemurians for all sorts of purposes.

“So, you decided to find someone else because I’m not human?”

What?

No, that’s not right. 

“WHAT?” That’s more like it. You sound absolutely appalled at the idea. How—where did this even come from—

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no, this is a disaster. A complete disaster.

“Rafayel, please tell me what exactly you thought I was lying to you about?”

He still looks distraught as he tries to say, “That you were…” inhale, pause, exhale, “seeing someone else?” his voice uncertain now.

Oh hell no.

“Of course, I wasn’t,” you say as you cup Rafayel’s cheeks. He looks into your eyes and your heart breaks all over again. This silly man thought you were cheating on him and still didn’t say a word until today? And he said he could “deal with it” if you warned him about it? Oh, you need to put an end to this right now.

You don’t even care that the figurine isn’t quite finished yet, you take Rafayel’s hand and lead him into your room. “Ta-da,” you jokingly half whisper, motioning your hand towards the mess that is your desk and workspace in general. The mini Rafayel proudly laying in the middle of it all.

“What’s this…” Rafayel looks around the room, probably still expecting another man to jump out of the closet.

“I was making a paper mache figurine of you, you silly man! There was no other man I was seeing,” you say reassuringly and then add a little sly remark, “Well, if you don’t count this little fishie as one.”

And finally, there’s a glimmer of life in Rafayel’s eyes. “So, you’re not having an affair?”

“Of course, I’m not,” you say one more time, squeezing his hand tighter.

“Thank goodness!” Rafayel exclaims, scoops you up and spins you around, a yelp of surprise escaping your mouth.

“How could you even think I’d be interested in anyone else when I have you?” Your head spins a bit and you can’t stop a little giggle from coming out because, honestly, this whole interaction and misunderstanding is ridiculous. “I don’t need nor do I want any other man when I already have the one I love,” is what you choose to say instead of mocking him. (Though you absolutely will tease him relentlessly and will never let him live this down)

“Yeah, I know…” he says, avoiding your gaze. But does he really?

“I love you, Rafayel.”

“I know,” he repeats.

“No, you don’t. I love you. I am in love with every version of you, in every way, shape, and form you come,” you say because he needs to hear this. “I love you yet I feel like that word can’t even come close to what I feel towards you. It’s so, so much bigger than what words could convey. Please don’t ever doubt that.” You peck his lips to emphasize your point.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” he says but he doesn’t look guilty, in fact, he finally looks like himself, grinning from ear to ear and pecking you in return.

“Don’t be,” you reply. “But…”

“But?” Rafayel lifts one of his brows up.

“Don’t you wanna say something in return?” you teasingly drawl the last word.

Rafayel smirks and clears his throat before saying, “Oh? What could that possibly be?”

“I don’t know, maybe something that would correspond with what I said to you earlier?” Your fingers creep up his arm to his shoulder and then flick his nose.

“Ooooh, you mean that,” he articulates exaggeratedly. “Yeah, sure, cutie. I love me, too.”

You playfully slap his arm and pinch it hard. 

“Ouch! That hurt!” he exclaims but that doesn’t deter you. You keep pinching him, then start tickling him all over his body, as he falls onto your bed and wheezes. “Okay, fine, I yield!” A pause. “I love you, too.” He’s holding both your hands by the wrists, so you can’t keep tickling him. Then his breathy laughs stop, his eyes growing softer, more sincere. “I have loved you my whole life. And not just this one. I’ve loved you in every lifetime before this one and I will keep doing so in every following one.”

Now it’s your turn to hold your breath. Sometimes he just says the corniest, cheesiest, most romantic things in the world out of the blue and you’re just left there to pick up the million pieces it shatters you into.

You’re fiercely blushing, so you clear your throat and try to joke your way out of this. “Can you maybe pretend to forget about the mini fishie over there until I finish working on it?”

Rafayel laughs out loud and kisses your forehead. “No problem, cutie. Sorry I ruined your surprise,” he says. “But you should probably stop ever trying to lie again, you really suck at it.”

[grandline-fics]

Could I request something with Law please? I'm not sure if you do NSFW stuff or not, but if you do could it maybe be something about after a one night stand, reader finds out her eggo is preggo and how law reacts?

If you don't do NSFW that's totally fine too! Maybe something about Law having a crush on femme reader who joins the crew, but they don't know she's a devil fruit user until a battle and they see her in action? She has a logia type that allows her to control water and become water.

DESCRIPTION: You find out you’re pregnant after a one-night stand

WARNINGS:  Mentions of pregnancy, suggestive descriptions but nothing explicit, some angst

CHARACTERS: Law

WORDS: 1,121

A/N: Sorry you had to wait so long for this and I hope you like what I managed to come up with for the pregnancy prompt

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

MASTERLIST

———————

Law knew a distraction would jeopardise the plan he’d formed. He knew letting himself have his attention be diverted from the goal at hand was stupid. He was the personification of logic and yet he still found himself looking across the room at the sound of your laughter. He knows better, he should know better. Now was not the time to be drawn in like some lovesick child. Still he can’t help himself. He can’t help how he feels about you, or how he keeps thinking about  the way his hands twitch, wanting to feel you again. He’d told himself one lapse of judgement was enough, as amazing as it had been. As he lifted his drink to his mouth, he couldn’t help but compare the taste to the memory of you. You were far more intoxicating, dizzying, and delicious than any alcohol that passed his lips. 

When you tucked your hair behind your ear as you talked with one of the crew, the action exposing your neck that he knew was sensitive. His dark eyes flickered to your fingers, lightly cradling your drink and something new came to his mind. Throughout the night he had yet to see you take a single drink from your cup. If he hadn’t been failing miserably to ignore you he wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Suddenly his mind switched to that of the focused doctor and watched you for a reason that wasn’t because of his feelings he was in denial about.

Any time you lifted the cup to your lips as though you were about to take a drink, you would lower it to continue the conversation you were having. It happened far too much to be a coincidence. Law knew you well enough to know nothing would interrupt you from drinking if it was what you wanted. There was only one reason why you would do this. Without thinking he rose suddenly and crossed the room, whatever Penguin was about to say to you died on his tongue at the appearance of your Captain who was looking far too intense. You looked over your shoulder and kept your expression impassive, your gaze only dropping when his hand gripped your upper arm. “We need to talk.” he told you sharply, leaving no chance for you to answer before he was all but pulling you out of the bar and leaving the rest of the crew behind to enjoy the rest of their night. 

“So what’s wrong Captain?” you asked calmly, pulling free from his grip and ignoring how his eye twitched at the title. The last time you’d called him by his name was the night you’d spent together and after agreeing it was best being left as a one time thing, you reverted back to only addressing him as your Captain in order to make things simpler. When Law didn’t immediately answer your question you turned to face him fully. “You sounded urgent in the bar. So is there an issue or isn’t there?”

“Are you pregnant?” The question was soft and yet it hit you hard, the implication of the reality you’d been trying not to think about was said aloud. It had been only a couple of weeks since you and Law slept together but you hadn’t even thought about the possibility of being pregnant until Penguin handed you your drink in the bar. Law, ever observant seemed to notice almost instantly just from your behaviour in one evening and you could curse him for that skill. Why couldn’t you have had just a little more time to come to terms with it on your own first and then tell him yourself? “I honestly don’t know.” Was the only answer you could manage out.  

He could have used his Devil Fruit then and there to find out for sure but instead the two of you walked back to the sub and he found a pregnancy test in the medical supplies for you to take. Perhaps it was to give you both more time in tense, ignorant bliss, the strange limbo of it still being only a possibility and not a certainty. You sat beside him, staring at a medical chart on the far wall, anything to avoid looking at the test, your stomach, or Law. 

“If it is positive-” his voice began slowly and you let out a small hollow scoff that interrupted him.

“Probably worked out well we’d docked on an island. Don’t have to worry about any more traveling.”

“You’d leave?” Law asked tightly. 

“You’d want me…us to stay?” You asked finally looking at him, confused about why he seemed so pained about you going. “You didn’t want a relationship because it was too much of a distraction which I understand and respect. A baby would take you from your goals even more than just being with me would. I wouldn’t stay only for you to resent my presence or the baby’s. If there is one.” You explained before rubbing your neck. This was such a mess and all your fault, you knew pursuing Law would be a bad idea. With him being your Captain and knowing he was focussed solely on his own ambition it was going to end badly but you just had to go and let your emotions get the better of you. 

Law reached forward and lifted the test into his hand, staring at the tiny little mark that felt like a huge weight in his hands, the tiny mark that signified the new life he was responsible for. The Surgeon of Death had created a life. He’d never considered it before, or rather he’d never allowed himself to think about something like this. Having a family was a cruel and dangerous daydream to indulge in after losing his own and Cora. It was painful to think about repairing some of that trauma and yet here he was now faced with that reality. Could he allow himself to have something good again? Yes there would be risks but if it was with you, wasn’t it worth it?

He glanced at you to see your eyes had locked into the result on the pregnancy test. You were completely frozen, as though frightened to make a noise or any movement out of fear of disturbing him. Suddenly you jumped when his hand settled over yours that had been resting on your lap, the action causing his fingers to graze against your stomach. Just holding your hand was enough to make him feel more grounded, more settled from the previous yearning he’d had when you were apart. Law took a breath, lifting his head to meet your stare. You could both do this. “Please stay.”

[tvhsleb3ww]

LOVE IS NOT OVER! - OIKAWA TOORU

yeah i used a bts song as the title bc i ran out of ideas 🥴

summary, your blind date is your ex boyfriend from high school!?

minor swearing, praise (cute, hot, sexy), depression, heartbreak, tooru being dumb

read part 2 here!

now, there were plenty of beautiful women in Tokyo. millions! but why oh why did the universe hate him so much to the point they sent you as his blind date.

that's right. you. his ex. his first love, his high school sweetheart, his best friend and the same girl who stole his heart and stomped on it until it broke into a million pieces. it was simply unbelievable.

you turned him into a depressed man after you broke up with him because you thought it was better to go seperate ways. okay, maybe it was for the better because now he's a superstar volleyball player and now you're doing whatever. and he's one hundred percent sure that you're succeeding in whatever the hell you're doing because holy fuck do you look like a goddess right now.

of course, dating his ex was not written on his workbook. he never would go back to his exes. that he can swear he'd never do but right now he's starting to contemplate whatever mindset he has going on. in full honesty, he's still bitter and upset at you for dumping him due to stupid reasons. it has been years since you last saw each other.

Third Year of High School

" you're not even giving me a chance here! "

his voice broke as tears welled up in his eyes. his hands holding onto yours as he intertwined his fingers with yours. his lips remain a frown as he looked at you. you sighed and remain your gaze on him.

" tooru, it's not that like that "

he clicked his tongue at your words. bullshit. that's all he thinks right now. he lets go of his grip on your hands as he looked at you with glassy eyes. he bites down his bottom lip to control himself from actually breaking down in front of you.

" so, you're gonna give up on us? "

his question remains unanswered as you stayed quiet. he sighed, looks like he got his answer. you sighed and crossed your arms. you couldn't bare to look at him right now in his vulnerable state. you feel like you just got shot by a million arrows from how bad you're hurting him.

" i just think it's better if we go on our seperate ways"

back to the present, he didn't expect you. first of all, he didn't even want to go on this stupid blind date in the first place but his awful yet amazing friends kept pestering him to do this. saying that "you're too obsessed with volleyball get a life", blah blah blah. he just rolled his eyes to their statement but he still went.

so, it wasn't his friends' fault for setting him up with his ex. or is it?

both of you sat in silence for a whole minute inside the busy yet quiet café. both of you had ordered your drinks and tooru swears that his matcha latte is almost finished from how often he kept sipping it.

he quickly clears his throat before finally saying something.

"long time no see"

okay that did not sound as badass as he thought it was gonna be. it kinda sounded corny. he took a second to cringe at himself before looking at you. god, he wanted to curse the heavens because how dare they make him hate this amazing woman!?

from head to toe you're perfect. tooru would fight anyone who says the opposite. you got so much prettier in the last couple of years too. your hair, your eyes, your lips, your face, your ass-

that was a little overboard, he thought. he's not supposed to be thinking this! you broke his heart and he hates you!

" yeah, you look great "

god, he wanted to melt on the spot. the same voice that haunted his dreams for years. still so sweet and so good to listen to. he looks great? woah! does that mean you're complimenting him? what is great? his physique? his personality? he had to bite his bottom lip to cover his smile and remain his scowl.

" pfft- i know "

you rolled your eyes at his words. ah, tooru always as smug as he can be. but he did in fact looked great, he looked healthy and more muscular. indeed, seperation was better for both of you. of course you knew about his growth in the volleyball world, he was the talk of the year. based on the scowl on his face, you're sure he's still being petty about what happened between the two of you.

" i see that your ego is still bigger than your ass "

he gasped at that statement. his eyes narrowed down at you as he crossed his toned arms. he's gotten tan too from the Argentina sun. it's a good look on him, not gonna lie.

" at least, i didn't leave people at their lowest points "

touché but it was a terrible comeback. tooru has always been horrible at comebacks. it did however managed to shaken things up a little bit. you clicked your tongue and rolled her eyes. same old petty tooru.

" i'm sorry, alright? that was a long time ago "

" you don't seem sorry "

" at least i'm apologizing "

" yeah but years after that- "

you groaned loudly making him snicker. he always enjoyed driving you crazy. to him, it was cute to see you all fired up and he just likes to piss people off in general. he leans back on his chair as his gaze remains on you.

" so quickly agitated, (y/n) "

he commented making you huff and roll your eyes.

" you're still as annoying as you'll ever be "

" annoyingly hot you mean "

" maybe because you came from hell "

his smug grin falters and drops at your comeback. he scowls and huffs at your now smug expression. this interaction was gonna be interesting. you just wiggled your eyebrows at him to piss him off even further.

ugh, he hates you. he hates how sassy and teasing you can get. he hates the fact that he finds it cute and sexy at the same time. why is it so sexy when you put him in his place!?

he clears his throat again after a minute of whole silence.

" you know, i hate you right "

you sighed softly and rolled your eyes for what seems about the nth time now.

" and it's completely my fault, i know "

he wanted to say yeah it is. you're to blame for the heartbreak pain he felt for years.

after he flew away to Argentina, he couldn't sleep at night wondering about you, he devoted himself fully to his career because he didn't want to think about you, he tried going out with other women but they all just weren't you.

but right now, it's as if he wanted to push that ego away and forget everything that has happened in the past couple years and just grab your face and kiss you with everything he's got.

and he's not leaving this date until he does exactly that.

[alexanderlightweight]

Hello hello and happy Wednesday!! I hope your week has been good and continues to get better! I’ve been reading through your ao3 page and was wondering if you have anything for “all your cracks I’ll paint gold”? It’s one of my favorites! If not then consider this a free space to write whatever you want! Sfw/nsfw I don’t mind either! What’s something that made you smile today? Mine was my dog being cute while I brushed her she does a BIG stretch everytime I get to her back legs!

It has been a long week? like I don't even know its just been one of those weeks. the only thing getting me through it is writing? so at least there is that ^_^ and Nightshade who ensures I get plenty of cuddles and exercise.

Say stopped a bakery and got me taro and red bean buns which was really sweet of them and made me smile! and Nightshade got so upset that I left him at home today that we had to sit together on the ground because he kept knocking us both off of furniture with upset zoomies... in my lap lol. that sounds adorable, I love stretchy-paws

i hope you enjoy

<3 lumine

all your cracks I'll paint gold

Alec’s place in the shadowworld is no longer certain and he knows that, yet despite how he should feel adrift, he feels nothing but certainty. 

Alec belongs to Magnus, in a way beyond the ties of Alec’s once-oaths to the Clave or even his tether to Raziel.  If Alec has a place in the shadowworld, then it’s simply to be and exist at Magnus’ side.

Alec is more than a husband, a lover or even a consort to Magnus.

He is Magnus’ devotee and his adoration for Magnus is what now ties Alec to the lifeblood of this realm and the power that binds it together.

Still, there’s no actual name for what Alec is now, or the place that he currently fills in Magnus’ life.

In fact Alec is pretty sure that the only reason they’re not going with just ‘consort’ is because Magnus didn’t feel that it was elevated enough.  And considering it’s his magic and power and the demonic runes of his bloodline that keep Alec whole and hale, then Alec is fine with him creating a fancy title or whatever Magnus wants to do.

As long as Alec has veto powers.

Alec is not going to let Magnus get away with making a pun that they’ll both have to live with for the very long rest of their lives.  Alec is only just beginning to enjoy living again and looking forward to the future, he doesn’t want anything to threaten that.

Especially not Ragnor’s naming sense and Magnus’ love for puns.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like it will come down to Alec needing to use his veto. Magnus returns from whatever library he threw himself into four hours before and there is so much delight in his face that Alec knows whatever Magnus has picked will be what he accepts.

Even if it is something terrible or a pun.

How could he not? When Magnus looks so breathlessly happy and utterly thrilled.

—

Of course his Alexander is on the roof.

Magnus wonders why he even bothers to think otherwise or look elsewhere and summons a portal accordingly.  His feet feel as though he’s walking on the breeze.  The mood boosting him and buoying every step the closer he gets to his sweet Alexander.

It took a rather long time and Magnus had to go through the archives of what titles had been lost to time, left unused, could be recrafted or just what he could use that would be sure to give Alexander a place of honor.

A title to bear with the same pride — if not more — than he did his title of bloodied shadowhunter and runed Commander.

All doubt flees the moment he sees Alexander’s gaze.

It’s soft and indulgent and so loving that Magnus knows he’s won without even trying.  Perhaps it would be a sad victory for someone else, but the fact that Magnus has won what he wants simply by being so excited that Alexander won’t say no, it thrills him.

Who else has ever cared for something as simple as stoking Magnus’ excitement rather than dimming it?

Besides Catarina and Ragnor of course.

Magnus can hardly take time to breath, the need to hold and touch and feel Alexander beneath his palms and magic is suddenly too intense.

The runes that have been seared onto Alexander’s skin go soul-deep and Magnus can feel the mutual longing engulfing them as they finally meet again.

Even just a few hours seem endless when it takes Magnus from his boy’s side.

“Beloved— Magnus greets and Alec kisses him without hesitation or comment, just a soft delighted laughter and the press of dry, sun-warm lips to his own. “I have—” and then Magnus has nothing to say because Alexander’s arms are around him and Magnus has better things to think about.

Like how Alexander smells like moss and sunshine and the sap of his favorite tree and Magnus nuzzles against him, breathing deeply and just letting everything in and around him settle.

A few moments pass as they sway in place and then Alexander presses a gentle kiss to his jaw and nudges Magnus with his nose.

“You have?”

His voice is deep and teasing and Magnus would love to let himself drift in the sweetness of the moment but alas, duty calls.

“I have you, darling. My consort, my love, a devotee to my very soul and the unholy blood in my veins, my archon.”

[gardenofhearts]

Crawling back to you

࿔˚⋆Just a little something I wrote inspired by the hozier cover of the same title. I haven't uploaded anything in so long and it's my first entry in the jujutsu kaisen fandom, so I'm a lil rusty ⋆˚࿔

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader Lenght: ~1.8k Warnings: suggestive, slightly nsfw but no actual smut bc I'm a pussy (jk), angst-ish, fluf, English not being my first language

Satoru laid on his king sized bed, surrounded by soft silken sheets, cold against his hot flushed skin. His head was throbbing from the alcohol he had begrudgingly drunk a few hours before, every sip leaving him grimacing.

The bitter taste of his drinks still lingered in his mouth, but the buzz had long worn off. The memories of his time at the bar with his friends was hazy, all he could remember was that he needed to forget and his friends were happy to help, dragging him to a bar.

“Alcohol is the best remedy,” Shoko declared , in her usual nonchalant manner, as she put a beer in his hands. Satoru had looked at the glass with some disdain, reluctant to drink the bitter liquid. He detested alcohol, detested what it did to his mind and body.

After the first sips the memories became hazier and hazier, but the one thing he didn’t forget was the taste of said alcohol and the one person he wanted to forget, the addiction that kept plaguing his mind. So in a drunken stupor he had picked up his phone, typed out a message, send it and downed the last bit of whatever alcohol was in front him.

Now hours later, he sat up with a sigh, “fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand across his face. Although he could feel the fatigue in his bones, sleep would not come. He moved his hands around next to him in a frenzied manner, searching for his phone that he had tossed somewhere on his bed when he returned home.

Once he felt the cold metal of his phone, he unlocked it staring at the clock at the top: 4:24am.

His eyes didn’t stay there long, he opened up his Imessage to look at the last message he had send. Under the text bubble it said - read - it taunted him. His message wasn’t even bad so why was he getting ignored? He sighed before shutting off his phone once more and putting it on his nightstand.

This night was going to be a long night.

You were lazing about on your friend’s couch, her soft snore and hums of her fridge the only sounds you could hear. Hours ago she had called you in desperation asking you to come to her. She had sobbed in your arms, already half drunk, as she told you about her recent break up.

Not long after, you too had joined her in drinking, although with more moderation. Were she took gulps of the red wine, you took sips, if anything were to happen you wouldn’t be too drunk. She recounted the tales of how her relationship deteriorated in a matter of weeks, before finally cascading down the cliff it had been perching on,. It shattered and broke, much like her heart. It was already late, later than you would normally stay up but you would do anything for your friends…

Perhaps you did a bit too much…

After you put a blanket over your friends shoulder as she dozed off, your phoned pinged.

Gojo Satoru

You ignored it for a while, opting instead to clean up the mess you had made with your friend; wine bottles, some snack bags, some clothes, whatever you thought would help ease the load on her shoulders. Yet those menial chores weren’t enough to take your mind off the message. You two hadn’t talked in a while. The last time you had even seen him not much talking had been done unless you call the breathless moans, grunts, scratches on his back, fingerprints on your thighs talking. Well they do call it body language for a reason.

You sat back down on the couch, taking your phone and unlocking it.

"I miss you"

You let out a deep sigh, your heart beating just a tad faster upon reading it, not immune to the effect of those three little words. He missed you? He missed you. He missed you at 2:05 am. You scoffed as you thought over the implication, was this how your friendship had turned out? Booty calls at ungodly hours? Or was it a confession of something more? You never quite knew with him.

The first time you had slept with Gojo had been a mistake. Adrenaline, fear, yearning after nearly losing each other all of it had become the cataclysm of feelings buried and unsaid. Years of tension, gazes and touches all amalgamated into that moment.

The second time had been a deliberate, sober choice, on both ends. Lonely and desperate you both had searched for each other, searched for the other’s body as if it were a life line. He understood you, you understood him. Both sorcerers, both unable to attach yourselves to anyone in fear of losing them. Both lonely. If the first time was a tsunami crashing upon your lives, this had been a soft wave caressing the shore.

And after the third time it became a habit, an addiction. No matter how far apart, no matter how made up your mind was to end it, you always found your way back to each other. It was as if powers of cosmic level pushed you both together for reasons unknown. You were drawn to each other in a way you could never explain.

you completed each other.

He was in your dreams, he was in your sheets, he was everywhere. You couldn’t imagine a life without him, so why should you?

---

Gojo Saturo didn’t give access to his appartment to just anyone, it was in a secure building, filled with business men, models, diplomats and every other elite you could think off. When the bell rang and echoed through his empty home at 5am sharp, he swiped a hand over his face to get rid of some of the grogginess that had been clinging to him since he left the bar.

He made his way through the hallways and rooms he had no real use for, watching as the first glimmers of dawn made their presence known through the windows.

He stood in front of the door, surprised by the face he saw in the video feed of his intercom. His heart sped up, the weariness of the past days slowly ebbing away. A smile made found a place on his face, and suddenly the world seemed a touch brighter.

He opened to door with a surprising vigour, shocking both parties with the swiftness of the motion.

You looked up from where you had been staring at the specks on the tiles of the outside hallway, coming face to face with the most hauntingly beautiful blue eyes.

“Hey,” you said breathless, giving him a soft smile. “Hey”, he replied, “you’re here.” You let out a short chuckle at that, smiling just a bit brighter, “you texted,” Satoru hummed in reply, “I did. I just didn’t expect you to show up at my front door.”

“I missed you too,” you said, partly ignoring his last words, not quite sure yourself what came over you when hopped in your car after securing the well being of your friend and driving to his place. Perhaps it was an invisible string that pulled you together.

He smiled at your words and leaned in closer, never breaking eye contact as his hand reached up to cradle you cheek. The tenderness of the moment caused an ache in your heart. He held you as if you were something precious, something to be cherished, a precious flower he didn’t want to crush.

He leaned in even closer and then your lips were upon each other. Tentative, slow, sweet. Your hands found their place around his waist, feeling his cold skin and gasping a bit with how cold he truly felt. Your gasp made him chuckle against your lips, and he cradled your head even closer, deepening the kiss. Your heart was beating miles a minute, you could feel the blood pumping through your veins and heating you up from inside out.

Here you were again, kissing him again.

Yet it didn’t feel wrong, it didn’t feel bad. It felt just right, like pieces of a puzzle slotting together. You had missed it, the brief time apart.

He broke the kiss briefly to pull you both inside, not exactly in the mood to give the security guard a show. No words were spoken as you made your way through his apartment.

Just like all the times before your bodies did the talking. In his living room you took of your shirt as he took of his pants, but the loss of contact was brief. He soon pulled you back in, kissing your lips before making his way to your cheek, to the side of your jaw and then to your neck.

The sensation of his mouth on your neck left you gasping, soft moans leaving you as he sucked and kissed. After all this time, he knew how to play your body like a fiddle and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You stumbled into his bedroom, mouths barely detaching as you took off the remaining articles of clothing. When your chest touched his a soft gasp left you, the coldness of him and the room causing your nipples to stiffen and a shiver to run up your spine.

The kiss deepened as he massaged your tongues with his, rolling them over each other in a desperate way. Almost as if he was trying to become even closer with you. This became even more evident by the way he was pulling you into him.

You were so close together, you could feel the rapid thumping of his heart, and you put your hand above to feel it. You pushed slightly, lips barely detaching as you took a moment to breathe. The fire that was raging within you both threatened to consume you so you had to temper it, had to speak of what you wanted.

His eyes were boring into yours as you breathed in each others air, god it was intoxicating. “I want you”, you whispered, and you saw as a spark ignited in his eyes, pupils blown impossibly wider , no doubt mirroring you own. If you looked closely, you could see yourself reflected in his eyes.

“I want you too,” he replied, giving your lips a soft peck,”so much,”

You took the moment to wind your fingers through the bottom part of his undercut, feeling the short hairs. “I want all of you.” One of your hands traced a path to his heart, back to where you had previously laid it, and you looked up at him, “all of you”

His breathe came out in a shutter, as the meaning of your words dawned on him. “no more denying, no more hiding, no more-” your rubbed your hand over his heart -”secrecy.”

Satoru gulped, closing his eyes and letting his forehead rest against yours, before nodding. “Yeah,” he whispered, unsure of what to say, his mind going rampant with thoughts but none coherent. “Yeah no more,” he whispered again, kissing your jaw and pecking both cheeck before stopping right in front of your lips.

“No more,” he whispered once more again your lips, before pressing them against yours in the sweetest of kisses.

It was a sacred vow between you both. A vow you both swore that night you to keep forever.

[what-if-i-like-my-mechs-older]

Pt4

Soundwave put a hand on the mechs shoulder, they still didn't know what his name was and yet this Autobot was daring to make advances on his leader.

Not only that he'd heard his Leaders systems actually stall a moment, too be fair this one had a pretty face and curves, but Megatron didn't need the distraction especially from someone wearing the enemy insignia.

Soundwave answered for Megatron who was still staring.

"An upstart, but you will also be detained in the brig if you carry this on autobot."

Optimus paused , realising they didn't know his name. Should he give them his title name or the one he had when he was first brought online?

No doubt there was an Optimus in this world so maybe his original designation....but should he give his name at all?

Megatron was the one to brush Soundwave's hand off their 'guest'.

"I deal with enough of this off of Starscream, do you think I cannot handle myself?"

Before Soundwave could even reply , Optimus chimed in

"Oh is Starscream as much of a traitor in this world to? I managed to hack one of his wings off once..."

And because he was around the Con's perhaps throwing in a bit of darkness to his voice would win favour

"And mounted it to my wall, it's span no doubt roughly the height you are Megatron."

Both the Cons stopped and looked at him.

"Impossible, no seeker has such a wing span."

Soundwave snapped , purposely prodding at the Autobots symbol.

"Maybe in this world...but you were built by Megatron as a toy, to be his new body in mine. Though you did gain sentience, made your own body bigger, ever the clever ruthless , relentless Soundwave...what do you turn into anyway?"

The Decepticons visor flashed brightly for a brief second, how embarrassing that his alternative self had started out no more than a child's plaything.

"Your attempts to cause ire within me will not work Autobot."

"I dunno, seems like it's working pretty-"

"Enough the both of you, you are not sparklings. As for whatever your name is, while I may be impressed by your war trophies boasting about it on the Decepticon base is highly inadvisable."

Megatron couldn't believe he was having to stop one of his most reasonable soldiers from having an argument with this mech...also this mechs attention should be on him...only on him.

His fingers twitched as he heard their guest make a tsk sound, roll his optics, top lip curling as he looked away and sulked.

No, don't pout that way, if you're going to pout look at me...on your knees, those lips, the thought of holding his face with one hand, a thumb teasing over the bottom one and...and...no...yes...but no.

He did how ever reach up and touch his shoulder, tracing then stripes either side of the autobot symbol.

"These what do they mean?"

"What an awful host, all questions, no refreshments, do you make everyone this dry when they talk to you?"

Soundwave had not missed the temperature rise from Megatron and shook his head. He would need to keep an eye on both of them.

Especially when Megatron actually stumbled over his words, the Decepticon had not missed the meaning behind the autobots innuendo and then pointed at Soundwave.

"Get him some energon now!"

Soundwave grumbled internally.

[Oh for Primus's sake]

Next one

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First one

[lokiostasis]

Politician!Reader x Finnick Odair

Both Feel The Same When Your Eyes Are Closed (1.7k)

Twelve begins with this, as much does, with this and his mother. She is multifarious. Steady at the grindstone. A wit sharper than his father’s, with mind and word; courageous; cunning, and—of all—compassionate. With mind and word, she grants her son many little shining beads of hope. To him, she urges that he don these ‘round his neck, bare them polished, but to never tell his father or of the rapier. 

~

It had been a good night. Well. As good as the nights leading up to the games usually were. There was always an excessive amount of events to strut wealth about, though you’d never been sure who it was for. The tributes certainly didn’t care, and everyone here knows everyone else. If you hadn’t been raised in this circle, you’d likely never join it. And you’d been born on the edges, but with a good solid smile and a sharper tongue than being a radio show host like your mother required. So it’d been this game, slowly pulling in, amassing wealth without real need. 

There are mentors, victors, whatever you’d want to call Snow’s dolls out here tonight. They’ll be trying to secure sponsors, you remember. It’d been a while since you’d watched the games, so a few newer faces weren’t very discernable. Two from District 4, a few from 1 and 2, oh, hey, isn’t that the woman from District… 7? Who somewhat yelled at you and your conversation partner, drunk as a whale, a year ago?

You’re still cataloging when someone slips a drink into your hand, something a little too sweet for your tastes, but you know how to play, so before looking, you slip a light crease at the eyes and turn. It’s District 4, male. You don’t remember his name, but you don’t remember many names- people who work with Snow often lie into roses themselves, so there hasn’t been much reason to remember anything but titles.

“Hey, sweetheart. Saw you takin’ a peek from all the way over,” he says, sultry, and you allow yourself to enjoy the carefully crafted tone of voice faded into ease. “Mm.. I suppose I’ve not been hiding myself nearly enough for a clever eye like yours,” you tell him smoothly, sipping the drink just once before setting it on the nearby bar where it’ll be forgotten. 

His posture is relaxed, just the right amount, white shirt buttoned down enough that it’s barely buttoned at all, hair tossuled. He’s well tanned and well kept in general, with a fake smile to rival your own. “I guess not, hm? Nice getup, though. The bracelets are a vintage touch- a bit classier than the others, aren’t you, sweets?” he says, voice a bit soft, coaxing. Praising styles is a pretty good strategy, even you’d memorized all kinds of flat-toe shoes in grade school.

“Well, I’m pleased you liked them. They’re just some scarf linings braided, but let’s keep that between us, no?” you reply with a small smirk. That is the truth- some kid in District One had been selling them when you had walked back through town from your meeting, needing a bit of fresh air. He’d been kind of scruffy- shame that he was a district kid, could be a stylist if he was born to a different family. There’s just a creeping of surprise of 4’s face at hearing the reason, and he makes the next move.

A hand against your waist, at the well-fitted but slightly uncomfortable faded black hem, thumb hooked over the belt. You don’t say anything immediately, letting the hair at the back of your neck stop standing up, sudden contact. “Who’re you rootin’ for, love?” he says, and you quickly flash the statistics, trying to block the sensation of a pale thumb sliding along the belt without pushing off and drawing attention.

“Haven’t picked yet, they’ve drawn names?” you ask, considering the time. It’s a bit early, no? “This morning, didn’t you-” he cuts off, swapping the perplexed look for a more suave one. “Must’ve missed it, then. I imagine you have some good ones?” You prompt, and he looks a bit sad when he says that they’re both promising, but the boy- he’s brilliant, very skilled. He’s selling, and you’re not sure if buying is quite the right idea. 

…It is prefferable to entertaining the lovely Mrs and Mr Chaffin sniffing around, at least. “They’re both 17 this year? Well, good for them. Better shot, statistically then. It’s been a few years since you’ve had a victor, no?” you ask, tone light but not missing the sudden stiffness that slips through him at the mention.

You remember seeing clips of that last game, just because it had been sent by a campaigning ally as a joke, some odd analogy comparing children trying to keep their heads above water to the surge in networking apperances around the annual game season. Haha, very comparable. But it’s entertainment, and here we love entertainment. 

The victor has managed to drape one of his arms against yours at some point, leaning in, casual. He’s a little taller than you, but seems to be putting an effort to dull down the intimidation. “They are, both promising… and well, sweetheart, I can promise you more than a good show if you bet on the winning lot this year.” he says, eyes a bit lidded.

He’s been sipping from your drink a bit- rather, the one you hadn’t cared for, but seems only lightly spritzed, putting in effort to seem more of a ditz than he is. He’s closer to your face now and despite yourself, a bit of something licks in your gut as his chin is almost and inch away from being against your sternum. 

Pink, slightly bitten lips, drowsed seafoam eyes that the Capitol must fawn over, plus that soft tone. Well, he’s pretty, and persuasive, if nothing. “But, but!” he interjects as if forseeing the polite decline coming, which he probably did, experienced as he is. “Enough about the best rated showing of the year, tell me something about yourself!” and he’s going the flattery route, and though you can tell it’s a little fabricated, this strategy suits him. The older lady from his district taught him well, good on her. “Ah, not much to say. You know who I am, or you wouldn’t be at my gala, no? I enjoy a good coffee, I work with the goverment, but I can’t say on what for the sake of confedientiallity.” you tell him. And none of it is a lie, barely even by ommision. You won’t say sugar in it makes you sick or that you have no idea what his name is, or who invited victors at all. “Yourself, a seafarer, I suppose?” 

“Ah, well- I’m the star, no? Not much time for boating about when you’ve got this many adoring fans, darling,” he says with a laugh,  blowing a kiss at some nameless woman who’s been staring at the both of you. Personally, having so many fans you couldn’t actively leave for home or enjoy your own time… well, to you it’s not that delightful, but to each their own!

You always figured it would make sense for victors to take advantage of being thrust into the public eye. There’s very few you know of that go home, they generally choose to be here in the capitol, to soak in their glory, make connections. Win for their districts. You suppose you can admire such an act, you yourself love your city, your country. There are bad things in it, but there always will be, and you love it nonetheless. 

You acknowledge his stardom, you do. He smiles but you see edges to it, but he’s been doing this ten years. You’ve been doing it since you were three. “Have I brought you over to my side yet, Angel?” You slip back into reality. Oh. “Well, I suppose so,  ” You tell him, tone pleased, but if he can read he could know you’re halfway there. You only bet on winning dogs, and four is a risky one.

He curls a lock of hair around his finger and presses against the wall, closer to you than before but now at your side, so you shift to face. And he look you up and down and slides the; “I’m sure we can… come to an arrangement, no?” he asks and you smile without trying. “What would you suggest?” you ask him, and he smirks, tounge poking lightly out the corner of his mouth for just a second, suggestive. 

You cut it before he explains, though you’d like to say you do it rather eloquently. “How about a nice dinner, hm? Some good company, say, this next Sunday?” He blinks a bit, caught off guard, though his body language remains loose. “Romantic, aren’t you, pretty boy?” he asks with the hint of teasing in his tone. You grin back, though it’s a bit fake at the creases of your eyes.

“Well, is that a yes?” you ask simply and he lets out a low chuckle. “- sounds just darling.” He dips his head and golden blond curls tun and slip just slightly out of how they’re neatly arranged. Then takes your hand- his slightly rough palm against your own, silky smooth and not a scar in sight under the powder sealed. He glances for a second at the slightly jagged bits at the turns of your nails, proof of life inside a carefully curated mannequin. His own are perfectly smooth and painted over clear, as he presses his lips to your skin. 

You give him a glittery smile, and he exchanges one without teeth, with a little wink before turning to go, stressing the movements of his limbs- long, partially bare legs that have glitter painted on, making it a sight to behold. It’s drawn not just your own eyes but many others, 

and… as ridiculous as it sounds, it’s almost as if you’re looking at something,

rather than someone. 

There’s a feeling of feathers against your sternum, a sparkle from that fairly dry conversation that stays with you- although you’re not certain if it was the alcohol or the slightly unguarded looks certain answers drew out. He was a good player of this game we call civility if nothing else, and dinner will be nice.  

You look down at your hand and wipe the faint gold glitter away. 

~

Notes; Okay! Would love feedback and there is a whole narrative backstory and plot flushed out so hopefully you guys are into it. Mr and Mrs Chaffin who are mentioned are from the fic "The Victorious" by the excellent @youcantseeus-fan as a call out. Thank you!

[hoetachi]

WISTFUL LOVING — L. HOWLETT

➠ logan howlett x blk!reader

➠ mulan’s input; i luv a good angst with no fluff.... maybe im a masochist

➠ c/w: abandonment issues & straight gut wrenching angst (excuse any mistakes)

YOU STARED CONFLICTED at the photo. ridged around its edges due to age and contrast fading its once beautiful colors, to complete it was a faded lipstick stain and you knew it belong to the woman present in it. it felt like hours you’ve been staring at this particular photo. there was many more of him or even her, but this one specifically was painful.

just like all the over photos that littered the walls of the mansion, each held fragments of emotions in their moments. embarrassment in some, and joy in all but this one held love. of course love was present in all of them, or they wouldn’t give you a warm fuzzy feeling inside, but not this photo. this photo made your stomach turn and gave your mouth a bad taste as if youbitten into an overripe apple.

an matron. an queen. an goddess

there was no title she didn’t have, so it was easy to be engulfed in her shadow and in a sickly way, you didn’t mind it. you were at peace in it. you knew having her attention would swallow you up in the worst way. the mere situations that wasn’t on the battlefield would’ve broken you with ease and maybe that was the reason she kept you hidden in cairo for so long, for not only your safety but for your mental mainly.

now it felt like it done more damage than good. isolation from others similar to you for years you can’t even put a number to. you didn’t know when the peace was disturbed, but every day the fear of being outed as a mutant consumed your being before you could enjoy the melodies of a few birds in the morning.

you thanked whatever angel watching over you for the few friends you were able to make, genuinely grateful for their love but didn’t seem to fill the void that occupied your heart. they all had a home to go back to, a family to return to exactly. ‘family’ that word was foreign for you as long as you remembered

yes, she was your blood sister, yet she was more of a sister to the world how’d they grieved her passing. undoubtedly you were sad about the news, you still cherished the memories of your shared youth but that wasn’t enough to ignore her absence throughout your journey. her passing somehow gave you the confidence that you haven’t felt in years to step out and explore outside of cairo. you even took another step out of her shadow and decided to truly end your loneliness by using your powers for good

which led to the call you received months later, inviting you to the mansion and having charles confirm his all knowing answer. he welcomed you and that’s all your bleeding heart ever wanted, however once you settled in, it yearned for another thing… or person

logan.

he was gruff, coarse and overall a pain to most yet that what made you so drawn to him. he wasn’t that to you and that made your heart skip a beat more around him. he seduced your senses with his smooth words and the very call of your name sent your skin into goosebumps. coincidentally or not, he seemed to be the only one that havent asked you about ororo. you were curious on whether or not he knew per say or just didn’t care, either or lifted a weight off your shoulder of explaining a somewhat sensitive subject.

it was easy to forget that you wasn’t as lonely as you thought and maybe, just maybe you had a chance to keep someone around but something was stopping this blooming feeling between the both of you

when he thought you weren’t looking, you noticed the twang of sadness in those eyes when let his stare linger a bit. you had the suspicious feeling of maybe he wasn’t ready to move so quickly to another lover or he was fearful of what could possibly happen if you both let your guard down around each other. the conspiracies gnawed on your mind in the quiet hours of the night and it was bringing back hurtful memories of your time in cairo

but right now, as you grip this harmless time capsule and battle your emotions from coming to the surface, you felt like a fool

“of course it would be you roro.. it’s always you” you whispered into the warm room. you forgot you were originally here to fetch something for logan. you guessed you took too long to return once the sound of heavy footsteps boomed down the hallway

“snoopin’ in things that don’t belong to you now?” he teased as he approached you from behind, you quickly spun around and put space between the both of you. his playful grin dropped once his eyes shifted from you to the picture in your hand

“how did you find that!?” he more barked than asked as he took a step, and you took one backwards shielding it closer to your body

“just why logan?” was all you could mustered out. you didn’t care if it didn’t make sense in the moment, you just wanted the truth to be set between you once and for all.

“why what?” he asked devoid of any of that mischievousness you grew accustomed to.

there was deafening silence that was a few seconds yet it felt like it was going on for hours. the more it went on , the more you began to feel a sense of regret and decided to best to stop while you’re ahead. “nothing. pretend like i didn’t say anything and get back to the movie” you diverted starting moving around him but a hand landed perfectly into your chest, halting you from continuing.

“no. why what y/n?” he asked, annoyance present in his tone

“it’s not importa—”

“no. no. no! you don’t now get to say it’s not important anymore. you been tryna be sneaky with what you wanna ask me ever since we met and quite frankly girly, i’m not beating around this bullshit bush anymore!” his teeth was bare to you, instantly reminding you, he isn’t just a man. he was wolverine. an animal that will always be aggressive with his claws as well as tenacious with his words. this topic would be a territory he’ll lay his life to and there was no way to back down now

silence fell between the both of you again and it was truly frightening. you watched as his chest heaved up and down like an mad man, his eyes locked into a harsh gaze on you. is this what you wanted from him? the big bad wolverine?

your throat burn as the words dug their way up and lips quivered, parting them to speak made you want to bawl immediately so you took a moment to drop your gaze to your feet below praying what you dare to acknowledge aloud to him

“why do you always see her with me?” your voice was tiny with a quiver, fighting back from breaking into pieces. you prayed what he said next could somehow lessen the blow

however it was silence yet again, regardless a scoff snuffed it out quickly “why do i fucking bother” he growled lowly, more to himself than to you and now it was his turn to attempt to leave.

“why do you envision me as my sister?” you raised your voice a bit louder followed by a step forward. you was scared as hell, but you knew this talk needed to happen now or it’ll be lost to time just like all your previous attempts

he stopped, head slightly cocked to the side as if he wanted to hear you better or even repeat yourself

“every time we talk, i see her. every time we touch, i see her. even now as we’re arguing, i see her!” you listed passionately, you haven’t realized the tears have become apart of the conversation once the warmth of them rolled down your cool cheeks. your heart is now out in the open, and you were beyond terrified what might happen to it

“…oh now you’re a mind reader? what happened to trust, huh!?” he growled again, completely disregarding your sorrowed face. those claws dug deep in your heart more; bile could fill your throat any moment but you held on to whatever dignity you had left

“how can i not when she’s so unapologetically loud in it”

hurt couldn’t be the word you used to describe how you felt. destroyed? completely devastated? demolished? no, none of them was fitting for the ache that spread like poison in your heart

his features soften for the first time since this whole ordeal started. there goes that sorrow that you picked up on numerous of time— finally coming to the surface. “i’m sorry, y/n” and you almost believed he was. you knew he’s only sorry you found out so soon.

“you shouldn’t be sorry that you think of her ‘cause i think of her— all the time i do,”

“but how you envision her.. especially when we have our moments…” distant memories of the both you sprawled out late at night in the field, talking along the stars whilst enjoying each other company. oh how you wished you could rewind time to then and really savor it for what it’s worth. happy and naive..

“i feel that love and it’s so beautiful, yet i’ve come to realized it’s all for her. every last bit of it” the tears couldn’t hold no more, they flowed like the rain… like her rain— violent and unforgiving.

he took a step, reaching an hand out and you truly wanted to have him wrap you in his embrace but you had be strong. you stepped away, quickly gathering yourself and tossing the photo to his feet. “tell me this logan….” you started, sniffling a bit as you regain some composure

“have you ever just seen me?” you asked but it came out more like a beg for confirmation. his gaze contorted to something else; something you haven’t seen before during your time together.

sadness.

sadden because he knew all of this already and prayed you’ll never find out his unburied feelings. how could you be upset with him when you were half of her. hair more strikingly darker than her vibrant white, eyes with bashful color compared to her always shifting hues, yet still held the same amount of warmth and joy as hers. half of the woman that accepted his good and his bad— accepted his existence without apology

but now, he’s at a standstill. it’s like he’s looking at a ghost, your eyes glowed white, expression contorted into an harsh look. he doubted his eyes, somehow tried to convince himself this was morph playing a sick joke on him. however, deep down… he knew this was real. you was real and she wasn’t, not anymore.

this was impossible! letting someone who loved him as much as her and possibly suffer a similar fate.m? oh, logan couldn’t bare to have such a deep wound reopened again

you took in his lack of response and that was all you needed really “i see i have my answer…”

a broken laugh dryly left your lips, “i think i need to stop fooling myself and accept how things are”

you just thought… maybe if you lived in your delusional a little bit more, it could be the reality you begged for— that you’ll be the star of the show, the first choice for everyone but that just wasn’t it.

all in all, it was just wishful thinking