#LAST TIME THEY HAD BUBBLES ON STAGE IT WAS A HINT | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tojiscrack · 6 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄

summary: 11.4k words — you spend some time at megumi and yuji’s open game, but spend some more time with someone else there

notes: i was overwhelmed with the amount of asks, messages, comments, and dm’s the last chapter provoked! (in a good way ofc, i loved it 😭). now i’m just curious — a lot of you (as predicted) hated the events of last chapter. you’re definitely not gonna enjoy this one :) anyway, it’s 1hr past the 22nd of dec, and i intended to get this out for megumi’s birthday, so pretend i did. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR GRUMPY PORCUPINE! <3

tw: shouting, BELLOWING, yelling, whatever other words you might use for that lol, and blood, criminals, and gangs

i do not own any of the characters of jjk, i only own the character of y/n and her mother. the other characters belong to gege akutami.

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.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

"the raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of duncan under my battlements ... come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts!"

the stage lights cast a soft glow, illuminating you as you delivered your lines with striking conviction. it wasn't a performance for a packed auditorium, but a rehearsal for your extracurricular theatre club.

the room was mostly empty, save for a few of your peers and your director, yet megumi could feel the atmosphere buzzing with quiet focus. your voice filled the space, and he silently appreciated how you could throw yourself into a character so conniving like lady macbeth and then jump right into being your bubbly self once again, as though you hadn't just emasculated poor macbeth trembling on the other side of the stage.

not that he'd ever tell you that. the most you'd get is a pat on the head, and even that seemed to be a bit much for megumi.

the lack of an audience didn't matter to you, it seemed; you poured your entire heart into the scene, as if the world were watching.

but it was easy to remind himself of the fact that it was a rehearsal and not a real performance, for every time you reached that exact line, you'd let out a snort and turn away with the same maturity as a child. megumi became more and more unimpressed each time it happened.

"y/n," the director called out, her voice made ten times louder from the echo of the megaphone.

you nodded, but still failed to wipe that grin off your face.

"i got it," you assured her, and megumi had almost missed what you'd said when the loud movement of the seats from somewhere in the backrow had sounded for the nth time. you schooled your face with an expression of determination, but megumi could see the underlying hint of amusement, clear as day. "unsex me here! and fill me from the —"

you'd cut yourself off with your laughter, the sound of it only resulting in more groans from your peers backstage, but megumi only watched you with a raised brow, mentally cursing whoever was making that stupid chair noise from the backrow — your laughter had been drowned out by it.

"i can't do it," you chortled, using the pages of your script to hide your face. "i can't do it!"

the director's sigh echoed around the hall.

"right, adjust the flower crown 'cause it's sitting on the edge of your head, and let's do act five, scene one."

megumi leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he observed the stage's organised chaos. you and your peers bustled about, setting up for the transition to the next scene.

the props crew adjusted the minimalistic set pieces while one of your friends struggled to untangle a misplaced curtain cord. you briefly stepped offstage, laughing with another castmate as they adjusted your flower crown to sit properly atop your head.

as the lights dimmed slightly in preparation, megumi looked up again, his patience steady, fully expecting to see you dive back into the character of lady macbeth without skipping a beat.

and you had — straight away.

you were now at the centre of the stage once more, standing by a fake sink — a prop — your arms extended before you, one hand holding your script, the other with fingers curled towards yourself.

"out, damned spot!" you began, voice striking. "out, i say!"

there was a pause, and megumi half believed that you had forgotten the rest of your lines (even though you were reading out of a paper script held in your hand) but then you looked up, apparently going to improv.

"out, damned fricking spot! get out of here! you damned — damned spot, get away and just — just go and leave and why don't you just leave —"

"y/n," the director called out your name, tone firm and scolding. "stick to the scri— oh for god's —"

you laughed loudly, shaking your head and standing still, your hands back at your side.

"'kay i'm sorry," you sighed, and megumi could tell that you were genuine, but he knew the director couldn't. from his seat in the audience, the director's eyes had narrowed, her megaphone now at her side as she raised a brow at you, the lines on her forehead prominent as ever.

"i'll start again," you told her, and megumi had to strain to catch that, for the stupid chair noise had echoed around the hall again.

you had lifted your script and began hurriedly rereading your lines, but when your eyes had lifted and skimmed the hall, passing megumi's, he frowned when you stumbled, almost looking as though you had attempted to retreat in fear.

"what just happened?" the director's voice called out through the megaphone again.

you furrowed your brows and squinted your eyes. megumi held back a scowl. what the hell were you up to now?

you eventually answered the question, but only after you'd become comfortable at the centre of the stage again, nodding to yourself with a smile.

"ah, sorry," you said, meeting her stern gaze sheepishly. "the outline of megumi's head just scared me for a second —"

the scowl that he'd been trying his hardest to hold back had been released, and it only deepened at the sound of the people backstage — your foolish classmates — laughing along.

there was nothing funny about that, and if he chose to tell all of them about your mermaid fiasco several years ago, you wouldn't find it funny then.

he sunk in his seat, throwing you a glare you probably couldn't see very well seeing as the rest of the auditorium was dark; the only lights being shun were the ones on the stage.

"if she wasn't my best lead, i would've kicked her out by now," the director whispered, only, it had been (accidentally) spoken with the megaphone on.

she quickly turned it off, but it had been too late: you'd already heard it.

your lips parted slightly, eyebrows raised in mild offense, but the glimmer in your eyes betrayed a certain smugness. you glanced briefly at the director with mock indignation, a hand coming to rest on your hip as if you were about to deliver a snarky comeback, but instead, you simply shook your head and turned back to your script, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

megumi watched this unfold, his expression still maintaining that bitter scowl.

while the comment seemed to have both bruised and inflated your ego, he wasn't surprised. you'd always had this uncanny ability to balance between taking yourself seriously and not at all. best lead, he thought dryly, watching with half lidded eyes as you delivered your next few lines correctly. if only she knew how many times he'd seen you trip over thin air or forget half your lines in the name of a 'creative process'. still, he begrudgingly admitted to himself that, onstage, you were captivating — even if it happened to be for the wrong reasons half the time.

as the rehearsal wound down, you and your peers began packing up on stage. megumi used his phone to check the time.

it was time to go home.

scripts were gathered and props carefully returned to their designated spots by the crew. the faint creak of the stageboards accompanied the bustle, with one of your classmates complaining about how she couldn't find her missing pencil while another laughed at something whispered behind the curtains.

you slipped off your flower crown, adjusting it absentmindedly before tossing it onto a nearby prop table, and joined the group tidying up. the director had long since stopped barking orders and now stood by the edge of the stage, chatting with one of the seniors about next week's rehearsal schedule.

megumi stood from his seat with a quiet sigh, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he made his way towards the backstage area, but not without stopping to throw the annoying person at the back row with the noisy chair a glance.

the person was now standing, but the automatic chair had slammed itself shut, allowing that loud noise to carry itself around the hall.

megumi had made his way towards the wall by the side curtain, his nose scrunched at the person — their silhouette showing that it was a guy around the same height as himself.

he had left the hall abruptly as megumi leaned against the wall, waiting for you to finish up, his gaze idly tracking your movements.

you turned around and jumped.

"ah, porcupine!" you gasped, unclipping your bracelets absentmindedly. "you need to announce your arrival, you scared m—"

"shut up, mermaid," he snapped, his patience running thin.

your lips pressed themselves into a tight line, eyes narrowing as you straightened your posture and clenched your jaw, willing yourself to keep your composure, though the sharpness in your movements — tossing your bracelets into the props table with more force than necessary —betrayed your irritation.

"i'm gonna call security on you," you threatened him, the corner of your mouth twitching as if you were fighting the urge to scowl outright, but instead, you busied yourself with adjusting your hair. the flower crown had messed the top of it.

"why are you tapping your head like that?" he questioned, not even entertaining the empty threat you'd shot at him.

"'cause if i'm not careful, i'll end up looking like a punk," you answered, before intentionally eyeing his dishevelled, fluffy hair. you met his sharpened gaze with a look of faux remorse. "yikes."

there was a glint of something dangerous in his eyes as he watched you try to unclip the necklace hanging delicately on your collarbone — a warning, sharp and unspoken, that clearly said: watch it.

"turn around," he grumbled, when it became apparent that it was going to take a while for you to finally manage taking the ugly necklace off.

you complied without much protest. however, that didn't mean that you did so silently:

"could be nicer about i— ow, porcupine! it's got my hair, it's got my hair!"

"stop moving," megumi demanded, messily throwing your hair over your shoulder to your front. he grunted under his breath when you continued to struggle against him. "squirming like a mermaid —"

your reaction was immediate, bristling with indignation as your head snapped around to glare at him, though the position made it awkward. if he wasn't fiddling with the clasp at the base of your neck, you might've been tempted to swat at his hands, but instead, you turned your focus forward, muttering something unintelligible under your breath that was undoubtedly not complimentary.

you flinched when he had finally managed to successfully unclip the necklace, but only when it continued to tug at the hairs at the back of your neck.

"porcupine — ow! oh my g— stop!" you complained, your eyes watering and knees bending as megumi tugged at the necklace again.

"how else am i supposed to take it off?" he shot back, grumpy.

"i'mgonnaendupinahospitalbedlikeallthoseyearsagoandnearlydie—"

"you never nearly died," said megumi, emphasising his point by cruelly pulling the necklace down again. you had stumbled back into him, but he remained stagnant where he stood, brows furrowed in both annoyance and deep concentration. "don't be stupid."

"ouch! you're doing it on purpose now, you — porcu—"

"right, who is porcupine?" the director's voice cut through the air like a whip, sharp and demanding attention.

the two of you looked up abruptly: she was standing before you, arms raised (and brows furrowed) in confusion.

deadpanned, you shot megumi a quick glance before addressing her.

"... is it really that hard to guess, looking between the two of us?"

at that, megumi had harshly pulled the necklace, taking some of your hair with it.

you squeaked, your hand immediately going up to ease the pain as you spun around and stared at his hand, the necklace holding bits of your hair cut fresh from the top of your neck.

"..."

"... okay, what is going on here?" the director asked, her eyes following the prop as megumi casually threw it over your head and onto the table behind you.

megumi barely had time to blink after that before you lunged at him, your hands diving into his hair with startling precision.

you yanked back with just enough force to rip out a few strands, his grunt of annoyance and pain echoing around the hall as the director stood frozen, her expression caught somewhere between bewildered disbelief and an exasperated sigh, as though contemplating whether this entire exchange was even worth addressing.

"right, y/n —"

"now we're even!" you snapped, as though the woman beside you hadn't spoken at all. you presented the dark hairs to megumi, and then purposefully made him watch as you slowly pocketed them, taking your sweet time and relishing in the crease between his brows that continued to deepen the longer you drew it out.

"you're a weirdo," he stated icily, but you turned away, paying him no mind.

"keep talking and i'm gonna get nobara's voodoo doll."

the two of you exited the auditorium together, the air practically vibrating with the quiet reluctance of megumi's brooding presence beside you.

he strode with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, meanwhile, you walked with an air of triumph, your fingers slipping into your own pocket every so often to toy with the strands of his hair, a small grin tugging at your lips every time you caught the subtle crackle of his growing irritation.

he deserved it.

"what did you think of rehearsal?" you asked him curiously. "lady macbeth's lines are so funny —"

"they're not funny," megumi disagreed bluntly. he sounded genuine. "you're just immature."

you showed him the strands of his hair that you'd passionately held onto in your pocket.

"say that again," you challenged, brows raised.

he merely swatted your wrist away with a scowl; you pocketed his hair with a shrug.

"as i was saying," you continued, as the two of you exited the school, "the macbeth play isn't gonna have a proper audience anyway, so i'm not too fussed about perfecting lady macbeth's lines. it's gonna be recorded tho! what did you think of it so far?"

megumi narrowed his eyes, the sun peeking out from over the clouds bright enough to blind him momentarily.

"couldn't even hear anything 'cause of the idiot sitting at the back," he told you with a scowl.

you laughed, brows raised in intrigue.

"yeah, they've been here for the past week or so," you informed your friend, chuckling at his sour expression.

"why don't you kick him out?"

"if we were to kick out every single disturbance, you would be sitting outside every day, porcupine."

"i'm not a disturbance."

"your hair is though."

"shut up."

as you neared the bike rack, you spotted yuji and nobara waiting for the two of you by their respective bikes.

yuji's was unmistakably bright — an electric blue frame with neon green accents that megumi thought perfectly screamed his excitable personality, complete with a flashy bell he had been spinning absentmindedly. nobara's, in contrast, was a sleek, matte-black with a subtle crimson stripe running along the frame. as the two of them looked up at your approach, yuji tilted his head with a toothy grin, arm raised in the air, already waving.

megumi believed that your bike stood out against the others, its pastel yellow frame and front basket adorned with a bunch of small, faux daisies that gave it a cheerful, almost whimsical vibe.

he approached his own as the three of you jumped into conversation with one another.

megumi's bike, dark navy and utterly plain, had been parked beside yours — you never failed to remind him how it looked like a sullen counterpart. he didn't care: it was his bike after all, not yours.

"my parents are working late again," yuji added brightly. he was sitting on his bike, waiting for the rest of you to clip on your helmets and do the same. "grandpa's home, and choso's at his place, so we basically have the house to ourselves tonight."

you silently nodded, hanging your bag on the right handlebar.

megumi scowled at nobara, who had seated herself on her bike, discarding her phone in her bag and zipping it up without another word.

"put your helmet on," he demanded her.

she looked up at him with a stony expression, her lips set in a straight line and brows furrowed as though to say 'are you talking to me?'.

"i'm having a bad hair day today —"

yuji frowned, looking bewildered:

"— but your hair looks nice —"

"shut up," snapped nobara, continuing as though you had not laughed loudly at the falter in yuji's bemused smile. you swerved away from his leg when he extended it to kick at your bike. "i'm not gonna make it worse by putting on that helmet."

megumi did not look impressed by her answer, throwing one of his legs over his bike to sit down and unclip his own helmet, glaring at her all the while.

"you're turning into the mermaid —"

"what the hell?" you demanded angrily, gesturing to your own helmet, which was conveniently sitting on your head. "i'm wearing mine!"

megumi's face tightened, jaw tensed as though he were biting back a sharp retort. one hand gripped the handlebar of his bike firmly, while the other toyed with the edge of his helmet, spinning it idly in a way that betrayed his rising frustration.

"i know why you're hesitating to wear yours," you shot back, offended by his jab at you, unprovoked. "it'll flatten down your sea-urchin hair and make you look like your dad —"

"watch it," he warned you icily, a short, clipped exhale leaving his nose as he glanced between you and nobara, his expression a mix of exasperation and resignation, like he'd just resigned to a battle he never wanted to fight in the first place.

the sky stretched above in a pale canvas of soft blues and muted golds, the sun dipping lazily towards the horizon, its warm light spilling across the school front in delicate, golden hues. the four of you had mounted your bikes and had already begun cycling down the road, away from the busy bus route yuji would usually take and down the quiet neighbourhood, away from the loud traffic lights.

wisps of cotton-like clouds floated idly, their edges tinged with blush and amber as the day prepared to give way to the evening the longer the four of you bickered and laughed, simultaneously being wary of the occasional car that would pass by every now and then. the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the gentle breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the crisp, earthy scent of early autumn. your shadows stretched long across the crosswalk, mingling with the sporadic glint of sunlight reflecting off the polished metal frames of your bikes.

"grandpa went to the store the other day," yuji loudly spoke. he was riding his bike beside you while megumi and nobara cycled just ahead. "he bought a bunch of new films for us! we can watch the nun tonight!"

"is it wise to watch a horror movie at your place?" nobara called out, her hair a lighter shade where the sun hit it.

yuji looked bewildered at her question. "but we always watch horror movies at my place..."

"no, she's right!" you added, eyes wide. "what if we accidentally trigger the s word somehow?"

yuji's expression shifted almost comically as the realisation dawned on him, his brows furrowing in confusion before lifting in sudden clarity. he sat upright on his bike, one hand tightening on the handlebars as if steadying himself, while his other hand shot up to nervously scratch the back of his head.

"oi, use both hands," megumi demanded from up front.

yuji silently complied, though his eyes remained glued on you.

"sukuna won't —"

"don't say his name," you hissed, brows furrowed in both anger and panic.

yuji's wide-eyed expression stayed constant as the conversation continued.

"wait, it should be fine, guys," nobara had intervened, one hand holding onto her bike while the other extended itself towards the brooding, dark-haired male cycling beside her. "we have megumi — he's great at protecting us!"

megumi shot her a sharp look as he swatted her hand away. apparently, he did not agree with this idea.

"remember when he pushed su—"

"nobara!"

"— the s word away from us when he said he'd rip our hair out and use them as handcuffs?" she continued, as you cycled behind her with a wariness only the demon could bring out of you. "he comes up with the most creative threats, y'know. sometimes i'm a little impressed, but my hair's too short for handcuffs —"

"he wanted us bald," you reminded her helpfully, "so that means ripping your hair from the roots, which is long enough for handcuffs, paired with mine, too."

"that's irrelevant," said megumi, his hair standing up as the four of you cycled through the breeze. you imagined him looking rather silly from the front, seeing as the back was serving enough laughs out of both you and yuji. "and i can't do much today anyway. after the movie, i have to look over sharmin and miwa's history homework."

you frowned at the back of his head.

"you're doing their homework?" you asked, sounding offended.

"they asked me to look over it before practice today," megumi answered calmly, "but i didn't have time, so i said i'd do it later today and give it back to them tomorrow."

that did not sit right with you, not when megumi always refused to do your homework whenever you asked.

you pedalled faster and slipped in between megumi and nobara, shooting him a look of disapproval.

"any time i ask you to do my homework, you refuse," you told him with a raised brow.

"same goes for them," megumi responded, throwing nobara (who was now behind the two of you) and yuji both a look a warning glance for arguing over nothing loudly. "i'm not doing their homework. i'm looking over it."

you shrugged. "yeah that's what i ask you to do, too."

"no you don't."

"yes i do!"

"you don't."

"i do!"

"you don't," megumi snapped, his patience thin. "you lie about being sick and try to guilt trip me into it —"

"accusations!" you gasped, lifting one hand to point at him dramatically. "false accusations!"

you'd nearly lost your balance on your bike due to how quickly you had sat up and let go of the handlebars. megumi, once again, extended his own arm and directed your bike properly again, but not without clicking his tongue at you in distaste.

"y/n!" nobara called for you from behind.

you looked over your shoulder and then regretted it when megumi flicked your forehead in warning. you turned back around abruptly, narrowing your eyes at him as they watered.

he didn't have to do it so hard, you thought to yourself grumpily.

"nobara, i can't look at you 'cause of the bike police over here —"

"shut up."

despite megumi's harsh criticism, nobara had continued to talk anyway.

"yuji's hair is nothing like miwa's, right?" she said, and you did not have to look back to be aware of yuji's frown of both annoyance and disappointment. "his is like a dull pink —"

yuji did not like that. "hey!"

"miwa's looks better," you responded easily. it hadn't been a difficult decision after all: you remembered the day miwa had walked past the school doors with the long, blue hair that ran past her shoulders and spine. "the blue suits her! and the bangs too!"

"told you," you heard nobara's smug voice add.

"it also matches her eyes," you commented with a smile. "you can't say the same, yuji."

"wha— megumi!" yuji shouted desperately. "help me out!"

you glanced over at megumi's face. he seemed indifferent, as always, but his response had said otherwise.

he had shrugged, relaxed. "they're right."

yuji's wail of misery only had the three of you threatening to leave him behind. he had sulked for a bit, but eventually joined in on the next set of conversations you found yourself immersed in for a portion of the remainder of the journey.

the sun hung low on the horizon, its amber glow spilling across the quiet neighborhood like molten gold. the bungalows stood neatly in rows, their silhouettes softened by the warm, fading light, and the occasional flicker of a porch light hinted at the coming dusk, while the air seemed to grow still, as though welcoming the four of you to yuji's neighbourhood again.

"you can't do it," you told yuji, who had been adamant in showing all of you a trick that choso had taught him on his bike the other day. you threw him a look of disbelief from over your shoulder.

your bike had swerved unexpectedly, and when you turned back around to regain control, you noted that it was megumi, who had his hand on the front of your bike, apparently saving you from having ridden over a large rock in the middle of the road.

"i can!" yuji protested, riding past both you and megumi to keep up with nobara, who had long since ridden ahead. "just watch!"

"don't do it, you idiot," megumi chided, glaring at the back of yuji's pink head.

"but —"

megumi cut across him harshly. "you're gonna fall."

"i won't!" yuji shouted back, eyes wide with exhilaration. "i've done it a hundred times already! just look!"

yuji surged forwards on his bike, his grin brimming with confidence as he positioned himself to attempt the trick. he shifted his weight back, tugging up on the handlebars with a flourish to lift the front wheel off the ground.

for a brief, fleeting moment, the bike wobbled in perfect balance, his exhilarated laughter ringing out in triumph.

but then the balance tipped — too far back — and the wheel slammed down awkwardly.

yuji, unable to steady himself, tumbled sideways onto the road with a loud thud, his limbs sprawling across the sidewalk. his bike clattered noisily beside him, the bell letting out an inadvertent chime as it hit the ground.

the three of you stopped, a beat of stunned silence passing before laughter broke out simultaneously: nobara had doubled over her handlebars, wheezing as she clutched her side, while you clapped a hand over your mouth, struggling to stifle your snickers. even megumi's usual stoic expression cracked slightly, his lips twitching as he muttered something under his breath and shook his head.

yuji groaned dramatically, sprawled out on the concrete road like a tragic hero, but none of you made a move to help him, not even when he asked.

"guys..." he called out weakly, face scrunched in pain. he extended his arm shakily, eyes half-lidded. "help..."

you shot a glance at nobara, holding your breath to try and stop yourself from snorting out another round of laughs, before turning your bike around and cycling away.

"just go, leave him," you hurriedly told her, your legs working quickly on the pedals of your bike.

yuji lifted his head.

she did not hesitate in following suit.

"we warned you!" she called out with a wide grin.

megumi had not said a word as he, too, seemed to agree with the both of you, his feet pressing down on the pedals a little faster.

"go, don't look back," you muttered, kicking off your bikes to continue cycling down the road.

you laughed merrily as his calls of protest grew faint the further you rode away, leaving him to flail on the ground, loudly lamenting his fate.

but of course, you weren't evil — perhaps nobara was, though — for you and megumi had turned on your bikes to get him, and she had been the only one who let out a groan of exhaustion at the mere thought of it.

but the funniest part wasn't the way you'd found yuji lying on the road in the exact same way you'd left him, nor was it the way his eyes had lightened up at the sight of you...

it was how he had remained firm on giving you all the silent treatment the rest of the way to his house, and how he had been struggling to do so, for if anyone was an expert, qualified chatter, it was yuji itadori.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

the football field stretched wide under the fading light, its green expanse marked with crisp white lines that gleamed faintly in the late afternoon. you were standing on the bench at the front row, watching the football players dart across the field.

it was jujutsu high's open game for the football team, which (by the school's definition) was a practice session open for the general school public to attend.

your eyes followed the ball as it sailed through the air, a blur of motion intercepted by a leaping player — chad, you noticed with raised brows, as the whistle from coach yaga encouraged the rest of the team to push forward.

your eyes had scoured the players in search of your friends. you couldn't exactly tell who was who because of the uniform and helmet that would conceal both their bodies and their faces, so you could only rely on their player numbers displayed on both the fronts and backs of their jerseys.

player number one — who was currently sprinting alongside massive player number six — was yuji. you never bothered him when he concentrated on the game. you usually saved the disturbance for when he'd done something to piss you off (like intentionally telling your spanish teacher that you deleted duolingo off your phone to spare some storage).

player number two was who you were really looking for, and it only brought a smile to your face when you'd found him — megumi — sprinting the other way.

"you're going the wrong way, megumi!" you helpfully reminded him.

he ignored you, as per usual. but you noticed, with triumph, how his legs had started to slow down.

beneath his helmet, you were certain he was gritting his teeth.

"the ball's that's way!" you called out, one hand cupping the side of your mouth, the other benevolently pointing at player number eight, who was now in possession of the ball. "what are you doing?"

megumi had approached coach yaga, and from where you were stood, accompanied by the chatter of the other onlookers, you could not hear what was being exchanged between the two. the sharp glare that coach yaga had shot you was a lot to go by, however, not that you cared.

you hadn't cared in middle school, you wouldn't care now.

yaga knew that very well.

megumi turned away and had begun jogging towards his teammates again. you shook your head, your foot tapping the metal of the bench impatiently.

"well it's too late for that now!" you told him, tutting in disapproval. "they've gone and scored without you! oh — hi toge!"

player number six, todo, was a towering presence, and you watched as he charged across the field with the ball tucked firmly under his arm, shrugging off attempted tackles like they were nothing more than minor inconveniences. close behind, yuji darted around the defence with his usual agility, his movements quick and unpredictable, drawing shouts of encouragement from somewhere behind you, because — right, that was a thing now — he had gained quite a few admirers over the last week, not that he had been aware of it. the only reason you knew was because of an occasion last week where you and nobara had camped inside a singular stall in the girls' toilets, overhearing a conversation between a few sophomores and juniors.

megumi was now in possession of the ball, and though he wasn't as speedy as yuji, he excelled in the game by being strategic, which compensated for the lack of agility.

he's doing well, you thought to yourself. it was too bad you enjoyed poking fun at him.

you exaggeratedly waved both arms in the air as if directing imaginary traffic, calling out random, unhelpful advice about the game. his head had turned for a fraction of a second, and that had been enough to encourage you to go further.

"quick! the small one's behind you!" you called out, your expression grave. you chuckled when he actually looked over his shoulder. "haha! made you look —"

"— l/n!"

your eyes travelled across the field to meet yaga's, shielded by his sunglasses. he didn't look pleased in the slightest, but he hadn't said anything else when you stared back at him.

your name was his first warning.

you shrugged and turned back to the game, mimicking a referee's whistle sound — poorly, of course — just to see if it would make megumi glance your way again.

it didn't, but you had not missed the way he'd quickened his steps, an act to try and free himself from being forced to listen to your constant shouts and yells.

"megumi! spell red!" you called out to him, your hands cupping your mouth. he turned around and narrowed his eyes at you, a menacing glint circling in each of his irises. "no? okay, i'll do it for you! L — S — T — E — R —"

the field erupted with laughter.

number six, todo, was the first to lose it, nearly doubling over as he slapped his thigh, while yuji could barely stay upright, clutching his sides and wheezing between gasps of air. the entire team seemed to pause, their focus on the game completely derailed, as they recalled the viral meme and the ridiculousness of your performance.

yaga, however, was not amused. he blew his whistle sharply, barking at the players to get back into formation, his forehead veins looking like they might burst at any second.

"keep laughing, and you'll all be running laps until the sun sets!" he roared, but his threats only managed to stifle the laughter into barely concealed snickers. "and you — stop opening that damned mouth of yours!"

meanwhile, megumi shot you a glare so venomous, it could have melted steel. his fists clenched at his sides, and you could see the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders as he tried to rein in his irritation.

"stop," he snapped, his voice dripping with exasperation.

"all right, all right," you sighed, before cupping your mouth again. "spell megumi! T — O — J — Y!"

megumi stood in the centre of the grassy field, arms by his sides, like a child refusing to comply to rules. you could see the way his jaw had clenched at your joke.

he had always had this incessant need to be right. to correct you when you were wrong. to show off his brilliance.

you could see him fighting a losing battle.

"that's not how you spell my dad's name —" he'd started angrily, but the sound of yaga's whistle had cut through anything you had wanted to say in response.

"IS THIS THE SPELLING BEE?" he demanded, irate. "fushiguro!" he'd all but bellowed, teeth gritted. "why are your legs not moving?"

megumi turned to face his teacher.

"she spelled my dad's name wrong —"

"IS YOUR DAD HERE TO BEAR WITNESS?"

"..."

"GET BACK TO YOUR TEAMMATES!"

megumi had made a move to leave, but at the sound of your snickers, he stopped, lifting his arm and pointing it in your direction.

"kick her out," he'd said — correction: demanded — without hesitation.

your mouth fell open in sheer disbelief, arms extended outwards in confusion as you glared at megumi like he'd just committed the ultimate betrayal.

kick you out? the audacity, you mentally marvelled.

you weren't even on the field, which you could've easily invaded if you had wanted to. you were merely offering a bit of moral support (albeit in your own unique, slightly chaotic way).

"that's a breach of my human rights," you alerted both your teacher and your friend. then, you shifted your attention to only coach yaga. "he's not even participating! personally, i think he should be benched!"

"l/n, sit down and SHUT UP!"

"no, seriously!" you insisted, crouching down to untie your shoelaces. "i can replace him on the field!"

megumi turned around again to face you this time. even though his helmet made it hard to see his face properly, you could see the way he'd narrowed his eyes at you. "you don't even know how to play properly —"

"well i'd do a hell of a lot better than what you're doing," you told him, standing up again and folding your arms over your chest. "which is nothing, by the way."

coach yaga had had enough:

"FUSHIGURO, STOP ENGAGING WITH HER AND MOVE UP THE FIELD!"

megumi faced the angry man with, no doubt, a glare of his own. "she's —"

"NOW!" yaga had bellowed, and you could only laugh at the way megumi's fists had clenched, but he'd obediently ran towards the other players (not without shooting you a glower, though).

you chuckled at his reaction, but choked on it when coach yaga had mercilessly turned to you next.

"SIT. DOWN. L/N," he ordered you, the hand holding the whistle lined with angry veins threatening to pop. you could see one on his forehead, too.

you opened your mouth to oppose, but he'd blown his whistle so you couldn't even hear yourself speak.

and this had become a recurring theme.

any time your lips would part — whether to cheer for a play, yell sarcastic advice at megumi, or protest yaga's increasingly dictatorial tone — the sharp, ear-piercing sound of his whistle cut through the air, drowning you out completely. he'd positioned himself nearby, whistle ready at his lips, as though waiting for the exact moment you dared to utter a sound.

you even tried whispering once, only for him to blow it louder than ever, causing you to flinch and clutch your ears.

the message was clear: coach yaga would not tolerate your antics.

but his overzealous whistle-blowing had unintended consequences, ones that had you giggling into your hands.

the players, accustomed to the whistle being a signal for key game instructions, had begun growing confused by the constant interruptions. at one point, both kamo and logan parker hesitated mid-play, unsure whether the sharp whistle had been meant to signal an offside or something else entirely, and this had led to an awkward collision on the field — logal tripping over kamo as the latter tried to pivot too late — and the two of them ended up sprawled in a tangled heap.

and yaga, visibly frustrated by both the situation at hand and the rhythm of your constant laughter, had no choice but to bench them both, muttering something about how some people were ruining his practice.

"your hair's a mess," you told kamo, when he'd approached the bench you were standing on with his helmet beneath his arm.

"thanks, didn't notice," he responded, blowing the loose strands of his hair out of his face.

you eyed him carefully as he sat by your feet, his knees an angry shade of red where he'd fallen due to the collision.

"does that hurt?" you asked, frowning. "you could sue yaga for blowing his whistle and causing confusion."

kamo peered up at you, his elbows resting on his thighs, his back hunched over in such a way that chiropractors would be disappointed by. you couldn't quite paint what he was thinking, for his face, so devoid of any and all emotion, made it so that his lips were set in a straight line and his eyes would remain half-lidded.

"you can!" you continued, as though he'd voiced his uncertainty to you. "and you can show your knees for proof!"

kamo kept his gaze fixed on the game, following the flow of plays that unfolded without him. you couldn't quite paint what he was feeling in that moment, for his expression was a mix of irritation and fatigue as he lazily tossed his helmet to the ground with a dull clatter.

"i'll remember to bring in a formal complaint tomorrow, then," he added, his eyes following player number five, who was in possession of the ball.

"i'll be your backup!" you told him enthusiastically. when he peered up at you, expectant, you clarified yourself. "y'know, for moral support."

"hold my hand and everything?"

you grinned. "all right, don't get ahead of yourself now."

"my bad," he said, bringing a hand up to brush the stray hairs out of his face. his dark hair had been tied back with a flimsy rubber-band into a low, loose bun, which apparently proved worthless in a rough game of football.

at the centre of the field, andre johnson clapped his hands loudly, rallying the players into position as he directed the next play with precision. toge stood further back, his sharp eyes scanning the field, ready to intercept, while todo, living up to his reputation, plowed through the defence like a battering ram, drawing cheers from his teammates.

you felt bad for the players that had ended up on the floor because of his onslaught of attacks.

one of them just so happened to be yuji.

and as you jested loudly at his limp body, todo stared back at him, horrified:

"BROTHER —"

"ooh..." you marvelled, standing on your tip-toes as todo ignored the game altogether and charged the other way. everyone except for megumi had moved out of the way. "might wanna put that one on a leash..."

your eyes had darted from the game to kamo, and back again.

"no offence, kamotionless..."

"none taken."

the two of you watched as megumi extended his hand to your pink-haired, groaning friend on the floor, intrigued as he accepted his help in pulling himself up.

both their heads had turned to face you.

yuji's lips parted in a comical frown, his hand clutching his lower back as he turned to glare at you with all the indignation he could muster. you could only chuckle at him, for his pink hair was dusted with grass and dirt from the collision, and his expression screamed betrayal.

raising one hand, he offered you an exaggerated thumbs-down, shaking it slowly as though to emphasise just how unimpressed he was.

you stared back at him, brow raised as you placed a pointer finger on your chest, mouthing 'me?'.

his exaggerated nod made you scowl at him and look at megumi instead, but his stare wasn't any better, for it had lingered on you longer than necessary: his sharp eyes had darkened as they subtly drifted downwards, his expression tightening ever so slightly, though it was hard to tell if it was irritation or something else entirely.

he was still pissed at your interruption of the game from earlier, clearly, for his stance had been tinged with quiet discontent, as though he'd seen something he didn't quite like.

rude, you thought to yourself, i stopped yelling at him and i'm likeable.

whatever it was, he said nothing, his eyes snapping back to the field with a stoicism that betrayed nothing outwardly.

across the field, yaga's voice thundered over the chaos.

"ITADORI! FUSHIGURO! get back to your positions — NOW!"

yuji jumped slightly at the sheer force of his command, but megumi had barely looked fazed, as though this was a common occurrence during practice.

yuji shot one last mournful look in your direction before jogging into place, his steps a little heavier than before. megumi, on the other hand, walked briskly back into formation, his gaze focused ahead, though the rigid set of his shoulders suggested he wasn't entirely composed. yaga's glare followed them both until they were back in line, his frustration simmering visibly as he blew his whistle to resume the play.

"what's the history with you and coach yaga?" kamo had asked, which had greatly surprised, your brows raised as you stared down at him. he took your silence as a sign to continue. "yuji said you met coach yaga in middle school."

"oh my god," you beamed, hopping off the bench to sit down on it. "i'm so glad you asked!"

you dug into your pocket and retrieved your phone, tapping on it excitedly to pull up the set of images in your camera roll that you'd visit so often, it would never catch dust.

the academic years of twenty-fourteen to twenty-sixteen.

"so i met him in the sixth grade," you explained, selecting an image of him from the time you had unexpectedly pulled your phone out in the middle of the corridor and snapped a headshot. "that's what he looked like back then, so, not that different. still got that weird spiky hairstyle, except it's longer now, but you get the idea."

kamo nodded, his front leaning forward to get a good look at your phone.

"he's angry," he commented idly.

"er... yeah," you confirmed, hesitant. you slowly swiped to the next photo — yaga's realisation of the image being taken. "that's 'cause i took his photo in the middle of the hallway, so..." you shook your head quickly. "but anyway! i met him during our first middle school p.e class. we were playing dodgeball and i was standing at the back to support yuji, even though we'd just met through megumi, but if megumi liked him, then i knew he was good. and then yaga just got mad at me."

kamo watched as you showed him another picture of an angry coach yaga.

"and it was a whole thing," you settled on saying at last. "rest of our time during middle school went by with a theme of pissing yaga off. it's tradition now."

kamo raised a brow, the corner of his lips tugging upwards in mild amusement as he listened.

"sounds like you've had a pretty clear mission since day one," he said, his tone dry but his gaze alight with curiosity. he tilted his head slightly as he regarded the photo on your screen, his hand brushing back a loose strand of hair as he continued. "coach only ever turns red when you're around."

there was no judgment in his voice, just a quiet humour that seemed to match the slight, crooked smile now playing on his face.

without a word, kamo shifted subtly closer to you, leaning in as though to get a better look at the next photo. his arm rested lightly on the bench beside you, and while the movement was casual, the reduced space between you both went unnoticed — or perhaps, just unacknowledged.

you didn't seem to mind at all, and the easy flow of your conversation remained uninterrupted. if anything, the proximity only added to the comfortable rhythm of your storytelling:

"there's actually a legacy," you grinned, swiping several times to get to a particular image. "you know s— mr gojo, miss ieiri, mr nanami, and mr haibara were yaga's students back when they were in school?"

kamo didn't say anything at that. some part of you couldn't blame him, especially when you would constantly spew out nonsense that megumi would immediately shut down in front of everyone.

if you weren't you, you probably wouldn't have believed yourself either.

"at least try to look like you believe me," you scowled.

"no, i do," kamo insisted, though not very convincingly.

"no you don't."

"yeah i don't."

"okay, well, now you will," you stated, showing him the photo you'd been searching for in your packed camera roll.

it was yaga's wedding in january of two-thousand-and-six. you had chosen this particular photo because of the scene in the background: the men you knew dressed sharply in suits and ties, and the women you knew also elegantly adorned in dresses and heels.

"he's married?" kamo asked, looking genuinely surprised. it was the only time you had seen any form of emotion cross his face.

"was married," you corrected him, and then laughed as you zoomed in on his face. "got divorced years ago — look, he's bald!"

as you and kamo continued discussing yaga's wedding, the conversation spiralled into unexpected detail. you pointed out the floral arrangements in the background, commenting on how they looked oddly mismatched with the formal attire of the guests. kamo had raised an eyebrow, countering that maybe yaga had bad taste in decorators. from there, the discussion veered into an animated debate over who had possibly caught the bouquet, with you insisting it was nanami and kamo scoffing at the idea of him even participating.

but just as kamo parted his lips to counter your next argument, yaga's unmistakable voice had cut through the air.

"LOVEBIRDS!" he'd roared, the two of you looking up simultaneously towards the field where yaga stood, hands on his hips, thoroughly exasperated. "FOCUS ON THE GAME, OR LEAVE!"

you pocketed your phone again, glaring at yaga like he'd personally offended you on a cosmic level.

"he's just salty we have luscious hair," you muttered under your breath bitterly. the fact that the entire field had fallen silent didn't deter you from adding more in the slightest. "got a lot of nerve for someone with a wedding album collecting dust..."

unbeknownst to you, chad smirked knowingly, glancing towards kamo with an exaggeratedly teasing expression, waggling his eyebrows as if he'd just uncovered the secret of the universe. kamo, predictably, ignored him entirely, his focus unshaken.

meanwhile, megumi's reaction had been far sharper.

his eyes darted between you and kamo before settling firmly on you, his brow furrowing so deeply it looked like he was judging you for a crime against humanity. his glare lingered, sharp and unyielding, like you'd just desecrated something sacred — which, knowing megumi, might've been the concept of behaving during practice.

"just get him back on the field," he stated firmly, shooting coach yaga a glare.

"kid's right," said yaga, before blowing his whistle again. "KAMO, PARKER — BOTH OF YOU — BACK ON THE FIELD!"

obediently, kamo rose to his feet, brushing off his knees before bending down and retrieving his discarded helmet, and then giving a short, wordless nod to logan parker, who had been waiting nearby.

from the sidelines, yaga's gaze immediately zeroed in on you.

"AND YOU!" he barked, pointing a commanding finger. "stop distracting my players! you've got five seconds to zip it, or you're out of here!" his voice had carried across the field with the same force as his whistle.

you frowned deeply. his reaction felt like an overreaction to you — typical yaga behavior.

but then, the realisation hit you like a sudden spotlight. you glanced at your watch and felt a jolt of panic. you were supposed to stay for only a bit before heading to rehearsal.

"ah, shit! i'm late for rehearsal!" you panicked, hurriedly grabbing your bag and scrambling to leave. the theatre director was definitely not going to forgive you for being late again, especially with the lead role hanging in the balance.

as you ran across the benches, you looked over your shoulder, ignoring the crowd and team laughing at you.

"lady yaga, this is all your fault by the way!"

as you darted towards the building, the teasing chants from the football team had started fading behind you. despite the growing distance between you and them, you could hear yaga cursing you from where he stood, as though he were right next to you.

you were not, however, aware of the two pairs of eyes watching you retreat, one of them mildly amused, the other beyond annoyed.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

bonus scene:

the cracked pavement beneath satoru's feet echoed faintly as he strolled through the unfamiliar neighbourhood.

during a conversation about toji's dark past, he had showed off to the family about never having stolen anything, as well as never being stolen from, which only resulted in ogi demanding that he walk in a sketchier neighbourhood and see if he could come back saying the same thing.

and he had been confident, of course, as he looked around at the graffiti-covered walls and flickering streetlights, which might have seemed intimidating to anyone else, but he remained blissfully unfazed, humming a tune under his breath.

in one hand, he'd held a slightly squished cupcake, the frosting a little smeared but no less delightful to him. his sunglasses perched jauntily on his nose, and his long strides carried him through the shadows as though the neighbourhood itself were lucky to have him gracing its streets.

...

that had been before he'd found himself trapped in a phone-box, the gang that had caused his sealing surrounding the box in awe.

'we seriously stole the gojo guy's money?'

'aw heck yeah! he's filthy rich, too!'

'look at that sleek, black card!'

'awesome! his phone's the new model as well!'

satoru stared at the gang leader, scowling.

his balaclava had fallen when satoru had thrown a punch at him earlier, exposing his tattooed face, the dark line that crossed his nose and the thin arrowed lines that went down his eyes.

satoru thought he looked silly with those pigtails.

"how much are those glasses?" the leader had asked, throwing his balaclava over his shoulder for one of his minions to scramble for.

satoru, his neck bent in an attempt to not bump his head, flashed him a grin.

"more than you can afford."

the guy gritted his teeth at him. satoru felt satisfaction bloom in his chest at that, but he noted how the tattooed male could be no older than seventeen or eighteen. what the hell was he doing as a leader of a gang?

"but you should probably open the door to try and get them," satoru suggested, bending down a little to meet the kid's face.

"i'm not stupid," the kid scowled. he was bagging all of satoru's expensive belongings right in front of him.

"if you were smart, you wouldn't style your hair like a five year old girl."

"if you were smart, you would dye your hair."

satoru scowled at him. "if you continued your education, you wouldn't need to join a gang for money."

the kid didn't look too pleased with satoru's rapid riposte, for he looked around at his minions, slinging the bag of satoru's possessions over his shoulder, and turning away with a raised brow.

"come and get your stuff," he had challenged the trapped, white-haired male, who could only watch in anger as one of the minions marvelled at his stolen cupcake.

his cupcake.

satoru let out an exaggerated groan, his head lightly thudding against the very top of the glass wall of the phone box as he tilted his chin to the ceiling (that happened to be so very close to his face).

this was beyond annoying; his cupcake was gone, his wallet and phone stolen, and now he was cramped into this tiny, outdated relic of communication...

but then, a flicker of excitement sparked across his face, the edges of his mouth curling upwards.

out of all the traps he could've been stuck in, it had to be a phone box. how retro. how tragically iconic.

with a sigh, he tapped the dusty dial pad, punching in one of the numbers he knew by heart: shoko's.

the faint hum of the dial tone filled the tiny space as he leaned back, arms crossed, waiting with a fading grin to hear her undoubtedly sarcastic greeting.

but it had been taking a while.

"this is such a pain," he grumbled to himself, annoyed.

and then looked up excitedly when her voice sounded through the speaker.

"hello?"

"shoko, i'm trapped in a phone box 'cause some poor kid with his gang jumped me," he explained hurriedly. it wasn't a completely accurate retelling of the story, but it got the main gist of it, and he was punched for time. "i need your help!"

there was a pause. was she seriously contemplating helping him?

"..."

"shoko?"

"hm," she hummed, her voice nasally. it usually got like that when she was working. "have you returned my lighter?"

satoru furrowed his brows. he had never promised to give that back, not when he hated it when she smoked.

"no —"

BEEEEEEP...

she had hung up.

satoru angrily punched in the numbers of another friend, one who had to be more sensible than her.

"hope she has an asthma attack," he cursed quietly, as he expectantly waited for nanami to pick up the phone.

"kento nanami, who's calling?"

as formal as ever; satoru expected no less. had he been in a better predicament, he would have made a joke about it.

"nanami!" he cheered, and then hurriedly got to the point. perhaps he ought to go a different route, if only to avoid the same outcome with smoke-addict-shoko. "remember when i helped you pay for yuu's birthday expenses?"

he heard him let out a breathy sigh from the other end of the call.

"what's this about, gojo?" he asked, sounding exhausted.

satoru explained his situation as best as he could. he had high hopes for this call — nanami was always the serious, sensible one. there was no way he'd turn him down now.

"you're stuck in a phone box with no way out?" he repeated, though even nanami wouldn't be able to fake amusement even if he tried. satoru felt his stomach drop. "what a shame."

BEEEEEEP...

and he was left with that same ringing beep...

no, the next one would work. he was certain of it.

the kfc disagreement might have occurred a year or two ago, but it was all right. satoru knew that.

they were best friends, after all.

he hurriedly pressed suguru's phone number into the dial and waited.

and waited.

and waited...

...and waited...

and then gave up.

i would've picked up his call, he thought to himself bitterly, before dialling the fushiguros' telephone.

he prayed to god that megumi would answer, and not —

"erm... hello!"

you.

he found you funny, a great kid, one to match the zenins' wit in every way. but you could be so very... chatty.

especially when he didn't have the time.

"y/n, i'm trapped in a phone box 'cause of some sketchy kids in a gang," he explained, though something in his gut knew that this was futile, "where's megumi's mom? where's your mom? in the event that she'd even care —"

"my mom is —"

but you had paused, for megumi's voice had entered the line, but distant:

"i know you stole my book, y/n. give it back."

"i didn't — ugh! satoru, i can't talk to you right now 'cause i'm in the middle of making fun of megumi 'cause he said i stole his boring, non-fiction book when i didn't —"

"— yeah i don't give a shit, where's your mom?" he interrupted, because there was only so much he could take.

your gasp on the other end of the line was telling.

and it came as no surprise to him when you hung up as revenge:

"oh you— okay! bye!"

"wait, y/n —"

BEEEEEEP...

"oh for fucks —" he began, but kept his cool as he pictured his wife. his wife who, surely, would help him. she was his only hope at this point, because if not her, then it had to be ogi.

if not her, then it had to be toji.

he shivered at the thought.

he waited for her to pick up.

"hello? who is this?"

he had no time to waste.

there was a long pause after satoru's rushed explanation, the muffled static on the other end of the line filling the silence. he leaned forwards slightly, gripping the receiver, his hope wavering as the seconds stretched on. surely, his wife was gearing up for some clever solution, for she was smart, he remembered that well during high school and college — or at least, that's what he convinced himself of.

then came the sound of her laughter.

it started low, building into something unrestrained and far too amused for his liking.

and before he could say or do anything else, she ended the call with a click, hanging up the phone herself. satoru stood there, staring at the receiver in disbelief, the faint beep of the disconnected line mocking him.

BEEEEEEP...

reluctantly, he had called both ogi and toji next, and each regret stung more than the last. ogi sounded all too pleased by the event, and had hung up to, no doubt, inform everyone he knew of 'the gojo heir' being a victim of mugging.

toji's brutal honesty hit harder.

his voice had been laced with smug amusement, delivering one dismissive insult after another before abruptly cutting the call. by the time the phone clicked silent again, satoru felt something he rarely experienced — genuine, soul-deep irritation.

with a frustrated growl, satoru clenched his fist and swung it towards the glass, the impact reverberating through the phone box.

a sharp crack echoed as small fractures spread across the surface, and a few shards broke loose, tumbling to the ground.

he flexed his fingers, inspecting the streaks of red beginning to stain his knuckles. the sight annoyed him more than the pain — bleeding wasn't part of the plan. still, the partial break in the glass was hopeful, and he prepared himself for another attempt.

as he paused to assess his next move, his gaze caught on a young blonde-haired girl walking along the street nearby. she couldn't have been older than you or megumi, about ten, her small figure striking against the gritty surroundings.

desperation took over as he called out to her, motioning with his uninjured hand. the girl stopped and turned towards him, but her wide, wary eyes said it all — she clearly thought he was some sort of lunatic. satoru would have tried to understand his viewpoint if he wasn't so irritated with his situation.

she hesitated, clutching her backpack tighter, and stared at him as though deciding whether to run or stay.

"you're a pedo!" she'd decided altogether, which only got satoru to clench his jaw at her.

his neck was starting to hurt with how the height of the phone box had bent him at its will.

"i'm not a pedo, and if i was, you'd be safe, you blonde, bob-headed, little shit."

she furrowed her brows at him, but she'd taken several steps closer, which told him that there was a certain level of trust there between them.

"i'm trapped," he explained, for the eighth time. he looked around and saw a discarded hammer on the dusty floor. "get that hammer and pass it to me through the hole i made."

"my mom told me not to speak to strangers," said the child, her white dress notable in comparison to all the dust and dirt surrounding them.

"your mom also left you unattended in this sketchy neighbourhood," said satoru, brows raised. "you think her opinion matters? help me out."

the child still seemed reluctant. satoru groaned loudly.

"i'll buy you a cupcake."

she ran over to the hammer and presented it to him. satoru encouraged her to push it through the hole, but the way she was looking at it made him pause.

and he was right to do so, for she unexpectedly held it over her head, and then slammed it into the glass window, his hands immediately going over his head to prevent the glass from cutting into his face and sensitive areas.

"sick," he marvelled, as she continued to smash up the glass.

and after a little more smashing, she had finally had her fun and handed the hammer over to satoru through a much wider hole.

he took it gratefully, looking down at her through his round glasses with his head tilted.

"might wanna step back, kid," he warned her, before releasing all his pent-up anger on the phone box, enough to smash its front in a way that made it unrecognisable.

he stepped out, throwing the hammer away, leaving it discarded somewhere forgettable behind him.

"i'm getting my stuff back."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

the gang gathered around satoru's possessions with wide eyes, each of them marvelling at the loot they'd just stolen. the leader, with a smug grin on his face, rifled through his wallet, fascinated by the sleek, black card inside.

"this guy's loaded," he muttered to himself, feeling more than a little victorious, for there had been four different sleek cards, and he was certain if they chose to rob his house next, they'd find more.

his fingers hovered over satoru's phone, still in pristine condition despite the earlier struggle.

the rest of the gang members, too, admired the items with greedy satisfaction.

but their smugness was short-lived.

in a blur, everything around them seemed to freeze for a moment, only to snap back into chaos. one second, they were standing in the middle of the street, basking in their victory, and the next — a flash of white filled their vision.

it was as if the world had shifted, disorienting them completely. the last thing they saw was satoru's towering presence, the white of his hair and his eyes like blinding light.

then, with only one warning from one of the members ("guys, he's coming! he's coming!"), they found themselves in a dark alley, each of them battered and exhausted, sprawled out on the ground.

the gang leader himself could taste blood in his mouth, his head swimming as he tried to piece together what had just happened in the space of five minutes. his body screamed in pain, the bruises already beginning to form, and his mind struggled to understand the impossible speed of the attack.

they hadn't stood a chance.

satoru stood over him now, his foot casually pressing down on the younger man's face, pinning him to the ground with alarming ease. his grin was feral, manic — a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

his possessions, now securely back in his grasp, were scattered around him, including the cupcake, which he held up to his lips, barely noticing the bloodstained mess of the street around him. his body was tense, like a coiled spring, filled with untamed energy as he looked down at the leader with barely-contained excitement...

there was something unnerving about the way he was smiling — something wild and unhinged, as if the fight, the chase, and the thrill had unlocked something primal within him. he was terrifying, but utterly in control of himself, and the chaos surrounding him.

"heh," he laughed to himself, throwing the bag over his shoulder. "i get why toji used to do this all the time. look at your faces!"

he eyed them all, noticing one thing they all had in common. he laughed loudly.

they were all japanese.

"what is this, the yakuza?" he joked, taking a bite out of his cupcake.

he deserved more sweet treats, he decided. perhaps he would go downtown to treat himself again.

his eyes had landed on the very criminal that had taken his cupcake intentionally. he walked away from the gang leader and bent down to present it to him again.

"want a bite?" he teased.

when he didn't respond, satoru stood up straight again.

"what, you scared?"

but despite asking the question, he didn't wait for a response. instead, he turned around, spotting the little, blonde girl that had helped him out, and walked off without looking back.

"go back to school," he advised them. "you guys are shit criminals."

satoru strolled over to the little blonde girl, who looked up at him expectantly, her bright eyes wide and curious. her expression was a mix of confusion and caution, as though she wasn't quite sure what to make of the strange man who had just singlehandedly obliterated a gang.

satoru, unfazed, reached into his wallet with a casual flick of his wrist, extracting a five-dollar bill. he held it out to her with a grin, his earlier manic energy fading into something far more playful.

"here, kid. get yourself something nice," he said with a wink.

"my name's hana," she told him, taking the bill. "hana kurusu."

he raised his brows at her.

"good to know," he'd said, and without waiting for a reply, turned on his heel, the faintest chuckle escaping his lips as he walked away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

notes: turns out my law exam i told you about went super well (got an A, woohoo!) and i was being dramatic lmao. so half this chapter was scenes i knew you’d be happy with, the other half was a lot of kamo, which i knew a lot of you hate me for, but it had to be done ‘cause i was right about the shit sociology test :/ lmao anyway, this was basically just some filler hahaa (with semi-plot!) 😼

previous chapter :)

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i do not own any of the characters of jjk, i only own the character of y/n and her mother. the other characters belong to gege akutami.

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sunshinegirl29 · 7 months ago

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Under The Influence

Summary; Aaron is helpless under the influence of Peter Lewis.

Content Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Drugs, Violence, Death, P in V Sex, some angst & fluff if you squint.

Pairing: Hotch X Reader

A/N - Sorry for how terrible this is, especially the end! It didn't quite come out how I'd hoped. But I still wanted to post it 😅.

Aaron’s eye is swollen shut. The sticky cooling blood dries on his cheek where he sits slumped against an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar room. He sees you there, soft and warm, and blurred at the edges. You crouch down and stroke tenderly over the swell of his arms.

“Hotch—Aaron.” You breathe his name, leaning into the crook of his neck to nuzzle at the warm skin there.

Aaron tenses at first, uncomfortable.

“What’re you doing?" he bites out and attempts to shuffle from your grip, but his arms won’t move.

Something buzzes by his right foot, illuminating a faceless figure.

“It’s okay.”

You smell like sage mingled with something sweet, like bubble-gum.

He jumps at the delicate press of your lips against his neck, puffing frustrated breaths when you continue a path of open-mouthed kisses up and across his jaw before pulling away to smile coyly at him.

You’re beautiful. He knew that. But now, gazing at him with lust blown eyes and the hint of a blush tinging your cheeks you’re almost ethereal; like a mirage of water in a desert.

He can’t do this. No matter how many times he’d scolded himself about wanting more. You were so much younger than him. His friend. His subordinate.

“It’s okay. You can kiss me, Aaron.”

It’s as if a film falls down over him and a confusing blurred version of you; plush lips parted and panting with need.

You hold your breath in anticipation before he moves in slow motion. Aaron’s lips are softer than you expected, his five o’clock shadow a sharp juxtaposition. The erotic sensation beckons a moan from your mouth into his that’s warm and unbearably pliant.

“Touch me. Please. You have my permission.”

It’s as if a switch flips in his head. He had to have every inch of you.

The unbearable need forces him forward, the pain in his face and head just a background buzz to the ache for you.

He bursts into life underneath you; the hand that isn’t holding himself up curls around the side of your neck, a large thumb tips your head down for a kiss that swallows you whole. You can’t stop yourself from whining into him, obedient to his tongue that licks readily into your mouth. The tang of iron blending with a sweetness of something unknown, it gets stronger until he breaks away, allowing you to draw in a soft gasp. The reprieve doesn’t last.

The large hand commanding your jaw moves to join the other at your chest, and with diligent fingers, the light material is slipped from your body. Aaron groans deeply from under you at the black lace, which follows the shirt quickly to the floor. You can’t help but lean into the heady sensation of wet warmth at your chest where he nips and licks like a man starved.

“Oh god.” You whine at the relentless pleasure of his mouth and can’t stop yourself from grinding down into his lap. He answers your silent request for friction with a weak rut of his own. The hardness there hits your clit over again and you’re clenching around nothing, keening into his mouth that at some stage had taken yours once more. He brings the arm that had been wrapped around your back to tug harshly at your trousers, the material drags painfully at your thighs until they disappear discarded with the rest.

The subtle dominance of him is all consuming. He’s commanding and strong underneath you, lifting your thighs sharply up to bob gently for a few seconds. Pained groans and the jingling of metal the only sounds.

Aaron hesitates, reaching for some coherence through the thinning haze.

“Where is she?” he asks, confused.

A dark figure takes up his field of vision. Lazy instincts urge him to try to move, to run. Whoever is holding him here sits, elbows on spread knees listening intently. There’s a faint hiss to his left, something frustratingly out of reach, something isn’t right.

“Whe---” he goes to ask again, but coughs on the growing smell of sage. It's too hard to stay focused. His head lolls down, vision doubling.

Aaron knows he has to breathe through it, to call her, call his team and escape so he breathes, full and deep for a few seconds but is quickly distracted by a cold touch to the side of his face.

You’re undeterred by the blood on your hand and bring it down in a trail of crimson that disappears between you and Aaron who stares glassily into your eyes; his honeyed irises adoring.

“It’s just me and you, Aaron.” You purr, tilting forward to capture his parted lips. His teeth clench, nostrils flare like he’s fighting to keep composure. But you’ve seen the way he looks at you. Over coffee in the jet, across the bullpen when he thinks you don’t notice, but you do—because you’ve been looking at him too. Pining like a needy puppy, clenching your thighs under the desk, watching him interrogate unsubs and coaching you through difficult reports. But you never entertained that it was anything more than a crush and definitely not it being reciprocated!

But the need for him, it’s almost too much.

“Aaron, please. I need you to---"

You cry out, taken by surprise by the way he thrusts upwards; the stretch of him inside you only adds to the pleasure. There’s no art or finesse, just animalistic clashing of skin against skin, tongues, and teeth in all consuming desire. Strong hands ease down to settle on your lower back, rocking you faster against him, the drag of his cock inside you rips a strained moan from between your lips.

The sound has him hammering up in deliberate thrusts so strong that you flop forward, grinding flush against the damp front of his chest. Your whines are muffled into his neck, the white-hot throb of pleasure coiling inside you renders you oblivious to his nonsensical muttering and all you can do is kiss him desperately, swallowing deep growls of Aaron’s own pleasure.

Blunt nails dig into your back, his motions beginning to falter, but you continue to writhe on top of him. The way your body binds tightly to his creates friction in all the right places.

Aaron is louder now. The animal need pulling guttural noises from his throat that spur you on. Slick gushes around him and you whine out, his thumb rubbing desperately at the edge of your clit.

“I’m gonna cum, please.”

Your thighs shake around his, you’re so close to breaking completely but manage to release yourself from your place at his neck and take his jaw in your hand, yanking his head up with uncharacteristic force to look in your eyes.

“Aaron” He indulges the plea with a ragged thrust that pushes you over the precipice.

Your body tenses for one glorious second and a ripple runs through your body like a wave of throbbing electricity, pulsing through you and into Aaron who bites through a moan that tips you over the edge once more. You come down together, continuing to fill the room with noise, but another jarring sound snaps from behind you;

Something snatches at your hair and you scream out loud, pain searing through your scalp as you’re launched off Aaron’s lap and onto your back.

Aaron tries desperately to lurch forward. He has to get to you, to wrap you up in his arms, keep you safe. But all he can do is scream your name, his limbs heavy once more.

“Help me! Aaron, please!” You beg, half scrambling toward his slumped form, but a steel toed boot crushes your ribs like twigs underfoot. Instincts force you to curl up against the pain, crying for him to stop, but the shadowed figure just sighs, bringing himself down to stroke your hair. He says nothing but glances toward Aaron and smiles.

The pleasure, the love you felt from being with Aaron pales in comparison to the what follows. Agony rips through your throat. You can’t breathe, blood floods your mouth and pours from your nose.

A final gunshot rings out.

“Now I know what scares you.”

You never hear him beg for you.

On the floor, Aaron can hear his heart, louder than waves hitting the shore with such abandon, throwing itself again and again into his ribs. He tries to stand but bends like a tree in warm summer wind, brain fuzzy, and burning. The dark figure from before comes back into focus; the sharp, angular face of Peter Lewis sneers down at his undoing.

“It’s okay.” He croons as Aaron turns away, grimacing at blunt fingernails digging spitefully into the bruises decorating his jaw.

“You can move now.”

The smell of iron and something low and musky fills his nose; sucking in a steady breath, he begins to follow Peters' instruction to the letter. It’s on shaking knees Aaron becomes wildly aware of the dampness at his crotch, the uncomfortable disparity in temperature between material and skin. That’s when it comes again, the flood of memory; the intoxication of you, your skin, your body, and his, coming together in unadulterated pleasure. But with pleasure comes fear, the paralysing image of your death; the blood pouring like red rapids from your open mouth, the whites of your eyes blooming with the realization that death was imminent. But instead of clutching your wound, even in the twisted world of his imagination, you had reached for him. Blush tipped fingers that had clutched at his back in ecstasy desperately scrambled for him, desperate for a crumb of comfort in your final moments.

A beam of light invades the small space, illuminating a cream carpet. There’s no blood, no you. There’s nothing but the leather boots of Peter who revels in his agony, unphased by the intrusion of light. Something starts in Aaron, a spark of hope and an idea – years of training in the making. It forces him to the floor, grunting against the sensation. He has to be convincing.

“I’m coming through the door.” Peter hisses, thin lips brushing the shell of his ear “the woman you love, I’m going to kill her. Unless you kill me first.”

“I need.” Aaron stammers, giving himself mere seconds to calculate his next move “I need my gun”

A single shot rings out, and time suspends.

He’s crying when they burst through the door, each staggering to a stop in shock before bolting, tracking puddles of blood that retreat toward the back of the house. Aaron isn’t sure they’re real, not really, not until Rossi unfreezes from his place in the archway and presses the cold back of his hand to his burning forehead. Even riddled with panic and pain, Aaron didn’t miss the eyes of his team, lingering on his desperate hands that scrambled to buckle his slacks in time.

“We need a medic in here!” Rossi yells, it pulls Aaron up and everything comes back into sharp focus, like being pulled from deep water to cool air.

“Take it.” Aaron pants, panic itching his bones as he looks around, desperate to hear you, to know you’re alive “he made me see things..”

“Okay, come on let’s get you up.” Rossi sighs a plea, linking an arm under his to lift his sagging body from the floor.

He scans Aaron’s body, looking for obvious defects and signs of further injury but comes up empty and Aaron knows he wants to pry, to ask what had happened, for the painfully intimate details of his undoing. But Rossi just pats his shoulder, the same shoulder you’d dug your nails in, and he can’t help but flinch away.

“Where is she?” Even knowing it could reveal the truth, it didn’t matter; you weren’t here. He could hear everyone; JJ and Morgan round the corner, Spencer who lurks in the doorway, committing the scene to memory, but not you.

“Who Hotch? There’s no one else here. ” Rossi asks, flashing a concerned glance toward Spencer.

No, she’s here. She’s dead.

Aaron watches as Spencer pushes off the wall, eyes downcast and he knows then that he hadn’t been as covert as he’d thought, but then again Spencer always saw people for what they didn’t say.

Spencer gawps awkwardly around an explanation, but footsteps stampede toward the living room, panicked and stumbling. Your heart battering every rib but ricochets as you stagger to a halt, folding at the waist in relief. He’s alive. Bleeding and dishevelled, but alive.

“Hotch.” You gasp, a shaky hand comes up to cover your mouth when you step closer, taking in the details. His pants have been hastily pulled up. Something darkens the material at his crotch.

You turn quickly, reddening slightly. It’s been years since you entered the BAU, but you didn’t need to be a seasoned profiler to understand the expressions of the two men in front of you. Spencer flutters off to assist JJ, who drags a handcuffed Mr. Scratch into the hallway but stops in his stride.

“I win.”

He looks through Spencer, his beady eyes bore holes into yours.

“I don’t think so.” You bite and take a sharp step forward, but stop at a wayward flutter of your heart. A warm hand wraps itself gently around your wrist.

“You have no idea what I did to him. I win.” Peter laughs. Instinctually, you peer up to Aaron for any clarification, but the two men seem to freeze, suspended in time. Scratch taps at his own head, sneering between you and Aaron, whose ox like breathing permeates the tense silence.

You want to ponder his meaning, but the weight of Aaron’s heavy hand in yours is all consuming; his palm is warm and slightly calloused in your own, gripping it tightly as if an anchor.

“Hotch?” You breathe, turning slightly unnerved by his silence. “let’s get you checked out..”

Aaron turns, coming to life beside you; his dark shining eyes pin you to the spot.

“Aaron?” you frown, turning to Rossi for help find him huddled together with the rest of the team in a shadowed corner of the hallway.

He blinks, as if he’s seeing you for the first time, a loaded gaze that’s out of place on his face but not unwelcomed. You pull in a shuddering breath, unable to stop your eyes from fluttering closed when he curls a piece of wayward hair back behind your ear.

“He made me see things.” Aaron groans, jaw ticking, years of friendship shows it for what it is, the voluntary holding of information.

“It’s okay.” You try your best to soothe him, to bite back your own emotions at seeing him so vulnerable.

Aaron sighs, small and resigned.

“He made me see you.” He mutters, shaking his head at Rossi in your peripheral.

None of the team make a move to invade your space, respecting whatever was about to unfold. Your heart races, palms sweat slightly.

“You were dead,”

It took a few seconds to realize what he’d said, to battle with the weight of what that meant. You’d felt it for a while, the building tension your interactions, the way he’d reach for you when a scene got too busy or too violent. You’d pushed it down for so long, trying to curb the craving of being close to him, the hunger for his presence, the way you gravitated towards him in every situation. It wasn’t until now, looking up at his grief ridden face that you knew it had evolved into more than just this.

You’d died.

Peter Lewis makes his victims see their worst nightmares, and Aaron Hotchner’s was you dead.

"I’m right here.” You choke out from behind tears, lifting your hand to touch the side of his face. You half expected him to flinch, but he doesn’t. He all but melts, tears falling freely.

“Tell me what happened while it’s fresh.” It’s then you realise there had been more to this than meets the eye. There’s more he’s not telling you.

“No. I can’t..” You watch him step from foot to foot, tilting his head to the sky in frustration.

You almost push but Rossi cuts in with a cough;

"Come on, Aaron, we need to get you checked out.” This isn’t a suggestion, you know Rossi and Aaron, and don’t fight it, as much as you want to.

“It’s okay. I’ll be here when you get back.” You smile, suddenly feeling awkward, now aware of the presence of your team in your periphery.

JJ approaches first, cautious as if you might crumble under her soft touch on your arm;

“Are you okay? What was that?”

You don’t know. Or do you? The whole trajectory of your relationship had changed in a moment. How do you put that into a coherent sentence?

“It must have been Scratch. He put something in his head. I don’t know..” You trail off, going back over everything. But Morgan cuts in, shuffling you out toward the front door.

“That man doesn’t crack a smile. It’d take more than a hallucination to do that.”

“Maybe..” Reid starts, taking in a short gasp at the sharp change in temperature as you head toward the SUV. “Maybe we shouldn’t speculate. It looked bad.”

You could have hugged him. But instead smile, grateful.

Aaron watches you go, locking eyes loaded with words unspoken. Someone once said, is it better to speak or to die? He doesn’t know. How would he begin?

“Aaron?” Rossi’s hand begs for attention “You have to talk about it. Tonight while it’s still fresh.”

He knows Dave’s right.

“Hotch?!”

Aaron takes a deep, steadying breath.

“This is how it happened.”

#aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x you #criminal minds #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner smut #fanfic #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner

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pretzel-box · 10 months ago

Text

STREAMER AU MASTERLIST HERE

CHAPTER 6: I AM RIGHT AND I HAVE WON

tags: I don't know how to tag this? Painter exposes Allison?

words: 4k

authors note: I am not happy with how I wrote it, I blame the lack of a laptop.

In the span of three weeks, moved five individual people in five individual places.

Sebastian was the first,

After Allison had exposed his roommate a week ago, he was confused, angry and somewhat surprised. The man found himself glancing at everything that was connected to you, the bedroom door, the empty work desk, the chinese takeout shop and most importantly the second helmet for his bike.

This particular helmet wasn't really yours but you wore it so much in the past that it was basically owned by you.

Those little things conflicted him dearly, since he was sure, even with your weird love-hate friendship, did you both co-existed pretty well.

Yet, even as those small reminders tugged at him, Allison's words kept looping in his mind.

They set you up, you know that, right? she had said, her voice laced with feigned concern. All this time, they’ve been playing you—just so they could stay close to Solace. You're just a pawn.

Sebastian couldn't shake it off. The idea that you, the person who had shared his space and a fragile, weird friendship with him, might have been using him gnawed at him. He hated how much it made sense. Allison had laid it out perfectly—too perfectly, in hindsight—but in the chaos of everything, it sounded believable.

The constant replay of that accusation left him uneasy, and now every memory was tainted with doubt. The late-night laughs, the casual banter, even the tension that always bubbled beneath the surface. Was all of that staged? Was your connection to him just a ploy? He didn’t want to believe it, but Allison’s words had already planted the seed.

And then there was the part that unsettled him the most.

According to Allison, you loved him, in a way that bordered on obsession. She had claimed that every time you looked at him, it was with a deeper attachment than he’d realized—something beyond friendship, beyond even the regular crush. It was an unhealthy fixation. He was the center of your world, and it had all been hidden behind the mask of your chaotic yet comfortable interactions.

Sebastian felt conflicted. He hadn't noticed anything like that before. Sure, you had your quirks, but it never crossed his mind that it went that deep. Maybe he missed it because he'd never seen you in that light.

But that’s where the real problem lay—what he didn’t know was that Allison’s words were a lie, carefully crafted to make him doubt everything. You didn’t love him in that unhealthy way, and you’d never set him up. But the damage was done. The seed of doubt had been planted, and Sebastian was starting to wonder if everything between you had been a game all along.

Sebastian only found comfort in a single person right now, his best friend.

He swung his leg over his bike, secured his helmet, and drove off to visit his friend once more.

The second was Mama Solace.

Sebastian’s mother had finally found the time and money for a much-needed vacation, and it just so happened to be close to her son. A coincidence? Perhaps not. She loved Sebastian fiercely, more than life itself, and it was time once again to remind him of that with one of her unexpected, affectionate visits.

The last time she had dropped by was when you first moved in, becoming Sebastian’s roommate.

Oh, how she adored you from the moment she laid eyes on you. You had all the qualities she dreamed of in a partner for her son—sweet, caring, and just the right amount of fierce. She saw the connection between you two right away, even if Sebastian refused to acknowledge it. In her mind, you were already the perfect match for her precious boy. You had no idea just how often she'd drop hints, trying to nudge Sebastian toward you, much to his exasperation.

But that was Mama Solace—she loved to meddle in the most loving way possible. This visit would be no different.

She sat in the comfort of the plane, ready to depart from her home country to meet you two again.

The third person was Allison.

She darted around a local clothing store, her father’s credit card clutched in her manicured fingers like it was a divine gift. Her gel nails clicked against the plastic as she browsed the racks, the shopping spree a temporary balm for the simmering rage she felt toward you. Her irritation with you had long passed the point of tolerable, and only the thrill of buying something new could calm her nerves.

How dare you disrupt her carefully laid plans? All you had to do was stay in your lane, accept your role, and everything would have gone smoothly. But no—you had to get in the way, threatening the perfect web of control she thought she had spun. The plan had been flawless, but now, with every step you took, you were messing it all up.

Sebastian, thankfully, was still in the dark about everything. He was too distracted, too wrapped up in his own confusion to see the truth right in front of him. But that was fine with her. Allison believed she held all the cards. She had you, Sebastian, and the whole situation under her control—or so she thought.

She smiled to herself, picking up a striking red dress—perfect for her next date with Sebastian. The fabric would hug her in all the right places, showing off her figure. In her mind, it was only a matter of time before he saw her the way she pretended to see him, and this dress would be another step toward that.

As she stepped up to the cash register, her confidence faltered when the cashier swiped her card and it declined. Her father was still furious with her, apparently. She gritted her teeth in frustration, but quickly smoothed over her expression. She wasn't about to let this minor inconvenience ruin her day.

Without missing a beat, Allison pulled out her phone, her fingers dancing across the screen like it was second nature. She knew exactly how to handle this.

"Hey, handsome," she texted, her words dripping with flirtation. "Mind helping your favorite girl out?~"

It was easy—too easy, in fact. She had gotten used to manipulating situations to her advantage, and she was confident Sebastian would give her money. He always did.

Then there was Painter.

While Allison paid with Sebastian’s help and strolled out of the shop, Painter quietly entered his own—at the other end of the city center. Today, the usual sleek black suit made from expensive cotton was left in the closet. Instead, he wore a casual outfit: thrifted brown pants, a simple white shirt, and a green checkered vest that his mother had picked out for him years ago. He never liked it at first, but eventually, he came to admit—green was definitely his color.

Dressed like this, Painter looked like any other trendy, laid-back guy. You'd never guess he was the heir to Urbanshade, one of the most powerful companies around. His father had been grooming him for years to take over, especially after Painter managed to graduate from Yale with top honors. He was the pride of the family—a model Ivy League student, exactly as his parents had always hoped for.

But unlike his friend Sebastian, who lived by his own chaotic set of rules, Painter was always one of those people who excelled in everything, effortlessly. To the outside world, he was the golden child, the genius destined for greatness.

Yet for Painter, it was all a curse. His intelligence, his success—it only weighed him down, shackling him to a future he didn’t want. His heart was never in the world of business, but his family couldn't see that. To them, he was the prodigy who would continue the legacy. To him, it was a prison. The more success he achieved, the more trapped he felt.

It was why he enjoyed days like this—disappearing into the city, blending into the crowd where nobody knew or expected anything from him. Just for a little while, he could pretend to be someone else, a simple tech shop owner that tries to raise his own money to open up a small art studio instead.

While he worked, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the keys of his laptop, his thoughts inevitably drifted to you. He had seen you a few times with Sebastian in the city, always from a distance. Yet, despite never formally meeting you, he knew more about you than you could have imagined. Sebastian had talked about you often, and though Painter stayed in the shadows of your life, observing from afar, something stirred in his chest whenever he thought of you.

It was ironic, really. He was so familiar with the details of your existence, while you didn’t even know he existed. You were unaware of the person quietly watching your story unfold, aching from the sidelines. There was something about you that captivated him—perhaps it was the way you seemed to bring a kind of life to those around you, or maybe it was simply how you existed in Sebastian’s orbit.

But there was one thing that bothered him more than anything: Allison.

It pained him to know how she had manipulated your life, how she had sunk her claws into Sebastian’s world and, by extension, yours. Painter had known for some time what Allison was up to, and unlike Sebastian, he could see right through her facade.

Just like Allison, Painter had developed his own plan.

But his wasn't born out of selfishness or jealousy. It was something else—something more complex. While he hated to admit it, he wanted to find a way to cross paths with you, to help you in a way that would loosen the hold Allison had over you. And maybe, just maybe, he'd get closer to you in the process.

Though Painter’s mind was sharp, his heart was tangled in emotions he didn’t yet fully understand.

The last person who could understand Painter’s feelings was you.

You were navigating the city streets, your hands busily typing on your phone, trying to figure out where exactly you needed to go. With your streaming account temporarily banned, you had decided to get your laptop fixed—the keys were loose, and the screen was slightly cracked. The device had been with you for years, but it was clearly on its last legs. Maybe it was time for a new one, but for now, fixing it seemed like the easier option.

Eventually, you spotted it: a neat little shop with good reviews online. It seemed like the right place, and with a deep breath, you stepped inside.

Immediately, the smell of coffee greeted you. The shop had a warm, comfortable atmosphere, far cozier than you’d expected for a tech repair spot. There were shelves lined with new devices, a small selection of popular games, and a table for waiting customers. Despite the welcoming vibe, the place seemed empty—except for a young man at the counter.

He caught your eye right away, dressed in a casual yet stylish outfit that seemed effortless. His name tag drew your attention next, and you noticed something curious: an elegant name had been crossed out with a dry black marker, replaced with a word scribbled hastily over it—"Painter."

You weren’t sure what to make of him, but something about him seemed different. And without knowing it, the moment you stepped into the shop, you had walked into his world.

"Uhm, hi?" you greeted, your voice breaking the silence.

The young man behind the counter stared at you, caught off guard as if you had walked in at the worst possible moment. His eyes lingered on you for just a second too long, making the situation feel a bit awkward. There was something about the way he looked at you—almost like you had thrown him off balance. The way his gaze fixed on you, wide and a little too intense, made you wonder if you’d interrupted something.

"Oh, h-hello! Welcome, greetings. How can I help you today?" he stammered, clearly flustered. His response was a mix of polite and awkward, as though he hadn’t expected anyone to walk in. Maybe he wasn’t used to customers, or perhaps he was just an intern still getting the hang of things. Either way, he seemed utterly unprepared.

You smiled politely, deciding not to dwell on his awkwardness. "I’m here to get my laptop fixed," you explained, pulling the device from your bag and setting it on the counter. "It's been acting up—some of the keys are loose, and the screen's a bit cracked."

He nodded, though you noticed his hands were a bit shaky as he reached for the laptop. "Right, of course. I’ll take a look."

As he started inspecting the device, you took a moment to glance around the shop again, feeling oddly comfortable despite the rocky start to the conversation. There was something about him, though—his nervous energy, the way he seemed to be trying so hard to maintain a professional front. It was endearing in its own way.

What you didn’t know was that Painter wasn’t usually like this. Normally, he was calm and collected, able to handle even the most difficult situations. But the moment you walked in, something shifted. He had seen you before, from a distance, but never this close, and he wasn’t prepared for the rush of feelings he hadn’t even realized were there.

A small, unspoken crush had quietly crept up on him. He didn’t know why, but there was something about you that drew him in. And now, standing there with your laptop in his hands, he was doing his best to keep it together.

"I can take a look at it later. I’d say you can pick it back up… in like a week?" Painter offered, casting a polite smile your way. His expression was calm and professional, but beneath that exterior, his heart was racing.

You nodded, accepting his answer. After settling some details, you left your beloved laptop in his care, trusting him with the task. It felt strange to part with it, but the shop seemed reliable enough, and Painter—despite his awkwardness—seemed competent.

As you exited the store, you had no idea what you’d just set in motion.

For Painter, this wasn’t just a simple repair job. When you left your laptop with him, you unknowingly handed him exactly what he needed—the tools to execute the plan he’d been carefully crafting. Allison had been manipulating both you and Sebastian for far too long, and now Painter had the opportunity to expose her for what she truly was.

Your laptop would be the key to unraveling her schemes, and he was determined to set everything right, even if it meant crossing a few lines along the way.

Five people had already been moved. Now, it was Painter's turn to move them again, or at least some of them.

He had you exactly where he wanted. You left the shop, your laptop in his possession. That was step one. Now, he had to breach your digital privacy. He’d never done anything like this before, and the thought of doing what Allison had once done left a heavy weight in his gut. Yet, as soon as you left, he got to work. The laptop was old, practically ancient, but logging into your profile was easy—there wasn’t even a password. Your naivety was almost charming.

Everything was there—passwords, emails, data, and every digital memory. It was essentially Jelly’s—no, your—entire identity, captured in one place. He could call Sebastian, expose the laptop, and reveal his nasty girlfriend’s secrets. But no, Painter was above that. He preferred to play god.

His personality was usually against it but he will gladly bend the rules for his best friend…and his own potential crush.

Step two was breaching the streaming website to reclaim your account. A task simple enough for a Yale student with the right tools. Allison thought she'd been 'Jellycatfished,' but now it was Painter in control.

The account was exactly as you and Allison had left it. He couldn’t resist clicking on one of the stream recaps, your voice filling the room through the laptop speakers. There it was—undeniably yours.

He snatched his phone off the counter and dialed a number.

“‘Delia, bring the camera and the good microphone. We’re shooting something at the shop.” Cordelia, another worker in the store and a small-time content streamer, was known for her quirky charm. He knew she was the perfect partner for what he had in mind.

“Painter? For what?” she asked.

“We’re about to make someone a star.”

Cordelia didn’t hesitate. She was on her way, gathering the equipment for a hidden camera setup along with a quality microphone."

Next, it was Painter's turn to text Allison. He still remembered her number from when he’d seen it on Sebastian’s phone. A plan began to form in his mind, one that required precision and just the right touch of manipulation.

'Hey, Allison, right? Sebastian left a gift for you here. Here’s the address.'

He included the shop’s address, carefully typing it out before hitting send. He imagined the moment her phone would buzz, her eyes narrowing at the unexpected message. Would she hesitate, wondering if it was real? Or would her curiosity get the best of her?

Painter smiled to himself. Everything was falling into place. He wasn’t just setting a trap—he was weaving a performance, a story in which Allison would play a crucial role. Now, all he had to do was wait for the show to begin.

It was evening, and the store had long since closed, lights were out, though Painter had left the door unlocked. Everything was meticulously arranged—candles flickered softly, casting a warm glow around the room; a bouquet of red roses sat elegantly on the counter. But the centerpiece was Painter himself, dressed in an expensive, perfectly tailored cotton suit. He had spent hours preparing, adjusting his tie, combing his hair, making sure every detail was flawless. As he caught his reflection in the window, he almost didn’t recognize himself. He had never looked better.

Then, the door creaked open, and Allison stepped in. She wore a tight red dress that clung to her in all the right places, her hair perfectly styled. She carried herself with an air of confidence, as if she expected something grand—but her eyes betrayed her surprise as they scanned the room. The soft candlelight, the roses, and finally, they settled on Painter.

For a moment, there was silence as their gazes met.

"Let me introduce myself," Painter began, his voice calm and formal, though inside, the sweetness of his own tone made him sick. He forced a charming smile, the kind that was too perfect, too practiced. "I’m Painter—it’s a nickname," he added with a soft chuckle, as if trying to break the ice. "And I’m the heir to Urbanshade Corp."

He let the weight of his words linger, watching her reaction. He could see the curiosity in her eyes, the slight confusion.

"You’re probably wondering why you’re here," he continued, his voice smooth and rehearsed, like this was a well-orchestrated play.

This wasn’t just a conversation—it was a performance, and she had walked right into his scene.

"Painter? What’s going on? Where’s Sebastian?" Allison asked, her voice laced with surprise, though Painter could see she was already caught in his web.

"He’s not here. Sorry, I lied," Painter admitted, his tone smooth, but with a playful hint. He took a slow step toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. "Can you really blame me for wanting to be alone with someone so beautiful?"

He took another step, closing the distance between them.

"So... funny."

He was closer now, almost brushing against her.

"And intelligent?" His voice dropped to a whisper as he stood chest to chest with her, his breath warm against her ear.

Allison's eyes flickered with realization. The heir to Urbanshade Corp, standing so close, so eager—was he asking her out? Maybe it wasn’t so crazy to consider. A man of his status, his wealth... she could have a little fun on the side. A side fling wouldn’t hurt, right?

She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the crisp fabric of his suit under her fingers, catching the scent of his expensive aftershave. "You’re quite charming yourself," she said, her voice laced with a fake giggle designed to make men fall at her feet. But Painter played along, his smile widening.

"Oh?" he murmured, his voice dripping with charm. "Maybe you’d like to show me just how much?"

Allison leaned in, rising onto her toes to meet his height, her lips brushing close to his own, not touching yet. The tension between them was thick, charged with unspoken possibilities. For a brief moment, Painter thought he had her, that she was playing into his hands.

But then she stopped.

His lips hovered just shy of her skin as he whispered, "How much... you’re lying."

The playful edge in his tone had vanished, replaced by cold calculation. He would love to slap her, simply for cheating on his best friend. But now was hardly the time, not like this.

“You are not supposed to be his girlfriend. You are not Jelly and you don't deserve him.” His words caught her in surprise before she seemed to laugh.

“What do you know? They stole my identity! Ask Sebastian! I am the victim!” It was a poor try to defend herself.

“A victim? Another brilliant lie, congratulations. You officially make me sick.” The words were enough to set off her rage and she raised a hand to hit him, a hand that he caught in the middle of the action. “Don't you dare.”

“You know what? Fine, to hell with you. I am NOT them but it doesn't matter because everyone believes me anyways. I HAVE PLAYED YOU ALL. I GOT THE ACCOUNT BANNED. FUCK YOU, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU STUPID IDIOTS. SEBASTIAN IS MINE AND I WON. I AM RIGHT AND I HAVE WON. I STOLE THEIR IDENTITY AND BECAME JELLYCATFISHED.”

Suddenly, the ceiling lights blazed to life, flooding the store in harsh white light. Allison blinked, momentarily blinded, as Cordelia stepped out from behind the shadows, a sly grin on her face.

"And that’s a wrap!" Cordelia announced, her voice dripping with amusement. "Great work, everyone. So authentic, Painter." She shot her boss a playful wink.

Allison’s eyes darted from Cordelia to Painter, confusion overtaking her. A second ago, she had been in control—or so she thought. But now, the anger and seduction drained from her face, replaced by a wide-eyed, flabbergasted look. She felt like a deer caught in headlights, utterly lost.

"You see," Painter began, his voice smooth but laced with triumph, "43 thousand people just witnessed your grand confession. Live and in full HD." He let the weight of his words sink in, a twisted smile forming as he saw the realization dawn in her eyes. "You’re a star now, Allison. Just like you always wanted to be."

Cordelia had filmed it all—the near-cheating, the manipulation, the confession—and streamed it live on Jellycatfished, the very platform that had become Allison’s downfall.

Painter took a step back, admiring his work. His plan had come together beautifully, every detail falling into place like a carefully painted masterpiece. He couldn’t help but applaud himself mentally for the sheer brilliance of it all. Soon enough, the lawsuit would hit Allison—public shame was only the beginning.

Outside the store, Sebastian stood frozen, just out of sight but close enough to hear everything. His phone was clenched tightly in his hand, his knuckles white with the pressure. He had seen the signs but ignored them, convinced he knew the truth. But now, as the reality of what had unfolded hit him, it was clear.

He had been wrong. And he had lost.

#sebastian solace #roblox pressure #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #pressure #sebastian solace fanfic #pressure x reader #streamer au

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cap-trio · 2 months ago

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promised to another | part one

Summary: Things with Steve were perfect, like a never ending honeymoon phase. You ignored all the warnings from friends about how that stage doesn't last long, because you know you and Steve aren't like everyone else. But you should've listened.

Your relationship shifted gradually - fewer date nights, going to bed alone while Steve worked a second job, and feeling like you've been put on the back burner. When he suggests taking a break you feel your world crumble around you.

During that time you run into your ex, Bucky. Your first love, the right person at the wrong time, the one who got away. As you reconnect, old feelings resurface that complicate everything. Do you hope that things with Steve will work out, or do you take a risk and try again with Bucky?

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Tags: Modern AU, cheating, angst, exes to lovers, fluff, second chance romance, based on a Taylor Swift song (Ivy).

Word count: 2K

Notes: I've had this idea for a while, and Thunderbolts* rekindled my MCU obsession and finally inspired me to write this. I haven't written anything in a while, so any feedback is appreciated! I'm aiming to update once a week, hopefully more if I have time.

series masterlist / read on ao3

part one: grieving for the living

Things with Steve started like a dream.

You met him while taking an art class in college. After arriving late on the first day, you took the only open seat next to him. Your first impression was how handsome he was, like he stepped right out of a Disney movie where he played the prince. Intimidating, but with a softness that drew you in. From day one, you knew you were in trouble.

Things progressed slower than you had hoped. It took until halfway through the semester before your first date, months of flirting and dropping hints before he got the courage to ask. You found it sweet how nervous he was asking you to grab coffee, and how he seemed surprised you said yes.

Dates became a weekly occurrence; trips to art museums, picnics in the park, and failed attempts to cook dinner for each other were interrupted by setting of the fire alarm. Things felt too good to be true; college guys did not act like Steve. All they wanted to do was “watch” Netflix in their filthy dorm rooms and hook up. Somehow, you hit the jackpot. By the end of the semester, you two were official.

Steve proposed the day after graduation. It was an obvious yes, and the two of you moved into a small Brooklyn apartment. It felt more like a shoebox, but the two of you were so in love that it felt like home from the second you signed the lease. Steve got a job teaching art at a local community college, saving every penny he could for the perfect engagement ring. Within a year and a half, you two were married. It wasn’t anything fancy; you both were too excited to be husband and wife to care too much about how it happened, but it was still perfect.

People warned that the honeymoon phase would wear off, and you always scoffed at that. The honeymoon phase began at that coffee shop on campus and never faltered, growing stronger with every minute spent together. Sometimes, you were almost annoyed at how you became one of those sickenly sweet couples that you used to make fun of with your friends. But then you knew how it felt to be a part of one, and you regret everything you said about them. You two were in your own little bubble.

But unfortunately, that bubble popped.

The shift didn't happen all at once. It was a gradual thing, a dark shadow slowly creeping in unnoticed, until everything was covered in black. Date nights were canceled when Steve would get stuck at office hours. Texts and phone calls went unanswered because he was busy. No more surprising you with your favorite flowers “just because.” Stress about money turned into him getting a second job. Hardly seeing each other, and when you did, Steve was always exhausted or distracted. Fights about how you felt like he wasn't putting in an effort, only for him to argue that everything he was doing was for you.

It wore you down. You stopped trying to squeeze dates onto the calendar, sending pictures of random things around the city that reminded you of him, or staying up late hoping to get just a few minutes with him. You gave up, and so did he.

Maybe this is it, you would think to yourself. But you still loved him, and you knew he loved you too. It was just a rough spot, a thunderstorm interrupting sunny days, that would be over before you knew it.

And then Steve took a needle to your bubble by suggesting a break.

You were adamantly against it. “How is that the best solution? We already don't see each other, and now, what, you think staying apart is going to help? ”

“I think it gives us room to think. Reevaluate. See if we’ve grown apart, or if this makes us miss each other,” he’d said. “I already found a place to stay, so you don't need to worry about that.”

If we miss each other. Like you haven't already missed him for months. Like he doesn't miss you, and that he never will.

“I guess you made my decision for me then, huh? Just like how “everything you're doing is for me”? I think that's a lame excuse to push me away, and congratulations because it worked,” you scoffed.

Neither of you said a word as he packed his bags. He was already slipping through your fingers, and at some point, you knew you’d have to accept that he’d let go.

————————————

Almost two months had passed. Steve took a part of you with him that left you hollow, just going through life on autopilot. At first, you would talk a few times a week, even met up for dinner once, but it wasn't enough. Things felt strained and forced, every conversation made you feel worse about the state of your relationship.

How can I grieve someone who's still alive?

It was something you asked yourself daily. Your marriage wasn't officially dead, but it might as well have been. Neither one of you was brave enough to admit it, leaving you in a waiting game of who would crack first.

But then came an unexpected bright spot.

It was a random Tuesday after work. After a rough shift, you decided to stop at your favorite coffee shop as a treat. You were almost out of the door when you spotted him. It had been years since you’d seen him, but you’d recognize him anywhere. Long, dark hair, soft blue eyes, a physique most men dream of.

Bucky Barnes. AKA, your ex-boyfriend.

Before Steve, there was Bucky. He was your first real love, your first everything . You met him at freshman orientation, and things escalated quickly. At first it scared you, but there was something addictive about Bucky. Most of your friends chalked it up to it being your first taste of freedom after high school, your first college fling, but you knew it was more than that.

He was there on a baseball scholarship. After a bad arm injury, he was deemed unable to play and couldn’t afford the tuition on his own, so he was forced to move back home and find a job. You were convinced you’d survive long distance, that he could save up and come back, or you’d visit whenever you could. But between him working full time and you being busy with school, things didn’t work out. Bucky didn’t want to get in the way of you enjoying college and tie you down, so he let you go. It crushed both of you, but ultimately, you both knew it was the right decision. Right person, wrong time.

He was there for you during those homesick phases and nights when you weren’t sure college was for you. He brought you out of your shell, introducing you to new people and playing tourist around campus to make it feel special. Whenever you got the inevitable sickness spreading around the dorm, he’d be there with homemade soup and every kind of medicine.

You tried moving on; hookups that left you empty, dating app conversations that hardly led to a first date, and when they did, you never saw them again. It wasn’t until you met Steve the following year that you felt something real again. But even then, it was different than what you felt for Bucky.

Bucky would sometimes slip into your mind, and it always made you feel guilty. Steve was great, borderline perfect, yet you couldn’t help but reminisce about what you had with Bucky. Both were life-changing, once-in-a-lifetime relationships in different ways. And now here he was, and all those memories came rushing back.

“Bucky?” You asked to make sure you weren’t imagining things.

His eyes widened when he saw you. Immediately, he stood up from the table and pulled you in for a hug. “Holy shit,” he laughed. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Do you mind if I sit?”

“Of course not.” Always a gentleman, he pulled out your seat for you. “So, how have you been?”

“Uh, I’ve been good,” you flashed your best fake smile. “Remember that internship I was hoping for? They hired me and offered me a job after graduation, so I’ve been there for a few years now. Got a small apartment over in Brooklyn.”

You watch his eyes flick down to your wedding ring. You hadn’t realized you’d been fidgeting with it until he caught you. His face hardens, his jaw tensing for a second before he forces a strained smile.

“Got married too, I see.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Two years. His name’s Steve.”

“I’m happy for you.” You know he’s being genuine, though you can hear a tinge of regret in his voice. Bucky was never the jealous type, and how could he be after all these years? He just wishes things could’ve been different between you.

He watches your face fall. “Is everything alright?”

“Can we not talk about him, actually? Sorry, I just…would rather not.”

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” An awkward beat passes. This isn’t how you dreamt running back into Bucky would look. “So, what have you been up to?”

He notices the way you quickly glance down at his hands. No ring , you note, not that it even matters. “I just got promoted to general manager of the bookstore down on Third Street, and I’ve been helping coach the Little League baseball team. Makes me miss playing, but I love helping the kids and seeing how much fun they’re having.”

Picturing him out on the field coaching those kids makes your heart ache in the best way. “Congratulations! I remember you mentioning how much you love that store, and how frustrated you’d get because I refused to pick up a book, so I let you give me a mini book report. And those kids couldn’t have a better coach, they’re lucky to have you.”

Bucky laughs at the memory. “Sorry you had to hear all my ramblings. At least now I get paid for it. And thanks, that means a lot.”

“Don’t apologize, I loved hearing how passionate you were. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

Shit. Admitting that shifts the vibe of the conversation; there’s no way he doesn’t feel it too. It makes you think of the other things you liked about him, in turn bringing back memories of your relationship. It’s too much, too fast, like a dam bursting open in front of your eyes.

“Really?” He leans forward. “Do tell, what are your other favorite things about me?” He tries to sound serious, but starts laughing almost immediately after. He’s always been good at taking an awkward moment and shifting it around. Something else you like about him.

“So you’ve gotten full of yourself these past couple of years, huh?” You tease.

“Oh yeah, got a huge ego now. Having the kids tell me I’m the best coach they’ve ever had has really done a number on me.”

“I can see how that would,” you smile.

Another beat passes. “I’m really glad we ran into each other.”

“Me too. I’m sorry I never reached out, it was just…” You trail off.

“Too painful?” He finishes.

You nod. It’s not the best excuse, but at least he understands. “When I moved here, I didn’t know if you were still around, or if you’d even want to see me if you were. I wouldn’t have even known what to say. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he shrugs. “I understand. I thought about calling a few times, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything. But now that you’re back, I’d really like to see you again.”

“I’d like that too.”

You exchange numbers and promises that you’ll call soon. For the first time in two months, you feel lighter, like the sun is finally shining after nothing but gray skies.

#bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x you #steve rogers x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers #bucky barnes #the winter soldier #captain america #mcu fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #the way i'm scared to post this LOL #back in my writer era #promised to another #cassie writes

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ilovelyneysm07 · 1 year ago

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Shooting Stars - SAGAU!Lyney x Player Part 1

Summary: Shooting Stars were always a weird occurrence in the world of Teyvat, so when they suddenly stop, certain magician can't help but wonder if it has to do with the strange aching in his chest.

CW: Self Aware AU, NOT Cult AU or Creator AU, Angsty, the Reader is referred as Player, Based on my own Genshin Account, Pretty Self-Indulgent, GN!Player, Cross-posted on AO3, English is not my first language and I'm not an experienced writer

Taglist: @yurislilygarden @yurislotusgarden

Lyney had a weird feeling in his chest for a while, like a strange ache that won’t go away, it didn’t affect his shows in any kind of way, having perfected his stage persona, a little ache in his chest is not going to make him fail, but in the back of his mind, he can’t help but wonder what’s going on.

It all started a few months ago, the once bright blue sky turned dark and shooting stars fell from it, a golden star different from the rest, falling towards the Palais Mermonia, or rather, near it. Many people were worried about what was going on, but many others were already used to the phenomena that was the strange “shooting stars” that happened from time to time. Some stars fell into Inazuma, some others into Liyue, even some fell into Sumeru. Nobody knows why this happens, only that if a star falls on you, you receive a strange aura around you.

After that month’s event, and Miss Furina was walking around freely and with a smile on her face, the shooting stars suddenly… stopped, the sky returning to the usual bright blue. No clouds, no movement, just blue.

With each passing day, the ache in Lyney’s chest increased, the lack of dark skies made his mind wonder if it had something to do with the ache he felt in his chest. Why did the shooting stars stop falling? Does it really have something to do with him?

The magician went over to his dear sister, to ask her if she felt something similar, but she just shrugged, saying that she suddenly felt an aura surrounding her, no shooting star needed (Lyney failed to notice the way her eyes avoided his gaze, slight frown in her face).

Then the magician wanted to ask his younger brother, but he already knew the answer, as the month before the last dark sky, a shooting star fell into Freminet while he was diving in the waters of Fontaine, purple aura surrounding him (Lyney also failed to notice the nervous stare Freminet send his way).

Questions kept surrounding the magician’s mind, while his eyes were glued to the starry night sky, wondering if one of those stars is gonna fall. Maybe fall on him too, please?

Lyney can’t lie that he felt a little bit jealous of his siblings, both being “blessed” (that’s how many people saw it) by the shooting stars, both being surrounded by that weird purple aura. He didn’t want to feel like this again, feeling like he’s falling behind his sister or that he’s not strong enough to be the “older brother” figure anymore.

He can’t help but feel helpless. Will he be blessed like his siblings? What’s so special about this “blessing” anyway?

While looking at the night sky outside the window in the Opera Epiclese, his thought bubble gets interrupted when he hears people muttering among each other in the dressing room. Now, he’s not one to eavesdrop (at least, not when he’s not commanded to), but the topic of the conversation catched his interest.

“Why do you think the shooting stars stopped?” one of the staff members of his shows said, Lyney could hear the sound of boxes moving inside as he got closer.

“Honestly? I have no idea. They were already inconsistent, but to suddenly stop? Now that’s weird.” the other staff member said, their steps giving the hint that they were moving around rather quickly.

“Do you have any theories, though? I heard that the last one to receive the blessing was Lady- Miss Furina, and she sometimes is seen walking around with a golden aura around her! Golden!-” a loud sound could be heard, alongside the kinda loud scream of the staff member. “Sorry!”

“Be careful, but yeah, that never happened before, right? Miss Lynette has a purple aura, alongside Mister Freminet.” some steps could be heard, and more boxes were being moved around.

“Wait- what about Mister Lyney? Did you see any kind of aura in him?” Lyney felt his body tense at the mention of his name. A silence fell in the place, no boxes were moved and no footsteps could be heard. “Wait… does he have an aura?”

“I… don’t think so. Then again, only a few people in Fontaine have it.” more silence, and then footsteps started coming to the door, startling Lyney.

“His siblings do… Why not him?”

The door opened, and the two staff members started walking towards the hallway, some boxes in their hands. Lyney emerged from his hiding place, his gaze strangely blank.

“Why not him?”

On the other side of the screen, an excited player was looking at their primogem count. 296 wishes in their virtual wallet and 20 intertwined fates. They then watched all the materials needed in the ascension planner; everything was good, all of the materials checked, including his weapon’s materials (if they get it).

The player smiled to themselves and opened the wishing menu, seeing the 3 day(s) left message under the iudex’s banner. They took a deep breath and closed the game for the day, determination in their eyes.

Lyney, you will be mine. They thought with a smile on their face.

A/N: In celebration of Lyney's rerun, I made this. It's kinda angsty, but don't worry, things will get better when his banner comes out :P

#genshin impact #genshin lyney #genshin #lyney genshin #lyney #lyney x reader #genshin impact lyney #lynette #genshin lynette #genshin impact freminet #freminet #house of the hearth #genshin sagau #genshin impact sagau #sagau x reader #sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact x reader

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mari-lair · 11 months ago

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I got some asks about aoinene before so i may as well get my view on them off my chest.

( warning: I have a negative bias toward this ship and despite trying to be brief and unbias, I very very likely failed.)

To me, Aoinene makes each other worse, not as people, but as characters.

It's the kind of ship that the more I look at it the more empty their friendship feels, and yes sure they have their problems, but I don't mind when a ship have issues (hakubo and sumire are such a cool dynamic, 10/10 for me and they are a million times more 'toxic' then aoinene will ever be), but the aoinene problem is that they feel like fanservice. There is no conflict. There is nothing. They become shadows of themselves.

Aoi isn't stuck in the "I am an exposition girl :D" role because she is oblivious to the bigger story, and all they need is communication, Nene put her there. Iis insane that they've known each other for 2 years but she don't know anything about Aoi. Every time we learn something interesting about Aoi, is when she is seen in other's people's pov, even characters that barely interact with her like Teru and Mei have a better understanding of Aoi than Nene.

To Nene, Aoi is the troupe of a perfect friend. Nene cannot process her flaws, she rejects the idea, and Aoi can't make Nene talk, face her own issues. So there is never conflict. Their friendship is a love that morphed into a horror situation. A staged friendship.

"Aoi is cute and nice and kind. I refuse to believe she wouldl ever be anything else, let's not think about how i was thrown in the trash by her, that aoi was mean, she was a fake. I will not accept her being the real aoi. I won't even think about it."

"I know Nene is going through a lot but I need to play the happy girl with no troubles role for her. I won't ask about her problems or even show hints that I know something is off after learning about supernaturals, and that her crush is dead, and human sacrifices are a thing that happen. That's not what she wants from miss popular me."

It reach the point where their fluffy arts feel like fanservice to me, more of a 'look! cute girls doing cute things!! Aren't they such good friends??' photoshoot magazine than a genuine bond.

Look at this beautiful and cute art for exemple.

You would imagine the chapter is about them, that they will have some form of talk about their feelings in it, so much happened since the last time they talked after all!

Maybe Aoi apologize for throwing Nene out while Nene apologize for planning to die without Aoi's consent, making the same selfish mistake Hanako had done to her when he sacrificed Aoi so Nene could live. Maybe is just a quiet talk about how much things changed? A lighthearted but warm chat of how disorienting seeing supernaturals are as former girls that never had to deal with it? Something, anything, to connect them. Maybe the oposite, a big conflict that gets ugly now that the masks are down...? We had a lot of those in this arc, like kou and teru in chap 87, aoi and akane in chap 69, nene and hanako inc hapter 91! But no.

There is nothing. Is always nothing when they talk.

This beautiful cover art is from the chapter where Aoi issues were immediately brushed aside when she tried to bring them up and the usual bubbly Aoi was forced to come back.

They are bafflingly shallow for how much time they spend together and how much potential is bubbling under their mask, keeping their basic dynamic from their introduction even when the characters are begging for something to change.

So that's why I dislike them, they don't make each other better, they don't even have the gall to make each other act worse, they just make each other boring. Aoi is only allowed to be a fleshed out character when we get away from Nene's pov.

Is only through her interactions with other characters that any hint of dept, or hell, even fun quirks and overall aspects of her personality that are hinted with her friendship with nene, are explored or allowed to shine.

There is potential though! And I could see myself enjoying writing a one-shot exploring how painful for both parties the shallowness of their relationship is in some alternative universe, but unfortunetely the fandom ruined it for me. Which is a shame, since Nene is aoi only other friend, and their charade friendship is genuinely valued/loved by the other.

I tried to read fics and analysis to see if I was missing something but the fandom have a 'omg they are so cute and can do nothing wrong! All their issues will disappear if they hold hands <3' take on them, with so much mischaracterization both girls become unrecognizable. There is also a lot of Akane and aoikane hate, even masked aoi hate, cause god forbid their dear girlboss angelic lesbian queen have any negative feelings towards her bestie or likes a boy whose main flaw used to be the same as Nene (idolizing her to the point of dehumanization), and while that is not the manga's fault, it does affect my negative bias for this ship, make it far stronger.

After 2 years in the fandom, I just don't have the patience for this ship anymore. I don't think people are secretly evil if they ship aoinene or project themselves onto the girls, but it just isn't my thing. I am not looking for a fight either Anon, I block people cause I want as much peace as i can, and if what they ship makes me uncomfortable, is not their problem, is mine. Let them have fun out of my sight so we both strive pls.

#is a 'going through my drafts' kind of week i see #vent #I feel like my stance had always been obvious on them (hence why i even got the ask) but it is still #a weight off my chest to reply instead of deleting the ask #tbhk #aoi akane #akane aoi #nene yashiro #toilet bound hanako kun

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misskattylashes · 1 year ago

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This essay is so big, it needs two parts!

The EYCTE cycle

Part 1

From ‘I Just wanted to be one of the Strokes’ to ‘I’m scared of love’ and why I don’t think we will get TLSP 3 any time soon.

There is no doubt that Planet Milex is a different place to where it was in 2015. Back then, they hung out in LA, treated girlfriends like third wheels, were pictured cuddling and behaving like a couple outside The Kills gig, and then went onto record Everything You’ve Come to Expect.

Planet Milex 2024 seems like a desert. No official pictures of them together, the only indication they are still in each other’s lives being Miles frequently mentioning in interviews about hanging out with Alex, still sharing clothes, a picture of them walking the streets of Shoreditch, a sneaky photo at a Scott Walker tribute concert (which interestingly was taken down immediately). Then ultimately, Alex wanting his beloved to be the support act for the final days of the tour, when it was clear at times Alex felt a little overwhelmed by it all, and of course, Miles was there to hold his hand and bring him back down to earth.

‘Maybe I was a little too wild in the seventies’

It’s interesting out of all the Monkey’s songs, it is I Wanna Be Yours that Alex then merged with Star Treatment (often adding ‘I just wanted a jet ski for the moat’ – more of that later), which kind of confirms who I Wanna Be Yours is about – I have no idea why no none has ever questioned the addition of ‘secrets I have held in my heart’.

I think the EYCTE period was one where feelings deepened and promises were made. The one to watch is Miles. At the beginning of the promotional period, Alex looks like an adoring boyfriend, but Miles is quite composed and whilst flirty with Alex, it’s no more than he ever was before, during the SIAS and AM eras. By the end, in the days of Sziget and Rock en Seine. Miles is looking like a soppy puppy with eyes full of love (pretty much how Alex has looked at him since 2008!). But judging by the lyrics of Star Treatment (which Alex started writing during EYCTE), Alex was aware their little bubble couldn’t last ‘here ain’t no place for dolls like you and me’, but Miles, having fallen hard thought they could keep it going.

Alex went off to France to record TBHC leaving Miles stranded in LA, friendless and a bit lost, meanwhile Alex went through a period of self-reflection and justifying to himself why he had let Miles down. Not all the songs on TBHC are related to Milex, Alex was influenced by a whole variety of things, but songs like Star Treatment, Golden Trunks, Batphone and The Ultracheese address their situation. The Ultracheese even ends ‘I done some things that I shouldn’t have done, but I haven’t stopped loving you once’. I see TBHC as Alex’s ‘excuse album’. Sorry I let you down Miles, but look what a big superstar I am with all these big responsibilities, but know I love you’

Miles on the other hand was angry and hurt and wanted to lash out. Coup de Grace is full of angst with thinly veiled digs at Alex (of course during the official promotion, Miles said it was about Hannah his ex but I do think mentioning Alex’s personal information in Killing the Joke is kind of telling). Wrong Side of Life is possibly one of the saddest and most desperate songs I have ever heard. And on Silverscreen, how do you explain Two Faced Johnny as being a woman?! The only hint at self-blame is on Too Little Too Late, with the lines ‘I’m too fickle set in my ways, I’m too little too late’ – which has echoes of Troubled Son. Personally, I think one of the reasons Alex possibly wanted to go back to how they were prior to EYCTE was because Miles had never committed before (see most of AM!) and it was a case of do the hurting before being hurt. But CDG ends with Shavambacu, which in an interview Miles said was about an ex and they used to call each other Shavambacu as a silly little name (cue footage of Miles calling Alex Shavambacu on stage). And the last line is ‘oh honey I love you’. Like TBHC, CDG ends with a declaration of love.

In between CDG and CTS we have the night at La Cigale (which I will write about in a different post) where I think their fall out came to a head, because not long after that, we have grainy footage of them hanging out in East London. At the same time Miles is writing Change The Show, and whilst the songs are still a bit angsty, there is a lot more pragmatism. See Ya When I See Ya stands out, and we have the ‘Johnny’ character again, but instead of being angry with Alex for his double life and secrets, Miles has resigned to himself he’ll always be there for him and keep his secrets for him. I think because they had reconciled to a degree, Miles realised they weren’t going anywhere, but it didn’t mean Alex didn’t annoy him. Final track Adios ta ra ta ra indicates exasperation at their constant battles, but there is still an air of resignation.

Part two tomorrow

#alex turner #miles kane #milex #tlsp #milex theory #tbhc #EYCTE #omb #cts #cdg

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theweirdestroller · 7 months ago

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Rescue Bots in Jasper: Part 1

The first in a three part prequel to my one-shot, Storytime with Blades! @mfganonymous hates me for this one, so it's now specifically dedicated to them.

"Ugh. My parents are talking about more school when I get back to Japan. I don't think I'll want to go back," Miko banged her head against Bulkhead's pede. "What about you guys?"

"I'm actually really excited to go to university after I graduate! I've been looking into one outside of Nevada so I can see more of the states!" Raf chriped, barely looking up from his computer.

"My mom keeps dropping hints that I should look into community college," Jack sighed.

"Do bots have school?" Miko asked, staring up at the Cybertronians.

"Umm. I don't think there's an equivalent for us," Bulkhead scooped up his human.

"Says you." Ratchet involves himself in the conversation for once. "Cybertron had training, which in certain castes was much like human universities."

"So you went, Docbot?" Ratchet tsked.

"Of course I did. The medical caste-"

"What was it like?"

"C'mon Ratchet! We're gonna be late!" Blades was dragging the taller medic by his arm.

"I think you mean you're going to be late. I didn't get nomiated for the Rescue Program," Ratchet laughed.

"Same difference! I get to meet my team today!"

Blades and Ratchet joined the crowd gathered in the middle of Iacon. Many bots from all different castes were gathered, all waiting to be assigned to a Rescue team. A highly coveted and skilled achievement. Only the best of the best even qualified, and even then, it wasn't a grantee.

After much waiting, the anouncer called out for the last rescue team this vorn.

"The final rescue team of this season is Sigma 17. There will be four bots assigned. Specializes in space missions."

Blades let out a little whine. "I don't think I got in..." Ratchet set a hand on his roommate's shoulder.

"There's still four spots left. I'm rooting for you,"

"The fire response of Sigma 17 is- HEATWAVE!" A pale red bot stepped out of the crowd onto the stage.

Blades was shivering with nerves.

"The law enforcement of Sigma 17 is- CHASE!" A silver mech shakily stepped up, giving Heatwave a servoshake before going almost unnaturally still.

"The engineer of Sigma 17 is- BOULDER!" A green bot scampered onto the stage, greeting his new teammates.

"I didn't make it..." Blades sighed, leaning into Ratchet. Ratchet tugged his small friend closer.

"The medic of Sigma 17 is- BLADES!"

"W-what?!" Blades straightened and shook Ratchet's shoulder. "I made it." He grinned wide. "I made it!"

"Didn't doubt it for a second." Ratchet offered a soft smile and nudged his friend up. "Now go," Blades squeezed Ratchet's arm one last time and went to the stage.

Ratchet watched on as his roommate cheerily introduced himself to the rest of Sigma 17.

Ratchet didn't know that he'd end up as a field medic. He wasn't complaining. He'd done a lot of good for the Autobots and neutrals.But he was useless in this one instance. Completely and utterly useless.

Cybertron was dying, anyone could see that. With the death of the planet, any offworld Cybertronians returned to try and assist the planet. Rescue Bots. Bots like Blades and his team.

And the Decepticons were shooting them down like scraplets. It was a genocide.

An entire division of Cybertronians were gone in one fell swoop.

Ratchet was never going to see his bubbly orange friend again. The zippy, chatty little bot who liked to pop his wheels out of his pedes so he could wheel around everywhere. Blades was gone.

"As I said, it was much like your school. Homework, grades, stress, roommates, parties. Not unlike what Earth schools have."

"Cool! Wish I could see a 'bot school!" Miko cheered. "What parties did you even go to? Bet your roommate made ya go!" Ratchet huffed.

"It doesn't matter."

#transformers prime #transformers rescue bots #rescue bots #rescue bots blades #ratchet #this series is affectionately known as blades his roommate and that one guy #i would like it to mainly focus on ratchet and blade's lives before the war #i did also want to flesh out the team ending up in jasper #so this will be what im working on for a bit #blades+hisroommate

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chevyslate158 · 6 months ago

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Threads Of Freedom 15th Hunger Games AU Archer Brown x Fem!Reader: Chapter 5 - The Devil’s Bargain

A/N: I hope you enjoy the 5th chapter of Threads of Freedom—a 15th Hunger Games AU featuring Archer Brown x Fem!Reader! 🙌 In this chapter, Coriolanus Snow finally makes his grand appearance, and trust me, his presence is not going to make things any easier for our protagonist. 😈 Prepare for more tension, manipulation, and control as he takes centre stage in this chapter. I spent way too much time stressing over trying to come up with a cover for this chapter, but in the end, I decided to create my own quotes for it instead for Coriolanus 🤷‍♀️.

I can't wait for you to see how the story continues on—more twists are on the way. 💥 There will be another post in just a few hours or less, so stay tuned with a brand new AU being introduced for Billy the Kid... A Gladiator AU 🏛️💔. So stay tuned for more!👀

As always, thank you so much for reading and supporting me! 💖

Word Count: 5.5K

Warnings: Dark themes, control, abuse of power, intimidation, threats, manipulation, mentions of hanging, obsession, Coriolanus being Coriolanus, objectification, isolation, intimidation, possessiveness, coercion, dehumanisation, peacekeeper brutality, threats of violence, and grief.

As they led me through the darkened streets, the path to the Peacekeeper base felt endless. The streets were quieter than usual, the usual hum of District 12 silenced by the heavy air of tension. The flickering lights along the way cast distorted shadows, but it wasn’t the shadows that unsettled me, it was the Peacekeepers’ firm grip on my arms, their booted feet echoing with an unforgiving cadence on the cobblestones. My mind raced with frantic thoughts, trying desperately to keep my panic from surfacing. I had to remain calm. If they saw any hint of fear, it would only make things worse. I couldn’t afford to show them that I was scared, that I was about to crack under the weight of everything threatening to overwhelm me.

The sky above was cloaked in a thick blanket of clouds, the morning air unusually still, suffocating even. The darkness pressed in on me like a physical force, making it harder to breathe, and harder to think.

We walked past the hanging tree. Its gnarled branches twisted like skeletal fingers, reaching toward the sky as if trying to escape the earth below or the district itself. The shadows it cast stretched long and unnaturally, dark tendrils creeping toward me. My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, the weight of fear pressing down on me. The tree loomed like a silent witness to all the pain that had passed beneath it, its very presence a reminder of the Capitol’s unyielding control over us nooses hung along the main thickest branches.

The whispers of those who had met their end there seemed to echo in my mind. I could almost feel their souls lingering, the weight of their deaths heavy in the air. The tree mocked me, its presence a stark reminder of how little power we truly had. I tried to focus on my steps, but the fear bubbling inside me made it difficult to move. What if I didn’t make it out of this? What if the Peacekeepers didn’t believe my lies? The thought of being lost, forgotten, swallowed by that tree, made my stomach churn.

I forced myself to keep walking, my feet carrying me further from the tree, but its shadow remained, a silent reminder of the dangers that surrounded me. It felt as though my dreams of escaping, of freedom, were slipping further away with every step.

I swallowed harshly, trying to hold myself together. The sight of that damn tree of everything it represented was almost too much to bear. It was as though the air around me was thick with loss, and it weighed heavily on my chest. My thoughts turned to my father, and the way his health had worsened over the last few weeks, how he was now suffering from the same illness that had claimed my mother. The realization made my heart ache in a way I couldn’t put into words.

Regret gnawed at me like a slow poison. Why hadn’t I done more for him? Why hadn’t I spent more time easing his burdens, helping him carry the weight he’d been carrying for so long? I could have tried harder, I should have tried harder. Instead, I let myself get caught up in my own selfish dreams, the longing to escape, to leave District 12 and find something more. But I should have been here, by his side, making every moment count before it was too late. How could I have let myself get lost in my own desires, knowing how fragile he was? Now, the reality of his illness felt like a cruel reminder of the fleeting nature of time, and the more I thought about it, the harder it became to breathe.

The weight of my regrets settled heavily in my chest, a dull ache that only grew deeper with every step toward the base. The silence between the Peacekeepers felt suffocating as if the very air was pressing in on me, making it hard to breathe. I couldn’t help but think of Annie, her bright smile, and the laughter we shared that seemed so far away now. I longed for more moments with her, moments I had taken for granted. I wished I could turn back time, walk with her to the Hob like I used to, just to be near her, to enjoy the simplicity of our friendship. Instead, I had been so consumed with my desire to escape, to flee this painful place, that I had pushed her away without even realizing it. The time I could have spent with her now felt like a lifetime lost.

I regretted fighting with Archer—more than I cared to admit. Regretted the harsh words I’d thrown at him, the way I’d shut him out when all he wanted was to understand. I could still feel the weight of our last conversation, the anger and hurt hanging between us like a wall I couldn't tear down. I hadn’t given him a chance to explain, too wrapped up in my own frustrations to see what he was really trying to say. I had wanted to leave—wanted to escape this place and the suffocating weight of my life in District 12—but now, as I walked through the cold streets, it felt like those dreams were slipping away, dissolving into the night like smoke. The more the distance between me and the hanging tree grew, the more it seemed like I was running away from everything I wanted, everything I needed.

A part of me just wanted to turn around, run back, and throw myself into his arms. I wanted to feel safe again, to feel like I wasn’t carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I wanted to stay there, in the warmth of his embrace, and let everything else fade away. Because, if I was honest with myself, I cared about him more than I had ever let on. More than I had allowed myself to admit. He had become such a quiet constant in my life, someone who understood me in ways no one else could. And now, with the possibility of losing him hanging over me, I realized just how much he meant to me. How much I needed him.

In my heart, I knew that if I could just find the courage to go back to him, to apologize, maybe things could be different. Maybe we could have a chance at something more than just the unspoken tension that had started to build between us. But as I walked further away, my steps growing heavier, the idea of turning back seemed impossible stupid even. I had always wanted to leave District 12 behind, to run away and start fresh. But now, as I thought about him, I realized the truth—I didn’t just want to escape my life here. I wanted to escape with him; it was something I had to do. I wanted to build a life where the weight of the Capitol and the fear of the Games didn’t hang over us. And if I didn’t have him with me, then all those dreams of freedom felt hollow.

I had been so focused on the idea of escaping, but now, I couldn’t help but wonder if the only thing worth running toward was him.

I glanced up at the sky, the clouds thick and oppressive, and for a moment, I thought I saw the faintest hint of light breaking through, only for it to vanish as quickly as it appeared. The sunlight that was supposed to come with the morning was lost, swallowed by the swarm of clouds. It felt like a cruel joke, the dark clouds mocking my desire for freedom. It felt like everything I had dreamed of—everything I had hoped for—was fading away with the light. I had been foolish to think I could ever escape this place in the beginning.

"Get moving," one of the Peacekeepers barked, his harsh voice cutting through the whirlwind of my spiraling thoughts. His tone left no room for argument, and I nodded silently, biting down hard on my lip to keep the tears from spilling over. I couldn’t let them see me break not now, not when they were looking for any sign of weakness. Every step forward felt like it dragged me closer to my doom, and no matter how hard I tried, the knot of fear in my stomach only tightened.

The base loomed ahead, a towering, angular structure carved out of stone and iron. It seemed to absorb the faint light from the sky above, leaving it cold and lifeless. It wasn’t just a building; it was a warning, a reminder of the Capitol’s grip on us all. As the Peacekeepers marched me forward, their boots echoing against the cobblestones, I tried to steady my breathing. But with each step, the weight of my situation pressed harder on my chest.

Inside, the air shifted cool and sterile, with a faint metallic tang that reminded me of blood. The doors slammed shut behind me, the sound reverberating like a final verdict. The halls were dimly lit by flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead, casting uneven shadows that seemed to move as if alive. The stone walls were damp in places, their surfaces scarred and worn as if they had witnessed countless horrors over the years. The further we went, the quieter the world seemed to become, the hum of machinery and muffled voices creating an eerie backdrop that only added to my unease.

As I was dragged further inside the building, I noticed the Peacekeepers stationed throughout the halls. Some glanced at me with open disdain, their expressions twisted in disgust as if I were something foul that had wandered in from the seams. Their cold, judgmental eyes felt like a weight pressing against my chest. Others, however, looked at me differently, their gazes predatory and hungry. Their eyes raked over me as though I were something to be devoured, their smirks unsettling and dripping with malice. I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. The air grew heavier with each step, my stomach twisting with the realization that I was utterly alone here, a lamb among wolves.

I passed rows of heavy iron doors, each one marked with a number but no other indication of what lay behind it. From some, I heard faint sounds shuffling, the scrape of chains, or worse, muffled cries that sent a chill straight to my bones. The oppressive silence of the other doors felt even more sinister, as if they were holding their breath, waiting for something unspeakable to unfold.

"Move it," one of the Peacekeepers snapped, giving me a rough shove. I stumbled, barely catching myself before I hit the ground, and the cold sting of humiliation burned at the edges of my fear accompanied by the sting in my palms and cheek. I wanted to lash out but the icy knot in my throat made speaking impossible.

When we finally reached the end of the corridor, they pushed open a heavy door, its groan echoing like a death knell. The room inside was stark and barren, the walls a harsh, sterile white that seemed to amplify every sound. A metal table stood in the center, flanked by two cold, unwelcoming chairs. The surface of the table was scratched and worn, a silent testament to the countless people who had sat here before me, all of them helpless in the face of whatever judgment awaited.

They shoved me into the room, and I stumbled again, my legs trembling beneath me as though they were about to give out. My wrists were cuffed tightly to one another, the metal biting into my skin as I sank down into the creaky wooden chair, unable to stop my body from shaking. The air was thick, heavy with tension, and every breath felt like it dragged through my lungs. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the faint echo of my own unsteady breathing.

The walls seemed to press closer, enclosing me in a space that felt too small, too suffocating. My mind raced with the endless possibilities of what they might ask, of what they might do if my answers didn’t satisfy them. This wasn’t just a questioning; it was a reckoning. And as I sat there, staring at the scratched surface of the table, I knew there was no running from it. No escape. This was the moment when everything would change, and I couldn’t tell if I’d be able to survive it.

I tried to steady my breathing, forcing myself to think clearly. I had to prepare. Whatever was coming, whatever questions they hurled at me, I couldn’t falter. The truth wasn’t an option. I'd been at the mines late at night, trying to find a way out of this godforsaken district, and if they found out, my fate would be sealed. The hanging tree loomed in the back of my mind, its gnarled branches like fingers curling around my thoughts, threatening to drag me to my end.

I had to lie. I had to convince them I wasn’t the one sneaking around. Every story I told as a child to escape punishment, every excuse I made to avoid suspicion, it had all led to this moment. Now, my survival depended on how well I could spin my tale. My heart hammered as I rehearsed what I’d say, the excuses I’d give, the innocent look I’d force onto my face. I needed to seem frightened but not guilty, confused but not suspicious.

Lying was my only chance to walk out of here alive. I couldn’t let my nerves betray me, couldn’t let my voice shake or my eyes darted around like I had something to hide. The Peacekeepers weren’t stupid they’d see through anything less than perfection. If I wanted to avoid swinging at the end of a rope, I needed to act like I had nothing to hide. I clenched my fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms as I forced myself to focus.

This was it. My life depended on the story I’d weave in the next few moments. If I failed, the hanging tree would be waiting.

The metallic clang of the door opening made me jolt, my back snapping straight against the cold chair. I’d expected another Peacekeeper to barge in, maybe someone gruffer, someone who would demand answers with brute force. But the figure who stepped into the room was entirely different.

He carried himself with an air of authority that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. Every movement was deliberate, commanding attention without a word. He stood tall, well over six feet, his broad shoulders and lean frame exuding power. His iconic blood-red suit clung to him like it was made for no one else, the fabric pristine and untouched by the dirt of District 12. The color, so vivid and striking, seemed to symbolize both danger and dominance, as if he wore it to remind everyone of his control over their lives.

His blonde hair was slicked back meticulously, not a strand out of place, and his pale blue eyes—cold and calculating—locked onto mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, caught in the quiet storm that was his gaze. It was unnerving, like a predator locking onto its prey. The sharp, almost clinical precision with which he studied me made me feel as though he were dissecting me, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was. His reputation had preceded him, as it did with everyone in the Capitol who wielded that kind of power. The mere mention of his name sent shivers down the spine of even the most hardened rebels. President Coriolanus Snow. The embodiment of fear, control, and manipulation. But seeing him here, in the flesh, was something else entirely.

And now, here he was, in front of me, like a storm closing in.

For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. My body felt frozen, as if the air itself had turned to ice around me.

Why was he here?

The president of Panem, in this forgotten, crumbling district? It didn’t make sense. My mind scrambled for answers, each thought colliding with the next in a tangle of fear and confusion. This wasn’t some routine interrogation. It wasn’t about the mines, the Peacekeepers, or even the Capitol’s grip tightening around District 12.

Could it be about me?

The realization struck me like a blow, stealing what little composure I had left. But why? What could I have done to warrant his presence? The weight of his cold, assessing gaze made my skin crawl, and my heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it. I felt exposed, like every secret I had ever held was laid bare before him. My attempt to flee, my fight with Archer, even the forbidden dreams I kept hidden in the darkest corners of my mind—it was as if he already knew.

Panic twisted inside me, but so did an unsettling sense of curiosity. Of all the people in District 12, why had Coriolanus Snow chosen to face me personally? What did he see when he looked at me? And why did it feel as though he wasn’t here to deliver justice but something far more sinister, far more personal?

“Leave us,” Snow ordered sharply, his voice smooth and cutting all at once, like the edge of a finely honed blade. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be; the authority in his tone was absolute. The two Peacekeepers flanking the door exchanged uncertain glances, their hesitation lasting only a fraction of a second before they stepped out, boots echoing faintly as they retreated.

The door closed behind them with a final, resounding thud that reverberated through the small room, sealing us in together. The silence that followed was deafening, pressing down on me like a physical weight. The absence of sound seemed to amplify everything else: the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance, the soft rustle of his blood red coat as he adjusted his stance, the steady rhythm of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Snow’s gaze lingered on me, his eyes dark and intent, studying me with a look that made my skin prickle uncomfortably. His lips curved into a faint, predatory smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, but somehow made the air feel heavier. Every movement he made was deliberate, calculated, as if he were savoring the moment.

He stepped further into the room, the soft click of his boots on the floor echoing with each measured step, his presence filling the space. It was as if time slowed down in his wake. He was in control of the room, of the situation, of me. He pulled out the chair across from me with deliberate care, the scraping sound of it against the floor loud in the stillness. As he sat, he folded his hands neatly on the table, his fingers interlocking with practiced precision. The way he settled into the chair was almost unnerving, as if he had done this a thousand times before, as if he had all the time in the world to break me down.

“Well,” he began, his voice smooth, like velvet wrapped around steel, every word dripping with an unsettling calm. “It seems we find ourselves in quite the predicament, don’t we?” His eyes never left mine, and there was something about the way he spoke—too measured, too controlled—that made my stomach churn.

I swallowed hard, the sound echoing in the silence between us, and tried to maintain some semblance of composure. But the weight of his gaze pressed down on me like a physical force, making it impossible to feel anything but exposed. Every inch of my skin felt like it was on fire under his scrutiny.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his expression almost too calm, too patient. It was as if he were savoring the moment, playing some game with me I didn’t understand. He looked at me with genuine curiosity, as though he truly wanted to know what was going on in my mind.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my voice caught in my throat. My breath hitched, and I could feel the panic starting to rise, but I fought to keep it in check. He raised a single brow, as though waiting for me to speak.

“I—I’m not sure,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper, the words feeling foreign and weak on my tongue. The vulnerability of it hit me all at once, and I immediately regretted saying anything at all.

“Not sure?” Snow leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, but there was nothing casual about the sharp intensity in his eyes. His gaze never left me, as if he could see right through me. “You were seen near the mines last night. A curious place for a girl like you to be wandering about, wouldn’t you say?”

I could feel the pressure building in my chest, but I forced myself to speak with as much confidence as I could muster. “I wasn’t near the mines,” I lied quickly, the words slipping out before I could even think. My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it, but I couldn’t let him see how much he rattled me. “I was at home. Asleep.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, low and smooth, though it lacked even the smallest hint of warmth. His lips twisted into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and the sound of it sent a shiver down my spine. “Asleep, you say?” He leaned forward then, his movements deliberate and slow, as if he were savoring the moment. His elbows came to rest on the table, and his fingers laced together, the tension in his posture making it clear he wasn’t buying my lie. “You don’t strike me as a very good liar, Y/n. But perhaps I’m wrong.”

The way he said my name sent an icy tremor through me. It was too familiar, too personal. My mind raced, trying to process how he knew it, why he knew it. It felt like an intrusion, like he had already dissected every detail of my life and was now toying with me, pulling at the threads to see how much I could unravel before I broke.

Snow studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp and calculating, as if he were weighing something far beyond the surface of our conversation. He didn’t speak immediately, allowing the silence to stretch, thick and suffocating, like a game he was letting me lose without ever needing to make a move.

Finally, he spoke, but the words came out slowly, almost as if he were choosing them with great care. "You intrigue me," he murmured, his voice softer, but it was no comfort. There was a subtle undercurrent to his words, like a predator circling its prey, and I felt every inch of that tension. “You remind me of someone... someone I once knew.”

His words hung in the air, and my pulse quickened as I tried to make sense of them. I stayed silent, unwilling to give him anything more than what he already had. The tension between us stretched, taut as a wire, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I thought he might break it with something that would shatter me completely.

"She was special, but no more than a means to an end," he continued, but this time, there was a flicker in his expression—something fleeting, almost disgusted, as though the thought of this 'someone' that repulsed him. The change was subtle but unmistakable like a shadow crossing his face. “But she lacked something. Something... I believe you so happen to possess.”

I felt a chill wash over me, and my stomach twisted in knots. I didn’t want to know what he meant, didn’t want to hear the unspoken things behind his words. But even as I refused to respond, I could feel his eyes on me—measuring, calculating, dissecting me in ways I couldn’t begin to understand. Whatever it was he saw in me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“You have potential,” Snow said, his voice smooth and coaxing, though his eyes narrowed slightly, studying me like a puzzle he was just about to solve. “But potential means nothing without control. Without loyalty.” He paused, letting the words linger in the air as if they were meant to sink into my bones.

I swallowed, trying to push down the knot of fear tightening in my chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice steady, though I could feel the lie slipping from my tongue.

“Oh, but you do,” he replied, his smile widening, the corners of his mouth curling into something dark and knowing. He leaned in slightly, and the air between us seemed to thicken with each word. “You see, I don’t believe in coincidences. A girl like you, sneaking around the mines, dreaming of freedom…” His voice hardened, and the words became sharp, cutting into me. “Do you think you’re special? That you’re above the rules, above your place?”

His gaze bore into mine, demanding an answer, and I shook my head quickly, trying to swallow the panic that surged in my chest. “No, I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted his voice a blade, slicing through the quiet between us. “I can see it in your eyes. You think you’re different, don’t you? You want to escape, to run from this district, from your responsibilities. And for what? Some fleeting fantasy?” He leaned even closer, his gaze never wavering, never blinking. “What makes you think you’re entitled to more than this place? To more than the life you were given?”

The weight of his words crushed me, the reality of my situation bearing down like a vice. I could feel the tears threatening to burn behind my eyes, but I fought them back with all the strength I had left. “I’m not trying to escape,” I said, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me, revealing a crack in my carefully constructed facade.

He smiled again, but it was colder now, something calculated in the way his lips curled. “You’re lying to yourself, Y/n. And not only that you’re lying to me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, almost sweet, but it carried a chilling undertone. “I know exactly what you want. You want to be free, but more than that… you want to be wanted. To matter. You want someone to take notice, to see you for more than the girl who has her head up in the clouds and whos nothing but a dreamer.”

The words hit harder than I expected, and I tried to push them away, but they stuck, digging into my mind like sharp needles. My heart pounded, each beat echoing in my ears, and I could feel the walls of the room closing in around me. “That’s not true,” I whispered, barely able to find the words to defend myself.

“Oh, but it is,” Snow countered, his voice low and smooth, as if he were speaking a truth only he could understand. “You’re searching for something bigger than yourself. You dream of escaping, but not just the district. You want someone to take you out of this life, to pull you away from all this... mediocrity. But here’s the problem, Y/n…” He leaned in even closer, his face inches from mine, the intensity of his cerulean gaze trapping me. “You’ll never be truly free, because you can’t even control yourself. You can’t control your desires and your impulses. And that—” He tapped the side of my head lightly, a mocking gesture that made my stomach twist. “—is where you fail.”

I felt like I was drowning in the weight of his words, each one heavier than the last. He was breaking me down, piece by piece, and yet I couldn't find the strength to fight back.

Snow leaned even closer, his face now mere inches from mine. “Do you know what happens to those who try to defy the Capitol?” he asked, his voice low and chilling. “They end up swinging from that tree you passed on your way here. Do you want that to be your fate, Y/n?”

I shook my head again, swallowing the lump in my throat.

I tried to stay calm, to keep my composure, but his presence was suffocating. He leaned in even closer, his gaze intense, as if he were reading me, dissecting my every reaction. His eyes flicked to my hands, still trembling slightly on the table, before meeting my gaze again. Snow’s lips curled into a twisted smile, his eyes glinting with amusement and malice. He leaned forward again, his voice lowering to a taunting, almost mocking tone.

“Now, tell me, Y/n," he said, his words dripping with disdain, "Were you out last night, snooping around the mines, sneaking along the district fence like a pathetic little bunny, desperate to escape your cage?”

He paused, letting the insult hang in the air, his gaze never leaving mine. The words stung like a slap to the face, and I couldn’t help but flinch, but I held my ground, refusing to give him the full satisfaction of seeing me break.

“And don’t you dare lie to me,” he said, his voice low and quiet, almost too calm. “You were near the mines last night, and I know you weren’t there just for a stroll.” He let the silence hang between us, each second feeling like it dragged on forever. “But I’m not here to accuse you—no. I’m here to offer you a choice.”

My heart skipped a beat. A choice?

He stood, circling me like a predator with no rush, savouring the moment. “You see, Y/n, you could walk out of here today, and pretend like none of this ever happened. But if you dare try to escape again, if you dare think you can run from this district...” He leaned in closer, his breath cold on my ear. “I will personally make sure your father’s neck is snapped, your friends are dragged into the dirt, and as for that lover boy of yours,” he spat the words with disgust, as though the mere mention of his name left a bitter taste in his mouth, “Archer? Do you think he’s your protector? I’ll have him begging for mercy, just like the fool he is.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing as if searching for any sign of weakness. “I won’t be made a fool again by some silly district girl. You’ll stay in your place. Don’t think for a second that you have any real power here. I control everything. Everything.”

I shook my head, trying to hold back the tears, trying to swallow the lump in my throat that threatened to choke me. The weight of his threats hung in the air like a thick fog. I wasn’t sure if he truly meant every word or if this was just part of his game. But it didn’t matter. His eyes, his tone—everything about him screamed that he was in control, and he would make good on his promises if I dared to defy him.

“Good,” he said finally, his smile returning, though it was darker, more sinister than before. It made my stomach churn. “Because I think you could be...useful to me. If you prove yourself.”

I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t. But I had no choice. He was holding all the cards. I had to play along, had to pretend I was on his side, just long enough to stay alive.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

He didn’t hesitate, his response sharp and cold. “Loyalty,” he said simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And obedience. You’ll find that I reward those who know their place. But cross me, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

I nodded, the weight of his words sinking into my chest like lead. My body screamed at me to run, but my mind screamed louder—if I did, everything I loved would be destroyed. Archer... my father... Annie... all of them. I had no choice but to obey, for now.

“Good,” Snow said again, his voice almost pleased as he straightened his uniform. “Then we’ll see what you’re truly made of.”

He turned to leave, and the door opened as the Peacekeepers stepped back in, their expressions as cold and indifferent as always. Snow paused in the doorway, his hand on the handle. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes locking with mine one last time.

“Oh, and Y/n?” he called out casually, his tone deceptively light. “Remember, I’ll be watching.” The door slammed shut behind him, and I was left alone in the cold, suffocating silence of the room. His presence lingered in the air like a thick, poisonous fog, and the sound of his voice echoed in my head. He had made his intentions clear. This wasn’t just about interrogation. He wanted me. He needed me under his control, and if I was going to survive, I would have to play his game if I wanted a sliver of a chance of leaving this hellhole.

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