#and also give yourself a break from time to time

[orangesaek]

‘choose me’ | simp Haechan

summary: a short story about how Haechan got roasted, fell deeply in love, and tried to convince you (a serial Tinder dater) that he’s the best catch around

pairings: haechan x afab!reader┊genre: fluff (with a sprinkle of comedy)┊wc: 0.8k┊cw: very minimal cursing, like three

a/n: slightly proofread; inspired by a funny astrology meme i saw on reddit lol

The first time Haechan realized he liked you was when you insulted him.

Not a casual jab. A full-on, deadpan, “did you take something that’s why you talk this much, or is it just your personality?”

He fell in love instantly, like a loser.

You were sharp, untouchable, kind of scary, and hot. Like, distractingly hot.

Which would’ve been fine if you weren’t also funny and charming and friends with his friends. If you hadn’t slotted yourself right into the Dreamies’ circle like you’d always belonged there.

Especially Jisung. That little shit. You two bonded over aliens and cursed theories and inside jokes faster than Haechan could process.

So, yeah. From day one, he was doomed.

But the problem was, you didn’t like him.

Well, not in the way he liked you.

You were out there dating guys with astrology tattoos and ‘sapiosexual’ in their bios.

Meanwhile, Haechan was watching you spiral through Tinder dates like a Bachelor contestant, wondering when God would give him a break.

“Another fail?” he’d ask casually every time you joined the group post-date.

You’d glare. “At least I’m trying.”

And he’d flash you a grin and say something stupid like, “may God continue to send you terrible men until you finally choose me, ah-men.”

It was a joke.

Except it wasn’t.

He meant every goddamn word.

He wasn’t subtle about liking you either. Not even a little.

He flirted loudly, shamelessly, obnoxiously—but he loved you quietly, in the background. In the little ways.

Like the iced drinks.

You always wrapped a tissue around your cup because you hated the wetness. So Haechan started doing it for you. No announcement. Just, ‘here’, like it was no big deal.

He noticed the way you wiped the mouth of a can before drinking, so he started doing that for you too.

And when you kept taking the chair against the wall during group dinners, he started offering it first. No fuss. Just slid into the other seat like it was nothing.

You liked extra onions in your food. He didn’t. But you’d never know that, because he always gave you his.

“You’re obsessed with onions,” he teased once, dropping another spoonful on your plate.

You laughed, glowing. “They make everything better.”

He smiled, chewing on his plain meat. “Guess they do.”

He didn’t want credit. He just wanted to make your life easier. That was enough.

Okay, maybe a little credit. A plaque, a trophy, your hand in marriage. Whatever.

Still, nothing changed.

You kept dating around.

And Haechan? He kept pretending it didn’t get to him.

He joked about your flops. He played it cool. But inside, he was climbing the walls, screaming into the void, rewriting sad songs in his head.

“Why not me?” he asked Jaemin once, tipsy and dramatic.

“Because you’re a menace,” Jaemin replied, not looking up from his phone.

Then came the arcade night.

You were freshly ditched by some asshole. Haechan had a whole speech ready. Something about how he would never cancel on you unless he was actively on fire.

But when you showed up with Jisung anyway, he swallowed it. Just being around you was enough.

The claw machine nearly ruined him.

You stood there, trying to win a ridiculous plushie, failing over and over with your nose scrunched and your lip pouty.

Haechan, of course, had to intervene for your happiness. Not because you looked like an actual Disney character in distress.

“I got this,” he said, rolling up his sleeves like a clown.

Miss.

Miss.

Devastating miss.

He could feel the judgment radiating off you.

“Are you trying to lose on purpose?” you asked.

“I’m letting the plushie build character,” he said, sweating.

But on the fourth try, the stars aligned. The claw dropped, caught, and delivered that cursed plush into his hands like divine retribution for his devotion.

He handed it to you like it was the most sacred object in the world.

“For you,” he said. “Because clearly the universe is giving you everything but me.”

You stared at him and he panicked.

“… and because you’re too pretty to be rejected and plushie-less,” he quickly added.

You laughed and he breathed again

The shift was slow, just the little things.

You started texting him first. Sitting next to him more and laughing longer.

Then came the night you asked him out.

He genuinely thought he hallucinated it.

“Wait, like, a real one?” he asked, blinking rapidly.

“With me???”

“No, with the ghost of my dating history,” you said dryly.

“Yes, you, you dummy.”

He had to walk away for ten seconds and come back just to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind.

The first date was simple.

He booked your favorite restaurant. You sat in your preferred seat. He brought your drink already wrapped in tissue and ordered extra onions for your favorite dish.

You looked at all of it—every small, invisible thing he’d been doing for months—and then looked at him like he was something brand new.

“Haechan,” you said, “why do you do all this?”

He shrugged casually. “Because I noticed.”

You stared at him.

He swallowed but let out a soft, genuine smile.

“And because I like you,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Because it really was.

accepting requests atm ₍ᐢ._.ᐢ₎♡ btw, part 2 is otw ;)

── .✦ SEQUEL IS OUT!!! ✦. ──

[actuallywlccan]

You have inspired me to vent about something, bc my parents were similarly very pro-intellectual freedom and also taught us to break rules when we believe them to be unjust, but my mother was also deeply ruled by her anxiety in a way that fucked with my freedom so so so deeply.

Ok, so I grew up somewhat like how you described because of severe food allergies and asthma. This set me up for an awful time when my life went from "you cant go anywhere without a trusted adult present who can give you an EpiPen if need be" to "now that you can give yourself an EpiPen and have a phone to call 911, you need to get everywhere yourself" in the span of... middle school. Literally 6th grade i had a baby sitter who'd pick me up from school, and by 8th grade I was expected to use the bus and metro to go places without issue. In reality, I had many issues, bc busses are hard to navigate, i had 0 help, and i would get really fucking scared when I got lost, bc i had never been in that type of situation alone before.

My older sibling was raised pretty normally in this regard in comparison, and while I dont blame my parents for being overly cautious when it can to my food-induced-death disease, I definitely hate how much it screwed me over when all the support suddenly dropped away.

Bc after middle school came high school, when my mother banned me from going to the shopping center across the street from school in the hour between school ending and my school bus leaving, but expected me to get myself home via public transportation if I missed said bus. Public transpo took an hour and a half, and it was often dark when I got home if I had gone to my after school activity. But a cvs full of other students who just got out of school at 2:30pm was too dangerous. (And no it was not about me spending money or eating anything. She knew I was extremely responsible about that stuff. She was specifically scared that someone would harm me. But apparently that would only happen at this one shopping center, and definitely wouldnt happen while i was on the bus, or walking by myself, or waiting for the bus, or in a metro tunnel, or at the shopping center near our home that i would often go to alone.)

She would also get upset if I got a ride home from friends or the stage crew director, but wouldn't come to pick me up either, even if it was dark out and she wasnt at work.

My divorced parents lived less than a mile away from one another, and almost every time I went to my dad's for the weekend, they usually had me carry all my stuff over by myself, even if it was dark out. But again, I had to send her a picture of me inside of my high school EVERY DAY, to prove I hadn't gone to Starbucks with my friends.

And yes, I did break those rules, bc I wanted to go to the deli across the street or i wanted to get home after rehearsal before 9pm. But I was also incredibly responsible when breaking those rules.

I honestly struggled WAY more when it came to getting myself places alone, but she saw that as something I had to get over, whereas my ability to decide who to trust was really strong bc I had had to rely on others for my own safety SO MUCH, but she completely doubted it.

And please appreciate that this is almost all about how i would get home, bc i rarely spent time at friends' houses and they rarely spent time at mine. I have a habit of self-isolating, and find it hard to go out with friends even as an adult, partially bc it wasnt a big part of my life growing up, largely bc of my allergies, and then bc my mom made it so hard.

I think it still bothers me years later as an adult because of the hypocrisy. She trusted me to take care of myself in case of medical emergencies, and expected me to to get myself places alone using a difficuly-to-navigate transpo system that took forever and gave me panic attacks, but didnt trust me to go across the street from school to a shopping center full of other students. She expected me to spend an hour and a half on public transpo to get home after dark, but was not OK with me getting a 30 minute car ride home with someone I trusted instead.

It was so clear to me that these rules were in place to placate her anxieties, but she would simultaneously expect me to do stuff on my own if helping me was an inconvenience, like when I went over to my dad's house.

And to be clear: I do not blame her for not being able to pick me up all the time and do all that shit for me. She worked long hours, and I knew how to handle my medical issues, and I truly did have to learn how to use public transpo. I blame her for putting her anxieties above my judgement, even once she expected me to fend for myself. I blame her for teaching my sibling how to do things alone but not teaching me, and then expecting me to just figure it out on my own. I blame her for putting me in a position where I had to lie to her about where I was and who I was with even tho I had done nothing wrong. I blame her for worrying so much that I was doing dangerous things that she would get upset with me for doing relatively safe things. Terrified of me getting a ride with a drunk friend? Well I never did that, but she did chew me out when I told her I got a ride from a completely sober friend, so I started keeping it from her if I did do that.

And even tho she was all about us being intelligent, independent thinkers, who were able to stand up to authority and argue our case, and would approve of us doing this with everyone else, she refused to accept that we could disagree with her rules and be anything but wrong.

Growing up with intellectual freedom from a parent but not freedom of movement was so weird. Yes of course you can read any political theory you want honey no you can’t walk home from school until you’re sixteen

[marithempressz]

Pick a Card: What do people perceive about you?

Hey guys! For this reading, I used two decks: the Divine Tarot and the Life Purpose Oracle. I chose the second one because I felt it would help scan your current energy—even though life purpose isn’t exactly about how people perceive you, lol. Hope you enjoy the reading :))

pile 1, píle 2, pile 3

Pile 1

Page of Swords, The Devil, Three of Swords Infinite Abundance: You’re fully supported as you devote yourself to your divine life purpose.Energy Healing: Your natural energy-healing abilities are an important part of your life purpose.

I feel a very strong energy. I see a red rose. I felt a bit vulnerable in the Solar Plexus, as if there’s something trapped there. It feels like the people in this pile are aware of their power, but can’t fully access it. People definitely notice that—you know it—but this awareness makes you feel even more vulnerable.

Those who love you believe in your capacity to break through those fears, and they know you believe in it too.

Some people see you as a mix of cold-bloodedness and kindness. You’re sweet with those who respect you, and ready to cut off those who don’t. You give the impression of being very smart and courageous—unafraid to enter the forest and discover what’s hidden inside. But people also sense that you’re deeply hurt, and they wonder what happened to you, because you never speak about it.

This connects to the Solar Plexus—you’re afraid of being vulnerable. Still, you have enormous faith in life’s goodness. You’re willing to take care of your wounds, but there’s also this inner voice pulling you into the belief that you can’t, that you’ll always be broken.

But you know that’s a lie, don’t you?

This could be a part of your mind that’s crystallized around those ideas—perhaps placed there by your caregivers. The Devil card may also suggest that those people are still cursing you with their energy. Please take care of yourself. Stay away from them, whoever they are.

There’s a highly creative energy in you too—one that’s deeply connected spiritually. There’s so much life inside you. You’re adventurous. Have faith in that part of yourself. It will bring you abundance and fulfillment.

So yes—people see you as this courageous, spontaneous being who’s been through some sh*. But at the same time, you’re also this soft, kind little b* who just wants the best out of life lol.

Pile 2

Strength, Seven of Swords, Seven of Cups Career Change: You’re embarking on a career that brings you the joy and abundance you desire and deserve.Talk to Your Angels: Instead of worrying, ask for divine guidance.

I feel uncomfortable, irritated—like there’s not much space for you. That aligns with the Career Change card: you want to leave somewhere. Not necessarily a job, but a place, a relationship—something. You just need to admit that you don’t fit there anymore. It doesn’t give you what you truly need.

You might’ve already shared something about this with people around you, or maybe they just sense it. Still, they also see you as someone completely capable of changing your situation. The Strength card is here for a reason.

However, you might be lying to yourself—telling yourself that staying where you are is the best option. You may even try to hold on to that idea, imagining “What if I stay? What if I persevere with this choice?”

Just don’t, mate.

You’ve got to persevere on a path that’s actually aligned with your desires and your purpose. You can handle that.

I know this reading is meant to show how people perceive you, but this pile took a different direction lol. Still, I guess people can sense that you're on the verge of change, and that you're totally capable of making it happen.

Ask your guides for help—they’re happy to support you!

Pile 3

The Tower, The Star, The Hierophant Writing: You heal, inspire, teach, and entertain with the words you write.

The first thing that came through was teaching—you might be a teacher, or you're just really good at it. You likely carry a high level of knowledge, and this makes people look up to you. You always have something meaningful to say—that’s the vibe.

You’re also very different from the majority. A world-wrecker is what I’m hearing—someone who challenges the status quo, who dares to see beyond the obvious. You might be a tarot reader too.

People see you as someone who always finds the bright side of a situation. You’re not interested in making things worse—you crave stability and healing. This pile feels more mature; you give off the energy of someone responsible and self-aware.

There’s also a strong sense of admiration for how you've handled transformation in your life. You’ve done something big—something that changed you deeply—and people admire you for it, even from a distance.

[naushtheaspiringauthor]

Crawl home to you- Bob Reynolds x reader

Part one

Summary: Ever since you had met Bob inside the vault, your life had took a drastic turn, one there was no coming back from. Through helping him deal with his struggles, you were able to heal your own scars. However, untold truths, silent battles and reassuring lies start to break apart all you've built together.

Warnings: Mentions of sh, blood, scars. Light swearing. And of course, heartbreak.

A/N: So I had originally intended for this fic to be short and sweet with a slight hint of angst. But it got way longer and angsty than I thought so I've divided the whole thing into chapters. So I apologise in advance if the chapter endings seem abrupt because it wasn't written that way. Also this is my first Bob fic so there might be a lot of mistakes. Feedback is always appreciated!

Word count: 1,034

It had all started when you’d been conned by Valentina.

You’d been sent by her to put down John Walker who she claimed to be stealing files from OX and it had resulted in you, John, Yelena, and Ava finding out that the wretched woman had sent you all there to kill each other.

And of course, there was Bob.

Sweet, simple and incredibly awkward Bob.

The moment he’d appeared out of a box, you had a feeling to protect him, no matter what it cost you, to care for him more than anything or anyone you had ever cared for.

And that had never changed.

Even after you had saved New York from almost being swallowed in indefinite darkness alongside your new group and later on being declared as "The New Avengers", you’d look for Bob at every corner.

You resided at the Watchtower, formerly known as the Avengers tower, along with the rest of your team.

On most days when you weren’t working, everyone would find themselves something to get occupied in.

Sometimes they’d pick fights with each other over anything, other times they’d be hanging out watching a movie or going out somewhere.

But not Bob.

You’d always find him tucked away in some quiet corner, a book in his hands.

He did partake in the group activities but kept to himself mostly, unless of course Yelena or you would include him.

And without realising it, you'd began seeking him in every corner. You had started to find your comfort, your solace, in his presence.

With him, you were able to forget all your own struggles, your own pain, your own addiction.

Helping him heal, somehow made you feel like you were healing yourself.

You’d started your morning as usual, grumpy enough to stab someone until you had your coffee.

You sighed as you walked into the kitchen, dressed in your usual sweatpants and a t- shirt that hung loosely on your shoulders.

You reached out to the coffee machine to fill your mug, only to find it licked clean.

You looked around, shooting daggers at the entire team with merely a glare, “Okay, who drank all of the coffee again?” you asked.

“It was Alex-” Alexei darted out of the room just as Yelena pointed a finger at him.

You let out an annoyed grunt. “Seriously? Again?”.

“Just make some more” John spoke up, rather casually.

“Oh yeah” you raised an eyebrow. ‘Why dont you just fuck off?” you snapped.

“Jeeeeesus” he raised his hands in defense, backing away.

Before you turned to, grudgingly, make some more, your mug was gently pushed towards you on the counter.

You looked up to see Bob giving you a tight-lipped smile. “Here” he lifted his shoulders hesitantly.

“I saved up some for you”.

You picked up the mug, a surprised look on your face, and much to everyone's surprise, you smiled at him. “Thank you Bob”.

He seemed to relax at your words. “Y-yeah of course” he smiled, brushing away a few loose strands of his hair.

He then turned away, walking towards the couch cradling his own cup in his hands.

You shift your gaze away from him to see the rest of the group staring at you as if you’d walked in wearing a chicken costume.

“What?’ you asked, puzzled by their reaction.

Yelena just shook her in dismay, but you caught a glimpse of her chuckling.

The tower was quiet, except for the sound of the music playing through your headphones.

Half of the group; Bucky, John and Ava had gone out on a mission.

Aexei had gone out with Yelena, something about him declaring it to be a ‘daddy daughter day’ to which Yelena had simply pressed her lips and nodded in agreement.

It wasn’t long until you could feel the growling of your stomach when you decided to venture out to the kitchen, in hopes of finding something edible.

After failing to find anything, you decided to cook something, despite being a terrible cook.

And sure enough, ten minutes into the task, you managed to burn your hand.

“Shit!” you exclaimed, as the pan dropped from your hand with a loud thud.

You shook your hand vigorously, an angry red blooming at the side already.

“What happened!?” you heard a voice behind you, loud yet calm.

You pulled your headphones down to your neck as you turned around.

And there he was.

Standing with a wide-eyed gaze in a grey sweatshirt, was Bob.

“Oh Bob” you said, equally surprised by the sight of him.

“Hi,” you gave a small wave with your unburnt hand, having completely forgotten about the pain.

“Your hand," he registered, moving closer to you.

“Oh this”, you turned your hand sideways, examining it briefly.

“Turns out cooking is not exactly my forte.” you shrugged.

“But don’t worry” you shook your hand. “It’s not a major injury or anything, I'll just rub some ice on it”.

“N- no no” he said. “It can get worse that way".

He brushed a few strands of his hair back. “I’ll get the ointment hold on”.

And before you could say anything else, he rushed out.

He was back in a few seconds, a white tube in one hand.

He shifted closer to you. “Let me see,” he said, his voice low, patient.

He met your gaze.

You brought your hand out in front of him.

Slowly, he placed his hand below yours, picking it up gently to examine it.

He then took some of the ointment on his finger, gently applying it to the burn.

“It’s- it’s not really a big deal, Bob” you spoke, breaking the silence. “I've handled worse” you gave a slight chuckle.

He met your gaze, “Doesn’t mean you have to,” he said, his voice like a gentle autumn breeze, tugging at the edges of your coat.

He then shifted his focus back to his work, a small crease forming between his brows as he focused.

You gazed at him, unable to comprehend the moment.

You weren’t used to any of this, being cared for, being handled gently,but he did it anyway.

And you let him

[anawritez-smutt]

Tom Riddle NSFW Alphabet

Afterwards

Giving aftercare? Before marriage it is Rare, but deliberate. He won’t cuddle, but he’ll silently clean her with magic, fetch a glass of water, and fix her hair. Acts like it’s routine, not intimate.

Receiving aftercare? Doesn’t like being doted on. Finds it weak. But if she gently runs fingers through his hair post-orgasm, he’ll allow it without comment.

Falling asleep after? Never. Tom stays awake, even after intense sex, quietly watching his partner like a puzzle he hasn’t finished solving.

Beg

He lives to make Y/N beg. He draws it out—makes her say everything, clearly, shamefully. “Say what you want. Use your words.”

He doesn’t beg—ever. But his version of needing her sounds like this: “You’ll stay. Whether you want to or not.”

Body

Favorite on himself: His hands. Elegant, pale, deadly—he uses them to manipulate everything, including her.

On Y/N: Her throat (he watches it when she swallows or moans) and her inner thighs. He likes seeing her marked up.

Erogenous zones: His lower abdomen and jawline are surprisingly reactive to soft touches. Biting his neck? Dangerous, but effective.

Clothing

Prefers sex partially clothed—loves lifting her skirt, pulling her panties aside, unbuttoning only what’s necessary.

He sees nudity as a reveal, not a given. He undresses her slowly, controlling every second.

Cum

Takes a while—controlled. He’ll edge himself if it means delaying gratification.

Loves cumming inside—it’s ownership to him.

Also enjoys pulling out and watching it drip down her thighs. He calls it his mark.

Delay

Absolutely. He denies her orgasms often—and makes her thank him after.

Doesn’t enjoy his being delayed unless he’s the one doing it for control.

Dirty Talk

Master of it. Low, calm, calculated. “Do you hear how wet you are just from my voice?”

Likes when Y/N appeals to his power: “Please, Tom—I’ll be good, I’ll do anything.” That drives him over the edge.

Drive

Very high sex drive, but it’s purposeful. Not a need—it’s a choice.

When obsessed, he’ll have her multiple times a day, just to watch her fall apart.

Dynamic

100% dominant. Cold control, never brutish.

Shows dominance with restraint, orders, and denial. If she tries to top, he lets her get exactly two minutes in before flipping her and whispering, “You tried.”

Eyes

Must be watched. Eye contact is non-negotiable.

Mirrors? He adores them. “Look at yourself while I use you.”

Fantasy

Public sex where no one knows what he’s doing to her.

Magical bondage with enchanted restraints she can’t see but can feel.

G-Spot

Expert at finding it. He treats her G-spot like a lesson in anatomy.

Toys? He’ll use them on her while watching closely, correcting her reactions: “That’s not how a good girl moans.”

Hair

Immaculate. Groomed, styled, and maintained.

On her? He prefers natural— but doesn’t care just wants her.

Humiliation

Loves degrading her, especially when she’s desperate.

Calls her “needy,” “slutty,” “mine.”

Hates being degraded himself—sees it as weakness.

Impact

He doesn’t spank for fun. If he does it, it’s punishment.

Slaps her ass with control, sometimes between thrusts. Always leaves her red.

Kink

Primary kinks: Power play, orgasm denial, begging, mirror sex, degradation.

Curious about more extreme control play: magical restraints, possession.

Turned off by full submission from the other party—he wants her to break for him, not hand it over too easily.

Lingerie

Loves her in black or deep red. Lace, sheer, or strappy.

He doesn’t comment—just stares, unblinking. But he always fucks her harder when she wears it.

Location

Favorite: In front of a mirror.

Risky places? Yes. His desk, the Slytherin dorms, empty classrooms. “You’ll stay quiet. Or I’ll stop.”

Lube

Usually doesn’t need it—she’s soaked from his words alone.

If he uses it, it’s enchanted: warming or tingling.

Marks

Marks her everywhere. Thighs, collarbone, back. “Let them see who did this.”

Doesn’t like being marked visibly, but will tolerate bite marks where no one else can see.

Music

If anything, classical or ambient dark tones. For aesthetic and control.

Not loud—he likes hearing her.

Names

She calls him “Tom” in public, “ My Lord” or “Sir” in bed.

He calls her “pet,” “slut,” “darling,” or “my love.” Varies by mood.

Orgasm

His orgasm is quiet, intense. Voice low, breathing heavy, face barely cracking.

Doesn’t shake—controls it.

Makes her come first. Always. Even if he has to hold her down to make it happen.

Positions

Favorite: Doggy style, face in the pillow, one hand around her throat.

Likes folded-over missionary—keeps her legs against her chest so he can go deep and watch her face.

Dislikes lazy positions where he’s not fully in control.

Praise

Rare. Earned. “Good girl,” said low and rough, is a reward.

Loves hearing her praise him. “No one else can fuck me like you.”

Queen

Definitely a size king. He likes how much she feels him.

Watches her stretch around him—“Look at that. You’re taking it all.”

Restraint

Big into restraint—especially magical.

She wakes up not knowing how her hands are tied. But they are.

Never restrained himself.

Sensation

Temperature play: hot wax, ice cubes, warmed lube. Loves her reactions.

Slight pain? Yes. Controlled.

Sensitive to soft fabrics and feather-light touches on his inner thighs.

Sexting

Rarely initiates. But if she starts it? He replies with cold, precise instructions.

No nudes—he prefers words. His voice is filthier than any photo.

Size

Long and thick. Definitely above average. Slight curve.

Veiny, with a flushed head.

He knows exactly how to use it—and doesn’t rush.

Sounds

Not loud—his voice is soft but constant.

Low growls, quiet commands, and gritted teeth when he’s close.

Loves hearing her—the louder she gets, the rougher he gets.

Stimulation

Loves giving oral—but only when she’s been good.

His fingers are magic—literally and figuratively.

Most sensitive to tongue on his lower abdomen and behind his ear.

Strip

Will undress her piece by piece.

Likes when she performs for him. Standing over her fully clothed while she’s naked is his favorite power play.

Style

Rough. Controlled. Filthy.

Doesn’t “make love.” He takes.

Fast and deep, unless he’s punishing her—then it’s slow and torturous.

Top or Bottom

Dominant top.

Likes giving oral more than receiving—it’s another form of control.

Penetrates with purpose. Forces eye contact the entire time.

Tease

Master teaser. Edges her with fingers or tongue until she’s crying.

Hates being teased—will pin her down the second she tries.

Toys

Uses them on her—blindfolds, wands, vibrators.

Watches closely while they overstimulate her. Sometimes makes her hold one between her thighs at dinner.

Turn On

Intelligence. Desperation. Obedience.

A quiet “please” from her mouth will make him lose control.

Volume

Low but intense.

She gets louder = he gets meaner. Loves making her scream his name through clenched teeth.

Wet

Shower sex: Yes. Tight space, water trailing over their skin? He loves the control.

Not a fan of oceans/lakes—too unpredictable. He needs control, not chaos.

[ghostlyferrettarot]

🩰୨୧Pick a Picture:🤍｡🩰ꪆৎ ˚⋅.Which Barbie character do you embody?🤍｡🩰ꪆৎ ˚⋅.

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🩰🎀Masterlist🩰🎀 🩰🎀Masterlist 2🩰🎀

ᡣ𐭩 🤍｡🩰ꪆৎ ˚⋅.Pile 1: Odette (Barbie of Swan Lake) Hi, pile 1! You are like Odette: someone who may not always feel ready for what life throws at you, but still faces everything with a light that cannot be extinguished. You are that person who, even when you feel insecure or lost, manages to see beauty where others see chaos. You have a quiet magic, the kind that doesn't need to shout to shine. A very strong intuition, a connection with the invisible, with dreams, with the subtle. Your energy speaks to me of someone very empathetic, someone who absorbs what happens around her, and who often carries more than her share because she has that huge heart that wants to help everyone. But be careful with that: don't forget to take care of yourself too. In the story, Odette wasn't looking to be a heroine, or a princess, or anything epic. She simply followed her heart, and that's why the universe chose her. And that's how you are too. You don't need to force anything to be valuable. Your strength lies precisely in that sensitivity that the world sometimes doesn't understand, but that is essential. Keep dreaming, even if they tell you it's impractical. Believe in yourself, even if you sometimes doubt it. Your story has only just begun, and it has a very beautiful purpose. You don't need to have all the answers right now; you just need to have faith in yourself. Write, paint, dance (I feel like artistic hobbies will make you shine so much), do whatever connects you with yourself. Your light is real. And even if you don't realize it sometimes, others see it.

ᡣ𐭩 🤍｡🩰ꪆৎ ˚⋅.Pile 2: Princess Anneliese (The Princess and the Pauper) Hi, Pile 2! You don't do what the world expects of you. You may have grown up feeling you had a role to fulfill, an image to maintain… but deep down, you've always wanted more. More authenticity. Anneliese is intelligent, determined, and true to herself, even when it means breaking down structures. And you, although you may not realize it, have also been learning to use your voice in new, firmer ways, more aligned with who you truly are. You are a brilliant mind, but also a tender heart. And that is an incredibly powerful combination. Perhaps you are at a time when you need to set boundaries, make difficult decisions, or stand firm in the face of something that would have previously made you hesitate. This is a call to trust in your ability to lead your own life, even if you feel afraid, even if you don't have all the answers, because that leadership comes from within, from your integrity. And yes, it can be lonely at times. Because when you decide not to fit into what others expect, you find yourself facing many opinions, stares, and uncomfortable silences. But you are not making a mistake. You are evolving. You are choosing your truth. Surround yourself with people who value your mind, who challenge you with love, who are not intimidated by your brilliance. Give yourself the space to lead your projects, your decisions, your boundaries. You are not being "cold" or "too much." You're just being you. And that's more than enough.

ᡣ𐭩 🤍｡🩰ꪆৎ ˚⋅.Pile 3: Barbie (Barbie: A Fashion Fairytale) Hi Pile 3! People misjudge you a lot, Pile 3. You may seem sweet, but you're not naive. Maybe you've gone through times where you doubted yourself, where you felt like you didn't quite fit in or that you were out of place… but every time the world tried to tell you who you should be, you chose to be yourself. And that's incredibly powerful. You're the kind of person who inadvertently encourages others, who sees beauty where others only see chaos. I also feel like you may be very artistic or you should pursue something related to the arts; you have a unique vision on things that can make you really successful. I also notice that you're entering a very special time in your life. It may be that you're discovering new parts of yourself, as if something inside has finally aligned. Maybe you're starting to believe more in your voice, in your ideas, in your own style. You also have a natural light in you, idk if I'm explaining myself well, but it doesn't need to be announced because it's simply noticeable when you walk into a room. You're one of those people with a genuine heart, who doesn't seek the spotlight, but who ends up at the center of attention because of how you care, how you inspire, and how you see the best in others. If you sometimes doubt yourself or feel like what you do "isn't enough"… please, look again at everything you've already transformed. Because even when you think you're just "doing your thing," you're spreading hope in those around you. And go and do some art, you will slay in it ;).

ᡣ𐭩 🤍｡🩰ꪆৎ ˚⋅.Thank you for reading and let me know if it resonated!ᡣ𐭩 🤍｡🩰ꪆৎ ˚⋅.

[lilmarshie]

Since requests are open do you think you could do Bob with a reader who has chronic pain/illness? My pain has increased majorly over the last few months and could really use a little comfort right now 🥲

Caring for You

Bob Reynolds x Reader Headcanons

Bob cares for you while you’re dealing with chronic pain but he makes it all better and helps your worries to go away.

A/N: Thank you for the request, anon! I hope that you enjoy!

Bob is all about helping to make your shared space together a safe haven where you can go when you’re feeling under the weather. This space is filled with the softest blankets, fluffiest pillows, best snacks, and the one that you love–Bob. He ensures that this space is at the perfect temperature to help you with flare ups and any discomfort. Bob installed a smart thermostat with a wireless remote to help you be able to adjust the temperature in the room without leaving your bed.

Bob helps you stay on top of your medications without being overbearing about it. He sets reminders for you, picks up your prescriptions, runs to the store if you need him to, and makes a detailed chart to help you stay on track. This man has thought about anything and everything that you may need at any time. He is also a great advocate to speak on your behalf when you need that extra help from your care providers and doctors.

Bob knows the importance of daily exercise and being able to stay focused on the goals at hand. Whether big or small, Bob helps you with simple training exercises that, help you to not be too overwhelmed. These exercises are quick and effective and help target those areas of your body that need some extra attention. He's happy to join you for gentle walks, stretching sessions, or even just some light yoga. He'll always adjust the pace to match your energy levels and never push you beyond what you're comfortable with.

When the pain is really unbearable Bob creates the perfect distractions from the pain. He reads you chapters from your favorite books, watches funny movies with you, or starts a short conversation about random things. This helps to not have your mind wander to the pain that you’re experiencing. He also knows all the best spots for a change of scenery, like a cozy coffee shop or a quiet park.

Bob is your biggest cheerleader and confidant during these trials. He listens without judgment when you need to vent about your pain or frustrations. He celebrates your small victories and reminds you of your strength and resilience. He's also not afraid to show his own vulnerability, which helps you feel less alone in your struggles.

Bob knows that taking care of yourself is essential, so he encourages you to prioritize self-care activities. He will draw you a bath, make you a cup of tea, or give you a gentle massage. He also reminds you to take breaks when you need them and to say no to things that will drain your energy.

Bob is always willing to go to bat for you. He will research your condition, attend doctor's appointments with you, and help you navigate the healthcare system. He's also not afraid to challenge medical professionals if he feels like your needs aren't being met.

Above all else, Bob loves you unconditionally no matter what. He understands that your illness is a part of you, but it doesn't define you. He's committed to supporting you through thick and thin, and he'll always be there to remind you of your worth.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT part twenty, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, rafe and reader being mentors, the 74th hunger games, last part of act 2 before i get to act 3, y/n lowk turning into enobaria and rafe becoming brutus as mentors LOL, a bit rushed sorry i needed to get this thru n done so i can move to the quarter quell which ill b working on IMMEDIATELY

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous

morning of the reaping

the kiss to the back of your head doesn’t register right away. but you stir anyway. your eyes squint against the sunlight pouring through the window, and your hand lifts lazily to cover your face.

behind you, rafe’s already moving. you can hear the quiet rustle of clothes, the sound of a drawer closing, the exhale he lets out as he buttons his shirt. he’s not rushed, definitely not cheerful. he’s just methodical. like every year.

“up and at ‘em, bug,” he says, trying not to sound like it’s the anniversary of another death sentence. his pants drag slightly on the floor before he steps into them. he’s not looking at you when he says it.

you don’t reply. you don’t have the energy.

your back aches, then you stay still for a few seconds longer, your head turned toward the edge of the bed, watching the dust in the sunlight.

eventually, you drag yourself up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. you shower, hands moving gently around the sore parts of your back. your lotion will help later. rafe will probably have to do it for you again. you don’t ask anymore. you just wait until he offers nowadays.

by the time you come out dressed, you find him in the kitchen. he’s already made breakfast. there’s eggs, toast, a sliced apple. it’s simple. you don’t say thank you, but you kiss him on the cheek. he doesn't flinch. he never does.

you lean against the island, elbows on the counter, your plate in front of you. your appetite is nonexistent but the food is hot enough to make you take a few bites anyway.

rafe watches you for a moment from across the kitchen before speaking. “we’ll do good this year,” he says, almost like he’s saying it for himself. “whoever they are, we’ll—” he pauses, then shrugs. “we’ll get them through training right. make it count.”

you nod once, barely moving your head.

there’s no pep talk this year. maybe there hasn’t been for a while. last year’s victor still sends letters sometimes, was one of yours, thankfully. the kid lives across the street now in rafe’s old home. you never really visit. it’s not because you don’t care. it’s because you do.

you finish your food slowly, then take your plate with you, rinse it in the sink, and set it down.

rafe grabs his jacket, slings it over his shoulder, and waits by the door, giving you space to follow when you’re ready.

you tie your hair back to keep it out of your face and you breathe in deep before you finally move to join him.

just another reaping day.

tribute parade + catching up

cato and clove, your new tributes for the seventy-fourth.

you’ve kept your distance in the beginning. you know better than to smother. they’re still kids, and kids don’t like to feel watched. but you watch anyway, just quietly, because if you don’t know them inside and out by the time the gong rings, you’ll lose them.

cato’s easy to read. he’s bold, broad-shouldered, and loud in the way boys that age always are when they’re trying to prove something. he’s a natural leader. you see it in the way he moves like the world belongs to him already. he reminds you of rafe at that age: headstrong, competitive, almost too confident. it makes you wary, but also hopeful. if he can learn how to control it, he’ll go far.

clove’s the opposite. she barely speaks. she watches and calculates. it’s good. her grip on her throwing knives is precise. you’re pretty sure she’s only fifteen, but already better than you ever were at that age. her silence definitely isn’t weakness. it’s just strategy. but you can still see the cracks underneath it all, the small things. like the way she looks at the older tributes. she’s still got her work cut out for her.

you’re not here to be their friend. but you are here to keep them alive.

so before the parade, you pull them both aside. you sit them down in the prep lounge, far enough from cameras and capitol handlers. rafe’s nearby, arms crossed, not saying much, but he’s listening.

“look,” you start, arms folded, weight shifted onto one leg like you’ve done this speech a dozen times before, because you have, “i know you’re both ready, trained, strong. but that doesn’t mean you get to go in there acting like this is already yours.”

cato’s mouth twitches like he wants to smirk. you cut him off with a look.

“you’re a team,” you say, gaze moving between them. “that’s what matters. you trust each other. you look out for each other. if you don’t, you’re dead.”

clove nods. cato stays still.

“people are going to want to ally with you. you’re both strong. you look good. you know what you’re doing. but at the end of the day, it’s going to be you two left standing. so you need to know each other. inside and out. what makes the other tick, what to say when one of you is slipping.”

you glance at cato, “and you, when things go wrong, and they will, you need to keep your head on straight. don’t get cocky. don’t get emotional. play smart. no one ever knows how it’s going to end, and if you don’t plan for the unexpected—” you let that hang.

rafe finally chimes in, “—you end up like the rest of them.”

he doesn’t say who them is but he doesn’t have to.

you see something shift in cato’s eyes. maybe the first sting of reality finally sinking in. whatever it is, you’re glad for it.

the stylists call for them soon after. it’s time for the parade. you give them one last nod and step back. rafe claps a hand on cato’s shoulder with that easy confidence he always carries, like he’s proud before the game’s even started. you can tell rafe likes him.

but everything changes the moment the chariots roll out and district twelve lights the whole damn place on fire.

literally.

you watch from the balcony with the other mentors, eyes locked on the tributes in coal-black suits and flames licking at their shoulders. katniss everdeen and peeta mellark. the crowd erupts. it’s not polite applause. it’s thunderous. you haven’t heard this loud of a crowd in a long time.

you don’t say anything at first. you just stare like the wind was knocked out of you.

beside you, rafe leans in slightly. “well, shit.”

you blink and look at him. he’s still wearing that casual smirk, but you know him too well.

“they’re not here to play,” you mutter.

you look down again at katniss and peeta, arms held high, faces glowing in the firelight. the capitol just eats it up.

and down there, you swear you can already see cato seething. but you’ll deal with that later. right now, you’re already calculating.

this isn’t going to be a regular year.

not even close.

let the games begin

you don’t flinch when the light turns red above the door, signaling it’s time. you’ve done this too many times now to let it show. still, your hands curl into fists at your sides.

clove is already suited up, dressed in arena attire with her hair in a bubble braid, thanks to valis. she looks calm, like a soldier. but you’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s faking it. her throat is tight. she keeps flexing her fingers.

“you ready?” you ask gently.

clove nods, “yeah.”

you walk with her, just a few feet between here and the tube. it’s not far, but it always feels endless.

“okay,” you say, like you’re about to give her a pop quiz. “remember what we talked about. you’re not going for glory. you’re going for survival. you find cover, find water, find weapons. your knives if you can, but don’t get picky. anything sharp works. anything long enough to keep someone back.”

she nods again, jaw locked tight.

“stick with cato if you can, but not at the cost of your own safety. he’s a tank, you’re not. you’re faster. don’t underestimate that. use it, and keep moving. don’t make camp unless you’re sure. and—” you pause, more serious now, “—don’t let anyone bait you into doing something stupid. let them play games. you’re playing to win.”

it’s all the same crap you say every year, just reshuffled and recycled. but pieces of it are new, like lessons from past mistakes, regrets over tributes you couldn’t save. you’ve learned how fast the wrong choice can kill a kid, how slow some deaths can be, how sometimes silence in the arena means more than screams ever could.

she steps into the tube. you move closer, only inches away from her now, and lower your voice so only she can hear.

“may we meet again,” you murmur. it comes out softer than you expect, like muscle memory, like prayer. you say it every year.

clove doesn’t get it. her brows twitch, just barely. but she repeats it back anyway, “may we meet again.”

you nod, but you don’t smile. there’s nothing to smile about. not now.

the glass seals, rising like a tomb. clove lifts her chin. you don’t say anything else. you just watch her rise. her eyes stay on you until the light swallows her whole. you exhale through your nose.

she’s small. she’s smart. like you said, if she finds knives, water, a pack, she’ll last. definitely longer than most.

if you could, you would bet on her.

the first few days are always the worst. the bloodbath hits like a freight train. you just sit there, fists clenched, watching through the hovercam feeds as your tributes do exactly what they were trained to do.

clove’s quick and brutal, almost surgical with the way she moves through everything. she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. you think maybe she’s trying to prove something, whether to the world or to herself. it’s hard to say.

she’s allied with the district one pair, marvel and glimmer, who you think were being mentored by gloss and cashmere this year, who you’ve spoken with once or twice at functions by now. they’re tall, poised, a little too perfect. they’re nice, but district one’s are always snobby at some point. you’ve never let yourself get close enough to see it. they’re not your favorite people, but you’ll admit, they know what they’re doing. their tributes are doing fairly well too.

meanwhile, rafe’s been working the capitol crowd like a seasoned pro, flashing smiles and charming sponsors, always talking up cato and clove like one of them’s gonna be the capitol’s next golden child. you’ve barely spoken to him these last few days. most nights, he comes back to the room late, muttering something under his breath about how ‘twelve is stealing the damn spotlight again.’

because they are.

you remember sitting there, frozen, watching the screens when caesar announced private session scorings.

“eleven,” rafe spat that night, shaking his head when the scores came in. “she got a damn eleven. and cato got a ten.”

you remember the rage on cato’s face, how he paced in the living room afterward, muttering that he never saw katniss lift a weapon, let alone do anything worth that score. said the gamemakers must’ve been drunk or something.

but it didn’t matter. the capitol had already made up their mind. they loved her. she clearly has some tricks up her sleeve that haymitch is telling her to hide, you’re sure of it.

and the capitol loves peeta too, especially with his heartfelt interview and the whole ‘star-crossed lovers’ angle that made half the capitol swoon. it’s clever, strategic. you can admit that. but it’s frustrating as hell, especially when you have clove and cato in the arena. they’re killing machines, trained for this, built for this.

you spend most of your days now watching clove and cato’s activity. you sleep maybe three hours at a time, if that.

you watch clove press her back against a rock and clean her knife with the hem of her sleeve. you watch cato sharpen his sword like he’s been waiting for someone to try him.

they’re stars. they should be winning.

so when rafe finally sits beside you one night, looking exhausted but still determined, and promises, “i’ll make them watch. i swear it,” you believe him.

the bar’s quiet, the kind that only exists in capitol back rooms where the noise has to be kept out or you’ll go insane. it’s tucked away behind one of the gaudier lounges they parade mentors through during interviews.

you pull your jacket tighter around yourself as you slide onto the cushioned bench beside rafe, letting your body fall into the space carved out by his arm. you lean into him, your leg draping over his without thinking.

johanna’s halfway through a rant about her stylists from last year, “i told them no ruffles, and what do i get? a goddamn woodland princess dress with a corset i couldn’t breathe in,” when finnick leans forward with a little grin curling at his mouth.

“maybe they just wanted to see if you had a waist under all that attitude,” he says.

johanna freezes mid-sip, slowly lowering her glass as she glares. she kicks out her leg under the table, solid contact with his shin.

he winces but starts laughing anyway, muffling it into the rim of his drink as some spills over the side.

you barely smile at the two of them.

“you look like you’ve been hit by a hovercraft,” johanna says, nodding at you. “long week?”

you don’t answer. you just raise your brows and take a sip of your own drink.

rafe’s hand drops to your thigh under the table, squeezing once. “don’t mind her,” he mutters, “she’s bitter ‘cause of last year.”

“damn right i’m bitter,” johanna says, catching that. she slams her glass down. “district seven gave me log rollers last year. log rollers. what the hell am i supposed to do with that?”

“make firewood?” finnick offers.

“very original,” johanna deadpans, “you should be a stylist.”

“maybe i will,” finnick says. “anything’s better than sitting in those sponsor meetings listening to everyone act like peeta mellark invented the idea of romance.”

“i still don’t get him,” you mutter, pressing your forehead lightly to rafe’s shoulder. “why team up with the careers if he’s in love with her?”

“to drive them away from her,” finnick says like he knows this strategy all too well. “or to get her killed. either way, it's bait.”

you nod slowly. “they ditched him though. probably when they lost glimmer.”

“shame,” johanna says, but not like she means it. “girl looked great in that green.”

you don’t say anything. neither do the others. rafe shifts slightly, just enough to kiss your temple. you don’t move.

“cato’s doing okay,” rafe says after a moment. “kid’s pissed, but he’s smart. he’s adapting.”

“clove’s better,” you say. “if she stays fed and still has a hold of her knives, she’s gonna make it to the final five easy.”

“look at you two,” johanna says, gesturing with her drink. “mentoring little yous.”

“cato’s nothing like me,” rafe says.

you glance up at him. “he kind of is.”

he looks down at you and shrugs. “maybe the temper.”

“maybe the pride.”

“definitely the hair,” johanna quips. “they all have that same district two look. like they just walked out of a weapons catalog.”

“at least they know what they’re doing,” finnick says. “my girl from four this year thinks fishing is a personality trait.”

“it’s better than carving trees,” johanna snaps. you all laugh a little.

reader keeping up with the finales

it’s the feast.

you’re curled into the corner of the couch, eyes locked to the screen. you don’t blink. you don’t breathe. clove’s there, just like you told her to be. she’s on top of katniss now, got her pinned, taunting her with that little smirk that always made you nervous. it’s a good look though. she’s bold and confident. maybe even enough to steal the spotlight from twelve.

rafe’s standing, not even bothering to sit. he’s closer to the tv, one hand at his mouth, biting his thumb nail. you’re nodding slowly, trying to will clove to stay sharp as if she can hear you in your head muttering ‘good, good, keep control’ and ‘don’t let your guard down.’

but it’s the feast. and the feast is chaos.

you should’ve reminded her again, told her anyone could come at any time. like—

it’s too fast. there’s no warning, no build-up. the cameras don’t show him running. they cut right to the impact, thresh grabbing her, tearing her off katniss like she’s weightless.

your breath halts.

clove’s voice cracks out, fear slicing through it like a blade. “cato! cato!”

you stand. you don’t realize it until your knees hit the edge of the coffee table and you’re upright.

“no,” you whisper, reaching blindly for rafe’s arm, clutching his sleeve like you might fall through the floor if you don’t hold on.

he doesn't say anything. he doesn’t move. just stares, wide-eyed, hand frozen halfway to his mouth.

thresh slams her against the cornucopia. your stomach lurches. again. and then there’s a crack.

the cannon sounds before she even hits the ground.

your hand slips from rafe’s arm as your whole body caves in on itself. you sink back onto the couch, eyes burning. you can still see her face, clove’s body crumpled on the ground like a doll tossed aside, her eyes still slightly open, lips parted mid-breath.

you press a shaking hand to your mouth.

rafe finally turns away from the screen, his shoulders tight, jaw clenched. he can’t watch anymore.

you rake your fingers through your hair and lean forward, forearms braced against your thighs, eyes still on the screen. it’s just cato now. he’s all there’s left for two.

his screentime comes soon. you’re in a lounge when you see him.

your eyes are red-rimmed from too many days of staring at too many deaths. you’re hunched forward on a couch that’s too modern to be comfortable, elbows on your thighs, hands braced tightly over your mouth and nose.

rafe’s here too, sitting on the armrest beside you, his body tense, his leg bouncing ever so slightly. he doesn’t speak. neither of you have spoken in a while. the only sound is the hum of the capitol and the commentary from the arena feed.

on screen, cato bursts out of the forest of mutts like a man possessed. your breath catches. he’s hurt. he’s bleeding from somewhere near his shoulder and mouth, but alive and sprinting up the cornucopia with one last desperate blaze of instinct. he reaches the top, grabs peeta by the chest, yanks him in with an arm tight around his throat.

there’s blood dripping down cato’s face. he looks manic, exhausted beyond reason, but still . . . still there’s that fire in his eyes. he’s snarling words at katniss, something cruel and theatrical, meant for the cameras. something probably about making it hurt, getting his last kills. he’s performing now, digging for a narrative, trying to steal the spotlight back with the only trick he has left: pain.

maybe he knows his odds are low. it’s written all over his face. they’ll love it for the drama, but you already know the ending.

you watch it all like a car crash in slow motion. your fingers dig into your skin.

katniss’s hands move too fast to register. her arrow flies, striking cato in the hand holding peeta. you flinch.

he roars, his grip loosening just enough for peeta to elbow him hard in the gut. cato stumbles. for one second, he’s just teetering on the edge, one foot scrabbling for balance on the metal, but then peeta shoves.

cato tumbles backward off the cornucopia and straight into the pack of muttations still circling hungrily below.

the feed doesn’t cut away. it doesn’t need to.

you drop your head into your hands. you don’t cry. your body’s past crying now. it’s a hollow ache that lives in your bones, heavier than grief. it’s failure. again.

rafe doesn’t say anything. you peek over and see him just staring. like he’s not really seeing anything at all. you think he might be doing that thing again, where he blames himself without saying it out loud.

“he was so close,” you whisper, but rafe doesn’t answer.

you stay like that for a long time. cato’s cannon finally fires after hours of the mutts digging through his armor and mutilating him below, with katniss’s last arrow to his head to mercy kill. the cameras never show the body. maybe there isn’t one left to show.

the rest is a blur. the feed shifts back to katniss and peeta, both practically half-conscious, barely holding it together. you can’t look away. you don’t go back to your quarters. you don’t sleep. you sit in front of the tv until your eyes sting and your joints ache. rafe leaves at some point, says he’ll be back, but you barely hear him.

you watch katniss and peeta curled up at the top of the cornucopia, not speaking much. they’re waiting. so are you. you’re pretty sure a good chunk of panem is.

the hours pass and the sky lightens. it’s nearly morning in the arena and you still haven’t moved.

the gamemakers haven’t done anything. there’s no finale. no twist. no mercy.

you’re getting angry now, but it’s mostly anxiety. you run a hand through your hair and shake your head at the screen. “what are they waiting for?” you whisper. “what are they doing?”

and then they move.

on screen, peeta stirs, glances around. katniss pulls herself upright slowly. you squint through your fatigue, watching as they exchange a few hushed words.

then katniss reaches into her pocket.

you sit up straighter.

no.

what’s in her hand are small, round, and deadly. you recognize the size and color immediately. it’s nightlock. your stomach twists violently.

they’re going to do it. they’re really going to do it. another suicide pact. another pair of kids refusing to play by the rules, refusing to be the monsters they were made to be. your chest tightens. it’s happening again.

the capitol wouldn’t let it happen again, would it?

you’re frozen as you watch. they’re raising the berries to their lips.

not again not again not again.

your heart pounds, breath shallow as your nails dig into your palms before a voice crackles to life. it’s robotic and a little too rushed, “stop! . . . stop!”

katniss and peeta look up at the sky immediately where the sounds probably coming in for them.

“ . . . ladies and gentlemen, may i present to you the victors of the seventy-fourth hunger games: katniss everdeen . . . and peeta mellark.”

there’s no images of them rejoicing. no final shot. no triumph. just silence. you stare. you don’t move. your hands slide down your face slowly, your eyes are wide, stunned.

the screen flashes once, then cuts to black. just like that.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[maria021015]

Penpals - Part 1

Fred Weasley x FemHufflepuffReader

What happens when Fred’s new owl accidentally sends a letter meant for George to the wrong person? The mysterious recipient might just write him back. And it might end up being the best mistake Fred has ever made.

———————————————————————

To: George (Or so he thought…)

Sent via Owl Post

Oi, George—

I’ve just had a brilliant idea for a new product and couldn’t wait until Madam Pomfrey decides I’m okay to tell you. Picture this: a quill that looks completely ordinary… until someone starts using it, and then - BAM! - it starts dramatically narrating everything they’re doing like an overly enthusiastic announcer at a Quidditch match.

Imagine McGonagall trying to give a lecture with her quill going, “Professor McGonagall is now frowning disapprovingly at a third year who clearly has no idea what she’s doing…oh, and there goes the eyebrow twitch!”

Anyway, we’ll call it Quill of Commentary. Think about it. We can tweak it to be snarky, romantic, heroic - the whole range. I’ll start prototyping this week. You handle the charmwork, I’ll wrangle the packaging.

Also, I may or may not have replaced Ron’s well with disappearing ink again. His reaction was magnificent. You’d think he’d check by now. Honestly, it’s too easy.

Write back when you can - though if you’ve already started testing that Puking Pastille variant again, do us all a favour and test it on yourself first.

Your better half (obviously),

Fred

———————————————————————

To: Fred Weasley.

Sent via Owl Post

Good evening Fred,

I’m assuming the intended recipient of this letter was your (admittedly far more endearing) other half, George.

Unfortunately for both of us, your letter has been sent to the wrong dormitory by your rather confused owl. Though I must say, your Quill of Commentary sounds like an intriguing invention. I must order one (once they’ve been thoroughly tested, of course).

As for poor Ronald, do take some pity on him. After all, I’ve heard he struggles to complete his work without the ink disappearing.

Kind regards,

Your anonymous letter recipient.

———————————————————————

To: The Mystery Mischief-Magnet Who Is Not George

Sent via Very Confused Owl

Well, now this is unexpected.

I must admit, I didn’t anticipate a response from someone with clearly impeccable taste in joke products. And yet, here you are, anonymous and delightfully cheeky. You’ve got me curious now. Not just because you called George the “far more endearing” twin (he’ll be insufferable if he hears that), but because you clearly have a sense of humour…and, dare I say, excellent timing. It does get rather boring being cooped up in the hospital wing.

You read the whole letter, didn’t you? Even the bit about Ron. That’s how I know you’re not a prefect - unless you’re the kind who enjoys a little chaos on the side. In which case, I’m intrigued.

Now, the question is: who are you?

Clearly a student. Intelligent, perhaps? Observant, certainly. Ravenclaw or the better half of Slytherin? Possibly Hufflepuff with a secret streak of mischief. And brave enough to write me back instead of chucking the letter in the bin. Could you be from my own house?

How about a trade? You give me a clue about yourself, and I’ll give you one in return.

Here’s mine: when I was five, I tried to charm Mum’s cooking pots into forming a marching band. It ended in singed eyebrows and a very cross chicken, but I regret nothing.

Your move, Mystery Girl.

Awaiting your next owl with great anticipation,

Fred (the clearly superior twin)

———————————————————————

To: The person who thinks he is the superior twin

Sent via slowly learning owl

‘Unexpected’ is the perfect word for the situation, for I also was not expecting a letter back.

I did indeed read your entire letter, and while I do not participate in (or wholeheartedly agree with) the rule breaking chaos you and your brother often partake in, I must admit it is entertaining for the rest of the student body.

As for your numerous questions - and assumptions - about me…

Well I’m not so keen to give myself up too easily. But I’ll play your little game as I am intrigued to hear more.

A cooking pot marching band sounds dreadful to the ears yet delightful to the soul.

I’m not going to make this easy for you, so you’ll have to pay close attention, but I’ve left a hint pertaining to my house somewhere in this letter. I wonder if you can find it? I await your response with eagerness.

From, your mysterious penpal.

———————————————————————

To: My Mysterious Penpal (who is either very clever, very bold, or both)

Delivered via Owl with a tendency to nip if ignored

I must say, you’ve got a flair for suspense. Subtle clues, a riddle in your words, and now. hidden symbols in the wax seal? You certainly don’t make it easy, but I suppose that’s part of the fun. Most people wouldn’t notice a badger tucked away like that…but most people aren’t me.

So. Hufflepuff, are you?

That narrows it down to roughly…a few dozen people. Brilliant.

You don’t strike me as the type who trips over their shoelaces in Herbology or forgets their wand in the loo. No, you’re one of the sharper ones, the type who sits quietly in the background but has already figured out exactly how many steps it’ll take to sneak out of the castle undetected. I like that. Calculated chaos. My favourite kind.

I’ll take your challenge and raise you: tell me the most rebellious thing you’ve ever done at Hogwarts. No need to incriminate yourself. Just a taste. I’ll even offer one in return:

Once, George and I bewitched every single toilet in the prefect’s bathroom to sing Celestina Warbeck’s greatest hits anytime someone sat down. McGonagall gave us detention for a month, but we got a standing ovation from the Gryffindor common room.

Your turn. And do feel free to make it as vague and infuriatingly cryptic as you like - I’m starting to enjoy the puzzle.

Yours in mischief and mystery,

Fred

———————————————————————

To: A not-so-mysterious man

Sent via Owl who is very polite thank you very much

I’m glad you were perceptive enough to pick up on my hint - Hufflepuff indeed. I fear your expectations of my house mates delve into stereotype. I promise we are not all blundering and forgetful. We are actually splendid at finding things.

Though your assessment about calculated chaos is correct. I, like most people, do enjoy a tad bit of mischief every now and then. Although more often than not I enjoy observing rather than partaking.

The most rebellious act I’ve committed at Hogwarts pales in comparison to your various achievements (which are heard about even deep down in the hufflepuff common room).

I’m afraid the story is not that exciting, but I did once hex that Slytherin git Draco Malfoy for running his mouth about what muggleborns he wanted to be attacked next. Not so brave of me to attack a second year who was two years my junior, but he did deserve it.

Perhaps you could convince me to be a bit more daring?

I believe you’ve asked two questions in a row, making my turn overdue. It’s all well and good to tell me of your various pranking feats, for which you are known for throughout the Hogwarts student body. But the real truth of who you are lies beneath all that. I’d like to dig deeper. Who is Fred Weasley, really? The boy behind the prank master. Tell me, what is something the rest of us don’t know about you?

Sincerely, your mystery hufflepuff.

———————————————————————

To: The Surprisingly Fiery Badger in Disguise

Delivered via owl who seems to like you more than me now (traitor)

Well, well, hexing Draco Malfoy, were you?

I take back what I said about you being the quiet type. That’s the kind of rebellion that earns you a secret round of applause in the corridors, even if the professors pretend not to notice. Trust me, I know the sound of a muffled cheer when I hear one. For the record, I’d call that brave, not cruel. Sometimes people need a reminder they’re not as untouchable as they think.

Now, as for convincing you to be more daring…challenge accepted. I’d wager there’s a whole world of untapped chaos lurking in you, waiting to be unleashed. And when it is, I’d like to be there to see it. Or possibly help. Definitely help.

You’ve turned the tables on me though, and fair’s fair.

Who am I behind the gags and firecrackers?

Well. Most people see the jokes and assume that’s all there is. Loud, laughing, a bit reckless. But the truth is: pranks are just another kind of magic. They’re distractions. Shields. Ways to twist something heavy into something light. And when things get too dark - too real - I’d rather make someone laugh than let them feel the weight of it all.

There’s something else not many people know: I actually like working late at night, when the castle’s asleep. That quiet, that calm, it’s when ideas come alive. The fireworks, the products, the laughter…they’re all born in the silence.

So there you have it. A little honesty from the Weasley with the wildest hair and the biggest plans.

Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.

Now, I’ll trade you for another clue. You’ve got sharp wit and a hidden temper, but tell me: if you weren’t at Hogwarts, what would you be doing? No magic, no wands. Just you, out in the world.

Curious as ever,

Fred

———————————————————————

To: The boy behind the wild hair and nature

Sent via my new best friend

As far as vulnerability goes you certainly exceeded my expectations. Perhaps you aren’t as difficult of a book to read as I originally thought.

I’d always imagined your love and flair for the dramatic and fantastical was a way to seek attention and stand out among a family where I assume it would be easy to disappear, given there are so many of you. But your real reason is rather…endearing. In truth I find it quite admirable. We all need a little bit of light in the darkness, now more than ever with the recent attacks at the Quidditch World Cup. I’m happy that you are there to bring that light back into everyone’s lives at Hogwarts.

I enjoy working late at night in the dark and quiet as well. It is easier to think when the world is asleep. It brings a certain kind of peace that is hard to find at Hogwarts among the hustle and bustle. And do not worry, your secrets are safe with me. We Hufflepuffs are an honest and loyal bunch.

If I were to be out in the muggle world I imagine I’d like to go into healthcare. Learn how to help people, heal them. Though I suppose that’s not too different from what I want to do in the wizarding world.

What would you want to be if magic did not exist?

Equally as intrigued,

Mystery Badger

———————————————————————

To: The Healer in Hufflepuff’s Den

Delivered by an owl now carrying your letters with far too much pride (I think it’s showing off)

Well, that might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all term.

And yes, you’re not wrong about the whole “Weasley chaos” theory. It’s rather easy to become another blur of red hair and hand-me-down jumpers in a family like mine. So I suppose I turned up the volume a bit. Not to be seen, exactly, but to make something mine. George and I…we found our way by making people laugh. But you’re the first to look underneath all that and say it out loud.

That’s rather bold of you, Mystery Girl.

I like it.

And I especially like the sound of you being a healer. You’ve got the soul for it, I can tell from the way you speak. Thoughtful. Grounded. The kind of person who’d stay up through the night to make sure someone felt just a bit less alone. Magic or not, the world could use more of that. More of you.

As for me…no magic, huh?

That’s tough. I think I’d still want to create. Something loud and ridiculous and a little brilliant. I’d probably try to make jokes for a living. Maybe sketch things, invent weird little gadgets that no one needs but everyone wants the moment they see it. Something to remind people that life doesn’t always have to be so serious. That it can still be fun.

And if I’m being really honest…I’d want to make something that makes people remember me. Not for fame. Just so they smile, even for a second. Like, “That bloke Fred? Yeah…he was daft, but he made the world a bit brighter.”

So.

Another layer peeled back. Your move.

Next question, for you: If you could take me anywhere at Hogwarts - your favourite spot, your best-kept secret place - where would we go?

(And before you say the kitchens, I’m already quite familiar, thank you very much. The house-elves adore me.)

Yours, more intrigued than ever,

Fred

———————————————————————

To: Fred, the boy who made me smile today.

Sent via Owl that deserves to be proud

Your words were unexpectedly sweet for someone with such a roguish reputation. Perhaps your charm is why the ladies at Hogwarts love you.

Who knows, maybe one day you’ll be in need of my healing services, with all of your dangerous experimentations.

I could certainly see you as any and all of those things you described. It’s exceedingly honourable to simply want to make the world a better place with laughter - something so simple but something so often overlooked. I can tell you that your mission has succeeded today. I witnessed your little stunt in Herbology and while Professor Sprout may not have been impressed, I certainly was.

As for my favourite secret spot at Hogwarts…your guess was close. The kitchens are a close second, and the house elves have indeed told me about your midnight escapades. Though they may not have used the word ‘adore’ when describing you. Again, another secret of yours that I hold close to my chest. My favourite spot has to be the astronomy tower at dusk or sunrise. I love watching the colours that bleed across the sky. You’ll have to try it sometime.

And for my question, I heard you tried to enter your name into the Goblet of Fire this week and it ended in an unfortunate prunage of the skin and greying of the hair. Tell me, are you a handsome old man Weasley? But in all seriousness, why did you want to enter?

Looking forward to your response,

A smiling Hufflepuff

———————————————————————

To: The Hufflepuff Who’s Made This Whole Mad Castle Feel a Little Less Mad

Delivered by one very smug owl who now refuses to carry anything but your letters. I’m considering a name for him. Something noble. Like Earl.

You saw that, did you? The Herbology stunt?

In my defense, the Venomous Tentacula did not need to be that dramatic. I gave it a party hat, not a reason to attack. Though I suppose, in its own way, it was participating in the celebration. Of what, I haven’t decided. Tuesday, maybe. Or life. Plants are unpredictable like that.

And you, my mysterious healer, have a dangerous gift for making me grin like an idiot when no one’s watching. I’ve read your letter three times now, and I’ve got half a mind to find that astronomy tower this weekend just to see if the sky looks as lovely as you describe - or if it only gets that way when you’re up there.

Now, to your question.

Yes. George and I may have tried to skirt the age line around the Goblet of Fire. I’m not entirely fond of what happened. Mostly because I now know exactly what I’ll look like in seventy years, and frankly, I was hoping for a little less nose hair. But you asked why we tried, not how miserably it failed.

Truth is…it wasn’t about glory. Not entirely.

I mean, sure, part of it was the thrill of it - the chance to prove we’re not just class clowns. That we could do something bold and win. But also…I think I just wanted to shake things up. Show people we’re more than the punchlines they expect. That we can fight for something. That we will. The gold prize would have been nice too.

But maybe that’s a silly answer. Or maybe it isn’t. I suppose you’ll be the judge.

Now it’s my turn again, isn’t it?

Tell me this: what’s the one thing you wish people noticed about you, but never seem to?

No rush.

The sky will still be there when you’re ready.

Yours - still slightly grey, still quite proud,

Fred

———————————————————————

To: My still-grey Griffindor

Via Earl

I’ve grown rather fond of Earl, though I think he likes me even more. But that may have something to do with the extra fruit snacks I feed him.

I’m glad I’m not the only one reading our little secret letters with a smile on my face. My friends are starting to get nosy and ask questions. Don’t worry, I keep my lips shut tight about our secret conversations.

You should make a visit to the astronomy tower this weekend. I can’t promise I will be there but I may leave something for you to find. If you can, that is.

As for your reasons to enter the tournament, you needn’t concern yourself with what others think. It may not mean much coming from someone you don’t even know, but if you want my opinion, I think you and George are both extremely gifted academically. The spells and skills that are required for the level of magic used to execute your pranks and make your products is extraordinary. You are far more than class clowns.

Not many people do notice me to be fair, and the people who do don’t seem to like me very much. Of course I have my close circle of friends - Luna, Cedric, and now perhaps you?

Something I wish people did notice was that I may seem like a bitch, but I am seldom cruel for the fun of it. I simply have very strong personal morals that I hate to see broken. If there is an injustice I will do my best to right it.

As for this week’s question, Fred, will you be at the first task on Sunday? I want to know if I should keep an eye out for you in the crowd. Perhaps I’ll come say hi, though I imagine I’d be quite hard to point out in the crowd of girls who do so.

Well wishes from the hufflepuff who notices you.

———————————————————————

To: The Hufflepuff Who Notices More Than Most

Delivered by Earl, who now refuses to leave without a snack and a scratch behind the wing (I’ve created a monster)

You have no idea how tempting that astronomy tower invitation is.

I’d say you’re cruel for teasing it, but something tells me you’re the type who prefers the thrill of the chase to the prize itself. Which is very unfair of you, considering how terribly impatient I am. But all right, Mystery Girl. I’ll play your game. If I do find something up there, I’ll consider it a sign that I’ve earned a little more of your truth.

And thank you, for what you said about me and George. Most people laugh and dismiss what we do as silly, but you saw the work in it. The craft. That means more to me than I can properly write in a letter. I think you’ve got a habit of seeing through the noise, don’t you?

Now then.

You may not be the easiest person to spot in a crowd, but something tells me I’d know you if I saw you. You’ve got a presence, even in ink. I’ll be at the first task, yes. Somewhere near the front. Probably shouting something highly inappropriate and getting side-eyed by McGonagall. If you’re there, look for the bloke who’s too loud, wearing Gryffindor colours, and scanning the crowd like he’s trying to find something he’s not supposed to see.

Because I will be looking for you. And if you come say hi…I’ll know.

Not because of your house colours but because I think I’ll feel it. The way I feel it now, when your words show up in my hand and suddenly the world feels a bit warmer.

As for what you said, you’re not cruel. You’re fierce. Loyal. And maybe a little sharp around the edges. But only because you care more than most. People like that? They’re the ones worth holding on to.

Now, for your next question:

If you could ask me anything face to face, no matter how bold or personal - what would it be?

Yours until Sunday (and hopefully after),

Fred

[angelx]

do you think you can write something about soft bf katsuki who has a gf who's struggling with her mental health (PLEASE FOR BPD REPRESENTATION) and she also struggling with self harm??

need to see how he takes care of his beloved gf 😭😭🙏🙏

as a girlie with BPD, i thank you for requesting this, i feel seen too by writing this

cw: soft bf Katsuki x BPD!reader | tw: self-harm, emotional dysregulation, comfort, hurt/comfort, heavy on reassurance, safe ending

"Always you..."

It starts with silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that feels like your brain is underwater, everything too loud and too quiet at the same time.

You're curled up on the edge of the bed like you’re afraid of taking up space, wearing that hoodie Katsuki gave you—the one that smells like him, the one you stole off the floor because you needed something. Your sleeves are pulled down low over your hands, your fingers twitching at the hem like you're trying to keep yourself from doing something worse.

Katsuki sees you.

He's always watching, even when you don’t think he is.

He doesn’t barge in. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t panic.

He just walks over and kneels in front of you like you’re holy, like you’re breakable but not broken.

“…Hey,” he says softly, like he’s scared of scaring you off. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

He reaches out carefully, fingers brushing over your wrist. His thumb grazes a fresh bandage—one you put on fast, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He did.

“Please don’t be mad,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I didn’t know what else to do, Katsuki, I just—my head—everything felt too much and then not enough and I thought if I could just feel something real—”

“Baby.”

His voice is gentle, but it grounds you like a thunderclap.

He cups your cheek and tilts your face toward him, just enough that you see the look in his eyes. No anger. No disappointment.

Just love. Raw and stubborn and aching.

“You don’t gotta do that to be or feel real,” he says. “You don’t gotta hurt yourself just ‘cause your brain’s being a bitch today.”

You hiccup a sob. “You’re gonna leave. I’m gonna push you too far one day and you’re gonna realize I’m too much.”

He frowns like you just said the dumbest shit he’s ever heard. “I already know how much you are. And I want all of you, dumbass.”

“I’m not lovable like this—”

“You are.” Katsuki says it with steel in his voice now, not because he’s mad, but because he wants to hammer it into your heart. “I don’t give a shit how bad it gets. You’re not your worst thoughts. You’re not your mood swings. You’re mine. And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You cry harder then, ugly and loud, because it’s too much. He’s too much.

He pulls you into his arms like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. Lets you cling. Lets you cry into his shoulder until your throat hurts. He rocks you a little, like it’s instinct. Like you’re something precious he has to protect from the world—and sometimes, from yourself.

“You know what we’re gonna do?” he murmurs into your hair. “We’re gonna breathe together. We’re gonna drink some water. I’m gonna help you clean up the sharp shit you hid under the sink. Then we’re gonna watch that dumbass comfort show you like until you fall asleep on me. And tomorrow? We’re gonna do it all again if we have to.”

“…Even if I spiral again?”

“Especially if you spiral again.”

Your voice cracks. “Why?”

Katsuki pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His hand cradles the back of your head. His thumb brushes a tear off your cheek.

“‘Cause I fuckin’ love you,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “All of you. Even the parts you think make you unlovable. Especially those.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

this is my first time writing shoto. i don't think it's better than my katsuki one but i tried😭😭

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

[uniquethingtastemaker]

Ok, I had a hilarious idea for a Sylus x Reader fanfic, so here’s a long excerpt! This is the majority of the fanfic I have lol:

Once you’re alone, you stare straight at the security camera.

“If you’re going to spy on me, at least send the crow,” you declare before spinning on your heels and stalking away.

——————

Sylus sits back in his seat with a smirk and raised eyebrow. He takes out a slip of paper and jots something down.

————————

The next day, the mechanical bird appears outside your classroom window. You bite the inside of your lip to suppress a smirk. It seems the owner has taken your advice into consideration. Your watcher can be persuaded, which is a good sign. You’ve often had to take people out, so you’re glad you picked the right person to interact with.

You don’t spare the crow another glance while waiting for class to end.

Afterward, you casually walk into the courtyard where you last saw the critter. Your eyes sweep your surroundings to confirm the coast is clear. Then, you raise your forearm. The crow swoops in to take its perch.

Your lips twitch up. That was badass. You secretly summoned a high-tech mechanical bird down, and it responded instantly. Whoever is watching you gets bonus points for the rule of cool.

You look at the crow curiously, before noticing something on its leg.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, as you unwrap a slip of paper from its appendage.

Alright, kitten.

You blink.

You blink again, before you face screws up, confused.

“Kitten? Kitten??“ you repeat. “Is that his nickname for me? Why??”

You glance at the crow with a baffled frown.

“Fine, I’ll give your owner a nickname too… I’ll call them…“ You trail off.

You shuffle through your head for an idea. You want to stick with the animal theme. He has a crow and calls you a kitten. He must like animals, so you want to nickname him something with that in mind. However, you need an animal that’s beneath both. You furrow your eyebrows. Then, you remember Caleb’s nickname for you.

You snap your fingers.

“I’ll call your owner, Squeaker! Mice squeak and cats catch mice. It means I'll catch them eventually,” you declare, proud of yourself.

The beautiful black bird squawks, chortling in approval. Your eyes glint.

So this crow has a sense of humor. It seems sentient from its creator. You like him already. If this bird likes to bully his owner, you’ve found a friend.

You speak to the brilliant machine on your arm with reverence. “Although I also don’t know your name, oh great messenger. I’m sure Squeaker has already named you. However, I don’t know it, so I’ll give you one myself.”

You ponder before voicing your thoughts aloud.

“You’re more immaculate than Mr. Squeaker, so—Wait, is Squeaker a male?” you clarify.

The crow bobs its head.

“Thank you. As I said, you’re more prestigious than Mr. Squeaker, so your name should reflect that.”

The mechanical crow holds its head high, preening itself slightly. You grin. Yes, you like this bird. You’ll still be wary, but Mr. Squeaker has made a tempting offer of a friend.

“Yes, you are the best. Therefore, your name will be Ruby for your eyes. Rubies are often referred to as a symbol of royalty and wealth. You are certainly classy and of a noble status, my liege,” you praise, giving a slight bow to the black bird.

Your little crow friend wiggles happily on your arm, and you giggle.

“[Y/N], break is almost over!” a classmate calls.

You quietly scoff. “They’re interrupting my quality time with my bird.”

You toss your voice over your shoulder with the perfect tone of appreciation.

“Got it! I’ll be over in a second! Thanks!”

You turn back to Ruby with distaste. “Ugh, people. You, my dear, are the most interesting thing in my life, so I’ll see you later.”

You lift your arm, giving him a boost to fly away. Your new friend takes off and disappears into the trees. You have some research to do.

You jog back to your friends.

“Thanks for letting me know. I appreciate it,” you reply with a cheery attitude.

You hate maintaining this persona, but it’s for your safety and protection. You’re taking a gamble with Mr. Squeaker, but if it pays off. The rewards will be great. It’s just a feeling.

————————

“Mr. Squeaker?” Sylus laughs. “Nobody has been that brave in front of me before. I look forward to the day we meet face to face, but not yet. They’re interesting. Also, I have to correct them on your name, Mephisto.”

———————

Ruby returns the next day with another note.

Cute name, sweetie, but his name is Mephisto.

“Sweetie?” you question before looking at Ruby. “Is he flirting with me, or does he give the impression of an old southern woman who calls everyone sweetie?”

The cute crow squawks, almost cackling at your suggestion. You smile.

“So not an old southern lady. Got it,” you comment before placing a thoughtful hand under your chin.

“Before I get into more theories about Squeaker, I have to address your name,” you state. “It looks like you don’t have a last name, so from now on your full name is Mephisto Ruby. Is that amiable?”

Your crow preens and you grin.

“I’m glad you like it just as much as I do, Ruby,” you reiterate.

(What do you think? Leave your comments. Can you tell I like Mephisto? Also side note: Sylus is technically not my favorite character, but man, do I like this fanfic. It’s just so funny. Reader is great. Anyway, tell me what you think!!)

[emeraldserenade]

I wanted to request a story about Joaquin being there for wife!reader postpartum (rough delivery, body image, frustration being a new mom, late night wake ups etc.)

Postpartum ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: You go through postpartum depression and Joaquín is there to help you through all of it

tw: fem!reader, wife!reader, postpartum depression, reader has a panic attack,

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

I keep giving Joaquín a daughter, he's just so girl dad coded. If you want more of this idea, I have a fic called Running that also deals with something like this.

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Joaquín Torres was the definition of the perfect father and husband your entire pregnancy. The delivery of your child was hard, you were having trouble with the pain even with the meds and Joaquín had to sit behind you to help comfort you. He pressed loving kisses to your head and told you sweet nothings in your ear. And when you yelled at him to shut up and that you hated him for putting you through this, he smiled and kept his mouth shut.

Then your perfect little angel was born, you loved her from the moment you saw her. The hard delivery was worth it and when those dark tendrils of doubt started to creep into your head, Joaquín smiled at you and said he loved you and you gave wonderful.

But it wasn't enough, you woke up with your daughter every time. Not that Joaquín didn't offer but she was still breastfeeding and refusing a bottle. You had to pump all the time and you hated looking in the mirror. You didn't have time to care for yourself and you knew you would be able to see that if you looked in the mirror.

You never blamed your daughter, she didn't know that she was hurting you. But those tendrils of doubt wormed their way into the crevices of your mind and dug deep. You found yourself staring in the mirror at your body while your daughter napped or staring off into space while feeding her. You felt tired all the time from waking up and you felt like you couldn't give her everything she deserved. You tried to keep it from Joaquín, he was going through enough you decided.

But then the thoughts started to happen, you started to listen to them.

You aren't worthy of being with Joaquín He's only with you because of your daughter Your daughter would be better off without you there to mess her up You aren't enough You aren't pretty You aren't worthy You are nothing

The thoughts were relentless and you could deal, after another particularly hard late night wake up you found yourself having a panic attack on your kitchen floor. You didn't notice Joaquín walking in, or him gently telling you to breathe, or the way he took your hand and forced you to follow his breathing by placing it on his chest.

"Princesa, breathe for me," Joaquín's voice finally broke through the fog and you launched yourself into his arms. "What's wrong?" He asked gently and the dam broke. You told him everything and it was like a flip was switched. Joaquín was there for every wake up and as soon as your daughter took a bottle, he made you sleep through them. He took over all chores in the house, except cooking since you found it calming, and took on more responsibility involving your daughter. He booked you a spa day and had you get dressed up a little. He gave you more compliments and every time you even got slightly frustrated, he was there to help.

Sam convinced you to go to a therapist after he learned what happened, and it felt nice to have a name for what was happening. You knew about postpartum depression but you were in denial that you were going through it.

It took a few months, but you got better. You still felt like you weren't enough sometimes and you were still working on getting back to looking like you did before your baby, but Joaquín was there for you. Joaquín promised you that night in the kitchen that he would be there for you whenever and however you needed, and he doesn't break his promises.

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[luvendiary]

tea, spice, and everything nice / f. g. weasley

fred weasley x reader

summary: having the weasley twins as neighbors was never a dull experience. having one of them hung up on you, was never a bad thing. warnings: not proofread. no use of y/n. 3k words. i had to pull up pantone's color catalogue for this one.

It had been a normal morning. You had gone about your day as you usually did. You had managed to stick to your routine and get to work on time despite your very strong ache to stay in bed.

Work had been… fine. Nothing terrible, nothing particularly good either. Just the usual: a steady stream of owls, parchment stacks, and a boss who loved the sound of their own voice. You had smiled where you needed to, nodded at the right times, made polite conversation in the break room. The kind of day that wasn’t awful but still drained something out of you, leaving you a little heavy in the shoulders by the end of it.

Now, finally, you were headed home.

The streets of Diagon Alley were starting to quiet down, the usual buzz from the daytime crowd giving way to the lower hum of late shoppers and early dinner-goers. You walked with purpose, your bag slung over your shoulder, the thought of your warm flat and a cup of tea pulling you forward.

Living above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes had its quirks — mainly, that it was never really quiet — but it also meant you didn’t have far to go. Just a few steps past the glittering window display and up the narrow, winding staircase on the side of the shop.

And, of course, it also meant you always ran into one of the twins.

As expected, the door to the shop creaked open just as you reached for the stairwell handle.

“Evening, love,” came the familiar voice — smooth, amused, and far too awake for this hour.

Fred stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smudge of something sparkly across his cheek. He looked you up and down like he was scanning for signs of sabotage. “Did you enjoy work today?”

You smiled cynically down at him and offered him an unnamused laugh. “If I’m pulled into another meeting that could have very well been a letter I will start a goat farm in the mountains.”

He grinned. “Tempting.”

“They’d definitely talk less,” you mumbled to yourself as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

Truth was, you liked your job. But as it so often goes, people made it difficult.

He chuckled, then reached out and gently tugged on your bag strap, easing it off your shoulder and slinging it over his instead. “You look wrecked. Let me carry that.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest. This was part of the routine too — Fred pretending he was helping while also slipping in some excuse to walk you up to your door. You didn’t mind.

“You should’ve seen this kid earlier,” Fred said, as you both started walking up the stairs. “Thought he was being clever, right? Waited until we were both distracted helping some poor bloke who’d sneezed himself invisible, then snuck over to the shelf and stuffed three Tongue Taffies in his mouth.”

You laughed. “Three?”

“He had the gall to look proud about it. Smug little grin and everything. Didn’t even chew them. Just stuffed ’em in whole.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, the tongue hit the floor before I could even laugh about it. Poor sod nearly knocked over the Patented Daydream Charms shelf when he tripped over it. George had to levitate his tongue just so he wouldn’t drag it all the way home.”

You laughed harder, pressing a hand to your chest. “Honestly, your shop is going to give some poor mother heart failure one day.”

“That’s the goal,” he said brightly.

You were halfway up when a warm, spicy scent hit you — sharp, slightly sweet, with an edge of something burning.

You sniffed, lifting your head. “Is that… cayenne? Please tell me that’s not coming from my flat.”

Fred tilted his head, sniffing too. “Ah, no. That’s ours. George got a new idea for Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and now thinks he’s a potioneer. Nearly went bald about an hour ago.”

“Of course he did,” you muttered fondly.

Fred chuckled. “Come in for a bit? I’ll put the kettle on, you can debrief while George tries not to poison us all.”

You glanced at your own door, then back at him. The exhaustion hadn’t faded, but the idea of sitting down somewhere not silent and sterile felt better than whatever plan you’d had involving leftover stew and collapsing on the couch. “Yeah,” you said. “Alright. Just for a bit.”

Fred smiled, bumping your shoulder lightly as he reached to open the door for you.

The moment you stepped inside, a wave of spice hit your senses like a hex. You coughed, eyes watering almost immediately.

Fred laughed, helping you out of your coat and hanging your bag near the entrance. “You get used to it after a bit. Or you just lose your sense of smell entirely. Bit of a gamble, really.”

You followed the haze deeper into the flat, Fred just behind you. “George?” he called out. No reply.

You cleared your throat. “George?” you repeated louder.

Still nothing.

The kitchen, unsurprisingly, was the source of the problem. The air was thick with reddish haze, like someone had used cayenne pepper as confetti. George stood at the counter, utterly engrossed, hunched over a clutter of parchment, potion books, and a steaming cauldron. Goggles covered his eyes as he ground a deep red powder into fine dust with focused intensity.

Fred leaned around you and called again, “Oi, Georgie. We’ve got company.”

Still nothing.

Before you could try a third time, the cauldron gave a disgruntled pop and released a puff of red smoke directly into George’s face. He yelped, coughing furiously, and waved his arms through the air like he was swatting at an invisible swarm of bees.

Fred coughed pointedly. “You alright there?”

George turned, wheezing, and finally spotted you. “Oh! You’re here!” He reached to tug the goggles off as he continued swatting the air. You took note of how the rest of his skin was now covered a shade of light red, except for the section covered by the goggles.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh.

Fred didn’t bother. “You look demented mate,” he said with a soft laugh.

George gave him a pointed look. “I’m working.”

“Well, I for one, think you look adorable,” you said as you stepped further into the kitchen. “Is there a clear surface somewhere under here where we can have some tea?”

George grinned as he started closing his books and clearing the counter. “Hear that Freddie? She thinks I’m adorable.”

You joined him, sliding parchment and a charred spoon off the island and into a growing pile on the far end of the counter.

Fred set the kettle on the stove, glancing back with a smirk. “Yeah, well, she also thought a flobberworm was a baby dragon once, so I wouldn’t put too much stock in her judgment.”

“Okay, you need to let that go. That was one time.”

“You tried to feed it a chicken leg,” George chimed in as he set the cauldron down on the floor.

“I never should have told you that story,” you muttered, lips twitching. You stacked a few stray vials off to the side while George wiped down the counter with a flick of his wand.

Fred opened the cupboard above the sink and grabbed three mismatched mugs. You noted he took your favorite. You had claimed it a while ago, stating that you were stealing it because you liked it so much. Fred promised you that it would be your mug, reserved only for you when you came around. It wasn’t much, just a cup with a handle too big for its body, painted a splotchy blue with some even splotchier stars around it — the result of a pottery class forced by Molly onto all her children. Still, you loved it.

He handed it to you without a word.

“You know,” you said, inspecting the mug for the telltale chip on the rim, “I should be insulted that this was made by a ten-year-old and still somehow holds more charm than anything I own.”

“That ten-year-old was me, thank you very much,” Fred said, as he took the mug from your hands once again and set it on the counter with the other two. “A visionary.”

George snorted as he folded a powder-smeared tea towel in half and tossed it over the back of a chair. “You also made a bowl that collapsed under the weight of a single apple.”

“It was a concept piece,” Fred countered. “Minimalist, fleeting, and fragile. Like…uh, love…”

It came out more as a question, but you couldn’t blame him as he was very concentrated on pouring the hot water onto the mugs. George snorted.

You rolled your eyes, hopping onto the island. “More like structurally unsound. Like you.”

George let out a bark of laughter. “Merlin, she’s mean when she’s tired.”

“I’m not mean,” you said, yawning into your sleeve. “I’m just not deluded.”

“For once I’d like to hear you call me handsome and charming. But for now, unsound and deluded sounds nice enough,” Fred said as he handed you your tea.

You noticed he had prepared it just how you liked it.

You met his eyes briefly over the rim of the mug, letting the steam curl between you. “Charming and attentive. Maybe I’ll reconsider your structural integrity.”

The rest of the evening passed easily, the three of you tucked around the kitchen island like you had done a dozen times before.

Eventually, the warmth of the tea started giving way to the weight of the day. You stretched with a soft sigh and slid off the counter.

“I should head out,” you said after a while, already gathering the mugs and rolling up your sleeves.

George groaned and pushed himself off his stool. “Alright, but only if you do the dishes first.”

“I was going to, but know that you’ve told me I don’t want to anymore,” you said as you opened the tap water.

George grinned, bumping your shoulder as he passed. “She’s a keeper.”

“She’s not yours to keep,” Fred quipped, stepping in beside you at the sink, but you waved him off and nudged him back toward the island.

Fred didn’t argue, but he leaned against the counter just beside you, arms crossed, offering commentary the entire time.

You dried the last mug — your blue one — and set it back on the open shelf.

George, already halfway to the hall, waved lazily over his shoulder. “Night then. Don’t fall asleep in the hall.”

“Not a guarantee,” you called after him, a yawn muffling the words.

Fred held the door open as you stepped back into the corridor.

You turned to him. “Thanks. For the tea. And the company.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Anytime.”

There was a pause. A silence that didn’t need filling but wasn’t empty either.

Then he nodded toward your door. “Get some rest, yeah? And if you dream of flobberworms, don’t feed them anything weird.”

You gave him a tired smile. “I’ll try my best.”

He lingered just a second longer — as if about to say something else — but only nodded his head and stepped back into the flat.

You turned the key in your door and slipped inside, the warmth of their kitchen still clinging to your sleeves.

Normal, you thought, flicking on the light.

Your version of it, anyway.

You woke up with a sneeze so violent, it startled your pillow straight off the bed.

The second one nearly sent your bedside lamp toppling.

By the third, you were upright, bleary-eyed, and already aware that something was very wrong — because your hair had just flared a neon green, reflected clearly in the mirror across the room.

And then it turned fuchsia. And then orange.

You groaned, muffled into your sleeve, eyes watering as another sneeze cracked through your chest.

“Bloody hell,” you rasped, stumbling toward your door, blanket still draped around your shoulders.

There was only one explanation. One infuriating, spice-coated, cayenne-smelling, potion-brewing explanation.

You pounded on the twins’ door with the side of your fist. “Fred! George!”

The hallway echoed with your sneezes. Your hair was flickering like a broken traffic light.

The door creaked open on the third knock, revealing a very sleepy, very shirtless Fred.

His hair was sticking up like it had been electrocuted, and he was squinting at you through one barely open eye. “What in Merlin’s—?”

You sneezed directly into your elbow. Your hair turned aquamarine.

Fred blinked. “Well, that’s new.”

“What did you do to me?!” you said miserably, gesturing to your technicolor head. “I can’t go in like this tomorrow!”

Fred scratched the back of his head, clearly still waking up, though his mouth twitched like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “George did say he was using mood powder as a base.”

You sneezed again. Bubblegum pink. You glared at him. “Mood powder?!”

He held up a hand, stepping aside to let you in. “Come in before you dye the entire corridor.”

You stormed past him, dragging your blanket like a cape, muttering something under your breath about bans and hexes and murder.

Fred followed after you, yawning into his shoulder. “On the bright side, that shade of blue is rather flattering…”

Another sneeze.

Purple.

You threw your hands up in defeat. “Tell George I’m putting this in my official neighbor complaint log.”

Fred raised a brow. “You have a neighbor complaint log?”

“I do now.”

He snorted, heading toward the kitchen. “Alright, alright. Let’s find something to counteract it before you hit plaid.”

From the bedroom, George’s sleepy voice echoed faintly, “Plaid’s still in the prototype stage!”

You groaned into your blanket.

Fred returned with a glass of water and what looked like a fizzing candy. “Here. Chew this. Don’t ask what’s in it.”

You stared at it suspiciously. “Will it stop the sneezing?”

He grinned. “Probably.”

“…If I wake up with scales tomorrow, I’m moving.”

Fred offered a lazy salute. “Dibs on your flat.”

You sneezed again.

Chartreuse.

You were still sneezing.

Not as violently as before, but each one seemed to make your limbs heavier, your brain foggier, and your hair increasingly chaotic. At one point, you were pretty sure it turned the exact same shade of purple and orange as the Weasley Wizard Wheezes logo, which made Fred laugh so hard he nearly dropped the antidote vial George had handed over with an apologetic shrug before promptly retreating back to bed.

Now, you were curled on the twins’ couch, still wrapped in your blanket, blinking slowly like a sleep-deprived owl. Your body was swaying from left to right, rocked by the sneezes combined with your body’s inability to keep straight.

Fred returned from the kitchen with a mug of water and knelt beside the sofa. “You alright there?”

“Mmhm,” you mumble.’ Another sneeze. Your hair flashed coral, then faded to a sleepy lilac.

Fred handed you the glass, steadying it in your hand when your grip faltered. ��You’re fading.”

“I’m awake,” you said into the rim, though your eyes had dropped shut entirely.

He smiled, brushing a stray lock of brightly colored hair from your temple. “Alright, genius. I think you’re staying here tonight.”

You made a vague gesture, something between agreement and a high-five, but still you stood up. Stumbling as you did. “Mm’going to work,” you mumbled.

You didn’t make it far, as your leg knocked into a side table and your hands fumbled with the chain on the door.

Silently, Fred guided you back to his couch and made you sit down. “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

You protested, but your body melted into the soft surface.

Fred chuckled and stood, grabbing a throw blanket from the armchair and tugging a second one from the hall cupboard. He returned a moment later and gently draped them both over you, then paused. You were nearly asleep, lips slightly parted, a stubborn lock of color-shifting hair stuck to your cheek.

He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and then — with a resigned shake of his head — dropped down beside you on the couch.

You stirred faintly when he shifted, blinking groggily. “Fred?”

“Yeah?”

“You smell like cinnamon.”

He huffed a laugh, arm sliding around your shoulders to steady you as you leaned fully into him.

“Also gunpowder…”

Fred glanced down to find you blinking slowly, already halfway into sleep, your hair dimming to a dusky rose that curled softly around your face. You looked peaceful. A little ridiculous, with the sneezing and the magic-dyed hair, but mostly peaceful. And warm. And close.

For a while, it was quiet. The flat was warm, still scented faintly of spice and burnt sugar, and the only sound was the soft ticking of the charmed clock in the corner and your sleepy breathing beside him.

Just as Fred was beginning to drift off, your voice mumbled, barely audible:

“…I like the lilac. S’nice.”

He smiled into your hair and absentmindedly brushed his thumb along your arm. “Yeah. I like it too.”

You didn’t answer. This time, you were out for good.

And Fred, with you tucked under his arm and your hair still faintly glowing against his side, figured he didn’t mind being woken up at all.

The next morning started with the sound of cabinets opening too loudly and the unmistakable clink of a teaspoon dropped into a mug.

Fred stirred but didn’t move. His arm was still tucked around you, your head resting in the crook of his shoulder. Your legs were tangled, your blanket half falling off the couch. His neck was a bit sore, and your hair had taken on a maroon hue, but he didn’t dare shift. Not yet.

Then came the pause. That stillness in the room that meant someone had walked in and was now seeing something.

Fred cracked one eye open.

George stood in the kitchen doorway, a spoon still in his hand, expression entirely unreadable. His goggles were pushed up on his forehead, and he had a tea towel slung over his shoulder like someone who’d intended to mind his business this morning and was now clearly regretting the attempt.

Fred blinked.

George blinked back.

Fred raised a brow, voice a hoarse whisper. “Don’t.”

George tilted his head, surveying the blanket cocoon you were half-buried in, still out cold.

Then his face split into the slowest, most irritatingly smug grin Fred had ever seen.

“You two look cozy,” George said in a tone that carried the weight of every teasing comment he was clearly holding back.

Fred exhaled through his nose. “She inhaled your stupid potion dust and turned into a human kaleidoscope.”

George looked entirely unbothered. “And now she’s spooning you on our couch. Fascinating how the universe works.”

Fred made a noise of protest, but George was already walking away, whistling some off-key tune as he disappeared down the hallway.

A beat passed.

Then Fred heard George’s voice faintly call back, “Mum’s going to love this.”

Fred groaned and let his head fall back against the couch. You, miraculously, kept sleeping.

Or maybe not. Because from the tangle of blankets, a very sleepy voice muttered, “Tell him if he says anything to Molly, I’ll dye all his pants fuchsia.”

Fred smiled, eyes closing again. “Deal.”

You sighed softly, snuggling up to the blanket, only to realize it wasn’t a blanket you were holding. But instead the very naked torso of Fred Weasley.

Your eyes shot open, and Fred could feel you tense up.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I, uh. I didn’t mean to — I must’ve just—” you stuttered. “You’re shirtless.”

You were practically draped across him, your face tucked just under his jaw, one leg tangled over his. His arm was still looped loosely around your back, holding you to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chest was bare, warm against your palm, the rise and fall of it steady with sleep.

“And you’re very warm.”

Fred looked down at the tangle you were both in, then back at you, his mouth twitching into a faint smirk.

“You drool in your sleep.”

Your jaw dropped. “I do not—!”

He raised both brows.

You narrowed your eyes and went to push yourself upright, but Fred just tightened his arm around you and flipped you over, so that you were trapped between him and the back of the sofa.

That made you huff a laugh. “I have work in like… an hour.”

“Mm. Sounds fake.”

You considered that. You were still sleepy, your head a little foggy, limbs heavy. And this was… surprisingly nice. Calming, even. Fred’s warmth. His stupid heartbeat under your ear. The faint smell of cinnamon and smoke. The way neither of you had to say anything at all, and it wasn’t awkward.

You sighed, melting back into him slightly. “I think I’m calling in sick.”

Fred rested his chin against your head. “Just sleep a bit longer. We can figure this out after tea.”

You chuckled, and tucked your head under him as you allowed his arm to rub your back lazily. Your fingers traced small patterns onto his chest, and you felt him let out a sound of approval.

You had the feeling there wouldn’t be much to figure out.

[worstgenerationloser]

,, Who the hell is FireFist?! ''

Synopsis... Unable to resist the temptation of an internet argument, you accidentally end up dooming yourself by responding to "FireFist." Now, he's obsessed with pissing you off.

Word count...

Warnings... There are crude comments and remarks, profanity, internet harassment, ... Be advised of this as you read!

Fic Masterlist here!

Tags: @neospade ; @lilink ; @bluetokie ; @kanekisheart ; @ren-ni ; @hauntedlunaa ; @mylifeisamess ; @euriiverse ; @j014xio ; @fruitncandy ; ; @ally-wow ; @spyderst4r ; @kiberrymatcha ; @valkyrie-8

A/N: I know there was a super long wait but surprise surprise i have gotten rather busy and straight up forgot to post this...

Everyone knows the internet is dreadful at times with differing opinions and hateful comments towards one another, some people trying to turn themselves into the embodiment of peace and happiness on their social media pages despite being the literal incarnation of evil… Now, you won’t try and say you’re all sunshine and rainbows, but maybe you get a little defensive when it comes to the things you like, and that may or may not lead to a few arguments in comment sections. Which is exactly your current predicament.

The notification wall on your phone's lock screen displayed one notification from Instagram. There was no doubt in your head that it was the guy who had become the reason for your most recent internet argument.

FireFist replied to your comment: “ dont care, didnt ask. “

Three tips for dealing with internet trolls, and you managed to break the most important one. Everyone says not to engage but you can’t resist the temptation, and that is a bad habit you’re eager to break; but it can also wait for another year or two. Naturally, your anger gets the best of you over an Instagram comment, and you click on his profile again to see if there’s something to use against him. Unfortunately for you, his account is private, and he has five followers, so there is zero chance of you sneaking in even, on a burner account. Just your luck, you had no fuel for your fire besides the fact that “FireFist” had terrible opinions regarding music, and his username sounded like a shitty porno. Despite that, you began to type away, forgetting whatever it is you were doing to try and come up with a comeback.

You replied to FireFist’s comment: “then why r u still responding lol thats sad.”

Not even a minute later, his reply lit up your phone screen.

FireFist replied to your comment: “i can say the same for you LMAOO u want me so bad!!”

Okay, they are just trying to rile you up. And unfortunately for you it was in fact working alarmingly easily.

You replied to FireFist’s comment: “i wouldnt touch u with a 10ft pole, ur probably infectious”

He replied quickly that time, too.

FireFist replied to your comment: “sounds like u rllyy wanna touch me bcz u keep responding to me… its ok to say u want me”

The asshole twisted your words. Do you get defensive, insult him more, or block him? Blocking people is for pussies, and that definitely makes you a hypocrite because you have blocked so many people you reached the limit more than once, but you feel such intense hatred for this internet stranger today that you don’t want to block them. For a while, you try to figure out what to say back without sounding too offended… Ultimately, it's a losing battle, and you can’t figure out where to go from here. Your heart is racing and you feel anxious but you don’t stop to think about why you’re doing things like this despite the reactions they give you.

Then, your screen lights up again. Moving slow as a snail, your hand shaking from anxiety picks up your phone. Yes, it was who you’d expect.

FireFist replied to your comment: “don't be shy, im open minded ;)”

That sets you off. Really bad. Clenching your jaw uncomfortably tight, your hand clicks on his profile, then the three dots in the corner. There, that bright red text greets you. 

Block.

Are you sure you want to block FireFist? They won’t be able to…

After seeing that text a thousand times over, you just don’t care anymore. You blocked him, and you aren’t expecting anymore of his odd messages anytime soon. Simmering in anger alone in your bedroom, you’re interrupted by a knock on your bedroom door. It’s probably your roommate, Franky. He’s an eccentric guy with electric blue dyed hair that he styles differently every other week, a ridiculous amount of confidence in himself, and that’s not even mentioning his weird obsession with cyborgs. You are sure in another life Franky is living out his cyborg dreams, still having his outbursts of energy.

“Y/N! Wanna come to the pet store with me? I gotta get a new filter for Jinbe!” Franky yells obnoxiously loud through your door. Jinbe, his pet fish who he swears has the spirit of a whale shark, but to be fair, that fish is pretty badass. 

“Sure! Let me get dressed!” You yell back, tumbling out of bed towards your dresser. Your phone can wait! All you need now is to throw on a little something that won’t make you look like you have a bleak life.

“Hm? Were you cooking? The smoke alarm is going off!” Nonchalant as ever, Franky gently pushes open your bedroom door. Wait, why is he holding Jinbe’s tank in his hands? Disregarding his question you stupidly focus on the most irrelevant thing, before your eyes widen in shock. Without an utterance of any words, a string of noises escapes your mouth.You throw yourself out the door, dashing towards the kitchen. Okay, fixing your temper is now number one on the bucket-list, if it allows you to make a mistake this big then maybe it’s a problem.

And with that, you manage to subject yourself to a few months of signature Franky-style teasing. The whole situation is so absurd, even you have trouble trying to wrap your head around why you got so worked up… Looking over at your roommate on the couch next to you, something tells you that he's about to offer some clarity.

“Y’know… You spend a little too much time online. Seriously, you have no idea how many angry DM’s I get from people you argued with in a comment section or whatever. Kinda tiring.”

Franky blurted out loud, cleaning the salt from his chips off of his fingers with an obnoxious sucking noise as the loud crack of a can of cola follows along. It had become a sort of biweekly tradition for you and Franky to sit on the couch and put on some sketchy movies which if the law asks, you legally acquired. Despite him having literally no reason to, he took you in when reality hit you right in your soul upon moving to this town; Franky even invites you places and offers to buy you things when you’re short on cash. He does still annoy you, but it’s in more of an older brother way instead of the way a regular old roommate would.

“There’s no room for you to critique me. I haven’t seen you drink a drop of water since we started living together four years ago.” A rather extensive sigh highlights your softened speaking voice, though only Franky picks up the dash of sarcasm found in your words. He always ends up parroting words and promises you utter to yourself, it’s annoying but you guess he’s just gotten to know you excessively well. You don’t really like being told what to do anyways.

“Hey! That’s a completely separate matter! I am my own person. But–...” Tapping his chin, Franky licks salt from the corner of his mouth after he trails off for a moment. The blue light from the T.V screen makes his hair look luminescent in a silly way and that’s all you can focus on.

“I have seniority over you. I showed you the not-so-local scene, hidden gems, and I let you stay with me dirt cheap! I also know that I’m practically your only friend. Maybe listen a little, because sometimes I worry about you like my own family.” 

Well, he’s got you there. You have definitely neglected your social life— yourself in general. After turning eighteen you bought a lottery ticket, won a decently sized prize; realized that you didn’t wanna live with your parents forever— and following the scent of freedom you landed yourself in this stupid town with a significantly less amount of money, and barely a plan. Eighteen is still very much teenaged, so you thought you would maybe be able to work things out after only having maybe $400 left and the brand-new car you got with your lottery money… No apartment lined up, not thinking of the fact you would have to buy furniture or get a job, just living off the adrenaline rush that came with a change of scenery. It’ll be four years since you moved here in a month or two, and sometimes your life feels just as messy at times.

Looking over at Franky you feel eternally grateful, he would laugh if you ever told him something like that to his face, so you keep emotional words to yourself. With a permissive nod, Franky settles back onto the couch and stares right at you.

“I know you're technically an adult, but I can't forget the eighteen-year-old girl I saw sulking in the streets. It's fine if you wanna be introverted, but you don't go outside if you aren't shopping or going places with me. Plus, being angry at internet strangers is terrible for your mental health. I’m not super into these corny talks, just try and do something without being mad all the time. Start a blog, take up video gaming, things like that.”

Franky leaves you with his words of rare wisdom, he turns the volume up on TV without looking back in your direction. Taking his advice into consideration, you tune out the noises coming from the television and start reevaluating the choices that have led you to this point. 

Pros; you got Franky and a cheap place to stay that isn't a total shit hole.

And the cons… It's best if you ignore them for now, you'll end up on a downward spiral, and not the good Nine Inch Nails album kind of downward spiral.

There's barely any luck when you try to make small talk with the cashier at your local supermarket, and online 90% of the time whenever you voice your opinions it makes somebody angry— the other 10% is when you're upset with someone else's opinion... When you put things like that you start to wonder if you're the problem. Socializing without Franky would be the first step towards becoming a better you! Starting off small is the key to success in your case.

“Okay, now let's just relax and forget all about my blog. Gotta wait for some likes… But I guess here they're called hits.”

Closing your laptop, you sit back in bed. There's an odd rush of adrenaline running through your veins, something's telling you that this is going to be a success. Here you're going to make some cool mutuals, engage in friendly conversation, and hopefully if someone thinks highly enough of you— you’ll get yourself a fan. That's wishful thinking, though. If things go sour you have to abandon this platform forever. The moment you get comfortable and reach for your phone, a soft knock sounds at your door, and you already know it's one of the only people you maintain a relationship with and live with.

“Y/N? Just wanted to make sure I didn't overstep earlier. I know you've never had an issue with it before, but I tend to overthink. You also know that. Tell me you aren't upset so I can post Jinbe on my story with a clear mind.”

Without even seeing him, you can tell by his voice that he's got his face pressed against your door. 

“I’m not!” You shout aloud, getting back into a comfortable position.

“Are you sure?”

“...I’m sure.”

“Okay, but are you sure that you're sure?”

“Rest assured I’m not upset with you in any way or manner, Franky.”

“...Alright, but are you confident?”

He's doing the thing again. Angrily, you walk towards your door and fling it open— but Franky is already scurrying to his room, giggling along the way. His joy is infectious, and you forget about your worries and previous annoyances. Today was productive enough in your book; Franky made some burgers on the grill earlier and invited a few of his more sociable and interesting friends, mentioning how bummed he was that some girl… Whatever her name was, couldn't come over. Even if they weren't there for you it was still nice to have a few laughs with new faces. Then you got in some sun and just let your thoughts drift away; until the creation of your blog, which is still in the densely populated space of your brain.

You forgot all about it until you were dressed up the next morning, scurrying to open your laptop in a daze. More anxious than ever, the color blue highlighting the numbers over your notification's inbox reading “99+” damn near killed you. You move your mouse over to your profile picture in the corner, and check out your post, a simple photo of your outfit with less accessories than usual.

800 hits total. 12 comments. 46 reposts. And your post was added to a few collections, you'd say maybe 20 people did so. That leaves 722 likes. 

Something tells you to check the comments, and after skimming through them, you're comforted when you see nothing negative. You felt comfortable saying this since he hopefully wasn't omniscient, but you're glad you didn't see that FireFist dude in your notifications. Honestly you can't even explain to yourself why he came up just now, but he did. He pissed you off a great deal, so it's valid you're still thinking of him. The positive comments distract you more than that asshole does, though. Starting from the top you begin to read.

NamiLuvsMoney: “def not my style but super cute <3”

When you checked her profile, you saw that she seemed to have amassed a large fan base doing the same as you. That wasn't even mentioning how beautiful she was in her profile picture, so much so that you followed her immediately after verifying it was really her of course. Your eyes move on to the next comment.

SuuperCyborg: “i need my belt back”

It's Franky, you nearly forgot you gave him your blog handle. He doesn't post much but he has an introduction on his page, you follow him after giggling at the familiar profile picture which was the same on each social media page of his. It was the one a show photographer took of him spraying cola everywhere with his hair in a huge Mohawk, there's a few of his friends whom you barely remember holding him up and laughing. It makes you want to go to a punk show with him.

The next comment is just a thumbs up emoji, and the person who commented has no profile picture set. Checking their profile, they only seem to repost historical things. You block them under the assumption bot interactions will mess with your blog's engagement, you did so well on this first post, and you don't wanna ruin that. Goodbye to the blog titled “Bookmark”, it's a stupid name for a blog but FireFist is worse. 

SaDbo: “this outfit reminds me of my little brothers friend. he's pretty kickass and I kinda want his closet, but his eyes are intimidating sometimes. i think you wear it better 👀”

Oh, you've made it. After scanning his profile obsessively, your ego experiences a massive increase. This hottie complimented your outfit. This gorgeous blonde man? Stay calm, racing heart. When you dig a little more you see that he reposts a bit of everything, and you find yourself a little curious about him. Any sane person would follow him. Anybody. Franky would give you a round of applause right about now.

The page suddenly refreshes on its own, and there you see it now placed at the top of the column of comments.

FireFist: “i see you!"

FireFist: “did ya miss me?”

His comments were immediately deleted, but apparently this website didn't allow you to block people on new accounts, so you decided to send this guy a DM in hopes of maybe getting him to fuck off. Preparing an angry DM you try not to sound too aggressive to risk your following of 78 people, which is still pretty impressive if you do say so yourself. Enough about you, more about your aggressor.

“this is really creepy of you to do”

On the other side of the screen, you like to think this guy is old and greasy, maybe even divorced or something. Again, his profile is bare. Nothing at all, just a black profile picture.

“you're the one playing hard to get babe”

His response came quickly, like he was waiting for you to message him. When you read his message and see he called you “babe” that makes you think it would be for the best if he wasn't an old man. This wasn't your first time being harassed online, but this was the first time someone found an account with an entirely different email address linked to it, not to mention there was no indication that it was you. Every other profile is bare, besides your close friends' stories.

“youre harassing me???? on the internet? do you have any hobbies?  no sane person has this much free time”

“how did you even find me, my user is completely different” This bizarre situation is gonna leave you with long lasting paranoia regarding social media. Three dots pop up and fade in and out in the bottom corner of your chat, showing that FireFist is now typing.

“yah i knew you would have a fuckass handle like this bcz wtf does this even mean”

Is your handle really that cringe? The essence of social media is that you can do things with less cares than usual, so you begin to think letting your imagination run wild and ironically choosing your username was a mistake. Does everyone know its satirical?

“youre one to talk, FireFist”

Another message of yours trails behind. The typing begins, but then it stops. And it doesn't pick back up after that. You refresh the page over and over whilst not even blinking, itching for a response so you can say something else without seeming obsessed— but it never comes. Guess that's the end of it. 

At least that's what you thought at the time. Fifteen minutes later is when it happened.

“Y/N! Who the hell is FireFist?!” Franky’s yelling is close, and then your door swings open with such force, the brass doorknob comes crashing into your drywall at record speeds. When the door lightly swings back and forth and lets out of the wall, there's a circular hole from where the doorknob made contact.Damn this shitty house and its fragile walls. To make matters worse; when you look up at Franky he seems angry.

“Shit. Did he do something?” Your anxiety is killing you to the point you barely manage to speak to Franky. Is it wrong to think that this is kind of scary? It's just some dude online, but he's everywhere now. That means the chances of seeing him in real life are slim… You think.

“Something? Did he do something?” Franky hangs his head, his hand gripping the side of the door while he seethes in his anger.

“He trashed my base in Cyborg Utopia! Uh, why are you so nervous anyways?” Then comes Franky’s dramatic outburst, and suddenly the tension in the air dissipates a bit. But you can't shake the feeling that this isn't the last instance of him popping up places.

“Huh? Oh, well— er…”

Maybe you shouldn't worry Franky. He would probably end up embarrassing you by making a few thousand angry posts about him if you told him you had a new internet… Stalker? FireFist falls into that category you suppose. You choose to keep quiet about it all. Franky looks at you expectantly, but you just shake your head. Don't worry about it. His eyes betray him and showcase his momentary worry as he walks away, shutting your door softly.

Wait a second.

“Hey! My wall, asshole!” You scream and stand up, shouting closer to the door so Franky could hear you a little louder.

“Not my problem!”  Franky yells back even louder than you.  The slamming of the front door is heard all the way from your room, followed by the sound of your roommates' noisy, beat up motorcycle speeding off. It's almost twelve in the morning, and he's off again.

Fuck, the week isn't even over. A stalker, a hole in your wall, and an odd sense of loneliness. You do still need friends, after all.

[holorform2009]

Mყ Dҽαɾ Lιƚƚʅҽ Gαɾԃҽɳҽɾ 🌿

A ray of sunlight casted over your sleeping figure, sleeping soundly. But then suddenly a tiny footsteps ran inside the room like as if it was in a hurry, it's wings fluttered aggressively, flying and then landing on the bed, it hopped on your body. You feel a heavy weight on your body, warm and felt a claws gently kneed your soft blankets, then without a warning a strong peck on your head and let out a noise of "Bockack!" It was non other than your pet white hen trying to wake you up.

You stirred and groaned in pain from its pecking on your skin as you lift the blanket on your face to take cover from getting pecked by your chicken. "Hayhay stop.. give me five minutes..." You lazily muttered.

The chicken stared at you for moment before getting down from the bed and leave, but then a few seconds later the hen came back with the roaster following behind. The roaster hopped on the bed and stand over your body before letting out a loud "BOCKBOKAAAOOO!!!" Your eyes immediately shot opened, the noise causes you to groan louder and decided to get up from the bed. "Okay okay! You guys won!" You sighed as you watched the roaster puffed his chest and plop down from the bed and left the room with the hen followed from behind. You slid off the bed and began your morning routine.

After finishing your daily routine you then grabbed your sunhat and gloves and head out to start harvesting the vegetables and fruits in your big garden. You greeted each pets when they passed by you as they help grow your garden keeping it healthy with no parasite or something that could make the fruits invaluable when you sell them.

You keep an eye on a raccoon next garden beside yours incase that animal decided to steal your fruits from you. Oh right! You forgot you have a gear that could prevent it from stealing! Oh silly you. You opened a chest and grab a heart shape like lock, you then approach your plant and put it on that has a lot of golds, shocked, celestial, moonlit/bloodlit, rainbow/disco, wet, freezing fruits. There we go! Now that raccoon will never steal your precious fruits from you! You almost forgot you had these in your chest...

Now the problem is solved time to sell your fruits! But wait. You already have enough amount of money... Maybe you could give this to your other neighbors? You also heard there was a new neighbor right beside your house who moved in a few hours ago.

A light bulb appeared on top of your head.

You hummed as you wondered which fruit do you plan on giving them, you ended up picking up a shocked rainbow celestial watermelon. It wasn't big or huge but this is fine. You smiled to yourself as you secured the fruit in your arms before heading your way to your new neighbor to give this fruit as a welcoming gift.

007n7 sighed as he tiredly placed the last box on the floor and decided to take a break by sitting on a couch watching as coolkid and Bluudude bickered each other then looking at PrettyPrincess who is playing tea party by herself.

He sighed once more before stretching his arms over his head and hears pop of his bones as he hummed in satisfaction. Suddenly there was a knock on the door, 007n7 raise a brow.

He stood from the couch and made his way over to the door, he opened the door and was greeted by child with a sunhat and a glowing rainbow fruit in their gloved hands.

"Hello there mister! I hope you don't mind me give this fruit to you but don't worry it's all free!" You handed the glowing-rainbow-fruit to the man who has a children of three. Shocked, he took off his glasses to clean it with his shirt before putting it back on his face. Yep, it's real. He can't believe this random and strange child holding a questionable anomaly of a fruit. "Uh..." He hesitate as he gently took the fruit and thanked you.

"You're welcome! I'm [Name] what's your name mister?" You said enthusiastically as you snatch his hands to shake before letting him go. "My name is 007n7, you can call me 07." Your smile widen at his response. "Nice to meet you mister 007n7! I hope you have a wonderful day!" You then turn around walking away with a skip in your steps.

007n7 watched as your figure getting smaller and smaller turning into a dot, he was still left baffled by the fruit you gave him. The two children who were bickering a minute ago finally stopped and looked at their father noticing he is holding fruit that seemed to glow and changed it colors.

Coolkid looked at bluudude who also looked at CoolKid before looking back at 007n7 as they both raise their brow in synchronized at their father. They shrugged before going back to playing their consoles to continue playing the game and maybe back to their bickering once more.

[sombrashe]

hiii i binged your entire account and i love the way you write jesse 🙂‍↕️

i was wondering whether you could write something really fluffy where reader is joel’s daughter and she’s dating jesse, and maybe include a part of grumpy but approving joel… and then one day after coming clean to joel about their relationship., jesse goes to readers room and they just go at it all sweet kissing all up on each other.. just really really fluffy hehe

change anything you’d like! thanks sm again really looking forward to reading more of your fics

still my daughter tlou tv show jesse

content ִ ࣪𖤐⋆ fluff, arguing, miller!reader, kisses, lots of dialogue, not edited, lowercase intended

note ִ ࣪𖤐⋆ im so happy you enjoy my jesse works!! he is such a comfort character for me like i meed to lay in his arms after a long day 💔

"Joel, I have to tell you something and you have to promise to be open minded."

"Joel, I'm dating Jesse. Yes, finally."

"Joel,"

your eyes rips up from your desk. turning your head you're just about to rip the paper into little pieces when his head pops in. smiling you giggle as he asks if it's okay to come in.

"Obviously."

jesse enters the room and closes the door with a soft click.

"I told Joel we were practicing the routine for the babies recital."

you nod and join him on the bed. giving him a giggly peck you lean back much more serious.

"We have to tell Joel."

"Right now?"

"That's what I was working on when you walked in."

"What do you have so far?"

"Joel. That's all I know."

"We'll figure it out."

you smile and place another small kiss on his lips. you feel his matching smile on your lips as you break between kisses. pulling you down you giggle and climb onto him. straddling his waist you place a million and one kisses across his darkening face. smooches cover his closed eyes when a knock sounds. your giggles are cut short as the door creeks open. you've just barely hit the ground trying to scramble off jesse when joel walks in. assessing the situation he immediately starts frowning.

"What the hell are you two doing in here?"

"What? Nothing!"

"So you're on the floor for fun?"

"Maybe."

you try out a casual position, trying to play it cool despite jesse's wide eyes at being caught red-handed.

"Get up and explain yourself."

"Joel, I'm a grown ass adult."

"Yet, you're acting right like a teenager."

rising, you stand your ground. folding your arms you spin different confessions in your mind.

"Well?"

"Me and Jesse are dating, have been for three months now."

"You. Out."

he points directly at jesse and the look he gives you on the way out is full of pity. once the front door slams shut he really starts laying into you.

"You wanna end up like Ellie? A teenage parent? Because fooling around secretly is how you become one."

"Jesse and Dina weren't sneaking around when she got pregnant."

"Not my point. You don't need that on your plate. You're busy making a place for yourself here."

"That's not fair. I should be able to have a relationship and grow. Jesse isn't stunting me, Joel."

"How do you know? It's only been three months."

"Wanna know what have I've done in those three months? Maria finally offered me a spot on the council. I've become the primary teacher for the babies to the teens."

"I get it."

"No you don't. I've also been happier, I haven't done anything stupid have I? I haven't even begged to go on patrol."

"Kiddo."

"No Joel, I get it. I live under your roof and if that's the problem I'll move out."

"You don't have to do that."

"Then what is it? You don't like Jesse? He's not good enough? I'm not good enough?"

"No, no. I don't. I don't know. I guess you're just growing up too fast."

"Joel."

"No i get it. You've been an adult for a while now. It's time I let you live your life. I can't protect you forever. God knows Ellie showed me that."

"So you're not mad at me?"

"God, no, kiddo. You'd have to do a lot more than get a boyfriend for me to be mad at you."

he closes the space between you to gently gather you into his arms. placing a kiss atop your head he squeezes you tight. pulling away he holds you at an arms length. smiling sadly he mumbles something about sarah before leaving. blinking, you go back to your desk wordlessly. about a half and hour passes of you simply doing work for you classes tomorrow when you hear clicking coming for your window. curious you walk over to see something small pelt the glass. opening your window you look down to see jesse's lopsided grin. smiling you rush downstairs to let him in. dragging him up the stairs you fill him in on joel's whereabouts. he had left shortly after your conversation after tommy radioed him for some reason. you stop jesse from closing the door with a short giggle. you felt giddy like a teenager in love. maybe joel was onto something there. your thoughts are cut off when chapped lips press against yours. you can't help but smile and giggle in between kisses. soft ones that make your heart beat in your ears.

"So."

"It was a lot, but he approves."

"He really is a girl dad, huh?"

"Shut up."

you pout and he kisses it with a small smile. falling onto the bed you curl into his side. you babble on about work and life while he rubs shapes against your arm.