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[chenfleur]

the long way home

summary. in which park sunghoon decides that nothing is more important than having you in his life.

pairing. sunghoon x y/n ft jake

genre. high school au, fluff, angst

word count. 4.8k

released. 11.05.2023

author's note. feedback is appreciated! experimented with writing style so sorry if this is bad and makes no sense 💔 enjoy 🙏

masterlist

"Two cotton candies, please."

The first time Park Sunghoon speaks to you, you're dressed head-to-toe in a blinding, neon pink.

The fundraiser uniform was your co-president's idea. She'd suggested it offhandedly in a delirious, late-night planning session, and in a rather unserious fashion, you'd agreed. It's hilarity overruled any embarrassment bundled with it.

When Park Sunghoon is the one standing in front of you, embarrassment crashes into you with the force of an eighteen wheeler.

His presence is overwhelming. It looms over you as you prepare his order. It sends a shiver down your spine, which is absurd when you've never even met him.

Someone could tell you that Sunghoon lives on a completely separate plane of existence and you'd believe them without thinking twice.

He's the basketball team's star player. He adorns the number twenty-three with poise and grace. He's the principal actor in people's dreams and fantasies.

To you, Park Sunghoon is like the moon.

Beautiful, and so, so far away.

The two cotton candies you hand him are less than perfect. Without much thought, a mumbled apology falls from your lips. He still accepts them with a polite smile. It sends a nervous jolt to your chest.

You watch him as he walks away and joins Jake Sim's side, handing him one of the cotton candies.

You know Jake Sim from your physics class. He catches your eye and sends you a friendly wave. You shoot him one back before hastily turning around.

A second later and you would have noticed Sunghoon's gaze, lingering.

Tuesday after school, Sunghoon agrees to meet with Jay and Jake in the East Wing.

He leans against a locker, watching his two friends bicker with each other. Occasionally cracking a smile when one of them says something particularly nonsensical.

Someone rushes past him. His breath hitches. Gaze flickering. When they stop in front of a classroom door, Sunghoon realizes it's you.

You knock on the door. While you wait, he takes you in.

The way your yellow sundress hugs your body in all of the right places. The way the pearl barrettes clipped to your hair reflect the afternoon sun. The way you tug the sleeves of your cardigan down over your hands. Sunghoon has the urge to roll them back up and interlock his fingers with yours.

Each second Sunghoon spends taking you in, his chest grows tighter.

The metal behind him is suddenly freezing to the touch. It bleeds through the fabric of his shirt. Pierces his shoulder blades. Is he shivering? He doesn't know.

The classroom door is opened. Another girl appears in the threshold, an easy smile on her face. The two of you exchange words before breaking out into giggles.

Park Sunghoon takes notice of you.

There’s a part of him that finds it unbelievable that he hadn’t done it earlier. There’s another that is deeply unsettled about it happening at all.

Either way, he takes great care in memorizing the outline of your figure. Grasping onto each note of your laughter.

Sunghoon bails on this week's team outing. His reason is that he has an important language arts assignment due at 11:59PM.

He isn't lying. His teacher had carved the words ‘no excuses’ into the very core of his being.

When the words on his page start looking like globs of nonsense, Sunghoon’s mind drifts.

The basketball season begins soon. Who is the first game against?

He searches up the school website intending to find the season schedule.

He pauses when he sees a photo of you.

It’s from the other day. The same day Sunghoon saw you in that pretty sundress. You’re watching the other people in the photo strike funny poses with a soft, tender smile on your lips.

The list of names goes left to right, top to bottom. Sunghoon’s eyes dart around.

L/N Y/N.

That night, Sunghoon has an important language arts assignment due at 11:59PM. His teacher had carved the words ‘no excuses’ into the very core of his being.

That night, Sunghoon spends his time learning about you.

Curiosity spared no mercy for the cat. You pray it's kinder to you.

There are three other water fountains located around the school, all perfectly capable of refilling your water bottle. Yet, their existence escapes you when you realize the person using the one you'd chosen to go to is Park Sunghoon.

You try to leave. You can't. His presence binds the soles of your feet to the tiles of the floor.

The first game of the season is a few, short weeks away. The air is full of the distant screeching of basketballs. Sunghoon's hair is damp with sweat. His arms and nape glisten under the fluorescent lighting.

Sunghoon's lips leave the jet of water. A loud exhale follows. You watch as he wipes harshly at the corners of his mouth.

When he turns around, his eyes widen. He looks surprised to see you.

Why wouldn't he? The two of you are strangers. Mutuals, at best.

Yet, he doesn't move from his spot. He doesn't cast his eyes away or walk past you.

His stare is heavy. You feel like he's peering into your soul. Judging it. Tearing it to shreds.

He silently moves to the side. You realize he's making way for you to use the fountain. Embarrassment floods your system.

The sound of running water ceases when your foot lifts off the pedal. A double twist ensures the cap of your bottle is screwed shut. You're set to leave.

But a hand encircles your wrist, stopping you. Spinning you around.

You're inches away from Park Sunghoon.

You're shocked.

You don't tug away.

Your eyes dart around his face, searching for an explanation. His expression is indecipherable. He suddenly won't meet your gaze, only unravelling your closed fist with gentle fingers.

You notice a slip of paper clasped in his hold. You watch it as he places it into your open palm.

His voice is near silent. Words evaporating when they leave his lips and hit air. You manage to catch them before they're completely gone.

"Call me."

When Sunghoon is sure the slip is securely slotted in your hand, he leaves.

There is an unfathomable amount of things Sunghoon's worried about. You throwing his number away. Laughing at him. Thinking he's a freak.

But in the deepest part of his brain, where he keeps his muscle memory of how to ride a bike or snap his fingers, the voice of his first ever coach resounds; something about missing one hundred percent of the shots he never takes. Sunghoon thinks he's heard it more in his lifetime than he's heard his own name.

It dawns on him that you being in his life, as even just the smallest of features, was not a shot he was willing to ruin.

You call Sunghoon at a quarter past midnight.

The clock on your wall ticks loudly, mocking you for taking so long.

You don't expect him to pick up at all. You don't need him to. Hearing his voicemail would be enough to assure you that what had happened was real. That it wasn't a figment of your imagination.

Park Sunghoon had left you paralyzed. All of your work had been neglected because of that crinkled slip of paper.

It's been on the edge of your desk for hours. It taunts you.

When you will yourself to call him, you had climbed onto your bed. The slip of paper stayed on your desk, untouched.

You didn't need it to call him. The digits of his phone number were already engraved in your head from how many times you thumbed over them on the way home from school.

The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Hello?"

You finally breathe.

"Sunghoon?"

A pause. Shuffling sounds from the receiver. "Y/N?"

"You told me to call you."

"I'm happy you did."

You hear the sound of birds singing.

You wonder if it's coming from outside or the other end of the line.

"Sunghoon?"

"Mm?"

"It's nearly six. We have school soon."

A huff. "Shit."

You break out into a smile.

Sunghoon makes hours feel like seconds. Conversation flows between the two of you with the ease of changing seasons. You don't think you could ever grow tired of listening to his voice.

There's a certain playful lilt to it. Teasing, yet kind. Each syllable spoken with a gentleness you can't quite grasp. Each boyish laugh that leaves his lips sweeping you off your feet. When periods of silence dotted your conversations, his slow breaths filled them in.

He had yawned, here and there. You told him to go to sleep. He refused. You didn't protest. Selfishly, you wanted to have him for a bit longer.

You can't discern what about him makes your insides turn upside down. He makes you feel vulnerable. All he'd have to do is ask and you'd be willing to bare your soul to him.

You decide you're okay with that.

"Y/N?"

"Yes?"

"Talk to you soon?"

"Yeah."

Your friendship with Sunghoon is a quiet one.

It's found behind small actions that seem to communicate everything.

Candies slipped into lockers. Split-second eye contact in the halls. Candid photos of each other in the courtyard. Your eyes searching the cluster of players during games from above, his searching each row of the bleachers from on the court.

It's hidden away from prying eyes, and that makes you cherish it even more.

At the first game of the season, Park Sunghoon scores a tie-breaking basket just as the countdown hit zero.

The gymnasium erupts into a thundering ovation. His teammates roar with victory. Tackling him to the ground. Clapping him on the back. Hoisting him into the air, tossing him up. Your heart lurches at the absolutely radiant smile on his face.

Chants of his name fill the entire venue. The commentator's voice booms through the speakers. Ladies and gentlemen, number twenty-three: Park Sunghoon.

You silently watch the scene, a ghost of a smile on your lips.

The difference between the intensity of a crowd and the stillness of the night air is jarring.

Park Sunghoon confuses you. You don't know how he has the opportunity or the desire to meet you after the game. He should be out with his teammates celebrating.

Instead, you receive a message to wait by the West gate.

Tonight is colder than usual. Icy wind grazes your bare knees. As you wait, anticipation knocks at your front door. You let it in when you catch sight of Sunghoon making his way towards you, a golden medal dangling from his neck.

He's glowing. Victory looks good on him.

A gasp escapes you when your feet leave the ground. Sunghoon spins you around in his arms, adorable giggles falling from his lips. Blissful warmth sprawls across your chest, seeping in every crevice.

"Tonight's MVP and you still have time to spare for me?" you tease, eyes shining.

"I have all the time in the world for you."

Sunghoon recounts the game with fervor. Galaxies swirl in his irises. You wonder if you'd ever feel as elated as he looks.

When he embraces you again, head slotting into the crook of your neck, holding you like he never wants to let go, your wonders are answered.

Park Sunghoon does not idle.

He walks with a destination in mind. He gives courteous greetings to those who he passes by in the halls, but his movements never stop.

The only thing Sunghoon willingly stops for is the sunset.

On days where he leaves school late, he takes the long way home. Down a street lined with yellow ginkgo trees, a left turn too early. Across the bridge bound for the city centre.

The long way home never really takes him home.

Sunghoon ends up on a pier in the harbour, letting vermillion and marigold rays of warmth soak into each pore of his skin. Unwinding with a low puff of air.

Recently, Sunghoon stops for you, too.

Whenever he sees you, there's a stutter in his strides. A stiffness in his fingers. A clog in his airway. The world around him starts to spin, yet he himself freezes.

The next time Sunghoon takes the long way home, he stays with the sunset for longer than usual. He sits instead of standing, letting his feet dangle off of the pier's edge. It makes the sloshing sound of the water below him even clearer.

Sunghoon closes his eyes. He inhales the salty, sweet air. Feels his teammates hugging him. Hears hundreds of people chanting his name.

Sunghoon closes his eyes, and sees you.

It takes ten games for defeat to seize Sunghoon by the throat.

Under the dim light of the locker room, Jake eyes his friend warily. He searches for any sign of emotion in the lines of his stone cold face. If he didn't know him any better, he'd believe he's simply reserved.

But Jake Sim has spent too much time uncovering Park Sunghoon to be ignorant to his character.

He’s torturing himself.

"Jay," Jake whispers. Caution laces his voice. "I feel like we should do something."

Jay's eyes flit over Sunghoon's figure. The air is heavy before he responds.

"I think it’s best we don’t pry."

When the sound of their steps fade away, Park Sunghoon drives his fist into a locker door.

He knew something was off. When their score plateaued while the opposition's climbed. Frowns painted themselves on his teammates' faces. Shots kept getting fumbled. Intercepted. Rolling off the rim.

Sunghoon feels his knuckles throb as he lets his hand fall to the side.

Anger and guilt are a dangerous pairing. They swirl in the pit of his stomach like a storm and render him feeling weak.

He hates how badly he's taking this.

"Sunghoon!"

Peace of mind reaches out to him in the form of anxious footsteps.

From around the wall, you appear. Worry taints your features. It's a blow to the stomach for him. "I- I was waiting for you outside but I heard a noise-"

In two urgent strides, Park Sunghoon's lips are on yours.

Time pauses. Uncertainty hangs in the air. Sunghoon is racing at a million miles an hour.

When he feels you kissing back, he crashes.

Anger and guilt are a dangerous pairing. They join forces and leave desperation in their wake.

Sunghoon kisses you harder. He wants you to fill in all of the parts that feel empty. He wants you to help him feel whole.

You're pliant under his fingers, back slightly arching whenever he squeezes your waist. Sunghoon revels in the gasp that leaves your mouth when his hands slide under your shirt and paint landscapes on the expanse of your back. It's music to his ears. He records it in his mind before drowning it out with another searing kiss.

When you part to catch your breath, your forehead instantly presses to his. Chasing his touch, craving more of his skin against yours.

You look up at Sunghoon. His eyes are downcast to the floor. He feels your hand travel up to his hair, gently pulling on it. A silent plead.

He doesn't meet your gaze. He's floating. Adrift at a lawless sea. His palms continue to rub up and down your sides.

Sunghoon doesn't know how long the two of you spend in each other's arms. He doesn't want to know. Knowing would define a beginning and an end.

Sunghoon never wants this to end.

Seven days.

It's been seven days since Park Sunghoon last spoke to you.

With the way he walks past you without a mere glance, you wonder if what happened was even real.

But, you can still feel it. You can still feel him.

He had kissed you in that locker room. He had stolen the air from your lungs and never returned it. His scorching hands had burned themselves into your skin.

You pass him in the hall wordlessly. That's how it's always been, except there's no more eye contact that asks silent questions of 'How are you?" and speaks delicate words of "I'm happy to see you today."

Every one of your waking hours is spent wondering what went wrong.

You begin to neglect assignments and reject invitations to go out. Teachers eye you with concern. Friends ask if you've been feeling off. Everyone spares you a glance and a hushed whisper, except Sunghoon.

A frustrated hand cards through your hair.

Do you consume his mind as much as he consumes yours?

The hateful part of you prays it does. Prays that he's getting a taste of his own, cruel medicine.

When you lie in bed, you peer out of your window. The moon glows as brightly as ever. Oblivious to your broken resolve.

To you, Park Sunghoon had always been like the moon. Beautiful, and so, so far away.

Except, for once, he didn't.

He didn't feel so far away when his lips were on yours, hands roaming your bare back, rough fingertips grazing your sides. When your breathing had mixed into one exchange. He'd felt so, so close.

If only you knew he was going to be out of reach again so quickly.

For someone who's ranked 230th out of 239 students, Jake Sim is exceptionally sharp.

With a gentle tug aside to an empty classroom, he asks you the question you've lost nights worth of sleep over in a single, easy breath.

"What's going on between you and Sunghoon?"

You shift uncomfortably in your spot. The straps of your bag were suddenly too tight, suffocating you.

You take your time loosening them. Jake only watches you silently.

You're exploiting his patience. Trying to dodge the inevitable. But, what can you do? Confrontation frightens you to no end.

You choose the easy way out: you tell a bad lie.

"Nothing's going on between Sunghoon and I. What business could I possibly have with Park Sunghoon, of all people?"

Jake subtly rolls his eyes. He can tell that you don't even believe your own words.

"I might've believed you if I hadn't seen the way you look at him in the hall, Y/N. I can tell Sunghoon's been off, too. He's all tensed up."

For a second, you rejoice. You haven't been the only one losing yourself to blurred lines and longing.

When that second is over, emptiness settles back into you. "I see."

"I didn't know the two of you knew each other," Jake muses innocently.

It takes all of your strength to turn away from him and grasp the door handle.

"We don't."

Desperation doesn't overpower fear. Fear is still there as you march up to Park Sunghoon's table in the cafeteria.

You just simply cannot take it anymore.

Jake notices you before Sunghoon does. He isn't any closer to discovering what had happened between the two of you. Your entire relation leaves him at a loss.

But, he can tell by the way the smile you flash him in greeting doesn't reach your eyes. The way your gaze immediately falls back onto Sunghoon with melancholy.

You're tired.

Lightly, he kicks Sunghoon in the shin. Jake ignores the glare he receives, only nodding his head towards you. He's praying he's done you a favour.

For the first time in weeks, Park Sunghoon looks you in the eye.

His silence stifles the rest of the table. Their attention weighs heavy on your shoulders.

Fear looms much closer and higher than before. Fear is about to pinch your nose until you pass out cold.

"Sunghoon."

His name is already bitter on your tongue. Is it from all the times you've cursed it in your head?

He stares at you before redirecting his gaze to his food. Like you're some sort of eyesore.

Fear drops to the ground, dead.

"Park Sunghoon, what is your problem?"

Whispers surround you. Chills travel the length of your spine.

You think back to your brief conversation with Jake. How you had said there was nothing happening between you and Sunghoon, and how evident it now is that all of that was bullshit.

But now, you couldn't care if the whole universe is privy to you and Sunghoon's relationship.

All you want is to know is what realization he had. In this moment, you're desperate to realize it too.

"When will you cut the shit?"

Silence. A fork scraps against a plate.

"You know, Sunghoon. I've thought many things of you. How could I not? The school's star athlete who has everyone at his feet."

A dry laugh, a nervous glance to the side.

"You had me, too."

Sunghoon's knuckles turn white from how harshly he grips his fork.

"Never did I think of you to be a coward."

The sound of your steps bounce off the walls. Every pair of eyes in the room trails behind you, this time, including Sunghoon's.

His brain is a broken record machine. Replaying your words again, again, and again.

What is Park Sunghoon so... afraid of?

What is he so defenseless against that it's worth seeing the lights in your eyes die?

Sunghoon doesn't know what compels him to ignore you. To walk past you each day, as if you didn't convince him that happiness doesn't exist anywhere except for in your arms.

Perhaps, it's that you are a whirlwind of unfamiliarity. An onslaught of foreign emotions. You make him unsure of what to do with himself. Perhaps he finds it easier to avoid that than to approach it.

He's been so adept at pushing it away, that he doesn't realize you're slipping through his fingers until his head is an echo chamber of your words.

He had you.

"Sunghoon..." A voice cuts through the fog. Sunghoon isn't sure which of his friends it belongs to. From the intonation, he assumes that it's Jake.

"Whatever this is, you've got to fix it."

Sunghoon has listened to your voicemail play six times. He's been trying for an answer, yet he doesn't mind dialling for a seventh.

You sound happy in your voicemail. He never wants to forget what you sound like happy.

"H-Hello?"

Sunghoon's been lingering at the summit of a cliff. Carefully composing himself to avoid slipping off the edge.

When he hears how utterly broken your voice is, suddenly, he's plummeting.

"Sunghoon?"

Falling, falling, falling—

A sniffle, followed by an impatient sigh. "Sunghoon, if you're just going to waste my time-"

"I'm outside."

Sunghoon closes his eyes. He sees the ridges and lines of your front door. He thinks they're permanently printed into his eyelids from how long he's been standing on your doorstep.

Don't hang up. Don't hang up.

"What?"

Sunghoon opens his eyes.

"I'm outside your door."

In his peripheral, the curtains of a window crack open. His heartbeat reaches his ears. You don't question him any further, but he hears distant footsteps from your end of the line.

The front door opens, then stops. Ajar. Hesitating.

Sunghoon knows you're on the other side. He prays you don't retract your movements.

You don't. You push through.

When you appear in the doorway, his breath dies in his throat.

Slightly bloodshot eyes. Strands of hair astray, haphazardly held together with a claw clip. A large sweatshirt swallowing your frame.

Sunghoon doesn't think he's ever seen anyone as beautiful as you.

He should've spoken by now. He'd planned on speaking by now, yet all he can do is look at you. Eyes trailing over every delicate curve. The slope of your nose, the moles on your hands.

When he hears the small sigh leave your lips, he knows you're slipping away.

His brain goes into overdrive. He needs to act fast.

Frantically, he clears his throat.

"Come watch the sunset with me."

A breeze blows by. The neighbour's wind chimes knock together, playing a soft jingle.

"Please."

The only words you speak to Sunghoon on the bus are to ask where you're going.

He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, remaining silent.

You close your eyes. Surrendering. You're so sick of his silence.

You shouldn't have come. You're stupid to have believed otherwise—

"Don't."

Eyes snap open.

You turn to look at Sunghoon. You find that he's already looking at you.

"Don't- don't regret this," he pleads. Desperation pours from his voice. You would've scoffed if he wasn't wearing the rawest expression you've lived to see.

Park Sunghoon leaves you in despair.

No matter which lens you look at him through, he has no solution. He's wrung you dry of hope, yet you don't find yourself objecting when he brings your head onto his shoulder. His hastiness screams craving for proximity. Craving for reassurance.

Deep down, you know you're just the same.

You let Sleep take you.

It's the soundest you've slept in weeks.

You've seen the sunset thousands of times in your life.

From every place you've ever been. School grounds. Your bedroom. The drive home. Through the eyes of others.

And yet, none of those thousands of times hold a candle to the sight from the pier.

"It's beautiful," you breathe out.

A small hum in agreement. You smile weakly.

You know he isn't looking at the sunset, but you don't face him just yet.

"Sunghoon?"

He steps closer.

"What happened?"

You can feel him stiffen. Your eyes never tear from the vermillion sky. You're not sure if you're paralyzed by beauty, or by fear.

A head drops onto your shoulder. Its weight is comforting. Slowly, he readjusts himself to stand in front of you. Face pressing into your neck. Hands wrapping around your waist, holding on like you'd disappear if he let go.

His body shakes with each breath. It takes every bit of your resolve to not wrap your arms around him.

You let Park Sunghoon cry on your shoulder.

You don't think you'd ever deny him of it.

The sun doesn't budge from where it sits in the sky. It seems to be waiting for the two of you.

When Sunghoon peels his face away from you, you finally look at him. You can feel your heart fall apart in your chest.

Park Sunghoon is more beautiful than any sunset you'll ever see.

A careful hand reaches up. It barely rests against his jaw. You nearly chuckle at how he instantly leans into your touch.

He's staring at you through half-lidded eyes. Slightly parted lips. A gaze filled with longing, remorse, and a million unspoken words.

He leans in, nose brushing against yours. Before he can mouth the words he wants to say, you meet him half way.

The kiss is slow. Delicate. Fragile. Sunghoon is too scared to treat you as anything less.

It lacks the hunger of the one before. Your body is pulled flush against his. He's trying to convey thousands of apologies all at once. Hoping his sincerity can penetrate your skin, travel through your veins, and reach your soul. The way he's kissing you is heart-wrenching.

"I-" he gasps when you part. "Please. Please forgive me."

"Come back to me," you croak. "Why did you shut me out?"

He presses kisses to your jaw, then to your cheek. His hands slide up to your cup your face.

"Because I love you."

You close your eyes. Soaking in each sacred word that falls from his lips. Shuddering.

You feel like crying.

"I love you so much that I don't know what to do with myself. With you, nothing feels real. Time stops ticking. Everyone else fades into oblivion, and I feel like I'm on top of the fucking world," he whispers, voice wet and rushed.

Your forehead connects with his. A gentle rhythm is tapped onto his nape with the intention of calming him down.

"I've never felt like this before. I- I just-"

Sunghoon's face twists. He's fighting against his emotions.

You watch as he deflates.

"Please... find it in your heart to forgive me."

A small smile graces your face.

Under the glow of the setting sun, everything is okay.

"Stop staring at me like that."

Sunghoon peers up at you from your lap. His face glows golden.

A mischievous smile appears on his face. It infects you like a virus.

"Is it illegal for me to admire my girlfriend?"

"Yes." You shoot him with a finger gun. "Hands up."

Soft laughter fills your ears. You let Sunghoon pull you down into a gentle, loving kiss.

You'd let him do it for all of eternity.

To you, Park Sunghoon is like the moon. Beautiful, and so, so far away.

Now, you think Park Sunghoon is more like the setting sun.

Beautiful, and just on the way home.

#im never writing again (i jest i need an outlet for delusion but i am not FUCKING AROUND when i say this shit FRIED MY BRAINCELLS) #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #enhypen fluff #enhypen oneshots #enhypen drabbles #enhypen sunghoon #park sunghoon #sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon scenarios #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fic #enhypen angst #sunghoon angst

[edgeray]

Arlecchino is a cold person.

(Arlecchino x Reader Blurb)

It's no suprise to anyone. It is simply an objective fact of the matter. She is aware of this. The House of the Hearth is aware of this. The Fatui are aware of this. It's ironic given the nature of her vision, but it nonetheless rings true despite the fire she possesses on her blackened fingertips. She is callous and curt, and underneath her skin there is nothing except frigid ice that envelopes her being like a fitted coat. She speaks with no warmth, acts with the absence of heat, exists in a constant state of cold emptiness--a state in which there is a void inside of her, as if sucking all that is human of her.

Years ago, when she was just a child of the same orphanage she headed, she had naive thoughts of finding companionship, someone who would provide the warmth she sought on lonesome nights. She was barely just an adolescent who dreamed of lying in someone's arms, feel the heartbeat of another so surely, it would remind her that she was indeed alive. For even the briefest of moments, she yearned for someone who would, if not shield, then distract her from the cruelties of this world. She had shed those foolish wishes aside. In the House of the Heart that she was raised in, such notions were admonished, in fact, the wishful thinking was one of the reasons she had nearly lost her life. Never again, she had promised to herself, when she mercilessly beat the backstabber. It was then that she believed when the time came, her tale would end the same way as it began for her: alone. As the years of being a Fatui, then becoming a Fatui Harbinger, hardened her, there was comfort in that view.

That is what she believed in. Until you came.

Iciness wraps her being. It is present in her expression, in her words, in her touch. But that is exactly why she finds solace in your being. Her vision could only grant her a synthetic flame, but, you, you're an everlasting hearth. She melts in your embrace every time she slots herself in your arms, as it feels like a kindling ignited in her heart. It is only with you, that she learns how warmth can be found in.

Arlecchino is a cold person.

It is why you, as a warm one, is perfect for her. You whisk away the most depraved thoughts, ease her of any emotional and mental turmoil, and you do not treat her with the same coldness as the world seems so fond of doing to her. You are her flame, the one that sparks her being and reminds her that she is alive because her heart beats with you, beats for you.

Except you are cold now. It is unfathomable to her how you can be this way when your entire being exists to warm her, but when she touches your skin, you are unbearably frozen. Your body does not tremble like it does when her clawed fingers ever so gently trace your skin. The corner of your lips doesn't quirk up into the usual small smile of yours when she appears in your sight, but they remain ever rigid like the rest of you. Uncharacteristically, your expression doesn't soften with her presence.

You are cold, just like her. And that makes her afraid. Her hand searches for it, prodding your skin for a familiar thumping that is nowhere to be found. You continue to stare at her, unblinking. Here would be the moment where you give her a beaming smirk and you'd cup her face tenderly as if she was glass. And she would let you, because you are her beloved, who has watched her shatter so many times before and wordlessly each shard back together, and it is for that reason that she would lean closer towards your touch.

Because you lie broken in her arms and her hands are stained again with the familiar color of red. Your eyes are glossy and gaze unblinkingly at her. Frozen. Even when you are covered in your blood, you are beautiful, she notes, but oh, so cold that it makes her doubt if you were warm to begin with.

She misses your warmth. Where has it gone? Or has it died along with you?

Her hearth is gone. And as she clings onto your form, her body wracking with a fear and desperation she's never known before, two revelations come to her: that there is no such thing as an everlasting fire, and even after so many years ago, she was right along.

Arlecchino is a cold person. And she will remain always cold.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #i wrote this instead of writing the actual oneshot I was planning to publish on Wednesday #whoops #i was in a little angsty mood 🥰 #that's mbad #if it comforts you the next oneshot is pretty wholesome #surprisingly whipped this up in like... an hour or so #is this my usual quality? no but #this was kinda fun #i haven't written angst in a while so this was good outlet #did you guys know I'm primarily an angst writer? :) because I am #and you will see that in the future #edgeray.blog #edgeray.writes

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Decided to take the leap and post the little fanfic I wrote at the start of the month to AO3. The Yiling Laozu takes a break in the burial mounds. Also, there is a worm.

#mdzs #wei wuxian #writing #No obligation to read if you're just here for the silly comics! #They will be back tomorrow! #This was my way of re-engaging with a creative outlet that I put aside for a long while. #and while my style leans into the experimental side - I always find I have the most fun that way. #If you do read - I hope you enjoy it! No issues at all if it is not your cup of tea B*) #This whole blog leans into 'And now - time for something entirely different'! but this is the biggest departure from my usual far thus far. #I have so many thoughts to share about my thought process with this one...alas #I also want to let people have their unbiased thoughts about it. Such is the pain of authourship.

[uncanny-tranny]

At this point, gender nonconformity is about what the person says their experience is.

If a woman with a beard or a man with lipstick and a mustache says they're gender nonconforming, then they are! If a woman with short hair or a man with long hair says they aren't, they aren't! And that's not even getting into the awesome nonbinary, abinary, genderqueer, intersex, and general genderfuckery that may both be and not be conforming.

So much of what is even considered gender conforming or gender nonconforming is based on a world of exclusion. When we start defining one's conformity with whether they fit into white cishetero perisex standards or not, we play into the idea that there's only a very narrow window of what is considered worthy of time and thought.

#gender nonconformity #gnc #queer #like. for instance a native man who keeps long hair might be considered GNC by white standards but for him it's absolutely not nonconformit #there's an aspect of white supremacy that silences everything else while saying that other culture's silence is indicative of whiteness... #...being 'correct' or 'moral' or 'neutral' #and as somebody who's trans and last i checked white i have my own thoughts from my own experiences #like how i don't consider myself to really be a GNC man. i'm just. man+ #i'm a weird concoction of weird soup that tastes like a man but if it were Wrong #and i just don't see that as not conforming to manhood like it is seperate. i see it as irrevocably linked TO manhood #it is others who have excluded and exiled me from manhood because of *their* understanding of me and how i 'fit in' in cissexism #while i will never ever say i know what it's like to not be white i will say these conversations that PoC have started have been INVALUABLE #i am forever grateful to have been extended the patience and faith to listen in on the experiences of people... #...who are racialized in terms of gender and how they do/don't 'fit in' with often white supremacist views on gender/dynamics #may have made a post like this years back but. eh. arrest me officer i will not back down #i've been more and more 'gnc' as i go into my transition and i don't see it as nonconformity but as an outlet for my masculinity #which is why i'm not insecure about my crafts and creations. because it is coming from a male whether or not it's considered 'manly' #i have little to *no place* in cissexist society so why should i put any stakes into if they ~accept~ me #made this post while jamming out to skyrim's tavern OST (paused my game to write this) #why the HELL does the skyrim tavern music have to go SO HARD. i NEED to slam down BARRELS of mead while listening to this istg #i don't even LIKE honey so i haven't tried mead but. for skyrim i would.

[fruitsofhell]

Yall, its time to ramble about visual/environmental storytelling cause this is silly article is driving me insane.

I won't argue for if the game should have had more constant and involved cutscenes like Robobot or Star Allies, but what I will say is that this game is VERY rich in story through the world design. The Forgotten Land as opposed to say the Land of the Sky in TD or the entire galaxy of Star Allies is like, DROWNING in writing and narrative. It builds so much mystery and intrigue through the theming of every world and even individual levels, with exploring both how the people of the land originally lived and how it's being reclaimed by nature and the animals.

I think the closest things maybe is Robobot and Halcandra in RTDL, the former having great little designs that key you into WHAT Haltmann is doing and what makes it so toxic. Halcandra though is the ultimate grand-daddy, the contrast between it and the Lor, and Egg Engines and Dangerous Dinner is full of theming and clues about the nature and history of the planet. AND THAT IS STORY, THAT IS WRITING! Especially when compared to say Star Allies, where most of the levels of the levels are just ye average Kirby themed fluff with little to say about the Jamba or the state they've left the galaxy in. But when you play through the casino levels of Robobot, as well as delightful theming and level design, you see that Haltmann is erecting literally the most predatory entertainment centers imaginable. When you step off the sleek futuristic Lor into the scrapyards and wastes of Halcandra, you get fun intimidating final worlds, and a good grasp on *why* the people who made the Lor aren't around anymore, and may even start questioning why Magolor made such a great fuss of dragging you to this horrible place. Music is also deeply important to this storytelling. Each of the factories/towers erected in ever world of Robobot's theme is a remix usually of themes related to older mechanical levels, subtly clueing you into where Haltmann go their technology from. Outside the Lor rather than the comfortable motif of Green Greens is this almost comically suspicious and disoriented theme once you're stuck on Halcandra and returning to Magolor with more doubts about his words. The final level inside of the volcano house a theme that is teasing the twist to come, and the theme for fighting Landia before the big reveal is less triumphant, and more majestic and pensive. Possibly trying to evoke more hesitance than confidence, even if most people wouldn't catch on to that on a first run.

But the cooler thing, is that while Robobot has this cool theming at key levels, and RtDL does at the end, this type of shit is pervasive ALL throughout Forgotten Land. Every world and nearly every level is a unique, well thought-out set piece! You get to see abandoned towns, cities, malls, stores, factories, resorts, and an amusement park, each which serves as more than just a fun location, but a clear picture of the world and the state its in. This intent is made clearer through the music and tone that goes out of its way to not highlight the destruction of these areas but their beauty, wonder, and mystery through the eyes of an clueless animals and our favorite pink alien. The abandoned Alivel Malls theme is a track as upbeat and peppy as what must've played over it's speakers in it's hayday, because the hustle and bustle breathed back into it by the animals and Kirby just exploring this mysterious complex is just as lively. The theme of the Everbay Coast is peaceful and sunny despite the Holine ruins because it's as part of the scenery to the animals and Kirby as the picturesque palms and sands. And Wondaria!!!!!!!!! OMG WONDARIA WHERE TO EVEN BEGIN WITH EVERY FUCKING LEVEL AND THEME IN WONDARIA!!! THIS IS WHY I CAN'T TAKE THAT CLAIM SERIOUSLY - y'know when I cried at Forgotten Land? In world 3. Not because of a cutscene or a line of dialogue, but just from the sheer emotion the setting evoked in me. The sweet, laid-back, starry-eyed wonder that it expressed from Kirby mixed with my own sense of nostalgia being aware of what that place was, and how beautiful it was to see it rediscovered and adored by Kirby and the animals of the Forgotten Land. It evokes such a strong feeling of bittersweetness, of existential dread comforted by the knowledge that the simple joys and memories we create places like amusement parks to share will continue on as long as there is life in the world. And unlike some of my musings about past games, this was explicitly intentional. What truly brought the tears to my eyes was remembering an interview where the devs were explaining how they were trying to keep the tone light and Kumazaki said specifically they wanted to evoke peace and beauty rather than loss.

LIKE THIS IS WRITING! This is storytelling, this is intention. It's just subtle, but not at all unimportant, and it ties into the more overarching plot. It raises the question constantly of where the people went that is answered by Forgo, and expresses the dichotomy between the simple innocence of the animals compared to the ambitions of the people who abandoned them and that is now possessing their leader. It creates stakes for Elfilis and Forgo's intentions to destroy everything so beautiful and pure about the current world, but as it absolves the current world of guilt, it puts into perspective JUST HOW LONG Forgo must have been locked away that things changed so much. And as softly as the exploits of the original people are portrayed by the game, knowing their treatment of Eliflis and Forgo as a thing of entertainment and tool for innovation is sickening placed in contrast with it. Like back to Wondaria, the way it shows how much space travel must have pervaded the imagination and escapism of the people either before or after Forgo's arrival is insanely smart. And it gives me chills in the best way seeing Kirby run around images of cartoon aliens from a civilization who would never meet him. Of Kirby, Elfilin, and Bandana sticking their head into a cardboard cutout of an astronaut meeting an alien, with the text "wish you were here" above in a script they don't even understand. A SCRIPT THE WRITERS MADE FOR THIS GAME SO THAT THEY COULD ADD MESSAGES LIKE THAT INTO THE WORLD FOR KEEN PLAYERS TO NOTICE AND MAKE CONNECTIONS. Like it's insane. The dedication the Hal Labs has to stuff like this is maddening! It's so sweet and heartfelt and crafty, I'm so pissed off how little respect it gets because people don't understand visual storytelling!!!!! Saying Forgotten Land is light on story is preposterous, it might just be one of the most finely crafted stories the series has had to date, and is just a really solid piece of science fantasy writing in general honestly. It is packed with environmental storytelling that drives me Up The Fucking Wall, Man.

#kirby #kirby and the forgotten land #katfl #elfilis #forgo #kirby lore #shut the heck up #media analysis #GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH (i love kirby) #im in my “writing is more than text” essay warrior era #this is part of me collecting stuff for a bigger essay though :3c i just got so distracted by this take #also i started this cause i though this article was from a bigger outlet than it was #so now i feel like my intensity is unjustified but idrc cause as i said: warrior essay era #OO ALSO I MISSED TALKING ABOUT THE LATER WORLDS #THE CITY IN WINTER HORNS FEELS LIKE A BIOME THE DELAPADATED RESORTS OF WASTES ARE NOW OASES IN A DRIED UP TROPICS- #-AND THE FUCKING CITYSCAPE OF REDGAR FLOODED WITH LAVA IS LIKE ITS OWN PART OF THE MOUNTAIN ITS SO BEAUTIFUL #its a fun twist on the typical final lava world that also gets to do double duty with evil industrial looking shit ARGFDSH so cool #tag talking

[livesincerely]

“So, uh,” Jack starts hesitantly, turning to Jacobs. “I’m real sorry ‘bout all that.”

“Uh huh,” Jacobs says, looking supremely unimpressed. “Sure.”

“No, honest,” Jack insists. “It was about time someone knocked that smug look of his face. Do you, uh,” he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, not sure what to do with himself. “Do you want some ice for your hand? That was a mean left hook—“

“I am just fine,” Jacobs interrupts, his tone biting. “So feel free to spare me the All-American, Boy Scout routine. If you really want to help⁠—” the look on his face makes his opinion on the quality of Jack’s help perfectly clear, “—then you can make sure assholes like Oscar DeLancey stay the hell away from my squad. And if he comes within spitting distance of one of my girls again, I’ll have his dick in a vice.”

A razor sharp smile. “So glad we had this talk.”

And with that, he marches away.

“Oh, fuck me,” Jack murmurs to himself, utterly enraptured as he watches him go. He’s real pretty and he’s real mean: Jack’s heart is already doing loop-de-loops around his chest. “‘M so fucked.”

#newsies #javid #the cheerleading fic #*editor's note #*the writing desk #bits & bobs #this has kinda become an enemies to lovers fic #but one sided of course bc Jack’s head over heels #let Davey choose violence 2k24 #this has become an outlet for my ‘Davey’s the mean one’ feelings

[girlmetalsonic]

something that is like the baseline of amys entire character to me is that shes lonely. shes clingy and physically affectionate in a way none of her friends really are, shes always getting pushed aside and left behind. yeah, she helps out people she doesnt know because shes a nice person, but also, she sees part of herself in them. she wont leave someone else behind because she knows the feeling —and more importantly, hates the feeling. if she doesnt have somebody to stand by her and be there for her, then shes going to be that person for everybody else. something something her obsession with sonic is really just like a manifestation of that desire for closeness with someone, and she thinks that romance is the only way to get that. idk... this hedgehog can have so many abandonment issues.

#me posts #amy rose #sth #sonic the hedgehog #and this is not to say at all that romance is the only way to have 'real' love or anything #just that yknow part of her breaking free of that would also be realizing that she just wants closeness with someone and it doesnt- #-have to be romantic #aroace amy could fit this i suppose and she just doesnt know it yknow. thats not my hc but i support their beliefs if that makes sense #she wants to be loved and she wants to love and she doesnt really get a big outlet for that so she shares it with everyone she sees #also i didnt wanna jam up the post but GAMMA!! this is partially abt gamma she helps him find out how to love and how to find joy in it- #-bc its what she wants for herself. she sees him and sees how completely alone he is and she wants to help him. idk idk something something #-when she was locked in the cell she saw part of herself staring back at her #gamma parallels to amy is SLEPT ON i stg i could make a whole other post about it #idk.. whenever im writing amy or just thinking abt how shed interact with others its always from the lens that she craves closeness with- #-others. she wants people to just stay for once. #does this make any sense. idk man im rambling here #my worst nightmare is characterizing her wrong its such a fine line and sometimes the words do not come out of my brain right #btw this is NOT me dissing amy i love amy. she is like top three favorite character. #important context: im typing this with amy firefox theme rn ok. ok im an amy fan. #she points at the minimize button like shes telling me to log off #jesus christ i just scrolled back up i love to put a whole other post in the notes dont i

[lesovyart]

im so obsessed w them that I made fanart AND my own playlist

#気になってる人が男じゃなかった #the guy she wasn't interested in wasn't a guy at all #gays bonding over 90s grunge and dad rock #no like u don't understand I'm a wlw who was raised on rock and blues since as far back as I can remember #reading this manga has been SO en #SO enjoyable #I can't believe I didn't get into it sooner!!!!! And I love the NOFX Green used all through the series omg #Also re the fanmix #I know Aya and Mitsuki are super into 90's grunge and hard rock specifically #but I added in some diff stuff from betwee #Also I tried to the playlist follow the chronology of the story and might continue to add to it/edit 🤔 #Anyway I'm really interested in the way both charas relate to music? I feel like they both see music as a place for enjoyment and discovery #but Aya is quite aware of and #secure in her emotions so uses music as an outlet for them: a way to arrange and communicate how she already knows how she's feeling #while Mitsuki seems more to use music as a way to actually understand both the world around her #but also herself... I love them both so muc #god my tags are horrific but writing tags on the tumblr app is literal hell #aya oosawa #mitsuki koga

[therentyoupay]

[ modern!AU | neighbors-to-lovers!AU | mountain living!AU ft. jelsa ] [ based on snow globe by @therentyoupay ] [ 1 2 ]

On July 1st, the lonely house at the top of the mountain was finally sold. — In which Jack(son) Overland tries his best to befriend his neighbor, one woodworking project at a time. Prompt: Three-word sentences: "Just say it," for @aicosu.

#updated with the link to part ii! #therentyoupay snow globe #therentyoupay edits #therentyoupay fic vibes #elsa #jack frost #jelsa #snowtpnetwork #jelsa edits #I CRAVED THE OLD SCHOOL EDITS I CRAVED THEM DEEPLY #aicosu #SHALL I MAKE MORE??? QUITE POSSIBLY #i ran out of words between dissertation writing and teaching and grading and discussion boards but I NEEDED A CRAETIVE OUTLET and #as you can see from my 70000000 reblogs i was in a MOOD FOR EDITS AND AESTHETIC #also callimara posted her wildward aesthetic and i'm still screaming #jackson overland

[bolithesenate]

i've said it so many times before. but. they are so important to me

#jaster is definitely looking up nerd facts there #and proudly telling his three weed smoking girlfriends about them #this i drew very early into writing the mud fic actually!! #to get an outlet for The Vibes #and i think it holds up nicely #random boli thoughts #my art #art for my fic #star wars fanart #yan dooku #sifo dyas #jocasta nu #jaster mereel #my poolnoodle of rarepairs

[thenightcallsme]

Dove | Simon "Ghost" Riley

A/N: Hello lovely people, I have a backlog of short stories written for things like Avatar: The Way of Water, MWII, Stranger Things, The Arcana, Outer Banks, and many more that I have never posted and keep to myself. I'm talking hundreds of pages worth of fluff, angst and eventual smut - you've got to get through some plot first, though. HOWEVER, if anyone likes my writing and wants to task me with stuff to write, like straight smut, I'm all ears. Anyway, if anyone is interested in reading stuff I could potentially post, here is a snippet for a little Call of Duty fic.

Synopsis: You're to play the materialistic wife of a rich, well-connected husband during an undercover mission. You're to-be husband is a temporary recruit of the 141, who is to supervise your every move. While getting ready, you have a surprising interaction with your Lieutenant, Ghost, who you swear has made it his mission to treat you like a stranger day after day. Until now.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

Contains: pretty much nothing of importance, just Ghost being as unreadable as ever, causing reader to have their mind blown by the smallest of crumbs

• • • • •

I look in the mirror at the woman who is supposed to be Lyanna Winstead. She’s the partner of Dario Winstead, son of a wealthy businessman. Everything about Lyanna is a carbon copy of myself. Her smile, her hair, her figure, her voice. Only, she presents herself in a way I haven’t in a long time.

Gone is the tactical gear and camouflage colours. Instead, she wears the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. The outline of the dress is simple yet captivating to suits the old Hollywood theme. Silver cascades down her body, creating the illusion of a mercury waterfall. The sweetheart neckline and thin straps compliment her full breasts and soft arms. Adorning the bodice are glistening silver designs that remind me of old, swirling boarders on French mirrors. The designs fall away, melting into plain silver threads that fall to the floor and pool at her feet. The dress hugs her body like a second skin, only melting away at her knees. The silhouette fit her hourglass figure well.

The silver jewellery she wears is modest so as not to take away from the dress’s magnificence. On her neck is a dainty Vivienne Westwood necklace, the inner planet of the pendant a pearl. Matching dangling earrings hang from her lower lobe piercing. The rest of her ear piercings are small diamond studs and silver hoops. One wrist displays a thin diamond tennis bracelet and a Van Cleef one with emerald clovers. On the other is the only ode to myself: the evil eye bracelet I never take off. The thin silver chain and bejewelled eye thankfully blend into the rest of the accessories. Small rings cover her fingers, few in number and easily ignorable. The bands are thin and any jewels are small and clear. However, one stands out; a breathtaking sight on her left index finger.

Glittery diamonds cover the band, giving way to a large, circular moonstone. Rainbow shimmer comes to life in the milky stone when the light hits it just right. Separating the band and the centrepiece are two small flowers with diamond centres. Two separate rings sit beneath and below the main one, shaped in V’s to follow the curve. At each point are flowers similar the the others, with curved leaves flowing from the petals. All three are gold, contrasting against the silver to make a statement.

I’m not just looking back at Dario’s partner. I’m looking at his wife.

I’m Will’s wife. 

Fake wife, really. I nearly shake my head in wonder. I still look like myself, but everything about this makes me feel like I’m wearing a second skin. Lyanna’s skin. Every so often I stare at the ring in amazement. If anyone ever proposes to me, I would hope for nothing less than the magnificent that is this ring. All that adorns my body is courtesy of Will. Unbeknownst to me before this mission, he’s filthy rich, and a filthy rich man needs a filthy rich wife. All the designer jewellery, the dress, the shoes, and the engagement ring are authentic and top dollar.

After the last touch-ups of make-up, fragrances, and hair, I’m making my way to the courtyard. I’m to have one last briefing and run over of the plan before getting in Will’s blacked-out Corvette. I have to give it to him: he really knows how to pull off a lavish life with style.

Already am I wishing to rip off the damn stilettos on my feet. While I could live in the dress and jewellery, this is the one day a year I’m willing to wear heels.

The air is cool, the last golden light of day painting the courtyard and walls of Alejandro’s HQ in a luminescent glow. A low rumble fills the air from my 'husband’s car. Will leans against it, speaking with the 141. Ghost lingers back by the front door, arms folded and back leaning against a pillar. Weaving between his fingers with precision is a small dagger. His head turns at the sound of approaching heels.

“Was starting to think you were a no show,” he says gruffly.

I stop beside him to adjust my dress. It doesn’t really need adjust, but suddenly being subjected to his gaze makes me anxious. “Told you it would take a while. Gotta look the part.”

The way his eyes travel over my body almost makes me shrink away. Every curve is on full display. The tight bodice holds up my already full breasts, and somehow my waist-to-hip ratio is even more accentuated. Wearing my uniform doesn’t exactly hide my figure thanks to the tight shirts and cargo pants that aren’t exactly loose from my mid-thigh up. However, a lot of me is lost beneath the vests and belts.

“Stop...inspecting me, or whatever you're doing,” I mumble. “Makes me think I need to fix something.”

I begin taking the skirts in my hand as I survey my descent. It’s not too much, but the steps are steep enough to be an issue. The heels on my feet are no help.

Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t. You look…”

“Important?”

“Pretty.”

I stop in my tracks to look back at him, unsure if I heard him correctly. He doesn’t look away or seem embarrassed to have said so. Then again, when does he ever. No-nonsense and prideful in his emotionless character, Ghost is not one to regret his words. Everything he says is a calculated move. Compliments are certainly something to be calculated in a sense, but I don't think of it to be a compliment, even when a small part of me screams for more. I'm playing my part well; there'd be a problem if I wasn't looking pretty. A slow smile quirks at my lips, teasing in nature as I raise my brows. The teasing turns to surprise, however, when he offers me his arm.

“How chivalrous,” I quip as I lightly take his offered arm. Even the slightest contact sends thrills beneath my skin. “Careful, Lieutenant. I might start to think you actually like me.”

Ghost’s eyes train on the ground. At first, I wonder if he doesn’t want to meet my eyes, only then to realise he’s watching my footing. I barely catch a glimpse of his squint.

“I like you in one piece,” he corrects. “This job will be over the second you sprain your ankle on a flight of stairs.”

I hum. “Ahh, there it is.”

He looks up at me then. “There’s what?”

“Thinking about the job, as always.”

As always, I keep my tone light and teasing, but there's an accusing hint. A subtle jab I let slip that I pray goes unnoticed.

There's no room for emotions in this job, and though I've compromised that with the rest of the 141, Ghost is a difficult case. An impossible riddle, a mind-numbing equation with no real answer. Nothing about him should be likeable. He's painfully honest and dismissive when he bothers to speak, he's angry half the time, his attention is never lingering and his mind is an impenetrable fortress. It would make more sense to give in to Alejandro's shameless flirting or Gaz's sleazy grins. Only, it's Ghost that keeps me up at night. It's Ghost, who sends a pang through my chest when he reminds me any care is from pure investment in performance. I'm useful, nothing more.

I can count on one hand the number of times he's thrown me small morsels of care as if I were a stray dog whining and begging for food. Even then, I wouldn't have made it past three fingers. A greedy piece of me spins those memories into something that serves my desire. See, he's returning your interest, that hopeful voice purrs in my ear while feeding me botched versions of what really happened. I know better than to give in to the delusions. The ending of those memories is what sobers me, and it's no different now. I need you in shape for tomorrow. Keep your head in the game. I'm just making sure this isn't interrupting the job. He's always quick to redirect any concern from me to the job.

Maybe, just maybe...what if he was trying to save face? Does he not want to care?

Ghost remains silent for a moment. In consideration or because he doesn’t care to answer, I can’t tell. But when he does answer, his voice has my full attention. It’s low and rough, each syllable laced with something intoxicating. Something I've never heard before and never thought I would hear. Something I want to hear again and again.

“You have no idea what I think about, dove.”

Dove.

The response catches me so off guard I almost forget to take another step. We’ve reached the bottom of the steps, now. The second both my feet are on the flat expanse of the concrete driveway, he breaks away from our linked arms. There is no follow-up, no hint of a miscommunication, not even a look in my direction before he's gone from my side. All I can do is hesitantly trail behind him, lost in my thoughts.

Ghost has never given me a nickname before. Hell, he barely refers to me as anything other than my callsign. When I do hear my real name, it's never for good reasons.

The nickname that pours from his lips comes in a deep voice curled into a sensual tone, sounding like silk-covered marble, low and intended for my ears only. It's strangely intimate—something a lover would purr with lustful eyes and a seeking touch. Somehow it seems to invoke a phantom touch that glides across my skin. Gooseflesh puckers in its chilling wake. In the span of only a few seconds, I seem to experience every emotion humanly possible. Shock, surprise, a sickening, perverse enjoyment...and irritation that I must now join the rest of the team as if a mind-numbing heat was not boiling in the pits of my stomach

• • • • •

I'll get the formatting of posting these to be prettier btw I promise 🙏🙏 But anyway just interact with this or tell me directly if you want more.

#call of duty #modern warefare ii #mw2 #mwii #simon ghost riley #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #fanfiction #avatar the way of water #avatar #neteyam #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #stranger things #eddie munson #the arcana #julian devorak #let me know if you want more #please I need an outlet for my writing problem but like I need validation as well lol

[lazyveran]

jesus christ every time i scroll down another post you have something fascinating to say abt the azula in ur brain. well?????? what happens to her post canon???!?!?

starrdio we HAVE to kiss. thank you for asking...

SO. my main vision of azula is that immediately post-war zuko has. absolutely no idea what to do with azula. he's just ascended the throne and he has half his country wanting him dead and he's only sixteen. azula was fire lord for a day, wanted to kill him, has tried to kill him, is probably still loyal to ozai (and god he is NOT telling her about the ozai bending-away situation rn. OR URSA.) so he places her in a highly secure prison until he's settled enough to figure out what to do with his war criminal baby sister

and the prison guards... well, they hate azula. to many of them, she's the closest thing they have to punishing ozai so they treat her accordingly (not like the child she is, but some sort of monster they pin all their anger and grief onto). they shave her head as a sign of her defeat, dishonouring her, they put her in a cell with no sunlight, and they regularly try to bait her. not that it ever works

azula goes nonverbal. for months. she's only in the jail for a few weeks before zuko is able to visit, sees her conditions, and promptly banishes the entire staff and takes her back to the palace. he puts her up her own wing of the palace, tries to care for her best he can, but azula is silent. she barely even looks at him, or anyone. it's like her spirit is just... gone. she shoves away all the familiar figures in her life - zuko, mai, ty lee, her servants, mirrors (for fear they're hallucinations. she no longer trusts her own reality and it's terrifying and she's so scared of her own mind. she refuses to bow to the false visions of living and dead, desperately trying to overcome this 'weakness')

for azula, her only words for nearly a year were her anguished screams and cries in the last agni kai. as she no longer feels worthy of her bending after her dishonour and defeat, she no longer uses her voice. her second greatest weapon, her wit and words and the way she weaved them, is gone. in it, azula remains

#if you please. the iroh and azula parallels of them both acting the same way while imprisoned #silent and brooding and taking abuse from guards #both of them with a sense of shame and betrayal #the greatest figures of war brought to nothing in defeat with endless time to think #also. the fingers thing is bc prison sensory deprivation equals. well azula's mind needs an outlet. so abuses her hands for stimulation #sorry azula. my babygirl. spinning her around in the torture chamber #the potential of this after azula goes verbal again is fun. im writing a fic abt it rn (secret info) #azula #zuko #atla #starrdio #ask

[suddencolds]

Purely Instinctive | Ki//ller Pet//er

Extremely competent assassin who handles every difficult situation inventively and with ease? What if he fell ill... 😭 (4.2k words)

This is a little different from what I usually write, but I've been reading Ki//ller Pe//ter on Webt//oon (link), and... um, this fic practically wrote itself. This might be the most self-indulgent thing I've written this year. Let's not talk about it 😭

For the sake of the fic, all characters are in their early twenties (aside from Peter, who is obviously a lot older). If you haven't read the series, they're all assassins who work for an organization called the Gl//ory Club. That's pretty much all you need to know :)

—

Here's Peter (under his current identity, Sun-Gu Kim) and Yuna:

—

The drive to the warehouse is unusually quiet.

The mission is simple—find an international spy, currently en route to escape via a ship which departs from the harbor at 6am, holding onto highly classified documents which he’s not supposed to have. The moment he steps foot off of Korean land, he will become much more difficult to apprehend—the ship the target is planning to take is a large cargo ship, its whereabouts easily tracked, but the Glory Club bounty has specified that the target will most likely part ways from the cargo ship on a small rowboat. There’s no telling at what point he’ll split off from the cargo ship, or where he’ll be headed next, which means:

They have only two hours to apprehend the subject before he becomes substantially harder to track down.

Yuna reaches up with a hand to rub her eyes. Of course, serving as part of Glory is no 9-5 job—she hadn’t expected volunteer missions to always take place at predictable times. But they’d gotten assigned to this particular mission on short notice, which meant that she’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep, tops, before having to drag herself out of bed for this.

They’d been whisked out on Sun-Gu’s motorcycle—the St. Petrus V4, she recalls. Somehow, Sun-Gu had known exactly where to head. How he’d known, with the entire city laid out in front of him, Yuna isn’t entirely sure. But he’d explained that the target’s trajectory would probably not be a straight line to the harbor—that would be too easy to intercept, and Sun-Gu had assured the target would be aware there would be someone on his trail. He’d probably avoid main roads, then, where there would be a higher chance of getting stopped by the police. Then, out of all the remaining routes from his last tracked location, it would only be feasible to get to the dock on time through six of them.

The rest had been intuition. Sun-Gu’s familiarity with the city is impressive. He barely glances at the street signs as he drives, the night warm and stagnant, his motorcycle dialed to silent, and not for the first time, Yuna wonders how he seems to know all of this.

Speaking of Sun-Gu—

Something is different about him tonight. Yuna probably would not have noticed, had she not spent the entirety of the motorcycle ride sitting behind him. He’s incredibly subtle about it. But it’s there, nonetheless—a slight change to his demeanor. Something nearly imperceptible, something she can’t quite pin down.

Had Yuna not known better, she might have attributed it to tiredness. But in the couple months she’s known Sun-Gu, she’s never seen him tired. He sleeps, like the rest of them, of course—he is only human—but for him, the transition between sleep and wakefulness seems like more of a formality. That is to say, he wakes up immediately alert, and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him tired.

It makes her wonder, a little, if there’s a reason to it. If there was ever anything in his life which mandated being a light sleeper, that required him to be up at a moment’s notice. Either way, it’s not the reason why he’s—off isn’t the right word. Different is more suitable. Typically, he’s in better spirits. But Yuna has seen him pissed off, and this isn’t it, either.

Sun-Gu parks the motorcycle just outside of the warehouse, unclips his helmet in one swift motion, and—after Yuna gets off—takes her helmet from her and stashes them both under the motorcycle seat, which Glory has designed to be self-locking. Then, without waiting to see if they’ll follow, he makes a lap around the periphery of the warehouse.

The Dokgo brothers have tagged along too—they’re being quiet, now, which perhaps is mercy enough. Probably Sun-Gu had given them a challenge to shut up, and they’ve taken it in good faith. Now, even when they have something to comment, they keep their voices to a whisper.

“What do you think he’s off doing?” Biggie says.

Junior shrugs. “Maybe taking a walk, to relieve some stress.”

“He’s looking for signs of entry,” Yuna tells them. Then, because she can’t help it, and because she’ll be a little pissed off if they’re the ones who end up jeopardizing the mission—“Remember what he said about being quiet?”

“Ah, shit,” Biggie says. “I am quiet. Maybe you should be quiet. Have you considered that?”

She ignores the both of them and heads over to the spot where Sun-Gu stands, now, his eyebrows furrowed. A slat that’s out of place. He pushes it, and it budges.

Underground, the ground rumbles underneath them, and then settles to reveal a trap door. 

Sun-Gu beckons for them to follow him, but he doesn’t wait up for them. Yuna quickens her pace to keep up. The trap door leads them down, down. The air underground is much cooler—Yuna finds herself wishing that she’d brought a thicker jacket.

Ahead of her, Sun-Gu—

Takes in a sharp breath. But no, it’s not just a breath. As she watches him, he lifts a hand, pinches it to the bridge of his nose. His shoulders jerk forward, though only slightly; his back muscles tense. All in all, the entire display is soundless.

Yuna’s feels her eyebrows creep up. 

This is certainly… new for him. But she doesn’t have time to think on it right now.

When they get to the bottom of the steps, the stairway opens out into a deserted hallway: cement walls, cement floors. It’s dark, and cavernous. This whole place feels empty. It’s a little creepy, really. Why Sun-Gu suspects that their target is hiding out here, Yuna isn’t sure. It seems counterproductive to hide out somewhere like this when, according to their intel, the subject has limited time already to make it out to the harbor.

That is, unless Sun-Gu suspects the intel that they were given might be wrong.

Sun-Gu switches on a flashlight he’s carrying and heads deeper in. It’s not until he stops, looking down the hallway to survey his surroundings that he hesitates, only for a moment. He lifts the collar of his shirt over his face, his shoulders tensing.

“Hh’—nKTtt-!”

The sneeze is practically soundless. That makes two times in one night. Something is definitely up, then. Yuna looks around. Perhaps the underground space is dusty, or perhaps it’s not well-ventilated and it’s grown mold, and he’s allergic. Except, the air down here feels remarkably dry—not the sort of environment mold would thrive under—and the floors look suspiciously well-maintained. It wouldn’t make sense for it to be something else, either—some other universal irritant. Sun-Gu is the only one here who’s sneezing. 

Yuna isn’t sure she’s ever heard him sneeze before, out of the months that she’s known him. Could it be some existing condition, then—not a product of their environment, but something from earlier?

“Man,” Junior mouths, from somewhere. “How much longer are we going to have to head down these hallways? They all look the same.”

Yuna turns to glare at him, puts her finger to her lips. “Longer if you aren’t quiet about it.”

“I don’t like this,” Biggie mutters. “When can we get to the fighting? All the lead-up is boring. It feels like we’re in some kind of horror movie.” Yuna squeezes her eyes shut, prays that they’re far enough from Sun-Gu—and, by extension, the target—that they can’t be heard. 

Sun-Gu stops, abruptly. He holds a hand up behind him, as if to say, stay back.

Yuna doesn’t know what he’s noticed, at first. But a moment later, she hears it—the click of a latch being undone, somewhere overhead.

Above them, a small trap door opens, and then pulls shut. A cylinder drops from the ceiling, leeching violet plumes of smoke. On instinct, Yuna pulls her shirt up to cover her nose and mouth.

Tear gas, she realizes—or something chemically similar. It’s some sort of aerosolized compound, meant to render them both less capable of seeing and—partly by extension—less capable of fighting. Her eyes tear up almost immediately, so much that she can barely keep them open. Her lungs burn in protest as she takes in a breath.

They’re in a long corridor. There’s a finite amount of smoke coming from the canister—if they wait it out, it will inevitably thin out. So this was more just a distraction, then. A flashy entry. Just enough time for whoever they’re up against to—

It takes her a few seconds to spot the figure through the smoke. 

She thinks back to the files on the subject. Medium, reddish brown hair, pale blue eyes. 182 cm. Trained in combat. The stranger in the hallway has their face obscured by a gas mask, their hair hidden under a hood, but she can tell by the musculature of their exposed arms that they appear to be well-trained. In their right hand, they are carrying a long, slender weapon. From one end—attached to a metal chain—is a sphere, lined with spikes, each of them carved down to a sharp point.

It must weigh half a ton, from the way it drags the chain down, but the figure wields it easily, as if it weighs absolutely nothing.

“That’s our guy!” Junior yells, at the same time as Biggie shouts, “Stop right there!”

Both of them charge forwards. It all happens in a split second. The figure adjusts their grip on the weapon to turn the wooden handle of it outwards. Then, before either of the brothers have a chance to react, they’re swung outwards by the sheer momentum of the rod. Biggie hits the ceiling with enough force that the concrete above them rumbles, the impact spiderwebbing the ceiling above them. Slabs of concrete rain down from the point of contact. The figure drives Junior straight into one of the walls at an awkward angle which renders him almost immediately unconscious.

Yuna can feel her own heart pounding in her ears. She slinks back into the darkness, pressing herself to the ground so that hopefully, the stranger will forget that she is there—or that she is even a threat to begin with. Seeing what they’re capable of, she isn’t sure she could do much in this situation to begin with.

How long has it been since the last time the path split off into multiple routes? When Yuna turns to look, the hallway before them and after them seems to stretch on and on. An endless concrete tunnel, with the white, sterile lighting of a laboratory space. Nothing to shield themselves with, and nowhere to hide. It’s a strange location to pick a fight in. What exactly was this place built for? 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the figure says to Sun-Gu, grinning. Half of their teeth have been replaced with gold tooth crowns. When they grin, the gold catches the light, winking. “Thirty seconds, huh? Your teammates couldn’t even hold their own for that long? It’s a damn shame. I didn’t even get to use the weapon as it’s intended to be used.” They tilt their head, staring down at Sun-Gu with a look of contempt. “I guess you could thank me for being merciful. But if I’m honest…”

Their smile darkens into something sharper, something hungry. “I just didn’t want to stain a flail of this quality with anyone’s blood but yours.”

Was this entire mission a setup, to get Sun-Gu into one place? Is the subject really in possession of any classified documents at all?

Sun-Gu twists away—not to evade, or not in preparation to attack. His shoulders hunch forward, his expression twisting. He coughs, roughly, down towards the ground. It’s the kind of cough that suggests that he’s been coughing like this for some time now—harsh and throat-scraping. 

That’s when it registers for Yuna.

He’s ill. It seems painfully obvious, in hindsight, now that she’s realized it. 

During the motorcycle ride here, he’d been careful not to touch her, Yuna realizes. Sun-Gu is always careful with his own space—he has an awareness of it, even outside of combat, that she thinks would be unusual for most. Even with small things—the ways he gestures, the way he holds himself—she gets the feeling that none of it is accidental. 

When she looks at him now, she notices—a slight, near-imperceptible flush to his features. He’s breathing a little more heavily than normal. Instincts he can hide. Instincts he can cover for. But there are some things which no amount of physical awareness can hide.

He has a fever, then. That’s probably why he hadn’t wanted her to touch him. He’d known that if she’d made contact with his skin, she would’ve felt it, and she thinks he probably hadn’t wanted to raise any concern.

Sun-Gu is here, on a mission, fighting a well-trained stranger on his own, equipped with nothing but a pocket knife, with no armor and no with no reinforcements. On any normal occasion, Yuna might trust him to be able to hold his own—she’s seen what he’s done, alone against a crowd of hundreds—but this time, it’s different, because Sun-Gu is unwell.

The figure looks surprised, at this. “Ah,” they say. Yuna can’t help but think they look like a predator, honing in on their prey, only to find that said prey is already bloodied and limping. Like someone surprised—but pleased—to find their job already done for them. “Don’t tell me you’re already not in tip-top shape? That’s a shame.”

Sun-Gu coughs, again, his chest shaking. Yuna feels a pang of worry in her chest. He really does look unwell—and he hasn’t said as much of a word to deny it, which is telling. She looks around for anything to help him with— If she were to call for reinforcements, she thinks it would take too long for them to find them all here, underground, in the elaborate array of tunnels.

The weapon they’re holding is heavy, which affects its maneuverability, and to some degree, its speed. But Sun-Gu’s knife is much more of a close-range weapon, which means that while Sun-Gu will have to get up close to them to even make a mark, the stranger would be theoretically able to fatally wound him while standing a meter away.

The figure presses forward. With the swing of one hand, the metal ball and the chain arc outwards neatly, directly towards Sun-Gu. For such a heavy weapon, Yuna is surprised to find that this person wields it with impressive speed. It’s nearly too fast for her eyes to track. Sun-Gu evades, easily, but the figure swings again, and again, and again. At this speed, it almost looks as though they’re slicing the air into shreds.

If Sun-Gu were to be hit, his body would stop all of the momentum at once, and the spikes would easily puncture skin, drive themselves into tissue and skin and bone. Worse, Yuna realizes, if the weapon makes it to Sun-Gu’s body—even if it’s lodged in a relatively nonfatal area—the figure will easily be able to drive it directly into a vital organ. That means that if Sun-Gu fails to dodge cleanly on just one occasion, this fight will be over.

That’s another thing, too. Sun-Gu’s radius of attack is limited by the length of his own arm. But the figure can stand in one place and swing the weapon anywhere that the length of their arm, the long rod, the chain, all put together, can reach.

“If I had a little more patience, I might even have waited for you to get back to full health, so that this could be a more memorable fight,” the figure says.

Sun-Gu’s breath hitches. His opponent is not kind enough to pretend not to notice. They drive forward, intending to use the moment of temporary weakness to their benefit, just as Sun-Gu jerks forward with a forceful, “hHh’EEZschHH-uH!”

Sun-Gu evades, but only barely. How he is able to predict the trajectory of the metal ball, even distracted, even with his eyes closed, Yuna isn’t sure. But it’s clear that he isn’t done, and by the time his eyes are already falling shut for another. He’s afforded a sharp, desperate breath, before his shoulders jerk forward again. “hH’nGKt-! Hh… hh-IIIH’DZSshH!”

He coughs, after, as if the sneezes have somehow irritated his throat further.  

The stranger grins. “...But I suppose having your head as a prize would be consolation enough.”

They sweep the chain in a wide arc, directly for Sun-Gu’s neck. Sun-Gu crouches for a moment, then takes a running leap up into the air, righting his trajectory with one foot to the wall to land behind them. He’s put his knife away, Yuna realizes. But there is nothing here—no props, no furniture—for him to repurpose into a weapon.

“Sorry,” Sun-Gu says. The expression on his face is not one of remorse. It’s one of clear, bitter irritation. He’s annoyed, she realizes. “You’re right. I’m not feeling my best today.”

It’s an admission, loud and clear, but the way he says it, it doesn’t sound like an admission of weakness. Up until now, he has been observing, Yuna realizes, as he’s done before—passively taking in the stranger’s fighting style, their handling of their weapon, their habits, their tells. 

“So,” Sun-Gu says, flatly. When the stranger swings again, Sun-Gu snags hold of the chain while it’s in mid-air, and—as if it’s weightless—yanks the stranger towards him. He takes hold of the chain with his other hand, testing its weight. The smile on his face is utterly cold. “Let’s get this over with quickly.”

—

Afterwards, when they leave the warehouse, the sun is starting to rise. Yuna finds a text from Glory Club on her phone from an hour ago, presumably from the chairman. It’s curt: Do not proceed. We have reason to doubt the motives of the group which supplied the intel. Ironically, there was not enough reception underground for their warning to reach them in time, but she thinks that Sun-Gu must’ve realized much earlier. 

Biggie and Junior are a little worse for the wear, but other than that, neither of them is concerningly injured. Biggie claims that he doesn’t have a concussion, but he doesn’t put up too much of a fight when Yuna insists that when they get back, their first stop will be to the medical ward to get fixed up. 

Speaking of Sun-Gu: he is quiet, which is not unusual. Sun-Gu has never been the most talkative person, but Yuna suspects that today, there’s more to it. 

“I can take us back,” Yuna says, trying not to make it sound pointed. It’s usually Sun-Gu who steers, but Yuna has enough experience with the St. Petrus V4 to handle a forty minute trip on paved roads, and enough experience too to know how to speed just enough to stay in control of it.

“It’s fine,” Sun-Gu says, flashing her a distracted smile. “It will be faster if I drive, because I won’t have to navigate.” He retrieves his own helmet from the seat compartment. Yuna spends a moment to watch him. He isn’t injured, nor does he look any less alert—he’d gotten out of the battle without so much as a scratch to show for.

But there are little hints, here and there, to exhaustion. The way he clears his throat before speaking, so quietly she can’t tell except for the slight bob of his throat, the slight furrow of his eyebrows. The way he pauses to clip his helmet, shielding his face with one hand from the gleam of the rising sun, as if his head is already hurting. The way he looks relieved to be sitting down, the way his hand lingers, a little shaky, on the motorcycle handles before he steadies it, looking faintly annoyed. 

Of course, for someone like Sun-Gu, where—on the battlefield—any sort of slight miscalculation could be the difference between life and death, where trusting his body to function exactly as he’s used to is crucial for his success, Yuna isn’t surprised that any sort of bodily inefficiency would be an annoyance, even more so for Sun-Gu than for most.

At the same time, as she stares at him, she has to wonder—just how long has he been unwell? Had she not been awake during the battle—had she been unconscious, then, like the other two—would she even have noticed? How many times in his life has he been ill and just proceeded? Yuna doesn’t know what his relationship to Peter is—whether he’s a long lost cousin, or someone who trained under him before, or something else. But she knows, from the way he fights, that he must’ve had years of combat experience even before he joined Glory. No one is born with that amount of expertise, that level of near-inhuman intuition.

In the past, when Sun-Gu found himself in life-or-death situations, had he proceeded like he is now—as though everything were normal? As though any affliction he was suffering through privately was not even worth the attention of his own team? It makes sense, she thinks—that he wouldn’t broadcast any weakness openly, especially for any potential adversaries to listen in on. But if he’d been so careful to hide it from all of them, how would he take it if she acknowledged it out loud?

“Is something wrong?” Sun-Gu asks, watching her now. 

“No, nothing at all!” Yuna says, quickly. Think, she tells herself. She returns his smile, a little sheepishly. “I was just thinking… I’m a little hungry. Do you think we could stop at a convenience store on the way back?”

Sun-Gu blinks, a little surprised. But then he nods. “Of course,” he says. 

She fiddles with her own helmet until it’s securely on. Then she gets onto the motorcycle, behind him, and waits for him to take off.

—

True to his word, Sun-Gu stops at a 24/7 convenience store on the way back. But when Yuna asks him if he wants anything to eat, he waves her off with another smile. “Not enough time has passed after that fight,” he says. “I’m still too worked up to eat something.”

Bullshit, she thinks, but she steps inside the store nonetheless. Inside, it’s heavily air-conditioned, pleasantly cool. She picks out a sandwich from the fridge for herself, and one for Sun-Gu, while Biggie and Dokgo—who have followed them here on their scooters—load up on containers of cup ramen and ready-made hot fried chicken. Yuna snags a bottle of water from the fridge. Then she’s sure no one is looking, she takes a blister pack of aspirin off the shelves, along with a travel pack of tissues, and pays for it through the self-checkout station.

Biggie and Junior are still inside by the time she’s done shopping, so she heads outside, the plastic bag in hand.

She finds him still seated on the motorcycle, his helmet still on. He’s sitting ramrod-straight, his shoulders stiff, his head ducked slightly to avoid the sun. To anyone else, he might look alert—perhaps even nervous—but Yuna knows better. It looks as if he is doing everything in his power not to fall asleep.

His breath hitches. He gasps, his body jerking forward with a loud, “hHHD’TSHhh-Uh!”, which seems ridiculously unrelieving for how loud it is, and sighs, tenderly massaging the bridge of his temples. So the headache from earlier hasn’t gotten any better, then. 

She watches him for a moment longer—watches him duck forward into his arm with another ticklish sneeze, and emerge with a liquid sniffle—and wonders when this had all started to feel like second nature.

Caring about him, that is.

When he hears her coming, he looks up to her. “Done with breakfast already?” 

“Not yet,” she says. “But I got you a sandwich.

“Ah, thanks,” he says. “Though, didn’t I say—”

“You’re not hungry right now, I recall,” Yuna says. “You can save it for later. But I have something else for you too.” 

She hands him the aspirin and the bottle of water. Sun-Gu stares down at them for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing.

“I am not injured,” he says, at last.

“I know,” Yuna says, casually. “The aspirin is for your headache. That’s been bothering you all morning, right? It might help with your fever, too, but I think the best antidote for that would be some proper bedrest.”

For a moment, Sun-Gu just stares at her, his eyes a little wide. Then he laughs. “You really don’t let anything past you, do you, Yuna?”

“That’s right,” she says, crossing her arms. “So you were trying to hide it.”

“Not exactly,” Sun-Gu says. “I just didn’t deem it worth mentioning.”

“Three to five days of bedrest, and lots of warm fluids!” Yuna says, jabbing a finger into his chest, accusingly. “That’s what people recommend for illnesses like this. Not a killer mission first thing in the morning!”

“You are very prudent,” Sun-Gu says, looking mildly amused.

“You don’t think it might’ve helped to mention your illness to someone you trust? The chairman, or even me?”

“I fail to see how that would’ve made any difference. It’s not as though the mission could have waited.”

“Fine, then.” Yuna says. “You might not agree to take it easy. But I’ll keep noticing as long as you keep being irresponsible.” She means it as a threat—that in the future, if he ever dares to be so reckless, she’ll be the first to notice. And if Yuna thinks he should be resting, instead of on a mission, she’s not going to keep her mouth shut about it. 

But when she looks over at Sun-Gu, he is smiling. 

#sneeze kink #snz kink #sneeze fic #sneezefic #snzfic #this was really fun to write 😭😭 though writing the action was certainly an experience #i love yu//na so much... half the fun was writing everything from her perspective and thinking abt what she might notice and how #this fic is influenced a lot by y//una and pet//er's dynamic in ep14; specifically his acknowledgment of her perceptiveness and #the covert act of kindness he shows her at the end #i am kind of scared this fic might only appeal to me because people aren't familiar w the fandom 😭 i was actually not intending to #write anything initially for that very reason. but then my d took the wheel #but this was a good break from my more serious writing (yvverse) and a fun character study in general; life has been really rough this week #and so it was nice to have an outlet #my fic

[bunnyreaper]

PLS PLS IM BEGGING UPDATE COLLARS AND CAGES PLSSSSSS IM GONNA CRY THE CLIFFHANGER OF CHAPTER 4 PLSSS UPDATE IT

no

#okay but seriously #im sure you didnt mean to be rude #but im genuinely struggling so much with my physical and mental health #i can barely use my right hand at all #and some days i push myself through to try and write and you know what?? #it makes my wrist worse #and yet every day i sit with this guilt and pain bcs im not doing enough #not writing enough #not good enough #and its not like i have my usual outlets to relieve stress #so yeah #ill update at some point i promise #its coming #but i literally struggle to physically type because i have one hand and one finger #and then wrist pain #and shoulder pain #and i was just SICK #like im trying my best i swear <3

[taste-of-the-divine]

ꕤ | Who's Begging Now? | Vax'ildan

— VOX MACHINA : cockysubby!vax'ildan x fdom!reader

✩ 𝙎𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙀: ​you put vax'ildan in his place, pretty little noises and all. ✩ 𝙋𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙄𝙉𝙁𝙊: drabble, 1.2k words ✩ 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂: vax'ildan recieves + reader gives : dubcon, somnophelia, overstimulation, humiliation, degredation, deep throat, sex drugs, messy spit/saliva, begging to cum, orgasm denial/edging, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, aftercare // reader recieves + vaildan gives: deepthroat on vax's cock, gagging, humiliation outside the bedroom, being called ma'am.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀𝙎 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈 𝘿𝙄𝙑𝙄𝙉𝙀: this was supposed to be way shorter but i got carried away but likes and reblogs are super appreciated :’)

𝘔𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘝𝘖𝘟 𝘔𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘈 | 𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛 & 𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘞𝘖𝘙𝘒𝘚 | 𝘔𝘠 𝘗𝘈𝘎𝘌

vax’ildan has been acting out of line lately— he’s bold, flirtatious, he’s always been so— but something’s changed, you can feel it. he’s gotten cocky. he talks back a little more now, he intentionally towers over you when you sit at the end of the bed. he pushes you to your knees now, too, places his cock on your lips and cheeks and smears it over those plump lips of yours that he loves so much— ah, correction: that he loves fucking, ramming, bruising, so much, with the base of his heavy cock. the feeling of his pubes tickling your lips and you gagging at the same is a familiar one— so much so that dick nuzzling isn’t practical anymore.

he enjoys being in charge; you enjoy letting him think he’s in charge. but now he’s getting too cocky— you hear him bragging to scanlan, grog, pyke, gilmore, anyone that would listen, about how he forces you to the floor, how you turn into putty in his hands, how you beg for him to fuck you like you want no one else’s cock but his.

but you know it’s all a fucking lie. what a pathetic piece of shit. fucker needs to be put in his place, so the next morning, right before he wakes up, you find secure cuffs for his wrists and ankles from somewhere in the house. he’s still sleeping but his cock is throbbing under the thin fabrics of his boxers, leaking precum at the tip. you mouth at him through the boxers first, and then you pull him free and take his whole cock into your mouth.

he wakes with a groan, tugs on the handcuffs. how fucking pathetic. fitting for you, you say, lifting off his cock. he’s incredibly hard, his hips bucking involuntarily, looking for the warm wet of your mouth and his mind is muddled, foggy, can only think about cumming. you drugged his drink the night before, just an aphrodisiac. he had a lesson to learn, and you had to teach him, all means necessary.

you jerk his cock— he moans and tugs at the cuffs— until his balls are tight and he goes light headed from how much blood is pumping through it, keeping it big and heavy. the veins pop angry and blue and purple, throbbing in your hand. his cock is as much of a drooling mess of precum over your fingers as is he is— head rolled back, lips parted, panting and begging you to drag your hands on the underside because that’s all he needs to cum. you don’t, because he forgot to say please, so instead, he says your name in prayer as his eyes goes crossed when you let your spit dribble down your chin and slide onto his sensitive cock head. you love watching him like this, love watching his body spasm and jerk at every touch, watching that his stupid fucked out face and that stupid fucked our brain trying to ask for something he won’t get. his whimpers are starting to sound like crying, voice climbing in pitch. his skin is flushed so, so, so pretty, you tell him this, between scolding him and asking him who’s the one begging to cum now? who’s the one that’s desperate? im going to tell the others about how utterly embarrassing you are.

he knows his answers to these questions, cries, me, me, me, I’m desperate to cum, please, ma’am, please— please don’t tell the others, please please, i’m sorry— and then suddenly your hand are wrapped around his throat and he knows he just fucked up. his eyes are wide, taking in your pissed off and disgusted face, and he can’t help but almost cum from how ashamed he feels. his dick throbs against his stomach, but you keep your eyes on him. i wasn’t asking, you stupid pet, you spit in his face. and that name, his favorite name that you use to put him into his place— it’s enough to make him go over the edge with fluttering eye lids as his mouth falls open, panting like a dog and making broken vocal sounds as his hips go taught and he cums. his head feels like there’s a million stars in there wanting to burst right out of his cock, and his cock needs friction while he cums because even though he’s cumming it isn’t isnt enough to get rid of the aphrodisiac that makes his balls aching to cum again. he looks at you, a whimpering mess with tears in his eyes, begging with them for you to do something, to make this go away, please I need to cum again, he says with his hazel irises.

you take mercy on him, he seems to have learned his lesson— you grip his cock in your hand an pump once, and like that, he folds in on himself as much as his bound limbs let him, a cry forming from his chest as he cums a second time, this time so much incredibly harder than the first that he almost goes unconscious twice throughout it. his eyes are white, he can’t even breathe, hips and cock twitching into and in your hand as you smear his cum over his sensitive tip. eventually his chest fills with air, but his face looks like he'd been properly fucked in the ass even though you've only used your hands and mouth. so pathetic.

when you’re done with the fun you’re having with him, you leave him there, bound to the frame of the bed slick in his own sweat. he learned his lesson, so after a few minutes, you come back with a glass of water and some fresh snacks from the kitchen. you take his bruised wrists and ankles out of the cuffs, massaging the cuts and kissing them better, cuddling him as he stirs awake from his sex haze. you kiss him, remind him that he’s yours, you love him, but firmly tell him he has no place lying about who’s desperate in the bedroom. he nods his face into your chest, tears welling in the corners of his eyes that you kiss away, whispering in his ear that you love him all the same. his arms wrap around your waist tighter, muttering that he loves you too, thank you, thank you, thank you ma’am, i won’t do it again.

© copyright @taste-of-the-divine 2023 𝘔𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘝𝘖𝘟 𝘔𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘈 | 𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛 & 𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘞𝘖𝘙𝘒𝘚 | 𝘔𝘠 𝘗𝘈𝘎𝘌

#this was stuck in my head for a while #i needed an outlet for my dom tendencies #should i write a part 2 to this? #smut drabbles #vax smut #vox machina smut #sub!vaxildan #fdom!reader #vox machina #vaxildan #reader x vax #vax critical role #smut fic #vax my beloved #darker smut #aftercare #dubcon