[10:00 PM] + Assassins/gang!au + "i Want To Go Home."

INUPI

“ GENSHIN IMPACT !! ” 🏷️— SNEZHNAYA DOES NOT BELIEVE IN TEARS (CHILDE X READER).

＃CHARACTERS! — CHILDE.

＃CONTENT WARNING(S)! — ANGST.

＃MASTERLIST! — HERE.

＃ALT ACCOUNTS! — @yyolkchi (spam/sketch posting account!) & @ddollipop (mature fic account!)

＃A/N! — INSPIRED BY THE OFFICIAL RELEASE OF THE HARBINGER DESIGNS, SOMEONE CONVINCE ME NOT TO SIMP FOR PANTALONE, HELP ME.

Snezhnaya isn't always so bitter and cold.

Sure, the winter is unrelenting, the snow piles high, up and above the heads of small children who know of nothing else outside the nation's borders, —but there's warmth to be found in this icy place. Warmth comes and goes like the frosty winds that sweep across the land. It's fleeting, and painfully unreliable, but perhaps the worst part of it all is that you reach for it every single time it comes back around, no matter how long it's been without a single flickering flame off in the distance to let you know it hasn't been extinguished.

Childe comes and goes as he pleases. He's a Fatui Harbinger first, and your lover second. You know that to be the case, even when he denies it, even when he insists to you that he does what he does in order to build a better life, —for himself first, then his family and you, because you've "always been included in that from the day I fell in love with you." Family. It's nice to think about, but it's hard to imagine that Childe sees you so fondly when he hardly ever sees you at all these days. His visits have gotten shorter, only lasting a week at most, and they're now few and far between. His travels have gotten longer, and he comes back with more injuries than he ever has before.

But you can't seem to let him go, no matter what he does, no matter what he says, no matter how many times he disappears into the distance and leaves you hanging by a thread for days, weeks, months. . . You wait. You turn down the men that only swing by the confectionery shop you work at to flirt with you while they mindlessly order small boxes of chocolates or fudge. You go home to an empty bed, saving his side just in case he crawls in through the window again in the dead of night. You hold that shirt of his that he left at your apartment not-so-accidentally half a year ago to the lower half of your face, breathing in whatever's left of his scent after all this time. It's fading, just like he is. . . But you won't wash it, nor will you wash yourself clean of him. The ties between him and you have turned into iron chains. Sometimes, they curl around your neck and pull taut until you're sputtering, falling to your knees on the floor next to his side of the bed.

You weep. You worry. You drive yourself mad wondering if he's okay, if he's injured, if he's doing alright. And then he waltzes his way back in like he never left, —and you should be angry. You should probably hate him by now after all the sleepless nights and harrowing days he's put you through, but the moment he returns with that arrogant laugh and that cocky smile, you've already lost the fight. He opens his arms and you've slotted yourself between them before you have half the mind to stop yourself, letting him hold you even though he doesn't deserve to. The thick fur of his coat tickles your neck, then weighs heavily on your spine when he sheds it like an unneeded extra layer of skin and places it around your shoulders.

Now's the time when you should shove it off, look him dead in those ocean blue eyes and tell him that you're tired of this, —that it's all too much, and you deserve better. But when he's here, he's the best man you could ever ask for. He's doting, even when his body aches and it's hard for him to move around properly. He understands when you crack under the pressure, letting you cry on his shoulder as he rubs little circles into your skin by the fire. It crackles, and your heart sings for him. Childe is all you've ever wanted. For so many years, you've watched him grow and change, becoming the person he is today who is many things: some good, some bad. But the bitter truth remains that you are an affair, second to his job that he works for tirelessly. As long as he's a Harbinger, the only place you'll ever have is as a homewrecker.

Here you are though. . . Again.

"Easy," he requests, voice strained from the pulse of his aching ribs, "—I missed you too."

"It's been two months since I last saw you, Childe," you comment, sounding much more bitter than you'd intended. "No letters, no nothing, and I. . . I was scared something had happened. Something bad."

Guilt floods through his veins. He hadn't even realized it had been quite that long. His tireless work which often requires an intense amount of traveling is known to easily allow him to lose track of time. Still, he knows he should have sent someone to give you a message somewhere in between his camp setups. He should have done more to ensure that you weren't losing sleep over him.

"I'm sorry," he relents, voice thick with melancholy. "Time gets away from me on jobs. That's not an excuse, though. I need to be more mindful of your feelings, and I'll work on that."

You hate this. When he has time to spare for you, the last thing you want to do is spend it talking about all the ways he's made you worry or feel small unwittingly. In a way, you feel equally responsible for your own feelings. He never misrepresented himself to you after all. . . You knew what you were getting yourself into, and you jumped headfirst into the fire. Because Childe, above all things, is warm. 

"We can talk about it later," you mumble against the skin of his neck.

Later will likely never come, but you're keen on overlooking that. For now, at least. Until he leaves once more in a few days time, and you're forced to reconcile with loneliness again. And so the cycle will begin; he leaves, and you tell yourself this is the last time. When he comes back, you'll pull yourself free of his grasp: the one that's ice cold sometimes, but still manages to nip at your moth-eaten, frostbitten heart. But then the next time comes around, and you find yourself in his embrace again.

"People are starting to stare."

They're common folk from the looks of it, just regular citizens of Snezhnaya, same as you. Even so, it's impossible to know when someone may be working as an informant. Childe's head on a platter is worth at least a couple hundred million Mora. . .

"You're pretty," Childe notes, a playful smile pulling at the corners of his lips, "they can't help themselves."

That's far removed from the reality of the situation, but his comment still makes you giggle. The truth is that Childe is somewhat of a Snezhnayan celebrity; much as all the Harbingers are. They rule with an iron fist over a great deal of politics, trade, travel, economic systems, and social functionality. The Harbingers are well respected, but also immeasurably feared. That is the real reason all the people have begun to throw glances your way. You're with Childe.

"Hardly," you brush the comment off, stifling a giggle.

"Hardly?" Childe parrots, "—Don't be so modest. You're the most beautiful person in Snezhnaya. In all of Teyvat, even. And trust me, I've probably seen every inch of this world. Parts of other worlds too, and none of it compares to you."

He means it. Not just outerly, though he does think your physical beauty is utterly unmatched, —but internally. When he's down and wondering if he should even bother to pull himself back up, he thinks of you, and you give him the strength he needs to move forward. He thinks of your smile, the way your eyes reflect starlight, the way your bleeding heart welcomes him and gives him shelter. When he sleeps beside you, he likes to imagine that he's sunken into your being, and that you've sunken into him. He sleeps behind your ribcage, right next to your beating heart, and you sleep next to his.

"You're laying it on thick tonight," you comment.

His compliments pile up like the snow at your feet, and you know what that means.

"You're not staying for long, are you?"

The glimmer in his eyes dies out a little as his face falls, and you wish you hadn't said anything. It's too late now though.

". . . Things haven't been easy since Rosalyne's death," he says. "Her work has been mitigated to the rest of us, and I've been given the tasks that require the most travel, since I'm the one who leaves Snezhnaya the most."

He's avoiding the question, and you sigh; warm breath hitting the cold air in a little cloud of vapor.

"You'll be gone by morning then?" You ask.

Childe opens his mouth to speak, but you already know the answer, so he purses his lips together a few seconds later. There's no point in rubbing salt in the wound.

"Let's go," you prompt, pulling him by the hand. "It's freezing, and you don't have a coat anymore."

"I don't really need one," he assures you, "I was born and raised here in Snezhnaya, after all. I'm more than used to the weather."

You just want to get inside. Both because your fingers have started to go numb, and because you know Childe has injuries that you're keen on looking after before the sun rises and daybreak comes. By then, he'll be gone again, and you'll be left to wait for him once more.

The way snow crunches under his feet is an almost comforting sound. It's been a while since you've heard it. There's a certain something to every little thing he does, —as if the world all but bends for his will and the universe seeks to bow at his feet. He's the only man alive you'd wait this long for.

He squeezes your hand as if to say "I'm sorry."

And you squeeze his in return to let him know that it's okay, —everything is fine— even though it isn't. It never really has been. But when this coat is draped over your shoulders, his fingers have laced with yours, and he's pulling you close to keep you warm, it's easy to convince yourself that maybe one day everything won't be so bad. He'll find a way to make things better for everyone: himself, his family, you. . . He'll find a way to ease the sting that comes when you wake up in the morning and he's not there.

He'll hold you to sleep, then pull away at the first sign of sunrise. Just like the icy winds of Snezhnaya, he'll come and go with the breeze.

They're bitter. They hurt. But they dry your tears when they swoop in from the north, and sometimes, they carry Childe's heartbeat along with them.

The thick blanket of snow along the ground glitters in the humble moonlight. Childe's hand is placed at the small of your back, matching the curve. And somehow, it's comforting in ways any apology he could ever give never would be. Once again, you're being swept away; washed out into his sea. You're drowning in him.

"I love you," he whispers, for your ears only.

Like it's just between the two of you, —some deep, dark secret, or something precious he hopes you'll only ever need to hear from him.

You'll think about that secret, that precious whisper, come morning when Childe sneaks away at the first sign of daylight. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll catch a glimpse of his footprints before the new snowfall rains down from the heavens and buries them, erasing all traces that he was ever even here in the first place.

"I love you too," you answer honestly.

It's all you have the will to say

But sometimes, I wish I didn't.

Yeosang: Wooyoung and I have been friends for as long as I can remember and during difficult times thinking about our friendship gives me strength.

Yeosang: Because it reminds me that if I was able to survive all of the shit he made me put up with, I will be able to survive this too.

Genshin Volleyball Dream Team [Volleyball Team AU - Inspired by Haikyuu!] Introduction Headcanons

Notes: Guess who started watching Haikyuu! FML As if I didn’t have enough things to do I decided to fall in love with like 5 different volleyball teams with an average of 10 players. 

I couldn’t get it out of my head. I’m sorry.

Scenario: What if the Genshin boys were a volleyball team?

In the next part: How would it be working as their manager? What if someone hits on you? What if some girl fans bully you? Also, how would it be to date a Genshin volleyball superstar?

Other works in the Volleyball Team AU Series: Click Here

If you’re not familiar with volleyball (or Haikyuu) here’s a link explaining what each position in the team does.

Keep reading

soft tunes, gentle touch, and you.

。SINCERELY, YOUR BAD INFLUENCE

━━ PAIRING: scaramouche/reader

━━ GENRE: fluff

━━ SUMMARY: the pile of bills waiting to be paid had exhaustion weighing over you like a feasting ghost. good thing that your dear lover was someone who's proven to be adept at fighting off your worries in more ways than one.

━━ CONTAINS: modern!au, established relationship, reader is an office worker, domestic fluff, crude language, scaramouche is implied to be a former member of a gang/mafia, conversational mentions of violence, lowercase intended

━━ VALENTINE’S 2022 EVENT SPECIAL (LATE POST)

EACH step was made with purpose, which is to say, each step was made with a murderous glint in his eyes as he confidently walked the streets leading back to his home. a sick sense of pleasure throbbed underneath his skin, expressed in the victorious smirk on his face as his eyes watched the passers-by avoid him without so much as a complaint. never mind the fact that he was wearing your oversized hoodie or the fact that he was barely cradling four bags filled with grocery items on his own, scaramouche was just as terrifying as he was back in his heyday.

a familiar ringtone broke the silence he kept as he walked and he groaned as he fumbled with his things before opening his messaging app. though, of course, you had to be blind to miss the way the mood around him shifted. gone was the murderous glint in his eyes as it was replaced with an exasperatedly tender gaze. had the strangers not witnessed the way scaramouche nearly bit their head off for staring just a few seconds earlier, they would've been confident to say that they passed by two different people who just looked scarily similar. still, between their own busy lives and the possibility of being involved in a petty fight should they breathe in the direction of a ticking time bomb, the people left him to his own devices — just as they should do.

"where are you?" the text read and scaramouche scoffed at the cold way those words reached him. then again, what was it that he was hoping for? a few heart emojis? a disgustingly, cute nickname? he could only grit his teeth as he feels heat pool in his cheeks. typing back a quick reply, he pocketed his phone before resuming his trek home. the faster he got there, the less the chance that he'll embarrass himself by simultaneously combusting in the middle of the road because of his straying thoughts.

at home, you groaned as you stretched, back aching from the sitting position you held for hours straight. it has been a while since you had the luxury of not having to go overtime at work and you figured that it would be nice to spend it with your grump of a lover who has "subtly" expressed his displeasure over the lack of attention you were giving him these past few weeks. to your surprise, he wasn't home and was in fact, fetching groceries when you were sure it was your turn to do so. lips twitching upwards fondly, you felt your heart clench in adoration. nothing beats acts of service when you're about to pass out from exhaustion.

as if on cue (and you wouldn't be surprised if scaramouche really had a sixth sense for when you're about to fall asleep without giving him so much as a glance), the door opened to reveal your lover whose frown worsened as he spots you from afar. moving closer, he eyed you up and down before squinting — a tell that he does right before he's about to ridicule you out of concern. something about his "you look like shit" actually means "are you okay?" in his prominent language of tough love. wanting to be spared the rudeness today, you beat him to it by giving him a sugary smile.

"welcome home, honey boo! how was your trip to the market?"

scaramouche froze, before a sharp glare was directed at your laidback position on the couch, "what did you just call me?"

"hm? what was that, honey boo?"

your typically collected, although also mostly feisty, lover grimaced but the adorable blush that colored the tips of his ears made him look softer than he actually was. it was difficult maintaining your composure when he was so easy to infuriate but this time, the laughter that bubbled deep from the depths of your core was something you didn't even bother hiding. instead, you helped him set the groceries on the coffee table before pulling him into you as you laid against the fluff of your throw pillows with a sigh.

"oi, let me go. i need to put the groceries away."

"later..." you groaned as you nuzzled your face deeper into his neck. an action that worsened the already vibrant hue on his cheeks, "didn't you say you wanted my attention last week, schnookums."

scaramouche jabs a finger at your waist, "shut up or i'm leaving."

you loved him and you love the act of teasing him even more but at the end of the day, you were a human who instinctively clung to the idea of preserving your life from ferocious, little people like your lover. deciding that you're going to live for at least another fifty peaceful years, you silently snuggle up to him. right, this was better... there was no need to tell him that the way his arms were firmly wound up around your waist — occasionally even tugging you closer — was enough to tell you that he had no intention of leaving the couch anytime soon.

from his position, he could hear the rhythm of your heart clearly and the way you would occasionally sigh in contentment. he's far from being religious and the colorful words he spouts on the daily are enough to have him excommunicated under multiple counts of heresy and blasphemy but if he were to be truly honest and vulnerable with himself for a change, this — you and him and silence, separated from the rest of the tumultuous world — is heaven. it's either that or heaven is nothing at all.

after all, what could paradise offer that could top the way your fingers ran through his hair, massaging the parts that hurt whenever something or, rather, someone, decides to give him a headache? your hand falls from his hair and to his back, tracing swirls and shapes down his spine and it took his all to not shiver as little zaps of electricity traveled with your touch. right... this has to be heaven, the only kind he'll believe and turn holy for. confident now that you won't see his face, scaramouche leaned up to brush his lips over the side of your neck — lightly, barely there but loving, all the same — before closing his eyes. the groceries could wait.

it was half past seven when he awoke once more and immediately, an irritated grumble left his lips at the notable lack of your presence. standing up with a low whine, scaramouche moved towards your home office knowing that that's the only place you'll be at this hour.

"what the hell are you doing?"

you hummed in reply, not shocked at the annoyed tone he was using with you when he purposely announced his irritation for the world to hear with each loud stomp he made on his way over to you, "there was an emergency at work. i just need to get this done quick."

"you're at home. stop slaving yourself for your shitty boss."

you don't respond, too busy typing an email for your colleagues and scaramouche didn't like the lack of response as before you know it, he had turned your swivel chair in his direction and flicked your forehead.

"ow! what—"

"you have thirty minutes to fix whatever it is that your incompetent co-workers fucked up. if you're not by the dining table by then, i'm throwing the router in the bin and knocking you out so you'll actually get a decent amount of sleep, you moron with shit for brains."

knowing that there was no room to argue with him, you nodded in defeat, something that made scaramouche snicker, "now, how hard was that?"

"ugh, romance is dead i swear..."

"tragic. happy valentine's, brat."

laughing at his jab, you went back to work with renewed motivation and aggression as you deleted a few lines from your email that came out sounding too polite. seriously, he and his gremlin attitude were rubbing onto you.

in the kitchen, scaramouche stared at the ingredients in front of him. he wasn't a bad cook per se, he just wasn't the best. cooking was usually left in his... acquaintance's hands. the annoying ginger head dropped by too often for his liking and when scaramouche told him off for lounging around his home when he brought nothing to the table, he began bringing tupperwares of food made by his mom instead of taking a hint and not coming over anymore. still, you were thoroughly amused and well-fed given the strange turn of events so he learned to take it in stride. the less work for either of you, the safer it was for the rest of the world.

staring at the vegetables in contempt, scaramouche huffed before scrolling through his contacts where at the top, your favorite fast food restaurant's delivery hotline was saved for all the times you found yourself craving something he can't possibly make. hesitating, scaramouche glanced at the vegetables again before giving up and dialing. while there's less romance now that he's proven incapable of making a proper homecooked meal that's not eggs and bacon, he knew that credit's still due as he recited your order, memorized through the heart and well, the number of times this situation has occurred.

so what if there's no candle-lit dinner, scaramouche argues as he continues to defend his choice fifteen minutes after he placed his order, at least you'll be eating something that isn't burnt today.

to his surprise, you finished five minutes before he expected you to and you were even pleased that he had ordered in instead of cooking. too much work you said, but scaramouche figured that you've just been watching too many romanticized sitcoms as of late. the rest of the night was a blur of doing your nightly routines side by side, no different from a regular day and frankly, he liked that. over the top, corporate benefiting actions were never his style anyway. what he did remember was that you had sloppily laid your body over his last night, effectively knocking the air out of his lungs as he was left to support your entire weight without any sort of warning. the high-pitched evil voice that reigned the insides of scaramouche's head urged him to push you off of him to return the utter lack of regard but one look at the dark circles under your eyes and he was sighing in defeat. how detestable... if he had known that he would keel over for someone so weak, he would've laughed and thrown a world-ending fit of rage earlier. you were neither great nor mighty but, good heavens, you seem to have a knack for making his blood boil. he knew that some people are born gentle and kind but you? you were overflowing with so much goodwill in your heart that you might as well adopt those annoying, little cherubs that are glowing and praising every single one of your self-sacrificial acts of kindness behind your back.

really, what was he thinking when he fell for a saint?

now conscious, scaramouche toyed with the idea of telling you off and guiding you back into his stellar path of becoming a grudge-holding menace of society. it's definitely not a concern for your well-being that's bringing this thought into mind. it's just... scaramouche sighed, before directing his gaze to the continuous pinging of your phone from far away. he should really give your overindulgent coworkers a piece of his mind. stopping in his tracks, a devious grin and manic look crossed over his face. something that was hurriedly removed as you let out a muffled whine, now also roused from sleep.

"wait... what's happening?"

scaramouche smiles and that was when you knew that something was awfully wrong, "good morning to you too."

shivering slightly, you reluctantly left the bed in favor of getting to work on time. if things went south because of him... well, you'll think about that later when it does occur.

noon approached much too swiftly and before long, it was your lunch break. you could skip lunch, you mused as you eyed the towering pile of papers you had to get through today but before you could begin working on another one, a small bag was placed in front of you haphazardly.

"...scara?"

"why are you looking at me like that with your blank eyes?!" he seethed as a soft pink brought color to his face again, "it's your break, right? there! i bought you lunch because i made too much!"

you doubted the legitimacy of his last statement but before you could tease him or thank him for that matter, he was already scurrying off. shaking your head, you opened the bag only to be greeted with a neon pink post-it with "stop sucking up to your scum of a boss and report him for passing his workload to you. it's not like i can't beat him up if things go wrong" written on it. stifling a laugh, you opened the container to be greeted with the leftovers from last night and freshly cooked eggs made exactly the way you like them.

that man, really... you giggled to yourself as you began typing a report to the hr.

each step was made with purpose, which is to say, each step was made with a murderous glint in his eyes as he confidently walked out of your office and back to his home. a sick sense of pleasure throbbed underneath his skin, expressed in the victorious smirk on his face as his eyes watched your hopeless colleagues avoid him without so much as a complaint. nevermind the fact that he was definitely acting like a househusband just as ajax teased him to be or that he's shorter than everyone he passed by, scaramouche was just as terrifying as he was back in his heyday and the scaramouche of back then is all too happy to be the monster that terrifies those who dare exploit what's his.

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© 2021 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐗𝐗. all rights reserved. do not copy, claim, repost or translate in any platforms but reblogs are appreciated.

my girl yanfei serves only the LAW in the court of JUSTICE 🏐🔥

does this look like an 800 number to you? - k.hj

spirit!kim hongjoong x gender neutral!reader

tw - implied suicide (do not read if such topics will trigger you), mild description of wounds, very brief fluff in the beginning, angst

word count: 3k

a/n: i know this is a half hour late for halloween i'm sorry don't @ me about it

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The voice was so sudden and loud that it made you tip over as you scrambled to get away from the ouija board in the middle of your living room floor. Your head hit the floor hard and you winced, the pain making tears sting your eyes.

“Ow,” you whined, squeezing your eyes shut. You made no attempt to get up and no more words came from anywhere near the ouija board. You must’ve imagined it. You let out a soft sigh. In your desperation for company you’d imagined that the cheap board you’d gotten from a thrift store had actually summoned some sort of presence in your crappy, dank apartment. Now the tears welling in your eyes were less from the pounding ache in your head and more from how pathetic the whole situation was. Who the fuck uses a ouija board to find company anyway?

“Hello? Did you knock yourself out? I asked you a question.”

You huffed softly. Why was the voice still there? You sat up, pressing a hand to the back of your head to try and quell the pain while you sniffed away your tears. There was no point in crying now. You should probably just order take out and get some sleep. Your vision cleared and you went to get up, only to find a man sitting cross-legged across from you. Oh.

“So?” he asked, clearly irritated. “Can you explain why I’m here?”

His mouth was pulled into a frown but otherwise he looked pretty normal. Like any other person you’d see on the street or at the grocery store. Surely this isn’t what ouija boards were supposed to dredge up, right? But he was here and clearly waiting for an answer anyway and you figured you might as well give him one.

“I wanted company,” you blurted out. You cringed at the overly honest answer. Judging by the look on the man’s face he had definitely expected a better excuse.

“Does this look like an 800 number to you?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the ouija board.

“No,” you said, feeling shame crawl up your chest. It was just your luck that you’d summon a dickhead spirit. The tears came springing back and you could feel your cheeks start to burn from holding them back. Spending Halloween night alone with nothing to do and nowhere to go was bad enough but now you were being scolded for wanting something better to do, which was definitely worse.

“Hey, did you hit your head hard? Why are you crying?” the man asked, his voice suddenly much softer than it had been just a minute ago. You shook your head, hiding your face behind your hands.

“No, I’m fine,” you mumbled. “You can leave, it’s whatever.”

“I’m already here now,” he replied, now only slightly annoyed. You heard shuffling and suddenly there was a cold hand on the back of your head. You uncovered your face and found that the man was kneeling in front of you, his frown less intense and his eyes fixed on yours. “Did you hit your head hard?”

“Yeah,” you said, voice still unsteady. He grunted, letting go of your head and taking a hold of your face instead, wiping away your tears roughly and with little care.

“Well you kind of deserved it. Being dragged here like this is annoying. Ouija boards don’t bring us here by choice,” he said, letting go of your face. Now that he’d reprimanded you a little more his frown disappeared entirely, a neutral expression taking its place. “You’ve got your company now. Do you have any food?”

You blinked, your brows furrowing as you tried to understand what he was saying. Was this really how ouija boards worked? What kind of spirits turned up to scold you and then ask for food?

“I was going to order take out,” you told him, at the sound of which he pulled a face.

“Let’s cook something,” he said firmly before standing up. He took a moment to dust himself off, looking around your small living room to inspect your belongings. When he turned his head you noticed a wound in his head. It was bloody and the flesh around it was mangled, although you couldn’t see much of the damage thanks to the dark dry blood. It sat almost at the back of his head but slightly to the side of it, and now that you knew where it was you noticed it when he was facing you directly again. He turned the other way, eyes dragging over the shelves by your TV, making another wound visible. This one was significantly smaller and significantly cleaner as well. You chewed on your bottom lip, suddenly very aware of the nature of the man standing in front of you. “You must’ve hit your head pretty hard. Come on, let’s cook.”

He turned his head a little and you found that he’d been looking at you the whole time. Or more so watching you look at the wound in his head. For the second time since he’d shown up you felt your face burn with embarrassment.

“Yeah, sorry,” you mumbled, standing up and walking the few steps it took to get to your kitchen.

The man wasn’t particularly helpful but you supposed you couldn’t expect much after summoning him from wherever he had come from. He boiled noodles and ate crisps while you fried and cooked the few vegetables you’d found in your fridge, the silence between the two of you a little awkward but not tense. You were still frying the vegetables when he sidled up to you, his shoulder almost pressing into yours.

“Can we put on some music?” he asked, smiling when you nodded. You handed him your phone and he navigated YouTube with ease, making you wonder when exactly he’d passed away. His clothes were a little weird (who the hell wears pants that are half plaid and half denim?) but only in the way that fashion is weird. They didn’t look outdated at all. Before you could ask about them, the kitchen filled with the sound of music playing from your phone. You glanced over at the screen and saw a logo but not much else. He seemed pleased, lifting himself to sit on the counter while you poured sauce over the vegetables.

“ATEEZ?” you asked, squinting slightly to see the logo better. The man hummed in response. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“They’re gonna make it big soon,” he said, nodding solemnly. “They might have a Spotify page up, you should check it out.”

He had a different expression on his face now. In fact it’d be more appropriate to say that there was no expression on his face at all, what with the way his eyes were unfocused and his lips were pressed into a thin line. You looked at the wound in his head again. You could see into his head now that you were closer to it - could see the crater where his brain and skull and scalp should’ve been. Your stomach twisted at the sight and you concentrated on the pan in front of you.

“Can you drain the noodles and split them into two bowls?” you asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace he’d found now that he was listening to music. He hopped down from the counter and did as you asked, letting you spoon the vegetables and sauce over both portions of noodles. He grinned at you once you were done.

“This looks way better than take out,” he said, picking up both bowls and carrying them to the living room. You followed after him, picking up your phone and scrolling through the recommended videos. A few videos down a thumbnail popped up of a few guys sitting in what looked like a basement with a shoddy recording studio set up around them. They were grinning at each other - wide, childish grins that you recognised from old photos you had with your own friends. The kind of smile you can’t hold back regardless of how hard you tried. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d smiled like that. It took a few seconds for you to realise that the boy sitting in the middle was the same man now sitting in your living room. You checked the title of the video. ‘ATEEZ - Treasure’. You’d listen to it later, you decided.

You found the man sitting on the floor in front of your coffee table, shovelling noodles into his mouth and clicking through TV channels. His eyes widened almost comically when he saw you, his ears turning pink.

“Sorry,” he said through his mouthful of food. He chewed and swallowed before speaking again. “Sorry I started without you. Nobody’s cooked for me since-”

He stopped talking, his mouth still halfway open with no sound coming out. There was a long moment in which he looked like he might just evaporate in front of you - whether it would be out of embarrassment or sorrow you couldn’t tell. But then he blinked a few times and shut his mouth, turning his attention back to the TV.

“There should be horror movies on, right? Isn’t it Halloween?” he asked, handing you the remote control.

“Yeah, you just didn’t find the movie channels,” you explained, clicking through the channels until you found one playing a movie. “Have you seen Nightmare on Elm Street?”

“Of course I have. Johnny Depp’s really hot in it,” he said.

“Lucky for you,” you said, snorting softly at his comment. He grinned when he looked up to see that Nightmare on Elm Street was playing on the TV, looking over at you and laughing softly.

“Score,” he murmured.

The two of you ate quietly after that, occasionally commenting on the actors in the movie or the special effects. When the movie came to an end you left him with the task of finding another movie to watch while you washed the dishes, the small apartment filled with the white noise of the TV playing and the man’s quiet humming. When you came back to the living room he’d made himself at home in a corner of the sofa, eyes concentrated on a movie you didn’t recognise.

“Thanks for doing the dishes,” he mumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest and picking at a loose thread on his jeans.

“You’re the guest, you don’t have to thank me,” you said, smiling a little. You didn’t want to say it out loud but you were more than happy to wash his dishes and watch the horror movies he was picking out. You hadn’t had a friend over like this in so long - not a friend or acquaintance or anybody - and you'd started to think you weren't going to have anyone over ever again. Sure, he’d been irritable at first but now that he’d settled down he was a pleasant presence. You sat down on the sofa with a soft sigh. “If you want anything just let me know.”

“I want one thing,” he said not a second after you’d spoken, looking over at you with a more serious expression than you’d seen on him since he’d turned up.

“Sure, what is it?” you prompted, his stare making you uncomfortable. You felt stripped bare by the way his eyes narrowed for a split-second, his hands completely still as he looked at you.

“Why did you use that board?” he asked. “Not in the way that I asked you earlier, like ‘what the fuck are you doing’. It’s not like you have any friends here for it to be fun. You didn’t even light candles or any of that spooky stuff. So what was the point?”

You paused, opening and closing your mouth until you realised you must look like a goldfish and you shut your mouth, looking away from him. It wasn’t a very personal question but it certainly felt like one. Maybe it was the sincere tone in his voice or the fact that he was still staring but you felt like you’d been shoved under a spotlight.

“I told you, I wanted company,” you said finally. It wasn’t entirely a lie after all.

“Okay. But you know that you’re alive, right? You can go out to clubs or to friends’ houses or invite people over - other living people,” he said. His tone wasn’t accusatory but you felt a little childish now that he’d put it like that. “You don’t have to call on the dead.”

You nodded, feeling a lump form in your throat as you tried to figure out how to answer him.

“I just didn’t have anyone. To go out with or visit or invite over,” you explained, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t have anyone.”

He didn’t say anything for what felt like far too long and you turned around, scared that he might’ve disappeared, but he was still in his corner of the sofa, still staring steadily with his hands placed on his knees and his lips parted as though he was trying to come up with something to say.

“You don’t have to answer, let’s just watch the movie,” you mumbled sheepishly, angling your body away from him so that you wouldn’t have to feel his eyes on you anymore. Once again he didn’t reply. Instead, you felt his hand close around your wrist. His skin was so cold it made you jump, your head whipping around to find him sitting much closer to you than he had been just seconds ago.

“No,” he said. “You’re not alone.”

“What?” you asked, drawing your wrist out of his grip. He let you do so and leaned away from you slightly, his lips forming a frown.

“The last time someone cooked for me was a week before I- a week before I died,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. He visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple shifting up and down. You wondered if he had the same lump in his throat that you did. “It was my best friend. We were watching movies in my apartment - us and all of our other friends. He cooked for us. We helped him but he always took care of us, so he did most of the cooking.”

You wanted to understand what he was trying to say. From the way he was struggling to keep a straight expression it was clear that he’d made a connection you hadn’t noticed yet and you waited for him to explain.

“And they stayed over for most of the night but when they left I should have-”

He paused and you noticed how his hands were no longer still but shaking. You took them into yours and gave them a soft squeeze. He inhaled sharply, finally breaking the eye contact he’d been holding for so long.

“I felt alone, like you do. I knew I could go out or go back to his place or just ask them to come back but I didn’t,” he said. He looked back up at you, his lashes wet and his bottom lip shaking. “I didn’t mean to- I should have called someone.”

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching forward to pull him into you. He hugged you tightly, clinging to you as though his existence depended on it. His tears soaked through your shirt and your own vision blurred at the feeling, your heart sinking in your chest. “Don’t cry.”

“Hypocrite,” he mumbled between sniffles without any real bite. His hand moved up and down against your back slowly, soothing both you and himself until neither of you were crying anymore. “I made it so I can never see them again. We were gonna make it big together. My friends are really- they’re so talented and I wanted to be there with them when they-”

You shushed him, not wanting him to work himself up again. He shook his head and hugged you tighter.

“You’re not like me. You can still call someone,” he said, his shoulders shaking as he suddenly pulled back to look at you, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly. “If you don’t have anyone I’ll give you his number. My best friend. He'll answer. I know he will.”

There was so much desperation in his voice that it only made more tears roll down your cheeks. He let go of one of your shoulders and wiped your cheeks with his thumb. He was a dozen times more careful than he had been when wiping your face earlier and it made your heart ache.

“I’m a stranger, he won’t answer,” you whispered. The man in front of you shook his head.

“He knows that people need somebody sometimes,” he said gently. “He’ll take care of you the way he took care of me, okay?”

You could tell that wasn’t really the sentence he wanted to say but you didn’t need to hear him say it to know what he meant.

He’ll take care of you the way he can’t take care of me anymore.

“I know I said that ouija boards aren’t supposed to be 800 numbers but you use that board whenever you need company, okay?” he said. His voice had returned somewhat to the harsh tone he’d had when he first turned up in your living room, finding a balance between caring and rude that was reminiscent of how close friends talk to each other. You smiled through the tears in your eyes and nodded. He nodded in return and settled against the sofa to watch TV, gesturing for you to lean into him. “There’s still some of the movie left.”

The next morning the man was nowhere to be found. The only proof that he hadn’t been a figment of your imagination was the extra bowl drying on the dish rack and the notification on your lock screen from a new contact named Seonghwa in response to a message that you remembered the man typing out into your phone. He was inviting you out to dinner with his friends.

The final piece of evidence was that you were now following ATEEZ on Spotify. Their top song started with an audio clip of the man you’d met last night, giggling and talking to the rest of his friends in what sounded like the happiest voice you’d ever heard. He was talking about the next album he wanted to write. His voice was nowhere to be found in the rest of the song.

It hurt to hear.

☆⌒

taglist: @lovely-ateez @sunsethw4 @seonghwanotes @xirenex @choiberry @peanutpmingib @sannierio @ateezinmymind

★ SOFT AS IT BEGAN.

district four’s only victors—satoru gojo, dazzling and deadly, and you, cunning and stubborn—are dragged back into the arena for the quarter quell. with the capitol watching and a rebellion brewing, the hunger games are no longer just about survival. they’re about trust, betrayal, and the unresolved past that still burns between you.

★ pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader ★ genres & contains: romance, angst, smut, action, hurt/comfort, slow burn. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. violence, gore, character death, injuries, blood, misogyny, class differences, mentions of non-consensual sex work, profanity, alcohol consumption. basically anything you’d expect in a typical hunger games au. individual warnings will be placed before each chapter. ★ word count: 6.2k (ongoing) ★ credits: art by _3aem. beta read by @mahowaga & @admiringlove.

“The poem ends, Soft as it began— I loved my friend.” — “Poem”, Langston Hughes

01. The Reaping. 02. The Capitol. 03. The Victors. 04. The Arena. 05. The Cannon. 06. The Beach. 07. The Plan. 08. The Games. 09. The District. 10. The Mockingjay.