#RoW Chapter 21 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

koiukiy-o · 3 months ago

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orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 003. the framework.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 2.4k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: well well well... this took a long damn time. apologies, apologies, but the science had to be figured out. these two are absolute NERDS, i fear. oblivion is absolutely delicious on those who claim to possess and pursue the knowledge of the universe. i fear you will be suffering for a WHILE if youre not into the slow burn HAAHAHAH. also,, if you guys ever want to see the actual equations and notes i took to write some of the science for this chapter, i could post it as well,, hehe,, -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Hushed voices, the occasional shuffle of papers, the muted hum of thought is all that fills the air in the library. You sit at your usual table, papers strewn before you. The assignment has consumed your thoughts since it was given to you—an open-ended challenge demanding structure, logic, proof. Model something that physics refuses to acknowledge.

Your notes are chaotic, an evolving web of connections scrawled in the margins, crossed out and rewritten. A familiar frustration gnaws at you—the feeling of standing on the precipice of understanding, just shy of articulation. You run a hand through your hair and exhale sharply, staring at the mess of your own making. You need structure, a foundation to hold onto. If the soul exists, then it cannot be an anomaly—it must be governed by laws, patterns, something definable. If every human mind is unique, then what makes them so? The answer cannot be randomness. There must be an underlying form, a universal template from which all variation emerges.

You tap your pen against the page, mind turning. If identity is not a static entity but a recursive function, shaped by initial conditions and iterative transformations, then no self is ever fixed. The soul would not be a singular essence but a structure in motion, a process of becoming. And if this process holds, then consciousness cannot be isolated. The soul, then, is not merely a singular phenomenon—it is networked, existing not only within itself but through its connections. But what is it that determines it?

If this recursion is real, then it must not be a property of human existence but a fundamental principle of consciousness itself, a universal law.

It isn’t proof. It isn’t even a complete theory yet. But it is a start. A framework, a way forward. You stare at the words in front of you, pulse steady but intent.

Your fingers ache from gripping the pen too tightly, your vision blurring as you stare at the same lines of text, reading and rereading without truly absorbing them. The library’s stillness, once a comfort, has become suffocating—a static silence pressing in around you, the air too thick, the rows of bookshelves seemingly endless, as if space itself is closing in.

You lean back, dragging a hand down your face. A glance at the clock startles you. How long have you been here? Long enough that the lamps cast long, slanted shadows over your scattered notes. Long enough that exhaustion has settled into your limbs, dull and insistent.

You need air. Movement. A change in surroundings before your thoughts begin looping endlessly in place.

Gathering your papers into a loose stack, you shove them into your bag with little care for organization. You rise, stretching the stiffness from your spine before heading for the exit. The fluorescent lighting of the library hums overhead as you step out, the cooler evening air brushing against your skin like a quiet relief.

Minutes later, you find yourself at the café, drawn by the promise of warmth and caffeine. As the quiet hum of the city presses in, you click a few buttons on your phone and lift it to your ear.

–

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, grounding you. You wrap your hands around the ceramic cup, letting its heat seep into your skin. You sit near the window, coffee cup nestled between your hands, eyes skimming the notes spread haphazardly across the table. The light overhead buzzes softly—old wiring, probably—but the sound fades into the background as you focus.

You’re not here to have a breakthrough. You’re here to map the boundaries.

The problem with studying the soul—if you can even call it that—isn’t just defining it. It’s figuring out where to look. If it exists as more than a philosophical concept, then there have to be parameters. A framework.

You flip to a blank page in your notebook.

What is the soul?

A real question. Not in the poetic sense, not in the way people speak about it in hushed tones and late-night confessions, but as a function. A thing with properties.

You write:

— The soul is not isolated. If it were, it wouldn’t interact with the world. People change. Learn. Influence each other. Whatever the soul is, it isn’t locked away inside a single person.

— It has persistent traits, but it is not static. Memories shape behavior. Experience alters perception. The thing that makes you you isn’t a fixed point, but it also isn’t random. There’s continuity, even through change.

— It extends beyond individual experience. Connections leave an imprint. People carry each other—sometimes in ways they can’t explain. If the soul exists beyond metaphor, then its effects should be traceable.

You take a slow sip of coffee. These aren’t conclusions. They’re places to start.

At the very least, if you’re going to chase something this impossible, you have to know what it isn’t–

"Trial and error."

The voice is measured, almost idle, but it cuts through the noise of the café like a well-placed incision.

You jolt, pen slipping from your fingers. Anaxagoras is standing beside your table, hands in the pockets of his coat, gaze flicking over your notes with mild interest. His presence isn’t overwhelming, but it shifts the air in a way you feel immediately. Like a variable introduced into an equation.

"You can’t just—appear—like that," you say, exhaling sharply as you retrieve your pen.

He lifts a brow. "I used the door. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention." His gaze drops back to your notebook, reading without asking, though you suspect if you told him to stop, he actually would. "Trial and error," he repeats, as if the phrase itself is under scrutiny. "A method you seem to be employing."

You sit back slightly, fingers curling around your coffee cup. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"Not at all," he replies, voice as even as ever. "It’s an honest approach. Just an unpolished one."

You huff a quiet laugh. "Practicality aside, it’s the only thing I can do at this stage. I'm defining parameters, not solving anything." You tap your pen against the page. "Or would you rather I skip to the part where I give you something half-formed and empirically worthless?"

His mouth curves—just slightly. "I appreciate the restraint."

"High praise."

Anaxagoras doesn’t acknowledge that, but his gaze lingers on your notes a moment longer before he straightens. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t ask to join, but he also doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he says, "It’s getting cold."

You blink at him. "What?"

"Your coffee," he nods toward your coffee cup, still mostly full. "You’ve been holding it for minutes without drinking."

You glance down at it, then back up at him. "I didn't realize you were keeping track."

"Well, far be it from me to disrupt your... inefficiency." he remarks, stepping back.

You glance toward the door. "I'm actually waiting for someone."

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly.

"A friend," you clarify, though you're not sure why it feels necessary to do so.

He makes no move to leave, and you take another sip of coffee, not minding the silence that settles between you. It's surprisingly comfortable, even in its brevity.

Then, the door swings open.

Ilias strides in, scanning the café—then stops dead when he sees the two of you. His eyes flick between you and Anaxagoras, narrowing with immediate, delighted suspicion. And then, with exaggerated slowness, he pivots on his heel, turning straight back toward the exit.

"Oh, for—come back," you call, exasperated.

Ilias replies, raising his hands in mock surrender but grinning as he turns back around. "Please. Continue your—" he gestures vaguely, "—whatever this is."

Anaxagoras exhales, barely more than a breath, and finally steps away from your table. "I’m leaving."

Ilias watches him, expression far too entertained. He mutters just loud enough for you to hear, "I can't believe you invited me to your impromptu date."

You glare at him, but before you can retort, you catch the faintest shift in Anaxagoras' posture—nothing overt, no reaction beyond the briefest pause in his step. Then he continues toward the door, leaving without a word.

You groan, rubbing your temples.

Ilias collapses into the seat across from you like a man overcome by the sheer weight of his own amusement. "That was," he announces, "the single most deliciously awkward thing I have ever witnessed."

You mutter a quiet curse under your breath, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook.

"And yet," he sighs, folding his hands under his chin with a smirk, "here I am—like the universe itself has conspired to place me in this exact moment.”

Ilias is still grinning as he leans back in his chair, stretching lazily. “You know, if you ever need a chaperone for your secret intellectual rendezvous, I’m available.”

You roll your eyes, gathering your notes with more force than necessary. “It wasn’t an—” You stop yourself. There’s no point. Ilias seemingly lives for provocation, and you won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you shake your head and lean back in your chair, stretching your arms with a sigh.

Ilias, ever the dramatist, makes a show of settling in across from you, propping his chin in his hands. “You’re unusually quiet,” he muses. “Brooding, even.”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He taps a finger against the table. “That was an awfully long pause for a simple ‘no.’”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you glance out the window, watching the people moving along the street, the steady glow of passing headlights. The café hums around you—low conversations, the occasional clatter of a cup against its saucer. It’s late, but not late enough to leave just yet.

Ilias orders something sweet, drumming his fingers absently against the table while he waits. You sip the last of your now-cold coffee, your mind still lingering elsewhere. A glance at your notes does little to pull you back. The thought won’t let go.

You don’t even realize you’re frowning at your notes until Ilias nudges your cup with his own.

"Thinking about your not-a-date?" he teases, grinning.

You glare at him half-heartedly, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Thinking,” you say simply.

Eventually, Ilias finishes his pastry, brushing crumbs from his fingers before stretching with a yawn.

The two of you step outside together, the shift from the café’s warmth to the crisp night air making you shiver. The city has quieted, the usual rush of movement settling into a steadier rhythm. You walk side by side for a while, boots clicking against the pavement, the hum of distant traffic filling the spaces between conversation.

Even as Ilias chatters on about something inconsequential, the ideas still linger at the edge of your mind, waiting to take shape.

By the next morning, the café is a memory drowned out by the quiet rustle of students filling the lecture hall. The usual pre-class murmur settles into a steady rhythm—books thudding against desks, the sharp clicking of laptop keys, the low hum of voices exchanging half-hearted speculations on today’s topic.

You slide into your usual seat at the front, your notes open in front of you, though your pen remains idle between your fingers. The thoughts that have followed you since the library refuse to resolve, circling just beyond reach. There’s something missing—something foundational, yet frustratingly unformed.

At the lectern, Anaxagoras sets down his drink with practiced ease, the cup making a soft, deliberate sound against the wooden surface. The hall quiets.

He surveys the room with that same composed intensity, his gaze flickering over the assembled students before settling briefly—too briefly—on you.

“Continuity,” he begins, his voice carrying effortlessly, “is a deceptively simple concept. We assume that when two systems interact, they influence each other only at the moment of contact. That once they separate, the interaction ends.”

You straighten slightly. A slow prickle of recognition runs down your spine.

Anaxagoras picks up a piece of chalk and sketches a familiar equation on the board—one you’ve seen before, but never in this exact context. Your fingers tighten around your pen.

“But,” he continues, underlining a key term, “this assumes a linear, local model of influence. What happens, then, if we acknowledge that certain interactions leave something… persistent? That even after separation, a trace remains?”

The rustling of papers around you barely registers. Your thoughts lurch forward, bridging gaps in ways they hadn’t before.

You shift, almost without realizing, and Anaxagoras glances in your direction—briefly, but with intent. He knows.

A student two seats over raises a hand. “Are you talking about quantum entanglement?”

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly. “A useful analogy, but not a perfect one. Entanglement suggests an instantaneous connection regardless of distance. What I am asking is more fundamental—does influence itself persist, even outside direct interaction?”

A murmur ripples through the hall. A few students exchange looks, some hurriedly scribbling notes, others frowning as they try to grasp the implications.

Your heart beats a fraction faster as the pieces align. The answer should be simple. If two variables are no longer in contact, the influence should end. The system should reset. But—

“They don’t go back to what they were before,” you murmur, half to yourself.

Anaxagoras sets the chalk down. “Louder.”

The words form before hesitation can stop them. “Even apart, they still retain the effect of their interaction. They update each other, whether they remain in proximity or not.”

The silence that follows is the kind that shifts the atmosphere of a room. Not an absence of sound, but a space filled with quiet recognition.

Anaxagoras watches you, his expression unreadable, but you swear something flickers in his gaze.

You grip your pen tighter. “There’s a kind of imprint,” you continue, voice steadier now. “An effect that doesn’t disappear even after separation. A persistence beyond time or proximity.”

He nods once, the movement precise. “Nonlinear. Nonlocal.”

A slow breath escapes you.

The clock on the wall ticks forward. A student coughs. Someone flips a page too loudly. The world presses back in, indifferent to the shape of revelation.

Anaxagoras turns away first, back to the board, where the equation remains half-finished. He picks up the chalk again, his voice returning to its usual cadence, folding the moment neatly back into lecture.

His gaze flickers back to you for a moment—steady, contemplative, threaded with something unreadable. Interest, perhaps. Amusement, restrained but evident in the slight tilt of his head. And then, just low enough for only you to hear:

“You were closer than you thought.”

You exhale, staring at the marginalia scrawled in the edges of your notebook—sharp, decisive, yet somehow restrained. Outside the window, the campus air carries the crisp scent of rain—not quite fallen, not quite gone. And yet, the thought lingers, refusing to leave you.

-> next.

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ceyanabbiolo · 1 month ago

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CONTRACT // C.S [21]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: angst, crying, longing, kissing.

wc: 5769

Chapter 21: The Look Of Love

By the end of April, I was alright. Not great, not whole—but alright. I was moving through the days with a quiet steadiness, finally breathing without everything hurting.

I had my routines, my shopping days, my little walks through the city with earbuds in and my bag slung over my shoulder. I was letting time do what it does best—soften the sharp edges of everything.

Then came the trial.

Going to my father’s hearing was something I had tried to mentally prepare for, but nothing quite readied me for seeing him again. He looked thinner. His suit hung loosely on him, and his hair was grayer than I remembered. What unsettled me most wasn’t his appearance—it was how unaffected he looked. His face was stiff, cold, the same expressionless mask he’d worn my whole life.

There was no remorse in his eyes. No guilt. Just silence, like he was still clinging to the control he’d always demanded.

Chris was there, too. I saw him the moment I walked in, standing off to the side in a dark coat, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. But I didn’t acknowledge him. I stayed close to my mom and Jen the whole time. We sat in the second row, and when the sentence was read out—essentially life—I felt nothing. Not joy. Not relief. Just a hollow finality. Like turning the last page of a book I never wanted to read in the first place.

Even then, Chris kept looking at me.

But I didn’t look back.

The first week of May, Darren and I went on our first real date. He took me to a retro arcade just outside the city—walls lined with flashing machines, the sound of buttons being mashed and 80s music playing in the background. It was relaxed, easy.

But even as I laughed and nudged him during a game of basketball shootout, there was a quiet truth settling in my chest—he felt more like a friend. The kind you could spend hours with and still not feel that ache in your ribs. There was no spark, not the kind that made your hands shake or your heart race.

Still, I let myself enjoy the night. Maybe friendship was enough. Maybe that’s all I could handle right now.

The more time I spent with Darren, the more I realized how different we really were. At first, I thought it was just surface-level—maybe different upbringings, different worlds. But it wasn’t that. Not really.

It was deeper than that. He saw things in a way I couldn’t quite align with. In small moments—in how he spoke about people, how he dismissed certain things I cared about, how quick he was to justify things that didn’t sit right with me—I started to notice cracks.

He didn’t necessarily mean harm, but there were times he just… lacked the same sense of accountability or empathy I held close. We weren’t raised differently—we just believed in different things. At our core, we just didn’t match.

By the end of May, the weather was getting hotter, marking the quiet shift from spring to summer.

Everything was slowly falling back into place.

I was preparing for my fellowship, which I’d be leaving for in August—two months earlier than necessary. I wanted time to adjust to Paris before the program began. Besides, I didn’t have a reason to stay in Boston anymore. It felt like the right time to start living for myself.

My mother’s divorce was finally getting finalized next week. After everything he put her through, she was free. We both were. My father… well, he wasn’t just gone—he was gone for good. Sentenced to what was essentially life in prison. A certain ex-fiancée of mine made sure of it. It still felt surreal sometimes. Like I’d wake up and none of it had happened. Like I’d still hear his voice echoing in our house, calling for me like I was still some pawn in his perfect little empire.

But he wasn’t coming back. Not this time.

Tonight, I was tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, sharing dinner with Darren. We’d gone on a few casual dates here and there, but this was our first real dinner—something that felt slightly more intentional.

It wasn’t anything serious. Not yet, at least. I was still a little slow to reply to his messages, often distracted or just too tired to make conversation. Luckily, Darren was swamped with work most of the time, so the pace didn’t seem to bother him. It worked for now—low effort, low expectations.

“So… you’re really leaving. In August,” Darren said as we lingered over the last bites of dinner, his voice quieter now.

I nodded, setting down my fork. “Yeah. I’m excited.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s amazing, Aurora. Really. Paris is—well, it’s Paris.” He laughed softly. “I’m happy for you.”

I tilted my head. “You don’t sound that happy.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking toward the window before settling back on me. “It’s not that I’m not happy for you. I am. I just…I was hoping you’d stay a little longer.”

A pause hung between us. I took a sip of my drink, my heart ticking a little faster.

“Why?” I asked, even though part of me already knew.

Darren’s gaze softened. “Because I was going to ask if you wanted to be my girlfriend.”

I blinked. The words sat in the space between us, simple and sincere.

He shrugged, trying to play it off. “I know the timing isn't great. And I know things have been casual. But I like you, Aurora. And I thought maybe we could see where this goes.”

I looked at him—really looked at him.

But all I could feel was the weight of everything unsaid inside me.

I stayed quiet, unsure how to answer him without leading him on—or hurting him. The pause stretched a little too long, thickening the air between us.

Darren looked at me, still hopeful, but his smile had faded slightly.

“Aurora?” he asked again, softer this time. “Would you want to be my girlfriend?”

I looked away for a second, toward the small street outside the café where people walked past with gelato and shopping bags, where the world felt a little less complicated.

“I don’t know,” I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled—slowly. Not dramatic or annoyed, just…tired.

“I figured,” he muttered with a small, dry laugh. “But I had to ask.”

The silence that followed wasn’t warm anymore. It was tense. Awkward. We both looked down at our plates, pretending to still be hungry. Neither of us moved.

Then, mercifully, the waiter came by with a polite smile. “Can I bring the bill over?”

“Yes, please,” Darren said before I could answer. “We’ll split it.”

I blinked, surprised.

Not because I couldn’t afford it—I could easily pay for the whole restaurant if I wanted to—but because I wasn’t used to it. I’d never split a bill before in my life.

Not even with the worst men I knew. Not even with my father, who made a habit of reminding me what I owed him, but never once let me reach for my card at dinner.

Something about it caught me off guard. Not in a spoiled way—just in a this-is-new kind of way. It felt like another small reminder that Darren and I were never going to see things quite the same.

I reached for my purse slowly, keeping my expression neutral.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, even though I didn’t really know what I was thanking him for.

He gave a quick nod, like he didn’t want to dwell on it either.

By the time we stepped outside, the warmth of the evening couldn’t quite thaw the distance between us.

Outside, the street was quieter than before. The buzz of the city had faded into softer echoes—dim headlights passing, the occasional laugh from a distant patio. The sky had turned that deep navy blue, the kind that makes everything feel lonelier than it is.

Darren pulled me into a hug. It was brief, one-armed, like something you’d give a friend you didn’t know how to say goodbye to.

“I’ll see you later,” he said as he pulled back.

I gave a small nod, still feeling the weight of the unspoken things between us. “Yeah. See you.”

Then he paused. “Do you have a ride home?”

I stared at him for a second, blinking. “Didn’t you…Pick me up?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes. “Yeah, I did. Sorry, I just—I’ve got an early morning and I figured you might have called someone or something.”

Excuse me? Who raised this guy?

He picked me up. We drove here together, and now—what? I was supposed to just…figure it out?

“Right,” I said quietly, more to myself than to him. “I’ll get an Uber.”

Darren nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Cool. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

Then he was already turning away, unlocking his car, slipping into the driver’s seat without a second glance.

I didn’t move. I just stood on the curb, staring after his car as it pulled off and disappeared around the corner.

Something about it sat wrong in my chest. Not because I couldn’t get home—had options. I could call a car in thirty seconds. I could call my driver.

But it was the way he didn’t even offer. It was dark. Late. I was wearing heels. We had just finished a full dinner together. Somehow, I was suddenly just… someone to be dropped off emotionally and physically.

Not even dropped off. Left to drop myself off.

I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone, intending to order an Uber. But the screen stays stubbornly black.

I pressed the screen again—nothing.

My phone was dead.

Of course.

I stared at it, frustration rising. No way to call, no way to text, no way to get an Uber.

The street was quiet, dimly lit by flickering streetlights. The night suddenly felt colder, lonelier.

Help me. Anyone.

I stared down at my dead phone like it had betrayed me. No texts, no calls, no Uber. Just silence.

Darren was gone. The street was mostly empty, and I was alone. Just cars, no people on the sidewalk.

I looked around, hoping maybe, by some miracle, there’d be a cab nearby. Nothing. Not even a soul walking past.

I tightened my coat around myself and glanced down the sidewalk, exhaling slowly. I wasn’t going to lie, I was slightly scared. I wouldn’t say Boston was safe at night.

I didn’t live far. Maybe…two hours on foot.

I wanted to cry.

It was late, and dark, and I was in heels, but I didn’t really have a choice.

So I started walking.

The city looked different when you weren’t looking at it from a window or a car. It felt bigger. The shadows stretched longer. My footsteps echoed on the pavement louder than they should have. I kept my head down, my bag clenched tightly to my side.

Every sound made me flinch just slightly—a car door, a siren in the distance, someone laughing too far away to be comforting.

I was halfway down the block when headlights swung around the corner behind me. I instinctively stepped to the side, hugging the edge of the sidewalk.

The car slowed.

I didn’t look back.

But I heard the window roll down.

“Aurora?”

I froze.

That voice.

I turned slowly, blinking against the lights.

Christopher.

He was in the driver’s seat of his expensive jeep, eyes narrowing with confusion and something else—concern? Anger?

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked yelling, pulling the car closer to the curb.

This guy was the last person I needed to see right now.

I turned away without a word and kept walking, heels clicking against the pavement, faster this time.

I heard his car door slam behind me, but I didn’t look back.

I couldn’t. Not tonight.

Let him drive away. Let him be confused or irritated or whatever emotion he wanted to wrap around that sharp tongue of his.

But then—

I felt it.

A hand wrapped gently but firmly around my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.

My breath caught.

“Aurora,” he said again, closer this time, voice lower, more serious. “Stop.”

I didn’t turn around at first. I just stared ahead, heart pounding for reasons I didn’t want to admit.

“Let go,” I said quietly.

He did—but didn’t move back.

I straightened my posture before turning halfway, brushing my hair behind my ear with a calm I didn’t feel.

“I was just going for a walk.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “In heels? At ten at night? Alone?”

I swallowed, glancing at the sidewalk. “I needed air.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Right. Try again”

I sighed. “I was out with friends, okay? My car didn’t have enough gas, and my phone died. It’s not a big deal.”

His eyes locked on mine, sharp and unrelenting.

“You don’t drive in the dark and you flinch at sidewalk cracks,” he said flatly.

I didn’t answer.

Mostly because there was nothing left in me to say, but when I looked at him, it was like no time had passed at all. Like he hadn’t shattered me. Like my heart hadn’t learned how to ache because of him.

So instead, I just let out a snarky comment.

“Why the hell are you even here? Are you keeping tabs on me?” I scoffed.

Chris looked past me, then tilted his head toward the street. “Look over there.”

I followed his gaze.

Across the road, glowing white letters lit up the dark glass of a tall building.

His building. His company. His logo.

I blinked. Oh.

“I was working late,” he said quietly, his tone low and unreadable. “You’re in my district, Aurora. So really, I should be the one asking—are you keeping tabs on me?”

I felt my stomach twist, embarrassment crawling up my throat.

I hadn’t even realized where I was. Of all places.

I felt a sudden drop fall onto my nose.

Great. This is just great.

He looked at me again. “You don’t have to tell me the truth. But I’m not letting you walk home.”

He stepped back, nodding toward his car.

“Get in. It's going to rain.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

“Aurora—”

“No,” I said, louder. “I’m fine.”

I turned again and started walking—fast, anywhere, nowhere. My feet carried me into some random parking lot, the kind that looked deserted after hours, shadows cast by broken lights and half-empty signs.

I didn’t even know where I was going. I just needed to move. To get away.

“Aurora,” Chris called behind me, footsteps catching up. “Where are you going?”

I didn’t answer. My hands were fists at my sides.

“Seriously? Into a dark parking lot? What are you doing?”

“Leave me alone!” I snapped over my shoulder, not stopping.

He kept coming. “You’re being difficult for no reason—”

I whipped around.

“No reason?” My voice cracked.

He froze.

The droplets started to increase.

I let out a shaky breath, arms dropping to my sides. “You think I want to see you? You think I want to sit in your car and pretend like we’re—like we’re fine?”

Silence.

“I didn’t ask you to show up. I didn’t ask you to save me,” I said, voice rising. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said quietly.

I looked away, blinking fast. My throat was burning.

“I had one bad night,” I whispered, “and of course, it had to be you who saw me.”

He took a careful step forward. “Why does that bother you so much?”

I looked at him, eyes glassy. “Because I’m trying to move on. And every time I think I’m doing okay, you show up.”

His expression softened. “Aurora—”

“I don’t want to need you.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Chris didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Suddenly, I felt everything all at once—embarrassment, anger, exhaustion.

I wrapped my arms around myself. “I just wanted one night. One simple night without memories, without you in my head.”

For a long second, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, “What happened tonight?”

I looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“I don’t care anymore,” I said flatly, pulling my arms tighter around myself. “You showing up like this—it doesn’t mean anything.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Then why are you shaking?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

I looked away. “Just leave.”

But he didn’t move. Not even a step. He just stood there, the rain properly drizzling now.

Both of us soaked.

He tilted his head, studying me like he was trying to read a language he used to know but couldn’t quite translate anymore. “You’re not okay. And I don’t believe for a second that you just happened to be out walking alone—at night, in this neighbourhood, with a dead phone.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“I never said you did.”

“Then stop acting like you deserve one.” I snapped. “We’re not anything anymore, Chris. You don’t get to show up and act like you still know me.”

I heard him sigh. I just wanted him to feel, though.

“I have a boyfriend,” I said, the words leaving my mouth like I’d rehearsed them a hundred times, even though I hadn’t.

Chris froze, eyebrows pulling together. “What?”

I didn’t flinch. “You heard me.”

His voice dropped. “Who?”

I shrugged. “The guy you saw at the show a few months ago.”

Chris’s eyes narrowed, the memory hitting him. “That guy…you’re with him now?”

I hesitated for half a second before answering.

“He asked,” I said, voice light, indifferent. “And I’m going to say yes.”

Chris stared at me like I’d just punched him in the gut.

“You’re going to say yes,” he repeated slowly, like he needed to hear it out loud again to believe it.

I nodded, but I couldn’t meet his eyes for long.

Chris’s face drained of colour, like the world had suddenly tipped sideways. I thought I saw his eyes glisten—was that a tear? No, I must be imagining it. Though his voice, when he spoke, was barely more than a whisper, raw and desperate.

No. Chris Sturniolo doesn’t hurt, he does the hurting.

We stood there in the rain with complete silence between us. Before he spoke up.

“Please…don’t say yes.”

He stepped closer, his hands trembling as if holding himself together was a struggle.

“Why?” I whispered, heart pounding, trying to stay calm.

“Because you’re not meant for that,” he said, voice cracking with a kind of pleading I’d never heard from him. “You don’t give up like that. Not on yourself. Not on me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes searching mine, vulnerable and raw. “I know I don’t deserve it. I know I’ve hurt you. But… Please, don’t forget me.”

His body was so close to me now, the red in his face evident.

I wasn’t wrong. Chris was…Chris was crying.

Before I could say anything, his shoulders sagged, and he stumbled forward like all the strength had drained out of him. His head dropped against my chest, and I felt the sudden, warm weight of his body lean into me.

He was crying.

Real, raw tears, silent but unstoppable. He was actually crying.

The coldhearted, arrogant, stern Chris was holding onto me, begging me not to leave.

I froze, heart hammering, breath caught in my throat. I had never seen him like this—never imagined this side of him.

His hands clenched weakly at my waist as he trembled, his tears mixing with the rain falling.

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to pull away, but another part wrapped itself around him, steadying him, holding him.

“Chris…” I whispered, voice barely audible, still stunned.

His face was pressed into the crook of my neck, warm and trembling against my skin. His voice came out barely above a whisper, rough with emotion.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low.

I stiffened, struggling to steady myself. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t fall for him, Ma,” he pleaded, tone thick with yearning. “Don’t fall for anyone but me.”

My own tears started to enter my waterline, begging not to fall.

“Chris”, I said, still holding him.

After a moment, he held himself up. Still close, but looking into my watery eyes, with his own.

“In December, on that beach,” he began softly, “you asked me if I’d ever been in love. I said no.”

I stayed silent, waiting.

“Ask me again.”

My breath caught in my throat. I knew what he was going to say. I didn’t want him to say it.

“I don’t know what to say,” I whispered, wiping away a tear that slipped down my cheek.

“Aurora, I lov—”

“Don’t say it.”

“I love you.”

“Chris!”

My chest heaved.

He didn’t stop.

“I love you, Aurora!” he said, louder this time—like it had been clawing its way out of him for months.

His voice cracked. “I hurt you, I know I have—and I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you let me.”

My tears were falling freely now, hot and silent. My whole body was burning, caught between the past and everything we never said.

He reached out, cupping my cheek with trembling fingers, wiping a tear away with his thumb.

“Tell me you don’t feel it, Aurora,” he whispered, eyes searching mine like they held his last hope. “Tell me you don’t love me.”

I stared up at him, and every bit of restraint I had built—shattered in that moment.

“Loving you was never the problem, Chris,” I said, my voice barely above a breath. “Being with you was all I wanted”.

“Then be with me, baby.” he pulled me closer, the rain swallowing both of us. “I’ve been waiting for you, ever since you left. I’ve been waiting”.

He took my head and tucked it into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into my hair.

“Do you even know why you’re apologizing?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t fight for you harder. I’m sorry I wasn’t ready to love you the way you deserved.”

He continued.

“I know I’m not perfect—God, I’m far from it. I’ve messed up more times than I can count. But I’ll learn. I’ll change. I’ll become better if it means I get to be yours. I love you so damn much, I don’t even know what to do with myself. I tried…I really tried to live without you. But I can’t. Everything reminds me of you. The penthouse doesn’t feel like home anymore—it’s just empty without you. I miss you. I miss us.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’d rather hurt with you than heal without you.”

His words cut deep.

“Please, Aurora,” he said softly, his voice laced with worry. “Just come home tonight. You’re going to get sick out here.”

The night air had grown colder, and the rain clung to our skin like a second layer. My straight hair had turned wavy from the damp, clinging to my face in loose, messy strands. His hair, usually styled to perfection, had fallen flat, droplets dripping from the ends. We stood there, soaked.

I looked away, torn. My lips parted like I had something to say, but nothing came out. I didn’t know what the right thing was anymore.

He took a step closer. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to decide anything now. Just…let me take care of you, even if it’s just for a few hours. I don’t want you alone tonight.”

I hesitated—just for a second—but it was long enough for him to notice. His hand brushed against mine, careful, waiting for me to pull away.

“Okay.”

He looked at me, before it melted into a broken smile.

“Okay?” he echoed, like he needed to hear it again just to believe it.

I nodded, slowly. “Yeah.”

Gently, he reached for my hand. His fingers laced through mine, warm and familiar. We didn’t say another word as he led me toward his car.

Just as he opened the front passenger door for me, I heard him murmur under his breath.

“I’m never leaving you again.”

CHRISTOPHER

It didn’t take long to get Aurora back to my place—our place.

The drive was quiet. Unsettlingly quiet. She stared out the window the whole time, her face unreadable, but her fingers fidgeted in her lap. I knew her well enough to know that meant she was overwhelmed. Maybe scared. Probably both.

I kept my eyes on the road, but every red light, every slow turn, I found myself glancing at her. Just to make sure she was real. That she was actually here. That I hadn’t just imagined the entire night—her voice, her tears, the way her arms finally wrapped around me like she needed me again.

Gosh, I needed her, too.

I killed the engine and stepped out. I opened her door like I always used to. She didn’t say anything, just stepped out quietly and followed me inside.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I heard the soft sound of her footsteps beside mine.

She was home. Now I just had to figure out how to keep her here.

As soon as we stepped inside, I saw her shiver. The warmth of the house hit me, but it didn’t seem to reach her.

“You’re still cold,” I said, my voice low. “Come on.”

She didn’t respond, but her eyes met mine for a second—guarded, tired—and then she followed.

I led her into my room.

“Take a hot shower,” I told her gently. “You’re soaked.”

She stood near the doorway like she wasn’t sure she should be here. Like she didn’t know if it was still her place.

Without saying anything else, I opened my closet and grabbed a hoodie—one I remembered she used to steal from me—and a pair of grey sweatpants that would probably fall off her, but they’d be warm.

“I’ll leave these here,” I said, setting them on the edge of the bed. “There are towels in the bathroom drawer. Just... take your time.”

She still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t spoken. But when I passed by her on my way out, I felt her eyes on me.

“Aurora?” I said, pausing in the doorway.

She looked up.

“I’ll be right outside. Okay?”

She gave the faintest nod.

I had gone back to the kitchen, running a hand through my damp hair, when Ana spotted me.

“Who’s here?” she asked, her brows lifting with concern.

“Aurora,” I said quietly.

Her eyes widened. “Aurora? Where is she? Is she alright?”

“She’s upstairs,” I replied, glancing toward the staircase. “She was caught in the rain. I told her to take a shower, warm up.”

Ana’s expression softened, but her worry didn’t fade. “Is she hurt? Did something happen?”

I shook my head.

“Not physically, no. But…” I trailed off, unsure how to explain the storm I’d seen behind Aurora’s eyes. The way she looked at me was like she still carried every piece of pain I’d caused her.

Ana stepped forward, her voice lowering. “Did she come here on her own?”

“No. I found her.” My jaw tightened. “She was walking. Alone..”

Ana blinked, then placed a hand on my arm. “Chris…”

I sighed and maneuvered my way further into the kitchen.

Around half an hour passed, and I still hadn’t heard from her.

I knocked lightly on the bathroom door—nothing.

“Aurora?” I called, my voice low but cautious.

Still no answer.

I pushed the door open gently. The bathroom was empty, and the towel she’d used hung neatly on the rack. My heart dropped. I stepped into the bedroom—no sign of her. The shirt and sweatpants I’d given her were gone from the bed. My pulse quickened.

No. She wouldn’t just leave again. Not without saying anything. Not this time.

I moved fast, checking the hallway, the guest room, the front door—locked. I was just about to grab my phone when something caught my eye through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

There she was. Out on the balcony. Like no time had passed. Her favorite place.

I stood frozen, staring at the curve of her back. The sight felt painfully familiar—like a memory I’d replayed a hundred times before but never thought I’d get to see again. The way the soft light hit her hair, the quiet stillness she carried—it was both comforting and heartbreaking all at once.

I grabbed a mug of tea from the kitchen and quietly stepped out onto the balcony.

She didn’t turn around, but I set the warm cup down beside her.

The steam curled up between us in the cool night air.

“I thought you might need this,” I said softly, my voice barely more than a whisper.

She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she appreciated it.

She accepted the cup and settled into one of the chairs.

Silence wasn’t something I was comfortable with.

“Talk to me, baby,” I urged gently, sitting down beside her.

She turned her head towards me, her beautiful doe eyes staring at me.

I couldn’t believe she was really here—actually here—after all these months of distance between us. She was with me, in my home, even wearing my clothes.

Suddenly, a small smile broke across her face.

I narrowed my eyes. “What’s that about?”

She teased, “Aren’t you gonna pull out a cigarette now?”

I exhaled softly, a chuckle escaping me. “No, Ma. I quit.”

She raised an eyebrow. “When’d you quit?”

I shrugged lightly. “A couple of months ago.”

“That’s good,” she said softly, then glanced at me curiously. “Why’d you quit? What changed you’re mind?”

I gave a lazy smile her way, “You don’t like smokers.”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“Wait…you actually quit smoking because of me?” Her voice was soft, almost disbelieving.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but there was a hint of something real in my eyes.

“Figured if I wanted any chance with you, I had to quit.”

She looked at me, a mix of surprise and something softer in her gaze.

I met her gaze and said, “Since you asked me something, now it’s my turn.”

She nodded quietly, a little wary but willing.

“So,” I began, “what was the real reason you were out tonight?”

Her shoulders sagged slightly, and after a long pause, she spoke, her voice low and hesitant. She looked a bit embarrassed.

“So, um… Darren—the guy from the show. We went to eat tonight, and he couldn’t drop me off,” she said hesitantly.

I narrowed my eyes. “The same guy who asked you to be his girlfriend?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Some asshole left you alone. In the dark,” I said, my voice shaking with fury.

Who in their right mind lets a woman walk alone, especially at night?

“You could’ve gotten hurt. Anything could’ve happened to you”, I said, protectiveness crawling into me.

I turned to face her again, my chest rising and falling. I watched her closely, a frown on her face.

“That guy? He’s done. I don’t care what excuse he gave. A real man doesn’t leave a woman stranded. Especially you. Not ever.”

She stayed silent.

I lowered my voice but not my protectiveness. “I want him gone. You hear me? I don’t want him calling you, texting you—nothing. You’re mine, and I swear I’ll break his neck if he tries some shit”

I exhaled, some of the anger sliding as I looked at her. I couldn’t stop looking at her, even though I had her whole face basically engraved in my mind.

I examined her silence.

“You alright?” I asked, softer now. “Tell me the truth.”

She gave a small smile. “Yeah. Just…my feet hurt. Heels were a bad idea.”

I looked down and noticed her feet tucked against the balcony chair; she had socks on, my socks.

I smiled, realizing she had taken a pair from my drawer.

One step closer to her feeling at home again.

Without a word, I reached over and gently pulled one leg onto my lap.

Her head turned toward me, brows raised slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Relax,” I said, my hands already working over the arch of her foot.

She didn’t say anything—just watched me as I continued rubbing soft circles into her, easing the tension from her soles. I moved to the other foot, taking care of it. I watched her relax and drink the tea.

A few quiet minutes passed. The night air was calmer now, the rain long gone.

She hadn't spoken, but I could tell something was shifting in her. Her breathing was steadier, her shoulders less tense.

Then, softly, almost like she was afraid of breaking the stillness, she asked, “Did you mean it?”

I looked at her, my brows pulling together. “Mean what?”

She hesitated, biting her lip. Her eyes didn’t meet mine right away. “That you still care… that you… Love me.”

My heart thudded hard in my chest.

I took one of her hands in mine. Her softness engulfed me, my thumb traced gentle circles against her skin, memorizing her all over again.

“I meant every word, my love”.

She looked at me—really looked—and for a second, it felt like the world slowed. Like the pain, the distance, the lost time… all of it folded into this moment.

“I never say things I don’t mean,” I added. “Especially not with you.”

I held her gaze, letting the quiet settle between us, and I cupped her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my palm.

She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life. A world without her would be a world without beauty, at least for me.

I leaned in slowly, our faces just inches apart, giving her a moment to pull away if she wanted. She didn’t. So I closed the distance gently, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. The familiar warmth hit me instantly.

When we pulled apart, she glanced away for a moment, a faint blush coloring her cheek. Small smiles played on both our lips.

I stared at her face, showering her with the look of love.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS HERE!

[a/n: I missed them to be honest. Time for the healing process! I can't believe were near the end of this series. Like and reblog! Mwah I love you] – Ceyana

tags: @loser41ifee @bluestriips @mattsfrenchtoast @slvtf0rchr1s @courta13 @emeraldsturns @mattscore @chriss-slutt @chrissturniolodailysluts @pip4444chris @oopsiedaisydeer @y3sterdaysproblem @sagesturns @prettyingreen4chris @ilovenicksturniolosblog @lm-a-mirrorball @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee @kingofeverythingmb @kitty-meow-meow44 @maraschino9 @mattsdemi @chrissturniolobendmeovernow @kenah-sturniolo @le4hsblog @idkwhatthisis2009 @anonymouslyachris @maricat12

#ceyanabbiolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo #fanfic

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novemberheart · 10 months ago

Text

{overview} Johnny and Kyle take care of you…..you make a new friend

{warnings} fem reader, cursing, a/b/o dynamics, PRICEGHOST, SOAPGAZ, poly141, MDNI, oral- female receiving

Chapter 19 <- Chapter 20 -> Chapter 21

None of you wanted to spend hours in a car, especially with the boys and their long legs. They opted for a plane, causing you more nerves than you knew what to do with.

“Get over here,” Simon commanded, all of you spread out at the airport. Your eyes widened and you trotted over to him, breathing a sigh of relief when he sprayed you down with scent blockers. “I'm not sitting next to lemonhead the whole flight,” he tsked. You rolled your eyes, but relieved you wouldn't be stinking up the plane.

“Bon-Bon, I've got something for you,” Johnny smiled, patting the seat next to him. “You don't have to take one, but I think it'll help,” he explained. He pulled an off-brand over-the-counter stress reliever pack.

“Did you take one?” you questioned softly. You've always been wary of drugs, even when you’re hurt you hold off taking aspirin as long as possible.

“Not today, flying doesn't bother me too much. I take them to help me sleep sometimes, or calm down when I get in my head a little too much,” he continued, causing you to frown.

“Does that happen a lot?” You questioned, the pounding in your heart giving you enough courage to hold your hand out. He popped a pill out placing it in your palm.

“It's meltaway,” he explained quickly. You popped it on your tongue and it melted instantly, even though your mouth was dry. “Happens here and there. Happens to all of us, yeah?” He smiled reassuringly.

“Guess that's true,” you sighed. “If you ever need to get your mind off of something, I can always help,” you whispered the last part in his ear and you giggled when you felt him smile against your cheek.

“I'll have to take you up on that,” he whispered back. You jumped when you felt his teeth graze your earlobe.

“Johnny,” you swatted.

“Alright, lovebirds. Not that you heard but it's time for us to board,” John chuckled, eyeing the both of you.

You were content in your middle seat. Johnny urged you to sit in the window seat, but you didn't want to be reminded you were soaring through the sky in a tube. Johnny sat in the window seat, you in the middle and Simon on the end seat so he could stretch his legs. John and Kyle were a few rows behind you, and you would periodically sit up in your seat to look back at them. The medicine seemed to help, although it could just be a placebo. Regardless, you felt safe between Johnny and Simon. You rested your head against Johnny’s shoulder, his hand finding it home on your knee, fiddling with the fabric of your tights. Simon had his arms crossed over his chest, looking imposing as always. He needed a chill pill.

You had been thinking a lot about what John had said to you last night.

“Your heats comin’ up in a few weeks.”

You couldn't deny that it had been looming over your head, especially with how excitable you had been lately. Your heats have always been irregular. They followed the basic timeline of every eight weeks, but sometimes they would skip over, or be a week late or early. You had multiple tests done and doctors concluded that it was just because your hormones were out of whack from not being in a pack for so long. You wondered if that was true. If it was, how long would it take for you to even out? Did you need to be marked? Or just bonded? You had definitely bonded with them. If the timeline was correct then you would have about one week left from your last heat.

That timeline was for more than just your heats, though. It also was a timeline for your relationships. You wanted John to help you with your heats, you felt more than comfortable enough with him and you were overwhelmingly attracted to him. You also wouldn't mind if Kyle or Johnny decided to step in either.

There was one person you weren't entirely sure about yet.

Simon.

It wasn't that you weren’t attracted to him. You just didn't feel entirely comfortable with him in that way yet. While you two had your own interactions and bonding times, there was just something missing. He treated you like a friend more than an omega. Actually, he treated you like you were an annoying child who he was stuck babysitting. The rest of them had courted you, complimented you, and made you feel like you were the most important thing in the world to them. Simon had hardly done any of that.

There was also all the fighting that had gone on between the two of you. And all those things he said about you that night when you overheard him talking to Johnny. You know you should get over it, you thought you had, but sometimes when your room was too quiet you could hear those words echo throughout it.

You could only imagine how upset he would be if you admitted any of that. How hurt he would be if you said you weren't comfortable enough with him yet. Maybe you should just wait till you feel comfortable enough with him before having any of them help with your heats.

Yet the thought of waiting any longer to be with them, especially John, felt nearly tortuous.

You didn't want to hurt Simon though.

Seems like the best choice was just to wait.

Who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky eough to have your heat skip again.

Kyle was able to talk Johnny into booking an Airbnb in Inverness. If it was up to the Scot you five would be fighting for your lives in the most rural area he could find. As long as it was in the Highlands, Johnny could be talked into it.

“I don't want to leave,” you sighed, already getting a sore neck with how often you were turning your head to look around.

“Good thing we just got here,” Kyle chuckled.

“Come on. Let's get settled inside then we could do some exploring,” John ushered you inside a beautiful stone house. Your stomach rumbled at the sound of exploring. “We’ll take care of that too,” he chuckled, your bag slung over his shoulder.

It had two bedrooms, both with a large bed and a bathroom. Simon and John took the bigger bedroom, with Kyle and Johnny taking the other one. You put all of your stuff with the alphas because it had the most room. Everyone knew you would be bouncing around, though.

It was already almost dinner time and you were starving, the only thing in your stomach was a blueberry muffin from the cafeteria before you had left. Simon pulled out a box of your favorite crackers from his duffle, tossing them to you. He must have swiped them from the kitchen before you left. You thanked him heavily, already digging in. It was just another example of how Simon worked.

He could be incredibly thoughtful when he wasn't frustrated with you.

At least that's how you saw it.

The truth was more complex than you knew.

It was one of those nights he couldn't fall asleep, no matter how hard he tried. His legs are restless and his heart beats a little too fast for a trained soldier like him. He pulled himself out of bed, heading through the bathroom, and slowly pushing John’s bedroom door open. He hoped you weren't in there tonight. The alpha grunted, the slightest creak in the door waking him up.

“You alright?” John croaked, his voice sending a shiver down Simon’s spine. He didn't say a word, pushing the alpha out from the middle of his own bed crawling under the sheets himself, groaning as the smell of you drifted off of them. “Somethin’ eatin’ you?” John yawned, rolling onto his stomach so he was draped over Simon’s back. It's what Simon needed. Grounding.

“It’s shite,” Simon brushed off.

“Course it is, it’s comin’ from you,” John chuckled. Simon grunted, bringing his elbow back to knock against the alpha. “Spit it out.”

“She”- he cut himself off with a sigh.

“It's me, Simon,” John reminded, his lips holding still against a scar on the other alpha's shoulder.

“She doesn't like me as much as she used to,” Simon grunted.

“She didn't know you then.”

“Thanks, John,” Simon huffed, making the captain chuckle.

“I didn't mean it like that,” John sighed. “I mean to say, she's getting to know you now. You two are navigating a whole new relationship, and to be fair it has had its turbulence. In the beginning, she was just trying to not step on any toes or cross any boundaries. Now she's trying to work her way into the pack. Growin’ pains, Simon,” John explained. “You are both doing fine considering you've never been around an omega and she’s never had an alpha-let alone two.”

“You’ve hardly ever had an omega. Other than ones to help you through a rut,” Simon added. “You know what to do.”

“I was worried about it before she came. Wonderin’ if I could be a good alpha to her like she deserves. Then once she got here it just felt natural. You have instincts too, just allow them,” John spoke.

“Not like there's any room too,” Simon huffed.

“What's that supposed to mean?” John hummed, leaning on his elbow.

“You dogs are all over her all the time. Not like I could get a moment with her if I wanted to. Every time I think about doing something- one of you has already done it,” Simon explained. John supposes he has a point. You weren't high-maintenance and you were almost always smothered with attention.

“So do it anyway. No such thing as a too-spoiled omega.”

All of you went to a pub down the street for dinner. It felt so free being away from the base. Your pack was all yours without worry of being ushered to the ends of the earth.

You were situated between Kyle and John, just like back home. You trusted Johnny to pick you out something from the menu, as long as it didn't have eyeballs still on it when it came out of the kitchen.

“Steak for me and cullen skink for the girl,” Johnny winked over at you. You were half tempted to google it before the waitress left just in case.

“And what can I get you?” A waitress hummed to Simon. You didn't like the way she eyed him.

“Scotch pie,” he answered, eyeing her back. Not in the same way, this was to deter her.

“Mmmh, that's my favorite,” She smiled, turning to the rest of the table. “And for you?”

“Fix your face, lovie,” Kyle teased after she left. It was then you realized you were scowling at Simon. Well not at him, but at what just occurred. You could tell Simon was trying to bite back a smirk.

The waitress came back numerous times before the food was ready just to ‘check in.’ You could tell it was starting to bother Johnny too. It wasn't that Simon was just letting it happen, he was ignoring her, his eyes bouncing between you and Johnny. Regardless, he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it in the slightest. The final straw was her hand resting on his shoulder, causing everyone's chest to rumble with a warning. She quickly retracted it with a stuttered apology. You had a different waitress for the rest of the night.

It started off teasing and gentle. His lips ghosting over yours until you made a move to connect the space, only for him to pull back.

It's his fault really. Teasing you like that and then expecting you to just let him go after.

You pulled away, trying to get as much air in your lungs as possible. Kyle was relentless, his lips still attached to the corner of your mouth, making a path all the way down to your collarbone. Making out and breathing at the same time was still a skill you hadn't learned yet.

“Ky,” you breathed. He quickly reattached your lips with his, your body sinking further into the mattress from the force of it.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Johnny grunted, coming out of the bathroom. Kyle pulled away, looking over his shoulder at the Scot, who had nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. You were still panting under him, your lips red, eyes foggy. Kyle was in no better condition. Kyle winked at Johnny before turning his attention back to you. Your hands wrapping around the back of his neck, your heels digging into his lower back, desperate for him to be as close as possible.

You heard shuffling in the corner but your mind flew out the window when Kyle gently rolled his hips against yours. You gasped, your half-lidded eyes gazing up at Kyle. You bucked your hips, hoping to get an ounce of the friction.

“I got you, lovie,” Kyle whispered along with another roll of his hips. You heard Johnny curse again, the bed sinking under his weight.

“How mad do you think the alphas would be if we had a little taste?” Johnny murmured, his teeth grazing your shoulder. Kyle groaned, resulting in a whine escaping your throat.

“That's a good question,” Kyle hummed, mirroring Johnnys' actions on your other shoulder. You felt faint. “What do you think, love?” Kyle asked, making you shudder.

“Please,” you gasped. It was the only thing you could manage, still not entirely sure where this was going to lead. The tightness in your stomach was becoming painful. Kyle’s hands ran soothingly up and down your sides before dipping under your tank top.

“Tell us if you want us to stop any time,” Kyle assured. You could feel Johnny nod his head in agreement.

“Want you to feel comfortable, Bon,” he added. You agreed softly, your hands digging themselves into each of their shirts. Your tank top had been pulled above your chest, your hands leaving their shirts so Kyle could pull it off. You had no time to even think about being shy, your newly exposed skin being attacked by mouths and hands.

“So fucking soft,” Johnny growled. You were a lamb spread out for these hungry wolves. A tongue ran across your nipple making you jolt.

“So sensitive,” Kyle purred. “Anyone ever touched you like this?” he questioned, his hips twitching at the thought. You quickly shook your head, your eyes glossed over. They both growled, their teeth nipping at your skin to mark you as theirs. Their eyes met each other and a mutual understanding going straight over your head. The position suddenly changed, your back resting against Kyle’s chest, Johnny kissing between the valley of your breasts before stopping just above the waistband of your shorts. Kyle's hands rested on your inner thighs, keeping you spread so Johnny could fit his broad body between your legs. Johnny's dark eyes stared up at you for approval, his teeth pulling at your shorts. Your body was on fire, the scent in the room overwhelming. You nodded your head, your fingers running through his mohawk. He grinned his fingers curling in your shorts tugging them down quickly.

“Gentle,” Kyle growled, his hands maneuvering under the sides of your underwear. His thumb rubbing smooth circles on your hips to make up for Johnny’s actions.

“Says the one chewin’ a hole in her shoulder,” Johnny huffed back. Kyle smirked against your skin, placing a kiss against the red mark forming against you. You couldn't make eye contact with Johnny as he lowered himself between your thighs, pressing a kiss against your covered core. Your thighs twitched, and Kyle gripped them to keep them from slamming shut.

Not that Johnny would mind that. Johnny repeated his actions a few times before his tongue darted out. The fabric of your panties left you with little friction to ease the ache.

“Johnny, please,” you urged, rotating your hips slightly. Johnny groaned against you, the vibration going straight to your core.

“She asks so nicely,” Kyle complimented, beginning to pull down your underwear for you. Johnny agreed, tugging your underwear down the rest of the way.

“John’s going to love that,” Johnny smirked. You whined at the thought, your thighs starting to jerk shut again. You missed the way Johnny shoved your underwear in his pocket. “Fucking beautiful,” Johnny whispered to himself, his eyes falling over your body. “Missin’ out up there,” Johnny commented, his scruff rubbing against the inside of your thigh. His mouth was watering at this point and he made very little effort to hide it. The desire to please you is the only thing keeping his mind from shutting down.

Kyle grabbed behind your knees, pulling them up closer to your chest. The cold air chilling your core was quickly being replaced by Johnny’s desperate tongue. You squealed, your hands slapping over your mouth. They both chuckled, Johnny’s hands reaching up to tug at your wrists. He intertwined his fingers with yours.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Kyle lulled, his hands rubbing up and down the insides of your thighs. “Already shaking,” he chuckled.

“It's too much,” you whimpered, your hands trying to push away at his face. He tightened his grip. You were being devoured. The sensation was already new to you, not to mention the passion behind it.

“Just relax, pretty. Let him make you feel good,” Kyle talked you through it. “You really want it to stop, just say stop.”

You ignored the feeling of Johnny's smirk against you. You tried to relax your body, giving up the little control you had against the two betas. Johnny switched the pattern of his tongue, causing a breathy moan to escape you.

“Do that again,” Kyle urged. Johnny was already one step ahead, the sensation making your eyes roll to the back of your head. It wasn't as overwhelming as his previous actions. It was just enough pleasure to make your body feel like it was floating, but not enough to make you want to scream. Your soft moans were timed with his mouth, the sounds making it harder for them to have self-restraint.

“How she taste?” Kyle asked, his hand gripping onto Johnny’s mohawk. He knew the Scot wouldn't separate his tongue from you even if the world was ending. Johnny groaned at the hand yanking him away.

“Like peaches just out of the oven,” Johnny said quickly, his tongue already darting out to catch another taste of you. He nipped your thighs, waiting not so patiently for Kyle to release his hair. He pushed Johnny’s face back against you, Johnny’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. “See what you do to us, love?” Kyle hummed.

You were close. Your whole body beginning to twitch, your moans mixing with breathy pants.

“That's it, baby,” Kyle groaned, taking every ounce of you in. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” He snarled, the grip on your thighs tightening. Every second felt like it would be your last, the pressure in your stomach building and building until suddenly it burst. The warmth in your stomach exploded, causing bliss to spread over every inch of your body. You couldn't even moan, or move, instead, your body stilled, before melting against Kyles. All of you were limp, your euphoria spreading to them even though they had yet to find a release themselves. The stillness left your body, the shakiness returning.

Johnny pressed a kiss against you one last time, mumbling something about ‘seeing her again soon’ before crawling his way up the both of you. They moved your body around, so everyone was under the covers. Johnny pressed a kiss against your cheek making you swat him away, feeling slowly returning to your body.

“Your face is wet,” you whined, rolling over to bury your face in Kyle's chest. You felt movement above you, pulling your head away only to see the two betas locked together, their tongues intertwined. You were too tired to care. As long as you were being cuddled you didn't care what they did.

“Tastes as good as we imagined, yeah?” Johnny chuckled. You heard Kyle agree, before falling asleep.

You were woken up by Kyle. You groaned, stretching your limbs as much as you could. You were a bit sore from all the twitching you did last night and you could still feel some wetness between your thighs. Johnny was purring next to you, strong arms wrapped around your waist. Your sleepy eyes peered up, locking eyes with Kyle. His gaze was soft and they held nothing but adoration in them.

“Morning, princess,” he whispered, making a snicker. The two betas did treat you like a princess, so the nickname was fitting.

“Go back to sleep,” Johnny croaked his grip on you tightening.

“Wanna go on a walk?” Kyle whispered. “It rained all night.” A sleepy smile spread across your face and you quickly nodded your head. Kyle unraveled Johnny's arms from you.

“Wanna come, Mac?” you questioned, pressing a kiss against his temple. His lips quirked, but he buried himself deeper in the bed.

“I'll keep the bed warm,” he yawned, already falling back asleep. Kyle grabbed your tank top off the floor, putting it over your head for you.

“So beautiful,” he murmured again, making you flush. No one had ever spoken to you with such sincerity. You luckily had the instinct to put your toothbrush in their bathroom last night. You couldn't imagine creeping into the alpha room after all the ruckus you caused last night. You're actually not sure if you could ever look them in the eye again. Not that you had done anything wrong…it…just felt awkward. You grabbed your shorts off the floor tugging them on.

You couldn't find your panties.

When you came out of the bathroom Kyle was already dressed in joggers, a sweatshirt, and a vest.

All your clothes were in the alpha room. Fuck.

“What's with the face?” Kyle hummed, pulling you between his knees.

“I don't want to go in there,” you muttered. Kyle cinched his brows before the realization hit him.

“This have anything to do with the little show you put on last night?” he smirked, making you flush even brighter. “Relax, lovie. Nothin’ to be embarrassed about. I can go grab some clothes if you aren't ready, though.”

“Thanks, KyKy!” you cheered.

As soon as he opened the door pillows were thrown at him. He caught them with ease, tossing them back on the bed. He cleared his throat at the heavy scent of alpha musk. Your room wasn't the only one that was busy last night.

“She’s with the two of you for one bloody night,” John growled. Kyle chuckled, opening a window. It was a good thing you didn't come in. You probably would've passed out.

“Best night of our lives,” Kyle tsked, watching the way both the alphas' faces curled. They were jealous. Not because of what happened, but because they hadn't been able to watch. Instead, they were confined to their room, only being able to listen. Using their imagination to pretend the bulky body under them was smaller, softer and sweeter.

“Come here,” John commanded. Kyle plopped a pair of your leggings on the bed, only for John to grab his collar pressing his nose against his neck.

“Good right?” Kyle chuckled, squirming his way out of the alpha's grip.

“She taste that sweet?” John hummed, stretching out, his muscles cracking.

“Sweeter,” Kyle smirked, shutting the bedroom door behind him, getting too much enjoyment from the groans on the other side of it. “Here you are, lovie,” Kyle smiled, passing you your clothes. He was all too pleased with himself.

“There’s a farm that has a petting zoo,” Kyle hummed, swinging both your hands back and forth.

“Really?!”

“They sell baked goods too,” he winked.

“God, you know me so well,” you sighed, shuffling closer to him. The earth was wet and clean, the feeling sinking deep into your bones. The clear air made you think. Made you think about something you've wanted to say for a while, specifically to Kyle. “Kyle, there's something I have to tell you,” you said slowly. “You don't have to comment on it, but I need to get it off my chest.”

“Alright,” he agreed cautiously.

“I love you,” you said it all in one breath.

“Oh thank god,” he said, relieved. “Would be weird if it was just one-sided, yeah?” he smiled at you. “I love you too, sweetheart. Very much.” he whispered the last part, bringing your hand to his lips kissing your knuckles.

You and Kyle were acting like true tourists. Stopping to take pictures with anything you deemed to be ‘exotic.’ The petting zoo was the most fun. You got to feed the animals and you even took a selfie with a sheep that looked like Johnny. It was sent to the boys group chat and Johnny quickly made it his wallpaper.

“Look! Puppies!” you grinned pulling Kyle over to the large pen.

“Lookin’ to adopt?” An older woman in a rocking chair asked. She had overalls on, a few chickens pecking at the ground around her feet, knitting needles in hand. You made a mental note to be like her when you grew up.

“Sadly no,” you replied softly with a smile. The excited bunch ran around the pen, stumbling over each other. Except for one in the very corner, halfway under a blanket.

“That's Peaches,” the woman sighed following your gaze. “She’s free.”

“Peaches?” you questioned mostly to yourself. “Why is she free?” you chimed.

“She’s deaf, not entirely sure she can see either. She doesn't move too much,” the woman frowned.

You frowned too, walking to the other side of the cage where she was.

“Hi, pretty girl,” you whispered, crouching down. Kyle was wincing already having a feeling where this was going. The puppy looked at you with her big black eyes, before moving towards you, her body staying low to the ground.

“Well look at that,” the woman chuckled.

“Do you have a blanket or something we can buy to wrap her in?” Kyle questioned already knowing you weren't going to leave that farm without her. At least it wasn't a sheep or chicken. Mission accomplished in his eyes.

Sorry, I didn't post when I said I would! This series is going by so fast! See you in two days for chapter 21! 🧡

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kittenan · 2 months ago

Text

Professor's Pet [Pt. II]

Pairing: Professor!Namjoon x Ex-Wife!Reader Genre: University AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff Word Count: ~5k Warnings: Explicit smut (detailed dom/sub dynamics, brainy dom!Namjoon, strict punishments, praise + degradation, orgasm control, fingering, oral [f and m receiving], desk sex, throat grabbing, spanking, unprotected sex [wrap it up!]), bickering, emotional angst (divorce due to emotional neglect and career conflicts), post-divorce academic struggles, 18+ only. Vibe: Brainy, strict, chaotic, emotional, filthy, tender, unhinged, layered with unresolved pain and desire. A/N: This story follows the thrilling love story of Namjoon and the Reader, from their sparking student-professor romance during her bachelor’s to their passionate marriage, painful divorce, and tangled reunion in her Ph.D. program. Her struggles in university come from heartache and dodging Namjoon’s classes, not because she’s not smart. Get ready for a heartfelt, steamy, and hopeful journey!

You were a junior in Namjoon’s Introduction to Psychology class, a bright-eyed 21-year-old with a knack for debate and a habit of lingering after lectures to challenge his theories. He was 28, a prodigy professor fresh off his Ph.D., already turning heads with his sharp intellect and commanding presence. His lectures were electric—dense with ideas, delivered with a passion that made Freud and Skinner feel alive. You’d sit in the front row, scribbling notes, your heart racing when his eyes met yours during a particularly heated discussion on cognitive dissonance.

One evening, after a debate on nature vs. nurture, you stayed late, your textbook open. The lecture hall was empty, the air thick with chalk dust and the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and ink. He leaned against the desk, glasses perched on his nose, and asked, “Why do you always argue with me?”

“Because you’re wrong sometimes,” you shot back, a grin tugging at your lips. “And someone’s gotta keep you humble.”

He laughed, a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip. “Bold. Most students just nod and move on.”

“I’m not most students,” you said, stepping closer, your confidence masking the flutter in your chest.

That was the spark. Late-night discussions turned into coffee runs, then dinners at small restaurants where you’d talk until closing. He was brilliant, intense, and saw you in a way no one else did—like your mind was a puzzle he wanted to solve. You were drawn to his discipline, his ambition, the way he could unravel a concept or you with equal precision. By semester’s end, you were sneaking kisses in his office, your hands tangled in his hair, his glasses fogging from the heat of your breath.

It wasn’t reckless, not really. You were careful—never in public, never on campus grounds. He was strict about boundaries, always the professor first. But the thrill of those secret moments—his hands pinning you against a bookshelf, his voice a low growl as he whispered your name—made you feel alive. Your senior year was a whirlwind of stolen glances and hidden rendezvous, your love growing in the shadows of academia.

After graduating with your bachelor’s, you started your master’s at the same university, and Namjoon proposed a year later, during a rainy evening in a quiet park near campus. He knelt in the mud, his suit soaked, holding a ring that caught the streetlights. “Marry me,” he said, voice steady despite the downpour. “I want you in every chapter of my life.” You said yes, heart soaring, believing you’d cracked the code to forever.

Your wedding was intimate, in a small garden blooming with wildflowers, your dress simple, his suit sharp. His vows were poetry: “You’re my question and my answer, my chaos and my order.” You laughed through tears, danced under fairy lights, and believed you’d conquer the world. You were in your master’s program, he was an associate professor, and your apartment was a cozy mess of books and coffee stains. Mornings were tangled in bed, his lips soft on your neck, whispering, “Stay here forever, babygirl,” as his hands roamed, igniting sparks. Evenings were spent debating theories over wine, his glasses slipping as he laughed at your mimicry of his lecture style, pulling you into his lap with a playful growl.

But his ambition was a growing shadow. Namjoon lived for his work—research, lectures, grants. You’d find him at 4 a.m., glasses fogged, typing furiously, oblivious to you. You’d bring him coffee, kiss his temple, but he’d mutter, “One more page,” and you’d eat alone, the silence heavier than any fight. You completed your master’s and took a break to plan your Ph.D., inspired by him, but your research faltered, overshadowed by his unyielding ambition. You’d beg for a night off, a weekend away, but he’d promise and fail, his office his true home.

One precious weekend, you whisked him away to a secluded cabin, no Wi-Fi, just the two of you. He was irritable, yearning for his laptop, but you slipped into his shirt, bare beneath, and climbed onto his lap by the crackling fire, playfully chiding his work-obsessed ways. “You’re married to your desk, not me. For now, focus on me, Professor.” you murmured, teasingly nudging his chest. His gaze softened, then ignited, a slow smirk spreading as his inner intensity stirred. “Oh, babygirl, you’re begging for trouble,” he growled, flipping you onto the rug with a swift, controlled motion, the roughness of the wool biting your skin. His hand delivered a sharp spank to your bare ass, the sting blooming into a heat that made you gasp, your arousal immediate and undeniable.

“Count,” he ordered, voice strict, his Ph.D.-honed precision in every word, spanking you again, harder, the sound cracking through the quiet cabin. “One,” you whimpered, and he leaned close, his breath hot against your ear, degrading you with a purr—“Such a sweet little thing, so eager for my touch,” he murmured, delivering another spank, his hand lingering to caress the sensitive skin, soothing the warmth he’d created. “Two,” you moaned, slickness coating your thighs, and he let out a low, warm chuckle, his fingers gliding along your drenched folds, teasing with a gentle, maddening touch, not yet giving you what you craved. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice rich with desire, “so beautifully desperate, practically trembling for me.”

He pinned your wrists above your head, his grip iron, his gaze intense. “You want me? Earn it,” he commanded, his free hand sliding two fingers inside you, curling with devastating accuracy to hit that spot that made your vision blur. His pace was relentless, but he enforced orgasm control, pulling back just as you clenched, teetering on the edge. “Not yet,” he said, voice a velvet blade, “you come when I say, or not at all.” You whined, bickering—“You’re such a fucking Control freak—but he silenced you with a throat grab, his fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse race, his lips brushing yours. “Keep talking, and I’ll gag you with my cock,” he warned, and you shivered, craving his dominance, the emotional angst of his absence fueling your need.

He released your throat, pushing you to your knees, his erection straining against his jeans. “Show me you deserve it,” he said, and you fumbled with his zipper, freeing him—thick, heavy, pulsing. You took him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, your tongue swirling around the tip, savoring the salt of him. His hand gripped your hair, controlling the pace, fucking your mouth deep and rough, his groans vibrating through you. “Good girl,” he praised, mixed with degradation—“Look at you, choking on me, so fucking desperate.” You moaned, the vibrations pushing him closer, but he pulled out, denying himself release, his control absolute.

He lifted you, bending you over the nearby table, the wood cold against your flushed skin. “Spread your legs,” he growled, and you did, trembling, as he spanked you again, three sharp slaps, each paired with a count and a degrading purr—“Such a filthy thing, dripping for me.” He slid into you, his cock stretching you with a burn that felt like home, his thrusts deep and punishing, the table creaking under the force. His hand grabbed your throat again, tilting your head back, his lips at your ear. “You’re mine,” he snarled, voice thick with possession.

You moaned, pushing back against him, bickering through gasps—“And you’re stupid, Joon.” He laughed, rough and raw, thrusting harder, his fingers finding your clit, circling with precision that made you see stars. “Keep talking,” he said, voice brainy and dominant, “but you’re not coming until I say.” He edged you mercilessly, slowing when you tightened, his control a torturous dance of pleasure and denial. “Beg,” he demanded, and you broke, sobbing, “Please, Namjoon, let me come, I’m yours.” He rewarded you, fucking you through a blinding orgasm, his praise—“That’s my perfect girl”—mixing with degradation—“So fucking needy, falling apart for me.” He came with a groan, his release hot inside you, and collapsed over you, panting.

Later, he held you by the fire, tender now, kissing your temple, his voice soft with regret. “I’m here, babygirl,” he whispered “I love you.” You curled into him, believing this Namjoon would stay, but Monday came, and he was back in his office, leaving you aching with loneliness.

The fights grew vicious. “I’m fading, Namjoon!” you screamed one night, throwing a cold dinner plate into the sink, the crash echoing your heartbreak. “You’re never here!” He yelled back, “I’m building our future! Why can’t you wait?” You waited, but you were invisible, a ghost in your own marriage. The third anniversary broke you—you cooked his favorite bulgogi, lit candles, wore the dress he loved. He didn’t show. His text at 9 p.m.: Stuck at a conference. Sorry. You sat there, wax dripping, tears falling, the silence a knife. You packed a bag, left for a friend’s, and filed for divorce, your heart shattered.

The divorce was a quiet devastation. You moved to a university dorm, threw yourself into your Ph.D., but campus was a battlefield. Namjoon’s name was everywhere—on journals, posters, whispered in halls. You saw the silver frame on his desk during a department meeting, your wedding photo untouched, and it felt like a blade. Why did he keep it? To punish himself? To cling to you?

You tried dating, but no one matched his intensity, his mind, his touch. You heard he didn’t date, just worked, his office light burning past midnight. Colleagues said he was colder, sharper, like he’d locked his heart away. You hated that it hurt, hated that you still dreamed of him.

One stormy night, you passed by his office, the door ajar. He was slumped over his desk, glasses off, staring at the frame, a whiskey bottle half-empty. You heard a choked sob, and your chest tightened—you wanted to run to him, to hold him, but you couldn’t. You weren’t his wife anymore. You walked away, tears mixing with the rain, the ache of what could’ve been a living thing.

Now in your Ph.D. program, you’re falling apart. Namjoon’s advanced psychology seminar is required, but his lecture hall is a torture chamber. His voice, his cologne—sandalwood, cedar, ink—drag you back to stolen kisses, broken vows. You skip half his lectures, unable to face him. When you do attend, you’re a wreck, his words blurring as you remember his hands, his anger, your loneliness. Your assignments are late, your exams a disaster, and now you’re failing.

Desperate, you begged for extra credit, leading to that night in his office—desk sex, raw fury, and a "B" that felt like a taunt. It wasn’t just about grades; it was about the pain, the love, the unresolved mess of you two. Tonight, you’re back, ready to confront it all.

You stride into his office at 8:15, late to test him, wearing a tight black dress, no panties, heels clicking defiantly. He’s at his desk, pen paused, glasses glinting under the lamp. The frame sits behind a book, a ghost of your past. His eyes rake over you, dark and heavy, but there’s pain there, a crack in his professor’s mask.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low, but it trembles, betraying him.

“By fifteen minutes,” you retort, shutting the door with a soft click, your voice sharp with years of hurt. “You’ve kept me waiting years, Namjoon. You don’t get to complain.”

He stands, towering over you, his cologne a trap. “Careful, babygirl,” he warns, but his fingers brush your arm, lingering, warm and hesitant. “You’re here for a reason. Say it.”

You step closer, chin up, bickering to mask the pain. “I’m failing because of you, you asshole. I can’t sit in your class without seeing us—every fight, every night you left me alone. I skip lectures because looking at you hurts, Namjoon. But you keep that photo.” You point to the frame, its silver edge glinting like a blade. “Why? Why hold onto something you destroyed?”

He flinches, like your words are a lash, and turns away, hand raking through his hair. The frame sits there, your smiling faces a mockery. “Because I’m a fucking fool,” he says, voice raw, barely above a whisper. He turns back, eyes red, and steps closer, his hands hovering over your shoulders, not quite touching. “Because I wake up every day wishing I’d seen you, really seen you, when I had you. I keep it because it’s the only proof I didn’t dream you. I broke us, Y/N, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

Tears spill, your throat tight, but his words crack something open—anger, yes, but also longing. “You don’t get to say that,” you choke, shoving his chest, but he catches your wrists, his grip gentle, grounding, his thumbs brushing your pulse points. “You left me alone, Namjoon. Cold dinners, empty beds, me begging for scraps of your time. I was your wife, not your student, but you treated me like I was nothing!”

“I know,” he says, voice breaking, pulling you closer until you’re inches apart, his breath warm on your face. “I was blind, obsessed with work, thinking it was for us. I’m still a workaholic—I’ll always be in this office too long—but I see you now. I see what I lost.” His voice drops, a plea, his fingers tightening just enough to remind you of his control. “Give me a chance, Y/N. Let me prove I can be the man you deserve.”

You laugh, bitter and shaky, tears falling, but your body betrays you, leaning into him, your hands fisting his shirt. “You think one night of fucking me fixes it?” you whisper, voice trembling, bickering to keep the pain at bay. “You think a B makes up for years of feeling invisible?”

“No,” he says, releasing your wrists to cup your face, thumbs brushing your tears, his touch tender but heavy with regret. “Nothing fixes it. But I’m begging for a shot to try. I’ll set alarms, I’ll cancel meetings, I’ll burn my fucking books if you ask. I can’t lose you again.”

The air crackles, pain and desire colliding. You pull back, defiant, and hop onto his desk, spreading your thighs, the dress riding up to reveal bare skin. “Prove it now, Professor,” you challenge, voice low, a dare born of anger and need, your eyes flashing with the same fire you had in his lecture hall years ago. Namjoon’s gaze drops, and when he realizes you’re wearing no panties, his reaction is a overwhelming shift—raw, feral, yet tightly controlled, his eyes black with lust, his jaw clenching as he fights to maintain his dominance.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasps, voice thick with desire and disbelief, his hands gripping your thighs so hard the skin blooms red under his fingers. “No panties?” His breath hitches, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest as he spreads your legs wider, exposing you completely, your slickness glistening under the lamplight. “You walked in here like this, bare, dripping, knowing it’d drive me fucking insane?” His tone shifts, brainy dom surfacing, strict and commanding, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat radiating between you. “You’re a filthy little tease, babygirl, and you’re going to pay for this.”

You smirk, bickering back, “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d even notice, you self-absorbed prick.” Your defiance ignites him, and his smirk is pure danger, his hand delivering a sharp spank to your inner thigh, the sting so intense it makes you yelp, arousal flooding you instantly. “Count,” he orders, spanking the other thigh, his palm leaving a burning imprint, his eyes locked on yours, unrelenting. “One,” you gasp, and he spanks again, harder, the sound echoing in the quiet office. “Two,” you moan, your voice trembling, slickness dripping onto the desk, coating his fingers as they graze your folds.

“Such a needy little thing,” he purrs, his voice laced with that sharp, intellectual edge that makes your core clench. “Look at you, soaking my desk, aching for my touch. You think you can stroll in here, bare and bold, and take charge of me?” His fingers slide through your wetness, teasing your entrance but not entering, his control maddening. “You’re mine to ruin, and I’m going to make you beg for every fucking second of it.” Another spank, this one directly on your ass as he shifts you, bending you slightly over the desk, your dress hiked up to your waist. “Three,” you sob, the pain and pleasure blurring, your body trembling under his command.

His fingers finally plunge inside you, three at once, stretching you with a burn that makes you cry out, his pace brutal and precise, curling to hit that spot that sends shocks through your spine. “So fucking tight,” he growls, his thumb circling your clit with devastating accuracy, but he enforces orgasm control, pulling back just as you start to clench, teetering on the edge. ‘Not yet,’ he murmurs, his voice a smooth, cutting whisper, ‘you don’t get to come until you’ve earned it, my sweet little tease.’ You whine, bickering—‘You’re still such a control freak’—but he cups your throat, his fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse race, his lips grazing your ear. ‘Keep talking, and I’ll silence you with my kiss until you’re breathless,’ he warns, and you shiver, craving his dominance, the raw emotional weight of your shared past fueling the fire between you.

“You left me,” he says, voice raw, his fingers slowing, teasing you to the brink but denying release, his eyes searching yours, heavy with guilt and need. “You walked away, and I deserved it, but you’re here now, bare for me, and I’m not letting you go.” Tears prick your eyes, the pain of his neglect mingling with the pleasure of his touch. “You didn’t see me,” you whisper, voice breaking, but you push back against his hand, desperate for more. He kisses you hard, his tongue claiming you, his hand still on your throat, grounding you in the moment. “I see you now,” he murmurs, his fingers resuming their punishing pace, his thumb relentless on your clit, driving you to the edge but holding you there, a torturous dance of denial.

He pulls his fingers out, finally licking them clean with a smirk that makes your thighs clench, and orders, “On your knees, now.” You obey, your hands fumbling with his belt, freeing his cock—thick, heavy, pulsing with need. You take him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, your tongue swirling around the tip, savoring the salt of his pre-cum. His hand grips your hair, controlling the pace, fucking your mouth deep and rough, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. “Good girl,” he praises, mixed with degradation—“Look at you, choking on me, so fucking desperate for your professor.” You moan, the vibrations pushing him closer, but he pulls out, denying himself release, his control absolute, his glasses fogging as he watches you.

“Up,” he commands, pulling you to your feet, bending you over the desk, papers scattering like fallen dreams, the wood cool against your flushed cheek. “Spread your legs wide,” he growls, and you do, trembling, as he spanks you again, five sharp slaps, each paired with a count and a degrading purr—“Such a needy girl, bare and dripping for me, ruining my desk.” You’re sobbing now, not from pain but from the overwhelming need, the emotional angst of wanting him, hating him, loving him. He slides into you, his cock stretching you with a burn that feels like everything, his thrusts deep and punishing, the desk creaking under the force, his hand grabbing your throat, tilting your head back, his lips at your ear.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he snarls, voice thick with possession and regret, his thrusts slowing to a torturous grind, his fingers finding your clit again, circling with precision that makes you see stars. “I was too stupid to ignore you, but I’m here now, and you’re mine.” You moan, pushing back against him, bickering through gasps—“You’re still stupid if you think this fixes everything.” He laughs, rough and raw, thrusting harder, his hand tightening on your throat, his control a heady mix of punishment and worship. “Keep talking, sweetheart,” he says, voice brainy and dominant, “but you’re not coming until you admit you’re mine.”

You resist, but he edges you mercilessly, slowing when you tighten, his fingers relentless but denying release, his lips brushing your ear. “Beg,” he demands, and you break, sobbing, “Please, Namjoon, let me come, I’m yours, always was.” He rewards you, fucking you through a blinding orgasm, his thrusts relentless, his praise—“That’s my perfect girl”—mixing with degradation—“So fucking needy, falling apart for me.” You come screaming, the orgasm shattering, your body convulsing, and he follows, groaning your name, his release hot inside you, his body collapsing over yours, panting.

He holds you after, pulling you into his lap, glasses askew, his touch tender now, kissing your forehead, the emotional angst raw. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice soft but firm. “For every cold dinner, every empty bed. Come home with me, Y/N. We’ll cook, we’ll talk, and I’ll be there. I promise.” You nod, shaky, tears falling, the anger fading into hope. He helps you fix your dress, his fingers lingering, gentle, and you leave together, his hand in yours, the campus dark but the path bright. The frame stays on his desk, a vow, not a keepsake.

A week later, you submit a revised paper, pouring your pain into a brilliant analysis of grief’s impact on memory. Namjoon grades it, leaving a note: A+. Your mind is as fierce as ever. I’m proud of you. You text him: Earned that A, not begged. He replies: Always knew you could, babygirl. Dinner tonight? You smile, the firecracker from your junior year sparking again, ready to fight—for your degree, for him, for you.

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @btsstraykidsateez . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172

#bts fanfic #bts smut #bts #bts namjoon #namjoon smut #namjoon #rm #bts rm #namjoon x reader #rm x reader #rm smut

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fr0stf4ll · 19 days ago

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 21

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5.7k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; Hello everyone ! What's up ? Here is the new chapter hehe hope that you will enjoy it, it's war and it's much darker than usual ! Either way see you soon !!!

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While the High Lords gathered again in council—voicing plans, drawing borders, debating how to proceed—you had already begun.

There had been no ceremony. No formal decree placing the burden on your shoulders. But the moment war returned to Prythian, the weight of leadership found you.

Because they trusted you.

Because you knew what to do.

You had not fought in the last two wars. The Cauldron’s destruction and Hybern’s fall had happened while you were across the sea, in faraway lands where the stars were different and pain wore unfamiliar faces. But that didn’t mean you hadn’t seen war. You had tended to battlefields choked in ash and blood. Had screamed over wounded soldiers while enemy horns still blew in the distance. Had wrapped yourself in healer’s robes that smelled of iron and rot and clung to your skin like a second, cursed layer.

You hated war.

But you understood it.

And now, it was here.

The healer’s camp was rising fast—just a few miles behind the front line where Winter and Day were already locked in skirmishes with Koshiev’s first wave. The scent of cold pine from Winter’s edges mixed with the mineral tang of cracked stone and blood. White tents fluttered in the wind, ropes anchoring them against the rush of messengers and supplies. Ward lines had already been carved into the frozen earth by Dawn Court mages—barriers to keep out wild magic and corrupted air.

You stood in the center of it all, barked orders flowing from your mouth without hesitation. Assignments. Triage formations. Inventory checks. You moved with your sleeves rolled to your elbows and a thin smudge of soot on your cheek. No glamour. No grace.

Just the quiet, practiced command of someone who knew exactly how to keep people alive.

You hadn’t seen Azriel in hours.

He had left before dawn, shadows coiled tight, heading toward a newly forming reconnaissance post along the northern edge of the mountains. But even now, as you stalked between tent rows, checking for weaknesses in the shielding wards, you reached for the bond.

Are you safe?

No answer yet.

Az, you tried again, gentler. Talk to me.

Still nothing.

You pushed the worry down. Forced your hands to keep working.

The news from the front was grim. Winter’s line had bent but not broken—yet. Kalias’s forces were strong but outnumbered. Day had pushed in with their elite firecasters, but it wasn’t enough. Koshiev’s creatures weren’t just soldiers. They were nightmares with no rules, no blood, no soul. And worst of all—they multiplied.

All courts would be needed soon. Every ounce of power. Every blade, every spell. Every hand.

Including yours.

Elira jogged up beside you, her braid wild and armor already streaked with dust. “We’re short two crates of blood-root poultice,” she reported. “And Mira says the third tent’s warding is fluctuating—probably due to that crack in the shielding line from earlier.”

You nodded. “Have Theylan reinforce the tent wards and get a courier to Day’s supply wagons. Tell Mira to prep a shadow-safe triage zone. Just in case.”

Elira didn’t question the order. She ran.

The camp was quiet.

Not with peace, but with anticipation. A silence that pressed down like a storm waiting to break.

They stood in front of you—rows of healers in varying uniforms and colors, pulled from every court. Some wore finely-stitched robes of trained mastery. Others were volunteers, barely trained, still trembling beneath their armor. The head healers from each court flanked the edges, arms crossed, their expressions grim and expectant.

You stood on the rise just above them, wind tugging gently at your coat, eyes scanning the sea of faces.

No one spoke.

You took one breath. Then another.

And began.

“This is not the first war Prythian has seen. But it may be the last.”

The words echoed across the camp, cutting the wind clean.

“We are not soldiers. We do not wield blades, or lead charges, or set the sky alight with power. But make no mistake—we are the last barrier between survival and death.”

You let that sink in. Faces shifted. Straightened.

“We are the difference between a soldier going home… or not. Between fear and hope. Between despair and dignity.”

Your eyes swept over them.

“Some of you are experienced. You’ve done this before. You know what it’s like to have blood under your nails and someone screaming in your arms. Others… this will be your first time.”

You didn’t soften the words. You wouldn’t insult them with lies.

“You will see things you’re not prepared for. You will have to act when you’re terrified. And you will fail. Sometimes. But you will get back up. And you will keep going. Because that’s what we do.”

You paused, letting the silence settle.

“We are healers. And in this war, we will be the ones holding the line after the swords have fallen.”

A few heads bowed. Some lifted higher.

You continued, voice steady.

“Field healers—you’ll move with the battalions. Stay behind the front lines, but close enough to extract the wounded. Do not overextend. If you go down, that’s one more soldier who won’t make it back.”

“Stationed healers—work in shifts. Exhaustion kills more people than wounds do. Maintain the wards. Sanitize everything. No exceptions.”

“Beginner volunteers—you are not expendable. You’ll stay within the rear perimeter, aiding the senior staff. Watch. Learn. Prepare to step in when we fall.”

You let your gaze rest on each court’s representatives.

“Work together. No court lines. No territory pride. We fall, Prythian falls. It’s that simple.”

Then, more softly, “And take care of each other.”

The wind carried your words out to the camp.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then heads nodded, quiet murmurs passed through the rows, and slowly—one by one—they began to disperse.

The camp had emptied slowly, one healer at a time, until only wind and silence remained. You stood at the edge of the central tent, the weight of the speech still clinging to your shoulders like a wet cloak. You’d done it. You’d held the line. For now.

You exhaled, slow and quiet, stepping out into the cold air.

And before you could take another breath, someone grabbed your hand.

Firm. Warm.

You barely registered the blur of shadows before you were pulled away from the tent, tucked between two supply wagons hidden by hanging tarps and crates of medical stock.

“Azriel—” you began, startled.

But he said nothing.

He just held you.

Arms wrapped tight around you, his face buried in your hair, breathing you in like it might be the last time. And maybe, for him, it already felt like it was.

You didn’t speak. Just stood still as his arms locked around your waist, grounding him, tethering him.

Because through his eyes, you were someone else today.

Not just the mate he loved. Not the quiet, steady presence who returned home late with herbs still in your sleeves, smiling softly.

No.

You were war now.

Dressed in healer’s leathers, your expression hard and drawn, your eyes darker than usual—shadowed not by fatigue, but by responsibility. You had stood before your army of white-robed medics like Rhysand did before soldiers. A ruler. A guide. Someone who knew what needed to be done, no matter the cost.

And that terrified him.

If he could have left you in Velaris, locked you in your shared home and surrounded you in layers of safety, he would have.

If he could have taken you far away—beyond the continent, beyond Prythian—he would have flown you there himself.

If he could have stayed by your side every second of every day, watching, guarding, keeping you from even a breath of danger—he would have never let go of your hand again.

But he couldn’t do any of that.

And for the first time in centuries, Azriel was truly, deeply afraid.

He had faced death before—welcomed it, even. But now, the idea of loss wasn’t about him. It was about you. About the ring you wore. About your laugh in the halls of your home. About the way you curled into his chest each night and whispered promises for a future neither of you dared to speak aloud in daylight.

He had asked you, days ago, to show him the vision.

Elain’s vision.

The one you had tried to keep to yourself.

At first, you refused.

You had shaken your head, eyes stormed with something unspeakable, telling him it was better not to know. And Azriel had accepted it. He hadn’t pressed.

But you knew.

You knew that somewhere in him, he needed to see it.

And when you finally showed him—when you shared that memory with him under the moonlight in your home—you had spent the entire night afterward wrapped together in silence. No words. Just warmth. Just the bond. Just the sound of his heart beating under your ear.

It had nearly broken him.

Because now he couldn’t walk through a room without wondering if it would be the last time he saw you in it. Couldn’t touch the door of your bedroom without thinking of what it meant. Of what your home truly was to him.

Azriel had loved his brother. He loved Feyre with a loyalty no bloodline could break.

But this—

Their gift.

This was cruel.

Because what if fate’s promise held true?

What if the only sanctuary you’d ever shared became your mausoleum?

The place where your children should have laughed.

The place where he should have held you through your last pregnancy, and then your last gray hair, and then your last breath—but not like this. Not soon.

Azriel came back to himself when your hands found his face—when the cool press of your wedding ring met his cheek and sent a shiver through him so sharp, it felt like a breath of winter wind through his ribs.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

His golden eyes opened slowly, and the storm behind them flickered with something raw.

“I know…” he said softly, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, Az.” You gave him a tired, aching smile—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You don’t have to apologize for loving me.”

His arms tightened around you, one hand curling into your hair, the other pressing into your lower back like he could hold you through the coming days just by pulling you close enough.

“I’m just so scared…” His forehead dropped to yours. His voice was barely audible, but it trembled with the force of what he didn’t say.

“Me too, love,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his.

You kissed—slowly, tenderly, like a promise wrapped in a farewell. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just real.

Your hands slid up to cradle his jaw as you pulled back just far enough to breathe.

“Please be safe,” you whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “Please don’t do anything reckless, Azriel. Don’t sacrifice yourself. Be careful. Please. I beg you.”

He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. Like you were light and sky and warmth and everything worth surviving for.

“I should be the one saying that to you, my love.”

You gave a shaky laugh, kissed him again—softer this time.

“I’ll be waiting for you here,” you said, placing your hand against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. “But I’ll always, always be here, Az.”

Your fingers curled, pressing gently against his heart.

And he covered your hand with his.

“I need to go,” he said, and his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I’ll see you later.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You smiled through the burn rising in your eyes.

“I love you, Azriel.”

One last kiss. Long. Wordless. Trembling with everything you both couldn’t say.

And then—

He stepped back.

And vanished into shadow.

The emptiness that followed wasn’t just physical. It was like something vital had been pulled from your chest. Your heart beat quieter without him near.

This was war.

A war against a death god.

And you knew—deep in your bones—that anything could happen now.

The tent was no longer quiet.

By the time you returned, the healer’s ward was already filling—low moans, hushed voices, the rustle of canvas and armor echoing beneath the enchanted lighting. The scent of blood and antiseptic clung to the air. Winter and Day soldiers lay on cots or mats, some wrapped in early bandages, others awaiting triage.

You didn’t hesitate.

You moved with the ease of someone who’d done this too many times to count, rolling your sleeves back up, scanning injuries, checking for critical signs. Elira met your eye with a quick nod as she finished stitching a leg wound nearby.

And then—

You noticed him.

A young Illyrian male standing just inside the tent’s entrance, eyes wide, shoulders tense, wings twitching slightly at his back. He wore light leathers and bore the faint shimmer of four green siphons—freshly earned. His sword was sheathed, his posture not quite relaxed, but trying.

He stepped toward you quickly and bowed. Deeply.

You raised an eyebrow. “And who are you, boy?”

He straightened a little too fast. “Ather, my lady… I mean, Y/N—I was… I was assigned to stay with you. To protect you.”

He winced like the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

“I don’t mean to say that you’re unable to protect yourself—I know you are—it’s just… these are the orders I received. From General Cassian.”

You blinked once, then smirked.

Reaching out, you clapped a hand lightly on his shoulder. He stiffened beneath your touch, wings twitching again.

“Get some confidence, Ather,” you said, voice even but not unkind. “You won the Blood Rite and earned your siphons. You think they’d assign you to me if you weren’t worth something?”

His mouth opened slightly in surprise.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,” you added dryly. “But this is war. And even if you aren’t standing on the battlefield with the others, make no mistake—this is my front line. And I expect you to treat it that way.”

Ather swallowed. Then stood straighter, pulling his wings in tight.

“Y—yes, my lady.”

You arched a brow.

“And keep the formalities for your general. I’m not Cassian. Call me Y/N.”

He nodded, face flushing slightly. “Yes… Y/N.”

You gave a faint, approving nod, already moving toward the next cot, where another healer was struggling with a chest wound. “Good. Now grab gloves and help Elira with the prep table. We’ve got work to do.”

Ather followed close behind as you made your way to the first table.

The tent was a battlefield in its own right—an organized mess, every cot filled, every healer moving like a piece of some frantic, well-oiled machine. There was a rhythm to it, one cot cleared, another filled. Bandages soaked through and replaced before the blood dried. Hands never idle. No time to hesitate. No room for mistakes.

You barely stopped walking as you began issuing orders. “Elira, get the bloodroot paste to Section B—head wound on cot twelve. Mira, I need fresh ward lines traced around the eastern perimeter, too many fractures in the shielding. Sylwen—double-check our poultice stock. We’re burning through it faster than expected.”

You paused at a table near the center.

The moment you saw him, you knew it was bad.

A Dawn Court warrior—barely conscious, his skin slick with sweat, blood pooled beneath his ribcage and leg. Deep lacerations, some down to bone, others... gaping. His tunic had long since been cut away, revealing claw-like tears across his chest and stomach. His breathing came in shallow rasps, and he was seizing slightly, his limbs spasming against the cot.

You moved fast, sleeves already rolled, hands glowing with the faint shimmer of healing focus. “He's crashing. We need to close the abdominal tear before he bleeds out.”

You snapped your fingers. “Ather—make yourself useful and hold him still.”

He jumped, rushing to the other side of the cot. His hands hovered for a second too long.

The warrior bucked violently.

You nearly screamed. “I said keep him still!”

Ather startled but slammed his hands down, pinning the warrior's shoulders. His eyes wide, focused now.

And if he’d dared to close them in that moment, he would’ve sworn he heard Cassian’s voice—Cassian’s authority—in your tone. That same raw edge. That same absolute command that didn't ask, but ordered.

You weren’t a front-line general. But here?

Here you were one.

The only one.

You worked fast—threading together muscle with magic, applying pressure spells, stitching layers that no blade could ever reach. The warrior moaned, head thrashing.

“Just a little more,” you murmured, hands steady. “Hold him, Ather—don’t let go, no matter what.”

Seconds passed like minutes.

Minutes like hours.

And hours like days.

Between screams and the metallic scent of blood, you could hear the frontlines burning. Distant, but not far. Explosions of power. The eerie wail of creatures that didn’t belong in this world—sounds that scraped against bone.

The wounds were changing, too. The warriors that arrived looked like they’d been clawed open by death itself. Eyes wide with terror. Some couldn’t even speak. Others begged you not to let them go back.

Your jaw clenched as you moved to the next patient.

Dammit.

Was this what Finn had seen in his final days?

Your hands didn’t stop.

But the thought lingered.

Are we going to win?

You didn’t have the answer…

The hours blurred.

Time lost meaning between the blood, the screams, and the never-ending arrival of new wounded. Healers moved like ghosts—silent, fast, leaving trails of red and magic behind them. And through it all, you stood at the center, a fixed point in the storm.

Every time the tent’s flap opened, your breath hitched.

You looked.

And every time, some part of you prayed.

Please, not Feyre. Not Rhys. Not Cassian. Not Mor. Not Nesta. Not Thesan. Not Azriel.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. You knew every soul that passed through your hands deserved your prayers. But you couldn’t stop the relief—the guilt-tinged exhale—when it wasn’t one of them.

When it wasn’t him.

Still, you kept moving. Kept healing. Kept leading.

At some point, Ather had stopped trailing you like a shadow. You’d stopped noticing exactly when. He had begun helping—quietly, steadily—moving supplies, holding pressure, assisting other healers. Close, but no longer hovering over your shoulder like he feared you'd vanish if he blinked.

Still, you caught him lingering now and then, eyes flicking back to you too often.

You didn’t even pause your stitching when you muttered, “Make yourself busy, Ather. You’re disturbing me more than anything hovering like that.”

“But—”

“No but. I’m sure Elira could use help hauling supply crates.”

He faltered, uncertain.

Before he could answer, Elira snatched him by the elbow. “Come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No one’s going to jump at her throat in the next fifteen minutes.”

You allowed a small smile to slip through as they vanished behind the warded flap.

You didn’t even hear Teylan approach until he was at your side, voice low and calm. “It’s slowing. You should rest for a bit. Tonight’s going to be worse. You need to be ready.”

You exhaled, long and weary. “You’re right. But if anything changes, wake me.”

He nodded, watching as you made your way toward the corner of the tent. You sank into a wooden chair, back stiff, arms crossed over your chest.

“I meant rest on a bed, Y/N,” Teylan said dryly. “One that doesn’t creak like it’s older than Prythian.”

You closed your eyes. “You already know I’m not leaving. Go do your job and let me sleep.”

He sighed, quiet resignation in every breath, but turned without arguing.

Later, when Ather returned, mud on his boots and blood on his forearm, Teylan gestured toward you.

“You should rest too, kid. Tonight’s going to be long.”

Ather nodded, but his eyes were on you—still and silent in your chair, arms folded like wings, head tilted just enough to show the curve of exhaustion on your face. You didn’t look asleep.

You looked like a statue.

Not crumbling, not wounded—just enduring.

A silent guardian holding the whole tent together by the sheer weight of your presence.

And so Ather sat on the ground beside you, back against the canvas, his siphons dim, hands resting in his lap.

Like a soldier next to a queen.

Like a believer at the feet of a goddess.

Night fell quickly.

One blink, and the pale glow of the warded healer’s tents was all that lit the field.

The fight had ended—for now.

You only knew it because the wounded had stopped pouring in long enough for your hands to stop shaking. The frontlines had held, barely. You’d heard from several warriors—some feverish, some lucid enough to still tremble—that the creatures were unlike anything they’d ever faced. Restless. Vicious. Mindless. As if they’d been created only to move, to rip through flesh and bone until nothing was left.

But even they had their limits.

And so the tide pulled back.

Azriel had sent word to you through the bond. I’m fine. Just that.

You’d felt it when he said it—meant it—and the grip around your lungs finally loosened. Others had checked in as well. Rhys. Cassian. Feyre. Mor. Thesan.

They were alive.

And for the first time since Azriel vanished into shadow, you could breathe again.

You’d begged him, silently through the bond, to rest after the debriefing. Just for a few hours. Just to let his body recover. But he had ignored you—completely, maddeningly ignored you—and you felt the moment he turned toward the camp instead.

He’s coming.

Because of course he was.

Because he was Azriel.

The wounded began to arrive in full.

Not the lightly injured ones—the ones treated by volunteers and beginner healers, wrapped and sent to recover.

No.

Yours.

The ones that looked like death itself had clawed them apart.

The first warrior was screaming so loud his voice cracked and turned to silence. A massive gash had torn down his back, ribs visible with every strained breath. Another was carried in missing both legs—burned black up to the thigh, the flesh hissing with rot that hadn't even had time to set properly.

And then there was him.

You didn’t know his name—didn’t need to.

The male was barely conscious, blood slicking his entire body, and half his face—

Gone.

Burned or melted or clawed, you couldn’t tell. The skin was missing from the left side entirely, leaving muscle, sinew, and exposed teeth where his cheek should have been.

Elira had made it halfway to the cot before she turned and ran behind the tent to empty her stomach.

The scream that followed was not the warrior’s—it was one of your junior healers, who dropped a bowl of antiseptic and stumbled backward with wide, horrified eyes.

You turned on her, your voice like ice.

“Get out.”

“But—”

“Out. If you can’t stomach the sight of what war brings, you have no place in this tent.”

She flinched. Then bolted.

You didn’t watch her go. You didn’t have time to feel guilty. You moved to the warrior, gloved hands already glowing, already assessing what could be done, already speaking to Mira—who, to her credit, stayed standing, though she was ghost-pale.

“Clamp that artery—there. No, the other one. Yes. Hold it. We’re going to need a skin stabilization spell until the regrowth solution arrives from Day.”

You looked up briefly. “Elira,” you called sharply without turning. “If you're finished vomiting, I need you back now.”

A groan from the other side of the tent confirmed she was crawling her way upright.

There was no time. No room for weakness. Not now.

Every scream from the cots blended into the next. The moans. The gasps. The silence of the ones who didn’t make it.

You stood over the cot, looking down at the warrior.

His chest barely rose and fell, eyes half-lidded, glazed. Blood soaked through the hastily tied bandages at his side, pooling under him, dark and steady. His leg was gone—torn clean above the knee—and the healing magic you’d poured into him had only been enough to dull the agony, not stop the inevitable.

“There’s nothing we can do,” you said, your voice low but firm. “It’s already too late. We don’t have the time to save him.”

Behind you, Ather stood still, frozen. His mouth opened, then shut again. Finally, he whispered, “Can’t you even try? He must have a family… people waiting for him. Can’t you—”

You turned to him slowly, exhaustion and clarity sharp in your eyes.

“Look at him, Ather.”

He did.

“He can’t even keep his eyes open. His body’s already slipping away—he’s lost too much blood, and the trauma is beyond what any of us can repair in time. He’s not conscious anymore. I already gave him peace, eased the pain. But I can’t bring him back. Not without burning through what’s left of my strength.”

You drew in a tight breath, steadying your voice, not for your sake—but for his.

“And look around you.” You gestured at the dozens of cots, the groaning wounded, the frantic pace of your fellow healers. “We are surrounded by dying people. If I waste the last of my magic trying to save one life already fading, then four or five others—people I could save—will die before I can get to them.”

Ather’s eyes darkened, jaw clenched, throat tight with unspoken grief. You stepped closer, your voice soft but unyielding.

“This is war, Ather. He fought for what he believed in. He died like a warrior. Do not pity him. That would only make his sacrifice meaningless.”

“I’m sorry…” he breathed, barely able to meet your eyes.

You placed your hand gently on his shoulder, the gesture firm and grounding.

“It’s okay,” you said. “It’s always hard the first time. And the times after that too.”

You squeezed his shoulder once before stepping back.

“Let’s go. We still have work to do.”

You barely took two steps when you heard her.

“Y/N! I need your help here!” Lila’s voice tore across the tent, panic sharp in her usually even tone.

You ran.

The moment you reached her, you understood why.

The male on the cot was massive, one of the front-line warriors—probably Illyrian by the faint curve of his wings, but it was hard to tell under all the blood. He convulsed violently, mouth open in a silent scream, limbs thrashing so hard the cot legs dragged against the ground.

Deep gashes ran across his chest and abdomen, torn open like something had clawed straight through armor and flesh. His side was bleeding too fast, the skin around the wound pulsing, too raw, too red.

“Shit,” you breathed, already moving.

“Hold him down!” you barked, and Ather rushed to your side without hesitation. He and another healer grabbed the warrior’s limbs, pinning him with every ounce of strength they had.

“He’s tearing his stitches,” Lila said, breathless. “Every time I try to stop the bleeding, he thrashes again. I can’t keep the pressure.”

You grabbed gauze and antiseptic, pressing hard into the wound, ignoring the blood that splattered your sleeves.

“He’s in shock—his body’s trying to shut down. We need to stop the bleeding now or we lose him.”

You looked to Lila. “Give him ten drops of mountain bell tonic. It’ll slow the adrenaline spike. Once he stills, I’ll stitch and seal.”

She moved immediately, hands no longer trembling.

The warrior bucked again, and you nearly lost your grip.

“Ather!” you snapped. “Hold him. I need him still.”

“I am trying—”

“Try harder!”

Your voice cut through the chaos, hard and fast, and for a second, the tent went silent. Ather's back straightened, his arms locking tight around the warrior’s shoulders.

You weren’t on the battlefield with the warriors.

But here?

You were a general.

You worked quickly. Gauze. Thread. Needle. Magic humming quietly through your fingertips—not a spell, not a cure, just enough to hold the pieces together.

Every second mattered.

And outside, the battle still raged—distant screams, strange cries echoing through the hills, the kind that didn’t sound fully human. The kind that made your blood turn to ice.

You didn’t look away from your patient.

But the thought echoed somewhere deep inside you.

Dammit.

Are we going to win?

You tied the last knot with a flick of your wrist. The bleeding slowed.

The warrior stilled.

Lila exhaled, slumping slightly beside you. “You got him,” she whispered.

“No,” you said. “We bought him time. That’s all.”

But your hands were steady. You didn’t let them shake.

You looked up to find Ather watching you—not afraid, but something close to reverent. Like he was seeing you for the first time.

“Stop staring,” you said softly. “Go grab fresh bandages.”

“Yes, Y/N.”

And he ran.

You turned to the next cot without pause.

Because this was war.

And there were more lives to save.

The warrior’s convulsions had stopped. His breathing had evened. You exhaled slowly, lowering your blood-slicked hands from his chest, and gave a faint nod to Lila. She stepped back, relief softening her features just slightly.

You turned to grab the salve kit behind you, ready to finish cleaning and sealing the edges of his wounds.

You didn’t even hear them come in.

But they were there—Azriel, Cassian, and Mor, stepping into the tent in search of you. You felt them before you saw them. Azriel’s heartbeat, once familiar and steady, stilled for just a second. Cassian’s body tensed like a coiled blade. Mor’s breath caught behind her te

And your own body—

Froze.

Your spine stiffened, your hand hovering mid-air. You didn’t need to look to know.

You’d felt it before.

The cold rush of knowing—ancient and visceral—sank into your spine like a blade of ice. That same crawling sensation you’d felt on the continent, that moment at sea with Azriel.

Koeshiev.

You had only enough time to hear the unnatural rasp of Ather’s sword being ripped from its sheath—not by him.

Azriel’s heart slammed against yours through the bond.

Y/N—

Lila’s eyes went wide.

But you—

You were faster.

You spun. Pivoted hard. Grabbed the warrior by the arm and yanked him off balance with brutal precision. His body jerked mid-lunge, and you twisted, shoving your palm into his chest.

There was a beat.

A breath.

And then—

Silence.

The man’s body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

A horrible stillness clung to the tent as blood spilled across the canvas underfoot. You stood above him, breathing hard, your hand still raised, your glove darkened.

You wiped the side of your face, a crimson smear marking your cheek.

“I didn’t think this would happen this soon,” you muttered, the words more breath than voice. “Fuck.”

You turned.

All eyes were on you.

Cassian. Mor. Lila. Ather. Azriel—his shadows writhing like smoke and storm across the floor. Everyone stared like the air had been sucked from the tent.

Even the wounded were silent.

You stepped forward, calm as steel.

“This isn’t just a war of blade and blood,” you said. “This is infiltration. Corruption. Whatever Koeshiev has sent into Prythian, it’s already here. And this—” you gestured to the body on the ground, “—is only the beginning.”

You looked at the healers, your voice low, but resonant.

“From this moment on, if anyone acts strangely—zones out, speaks in riddles, loses time—you report it immediately. I don’t care if it’s your mentor, your commander, or your closest friend.”

You didn’t need to explain what had happened.

They had seen.

“Do not hesitate. Do not second-guess. Because the next time, you might not get the chance to act.”

You swept your gaze across the tent one final time.

“This is war,” you said. “And war doesn’t give second chances.”

No one spoke.

Then Lila, quietly, “Is it going to happen again?”

You looked her in the eye. The truth sat like a knife on your tongue.

“Yes.”

Azriel was the first to reach you, already stepping past the others with shadows still curling at his heels. His eyes swept over your face, your arms, your hands—checking for wounds, for blood that wasn’t yours. His gaze was clinical, protective, frantic beneath the surface.

Cassian arrived next, brows furrowed. “Are you alright? What the fuck happened in here?”

Azriel didn’t speak. He was still looking, like if he could just see deep enough, he’d figure out if something inside you had cracked.

Mor hovered nearby, her golden eyes unreadable, flickering between the body on the ground and your blood-streaked face.

“I’m fine,” you answered hoarsely. “It wasn’t him anymore. It was already too late.”

Cassian glanced at the corpse. “What the hell was that?”

You didn’t flinch. You just looked up at him.

“Don’t be surprised, Cass,” you said, voice steady. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. If we’re dead, the warriors die too. Take out the healers, and the front lines bleed out behind us. Koeshiev doesn’t just want to fight—he wants to rot us from the inside.”

You turned sharply, finding Ather and Lila frozen near the edge of the tent, still wide-eyed.

“You two—” your voice cracked through the tension like lightning, “—the instructions are clear. Go through every single person in this tent. If anyone seems off, anything, I don’t care how small—you call for me. Immediately.”

They both nodded.

Lila was pale but focused.

Ather still looked shell-shocked.

You turned, reached for Azriel’s hand, and without a word, pulled him out of the tent with you.

The air outside was colder now. Sharper. The moon was high above, casting pale light on the fields and distant fire-lit hills. Your fingers didn’t loosen their grip on his.

Inside, the others were still frozen around the aftermath.

And Ather—

He looked down at the body. At the blood slowly drying into the floor. At the hollow cavity of a man who had stood just minutes ago.

“How…” Ather breathed, barely able to speak. “How did she—”

Lila didn’t blink. “She made all his internal organs explode, that’s how...” she said simply, quietly.

Ather’s stomach flipped.

But he didn’t look away.

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

tag list : @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @bravo-delta-eccho @messageforthesmallestman @celestialgilb @tiredsleepyhead @annamariereads16 @arcanefeelingz @fuckingsimp4azriel @adventure-awaits13 @diaouranask @rcarbo1 @6v6babycheese @goodvibesonlyxd @sa54va87to90re12 @firefly-forest @babypeapoddd @hailqueenconquer @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @judig92 @pinklemonade34 @sourapplex @wickedshadowsinger @shinyghosteclipse @rose-girls-world @leptitlu @acourtofsmutandstarlight @feyrescanvas @dreamloud4610 @plants-w0rld @tele86 @dragonsandrinks @making-it-big @itsbonniebabe @motheroffae @azrielswhore @casiiopea2 @whyucloudingmymind @onebadassunicorn @prettylittlewrites @moondustxy @panickedmushroom @ly--canthrope @xlosttdreamss @phoenix666stuff @runningoncoffeeandchaos @zanaorian @prettty-thing @wxveysun @aslut4percyjackson @ailoda @byteme05 @elisabethch82 @eatsleepreadance1 @rainy-day-lady @breademoji @zuhashah-09 @quiettuba @magicaldragonlady @ajxsquish @hibye02 @am-riel @thorins-queen-of-erebor@casiiopea2

#azriel fic #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar fanart #acotar #rhysand #azriel acotar #cassian #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #elain #feyre

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cityofmeliora · 2 months ago

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"Cardi" or "Copia"?

one of my controversial hot take behaviors in this fandom is my insistence on only using the names "Cardi" or "C" to refer to Cardinal Copia / Papa Emeritus IV / Frater Imperator, while probably 99% of the fandom says "Copia" instead, but i think it's weird that i'm even in the minority on this matter since, in the entire 7+ years since this character debuted, there's been a grand total of ONE time that a piece of official Ghost media has ever called him "Copia" (and it was the narrator in Metal Myths LOL), and off the top of my head, i know of just ONE interview where TF called him "Copia".

DISCLAIMER!!!! i'm not the boss of anyone and i'm NAWTTTT saying you can't call him Copia. i just have the autism that makes me need to Follow Rules and i think it's kind of funny that this phenomenon exists.

anyway. he's called "The Cardinal" / "Cardinal" / "Cardinal Copia" / "Cardi" / "Little Cardi" / "Cardi C" / "C" in interviews and official Ghost media, but never just "Copia".

TF prefers using the name Cardi for him–

TOBIAS FORGE: Cardinal Copia, or Cardi, as I like to call him, is not an all-around cool person, but that's what makes him so much fun for me to play. Visions (July 21, 2024)

and i'm sure his preference for the name "Cardi" is apparent from the way it's the most used name for the character.

it's used for almost the entirety of the Rite Here Rite Now opening narration–

NARRATOR: [...] Papa Emeritus IV, also known as 'Cardinal Copia', simplified within the clergy as 'Cardi', has been touring with Ghost for five years– two album cycles, which is double what any of his predecessors were allowed. As his numeral name implies, he should be the fourth in a row of Emerituses, but he's technically the fifth Papa since his father, Papa Nihil –'Nihil' meaning "zero"– was the first one. To make things even cozier, the Mother Superior of the Ghost clergy, whose name is Sister Imperator, is Cardi's actual mother. However, due to undisclosed circumstances in this particular story, Little Cardi wasn't aware of their family ties until quite recently. This may sound tragic, and maybe it is, but we'll just have to tell that story at some other time. Anyway, lately, there's been a lot of talk, or let's say insinuations, about death within the clergy, and Little Cardi doesn't like that one bit. Any notion of his time ending, or someone passing away, has been a trigger for him; his mind searching for ways to circumvent an untimely ending of his time in the limelight. You see, Cardi feels that since he is not only young –well, sort of– and able enough to carry on as the focal point of Ghost for at least a few more album cycles, Cardi feels that he is a better entertainer than the previous Papas and therefore he should simply be able to remain in his position, and not have to face the same fate as all the Papas before him. Cardi has no interest in being taxidermically propped up in a plexiglass coffin, to be displayed before the Ghost fans before they get the pleasure of seeing and hearing some new Papa frolicking around on stage. Cardi doesn't want to end this tour, simply because it might end in his ultimate and premature demise– his death. However, this is not a tale about death, but one of life. And Cardi is about to learn that the hard way. RITE HERE RITE NOW (2024)

other characters do call him "The Cardinal" and address him as "Cardinal" when speaking about him / to him in a professional capacity, as shown in Chapters 1-8 (2018-2019), when Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil only acknowledged him as a coworker because their family relationship wasn't public knowledge yet. and in the 2018 Special Sermon with Papa Nihil and Sister Imperator, they actually call him "Cardi C" LOL. weirdly, though, they also never say the full name "Cardinal Copia"– they just say "The Cardinal" / "Cardinal" / "Cardi C".

but after their family relationship was revealed, and when speaking to him personally, they call him "Cardi" or "C", as shown from Chapter 9 (2021) onward.

PAPA NIHIL: Cardi, can I see you a moment? RITE HERE RITE NOW (2024)

Cardi also refers to himself as "Cardi" or "C".

SISTER IMPERATOR: I mean, you'll always be– C, you'll always be my Little Cardi. PAPA EMERITUS IV: Aww. But that's– that's fine. I mean, I– when I'm back here in our abode, y'know, I always feel like... Cardi. Chapter 10: Home Coming & Special Guests (2022)

PAPA EMERITUS IV: Hello! This is uh, C. Uh, I'm doing auditioning tape for uh, for television, displaying acting skills. Chapter 12: Ghost Goes Hollywood (2022)

most people seem to interpret "Cardinal" as just his job title and "Copia" as his name, but for a long time, i've had the headcanon that "Cardinal Copia" is literally actually his legal given first name, and i wouldn't put it past Sister to have named him that, considering the fact that it's implied she legally changed her name to "Sister Imperator" (in Sister Imperator comic #2 she says "I'm keeping this name", and it's the name she uses at the hospital in Chapter 4 and it's on her prescription medication in RHRN and in the Skeletour VIP museum). this headcanon was partly a joke since it's a pretty silly idea, but i think there is some credibility to it considering the fact that his whole family calls him "Cardi" (including himself), especially woman who raised him, his aunt Marika (Papa Nihil's sister / Sister Imperator's adoptive sister / Mr. Psaltarian's wife).

like... i don't think his aunt Marika would say she's "always called him Cardi" if it was just a job title, since like... he probably wouldn't have had that job when he was a little kid.

MARIKA PSALTARIAN: And just so you know, Frater– Cardi, I've always called him Cardi. See, I'm actually his aunt, but he grew up with my husband and I basically being his parents. He'll always be my little boy. Chapter 20: Arrival Of A Secret Agent (2025)

when he was Papa Emeritus IV, he did want to be called "Papa" because that was his title, but he decided it was fine that his family didn't call him that, and he called himself "Cardi" / "C" too.

and after he became Frater Imperator, he asked people to call him by his new name / title, "Frater". but he still has the instinct to tell people to call him "C". so i don't think it's just about the titles.

FRATER IMPERATOR: Hello. I am Frater. JUDITH: Judith. FRATER IMPERATOR: Judith! Nice to meet you, J-Judith. You can call me… F. No– C! So– P! No, uh– Frater. Frater Imperator. Chapter 20: Arrival Of A Secret Agent (2025)

soooo... yeah. despite all this, i pretty much only see people calling him "Copia", not "Cardi" or "C" lol.

anyway, all of this could change with the big lore updates that are happening in Era 6, but this is what i've observed. haha.

i also always say "V" instead of "Perpetua" for similar reasons.

#radley post #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #frater imperator #cardi #the band ghost lore #analysis #headcanon #quotes

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stromuprisahat · 9 days ago

Note

First of all, I love your blog.

I'm wondering if it was ever explained why the Darkling created the Fold in the books? I vaguely remember something about "experiments with power", but nothing specific. Am I missing something, or we really just glossed over it like this?

Hi.

Thanks for nice words, and as for your question- yes, it is glossed over this way.

I've been looking for an explanation for a post, and the closest to explanation we get is Aleksander's own thoughts:

But power was exactly what Aleksander had found, tucked away in this basement—his grandfather’s journals, the records of his experiments. They had become his obsession. He’d been sure that he could do what Ilya Morozova had done, and so he’d tried. The result was the Fold.

Rule of Wolves- Chapter 21

Elsewhere, David repeats basically the same as Grisha historical record of the event:

“They documented Morozova’s experiments with amplifiers. The Black Heretic was trying to re-create those experiments when something went wrong.”

Siege and Storm- Chapter 16

There's still the question what were the amplifiers combined supposed to do?

Judging from the Darkling's desire for Alina to have it, and his reaction to her butchering, Morozova either didn't intend to destroy a Grisha, or forgot to note that tiny little detail.

The Darkling perceives power as a source of safety, so wanting to make more amplifiers is a logical step to give those means to the weak, and protect Living amplifiers with the same move. It wouldn't solve the hatred, but it would give Grisha a better fighting chance in literal way.

Now what was Morozova's original aim?

According to Baghra- our only contemporary source, he also battled with otkazat'sya lack of understanding, so turning them into Grisha seems possible. Except Baghra is anything but unbiased, both due to her own worldviews and her age back then. I'd say more reliable would be his diaries. Sure, I wouldn't expect essays on unfairness of social order between diagrams about melting various metals, but they should paint a picture about how he used to think.

We never even get a glimpse of their content.

The Darkling created the Fold, because he messed up merzost experiment, that should've made new amplifiers. Did he mean to use them in other way, than handing them out as candy?

What exactly would those items be capable of, we'll also likely never know.

#reply #Grishaverse #The Darkling #The Fold #merzost #Morozova's amplifiers #Ilya Morozova #RoW Chapter 21 #S&S Chapter 16 #grishanalyticritical #books #quotes #Leigh Bardugo

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wandafiction · 1 year ago

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Just Us - Series List Chapter 1 -98

Y/n is a multimillionaire. Wanda Maximoff is a divorced mum of two twin boys who is trying her best. What happens when their paths cross at a club and Y/n takes Wanda home for the night?

Warnings: This story is an 18+ read, Minors DNI, contains talks and description of Death, Accidents, Injury, Child Loss, Abuse (Physical and Emotional), Anxiety, Panic Attacks, Suggestive themes, Smut (Each Chapter With Themes Explained), Angst (Lots of It), And Some Fluff Thrown in because I felt bad. Top Reader, Bottom Wanda

Each chapter will come with their own warnings.

This is a story that I have put up on my Wattpad and my Ao3 and thought I would share it here for more of you wonderful people. I do hope you enjoy this read. There will be mistakes here and there and maybe some incorrect translations.

So this is an AU story with the MCU characters. So the ages and story lines with be changed and different from that in the movies.

I will right some history for each character as the story progresses just so ages and other things make sense.

All the Character's in this are played by their respective actors and certain aspects of the MCU have been added in. But once again its not going to be an alternative marvel story it is a completely different universe.

I don't own any if the MCU characters.

Master List

Chapter List

Chapter 1 - Yours or Mine

Chapter 2 18+ - First Time

Chapter 3 - How Much

Chapter 4 18+ - Beautiful

Chapter 5 - Accent

Chapter 6 - The Twins

Chapter 7 - Just Add 8

Chapter 8 - Panic Attack

Chapter 9 - Sounds Like A date

Chapter 10 - Happy Tears

Chapter 11 - Twenty Percent

Chapter 12 - Favourite Colour

Chapter 13 - Ex-husbands Clothes

Chapter 14 18+ - Trust is Not Like Candy

Chapter 15 - Morning Bliss

Chapter 16 - Sisterly Advice

Chapter 17 - Lunch Date

Chapter 18 - Not By Blood, By Choice

Chapter 19 18+ - Frozen Peas

Chapter 20 - Scarlet Witch

Chapter 21 - Iron Man

Chapter 22 18+ - Love Language

Chapter 23 - The Friends

Chapter 24 - Hela's Kitchen

Chapter 25 - The Question

Chapter 26 - From Second To First

Chapter 27 - Mr Blue Sky

Chapter 28 - Protective Friend

Chapter 29 - It's Real To Me

Chapter 30 - Pile On

Chapter 31 18+ - Water Fight

Chapter 32 - Head Scratches

Chapter 33 - Billy's Discovery

Chapter 34 - Superhero Trio

Chapter 35 - Pancakes and L Bombs.

Chapter 36 - 10 Out Of 10 Dive

Chapter 37 - Tickle Monster

Chapter 38 - Sarah Stark

Chapter 39 - Love Persevering

Chapter 40 - First Meeting

Chapter 41 - Hear, Listen, Take It In

Chapter 42 - Touch

Chapter 43 - Mockingbird

Chapter 44 - Family

Chapter 45 - Search Party

Chapter 46 - Bowl Of Popcorn

Chapter 47 - Pet Names

Chapter 48 18+ - Trying Something New

Chapter 49 - French Braids

Chapter 50 - Not Taking Advantage

Chapter 51 - To Understand Someone

Chapter 52 - The Row

Chapter 53 18+ - I Need You

Chapter 54 - Your Flaws Are Your Strengths

Chapter 55 18+ - Jealousy

Chapter 56 - I Can't Be Here

Chapter 57 - Stephanie Grace Turner

Chapter 58 - Zak The Waiter

Chapter 59 18+ - Declarations

Chapter 60 - Clingy

Chapter 61 - Triple Chocolate Brownies

Chapter 62 - Watch Me

Chapter 63 - Grown-Up Conversations

Chapter 64 - A+

Chapter 65 18+ - Dynamic

Chapter 66 - You Don't Get It

Chapter 67 - Conditioned

Chapter 68 - Selachimorpha

Chapter 69 - Beed Stroganoff

Chapter 70 - Ruby-Throated Hummingbird

Chapter 71 - Realisations

Chapter 72 - Princess

Chapter 73 - The Talk

Chapter 74 - Black Widow

Chapter 75 - Can I Join You

Chapter 76 - Люли, люли, люленьки

Chapter 77 - Moose

Chapter 78 - Aurora Borealis

Chapter 79 - Calgary

Chapter 80 18+ - Mirror

Chapter 81 - Massage and Important Conversations

Chapter 82 - Banff

Chapter 83 - Strawberries

Chapter 84 - Bayushki Bayu

Chapter 85 - Cookies

Chapter 86 18+ - Control

Chapter 87 - Hyper Puppy

Chapter 88 - Treehouse

Chapter 89 - 312

Chapter 90 - Forgiveness

Chapter 91 18+ - Always Feel Good

Chapter 92 - Your Third Love

Chapter 93 18+ - Daddy

Chapter 94 - Home

Chapter 95 - Stalker

Chapter 96 - Can't Catch A Break

Chapter 97 18+ - Mile High Club

Chapter 98 - Happy

Series List 99 -

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda smut #wanda maximoff smut #bottom wanda #bottom wanda maximoff #sub wanda #sub wanda maximoff #top reader #bottom wanda x top reader #sub wanda maximoff x top reader #bottom wanda maximoff x top reader #sub wanda x top reader #marvel au #Just Us Series

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stromuprisahat · 1 year ago

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I see it mostly this way: Behold the irony- even if she pretends to accept him, Alina sees Aleksander as an inhuman creature, while he himself dares to allow himself to long for mundane connection of a person instead of cold alliance of a political figure and leader, all thanks to her presence only.

Tragic and horrifying at the same time.

That's it. That's the Alarkling dynamic in a nutshell.

Aleksander was bringing out Alina's dark side. The one she kept hiding out of shame and fear. It's essential to acknowledge that you have one but the author never allowed her to come to terms with it. And Aleksander was the only character to accept it about her.

On the other hand, Alina was bringing out Aleksander's human side. The one he (almost) lost through the centuries. He didn't think he still had it until Alina stirred it. And just like Aleksander symbolized her dark, powerful side, she symbolized his light and humanity.

It's just a dynamic of contradictions. They both also avoided admitting it. The irony is that the narrative kept trying to convince the reader that these sides of them were wrong (in Alina's case) or they simply didn't exist (in Aleksander's case). And by doing so the author tried to strip of these two characters one of their core characteristics.

#Grishaverse #S&S Chapter 23 #parallels&references #RoW Chapter 21 #Alina Starkov #The Darkling #Darklina #grishanalyticritical #Siege and Storm #Rule of Wolves #books #quotes #Leigh Bardugo #anti Leigh Bardugo

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ceeesxy-blog · 2 months ago

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LOOKISM'S TIMELINE (WITH EDIT DOWN BELOW)

Hello, my fellow Lookism readers! I made a Lookism timeline based on my understanding of the plot, as I struggle to go through it in my head over and over again because it gets confusing as the story goes on.

I write a fanfiction based on Lookism, and I wanted to get the timeline as accurate as possible, so if you're going to add/ correct me in some details, I'll happily accept it!

I am posting it to get help because my brain cells couldn't handle fixing the timeline based on the backstories of the characters anymore. (I haven't re-read Lookism in so long, and the backstories are jumbled. That's why it was harder to do this because fixing the timeline is messing with my head.)

Here's what I made:

(I hope you can see it clearly hahahaha)

Please tell me if there's any correction or if I forgot to add something. Thank you! o((>ω< ))o

Note:

Main Cast: Daniel, Allied, and his friends from J High are 17 years old as first-year high school students. Gun and Goo are a year older together with Samuel and Jake (16 when the 4MC is formed). James Lee is older than Gun and Goo (21-22). The first generation kings are a bit older than James (23 or above).

EDIT (250421): COLORED TEXTS ARE THE ONES CHANGED/ADDED

Hi guys! I'm here to correct a mistake I made! So I went back to Ep. 497: Cheonliang (16) and realized Jichang's fall and James attacking the Kings happened at the same time.

Also, Vin Jin might be (14-15— I'm just clarifying this because I just decisively said 15 on the first box. I just don't think he could be 15 by that time because shortly after, Jichang fought the 22-year-old Gitae Kim, who was 7 years older than Jake Kim, and that makes Jake 15 y/o when Jichang and Gitae fought. Take note that Jake Kim is a year older than Daniel and the others.)

Here's the correct events: (From: Third Box, 1st Row above)

In Ep. 496: Cheonliang (15), Gun's statement implies that James Lee has already killed Gapryong by this time (by his appearance in Cheonliang, Gapryong is already dead).

James Lee entered his training arc. (This is from the fifth box on the first row, but is moved to the fourth.)

James Lee sends Gitae Kim to overthrow Jichang Kwak as the King of Seoul while simultaneously attacking the King of Ansan, Taesoo Ma. (Attacks on KOS and KOA happened at the same time— proven in Ep. 497 where Gitae calls James to say he was finished.)

Gitae Kim goes back to Mexico, with James being the one to get him his plane tickets.

Jichang Kwak gets banished to Chungcheong Province after being dethroned from his position.

James then proceeds to go after the other 1st Generation Kings, entering a new era.

THAT'S IT FOR NOW! Sorry I noticed it too late (I just read the chapter again). I apologize for the confusion this might've caused. 😭

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koiukiy-o · 3 months ago

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orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 004. the blueprint.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 4.3k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: holyyyyy its finally here !!! this chapter was totally supposed to be the chapter that kind of puts things in perspective and establishes some world building BUT ALAS I GOT SIDETRACKED... -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

The lecture hall is silent, save for the occasional shuffle of paper and the measured rhythm of Anaxagoras’ voice. The afternoon light cuts sharp lines across the rows of desks, dust motes drifting in the air like suspended thought, catching on the edges of his words.

“A fractal begins with a base function,” he says, voice steady but threaded with something deeper—something that hums in the spaces between his syllables. “This is its essence. The foundation upon which all complexity unfolds.”

He doesn’t write an equation. Instead, his hands move through the air in clean, deliberate arcs, shaping the concept in motion.

“The Mandelbrot set,” he continues. “begins with a simple recursive function. A value is taken, transformed, then fed back into itself. Each iteration alters the outcome—but the fundamental pattern remains.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his next words settle into the quiet.

“Small differences in the starting value can lead to vastly different structures. But no matter how much it expands, the same signature is imprinted within it. Recursion does not create randomness. It does not erase its origin. Instead, it refines, elaborates, expands. The original form is never lost—only expressed in infinite variation.”

The pen in your hand is warm from where you've been holding it too tightly.

Anaxagoras moves seamlessly into the next thread of thought. “The human mind operates on patterns,” he says, underlining the phrase on the board with a slow, deliberate stroke. “Not in the sense of mindless repetition, but as a structured, evolving process. We recognize, reinforce, and refine information based on prior input.”

Something tugs at the edge of your mind.

“Consider language acquisition,” he continues. “A child is not born knowing a language, yet the structure for it already exists. Exposure, experience, and interaction shape the outcome, but the capacity is inherent. The process is iterative—the same foundation, refined through use, altered by context.”

Your pen hesitates, ink pooling in a single dot on the page.

Ilias nudges your arm. “That same page has been open for five minutes,” he mutters.

You don’t answer.

It’s there. Right there, just beyond reach—woven between the lines of his lecture and the contours of your own thoughts.

Your gaze lifts to him.

Anaxagoras isn’t looking at you directly, but you recognize it now—the way his tone shifts when he lingers on certain ideas. His phrasing is precise, yet measured, as though anticipating the moment someone follows him past the obvious.

Anticipating you.

Ilias nudges you again. “You’re making the face.”

You blink. “What face?”

“The one where you’re about to say something wildly specific that sounds normal to you but makes the rest of us reconsider whether we know what words mean.”

You swat at him without looking, keeping your attention fixed forward.

"If individuality is a function of iteration," you say suddenly, the thought slipping free like a thread pulled from a greater weave, "then at what point does the original form stop being relevant?"

Silence.

A shift in the air—it’s subtle.

Anaxagoras pauses. The chalk in his hand stills just before it touches the board. But he doesn’t turn. Not yet.

"You assume it does," he says instead, his voice measured. "Why?"

You hesitate. "Because—" You try to grasp at the thought, but it’s slipping, unraveling. "Because if every iteration changes, then the original—"

"Changes how?"

You blink. "Through variance. Accumulated difference."

He nods, but it’s not satisfaction. It’s expectation. "And yet?"

You frown. "And yet it still carries the same process—"

"So is it severance?"

You inhale sharply. "No."

He turns now, finally, and the weight of his gaze lands fully on you. "Then what is it?"

You search for the word, the shape of the idea curling at the edge of your thoughts.

"Extension?" you murmur.

Anaxagoras watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then—so slightly you almost miss it—his fingers tighten around the chalk.

"Hm."

A pause.

The weight of his gaze—assessing, acknowledging, remembering, as though he’s not just hearing your words but recognizing them, as though he’s tracing a pattern he’s seen before but can’t quite name.

Then, just as smoothly, he turns back to the board as if nothing happened, resuming his explanation.

You exhale sharply, pressing your lips together to stifle a grin.

You’re not sure if you should thank Anaxagoras or be absolutely, thoroughly frustrated with him.

Maybe both.

He takes a step forward, chalk tapping against the board in a series of crisp strokes as he shifts the topic. And then—

“Ilias.”

Ilias straightens instantly, caught mid-whisper.

Anaxagoras doesn’t turn. “If a system is defined by iterative transformation, how do we distinguish between growth and replication?”

Ilias scoffs, leaning back like this is the easiest question in the world. “Obviously, if a system changes with each iteration, it’s growth. If it just repeats the same process without meaningful difference, it’s replication.”

A beat.

Anaxagoras finally glances over his shoulder. “Incorrect.”

Ilias blinks. “What.”

Anaxagoras turns fully now, expression unreadable. “Your answer assumes that change alone defines growth. It does not.”

From beside him, you let out an involuntary snort.

Ilias’ head snaps toward you. “Oh, now you have an opinion?”

You press a hand to your mouth, eyes gleaming with barely suppressed amusement.

Anaxagoras waits.

Ilias flounders for a moment, then straightens again, clearing his throat like he can salvage this. “Okay, well—uh. If the transformation process is… uhh… significant enough, then—”

A long silence.

You don’t even try to hide your giggle this time.

Ilias throws his hands up. “Why are you laughing? You got to say your freaky little statement in peace!”

Anaxagoras raises an eyebrow. “Language.”

Ilias pales.

You wheeze, turning away.

Ilias exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s fighting for his life. “Alright, fine. Recursion isn’t just about repetition, but about… contextual… refinement..?”

The silence hung thick, oppressive, as Ilias struggled to string together a coherent thought. His hands fumbled with the papers in front of him, and his voice cracked under the pressure. It was clear to anyone with half a brain that his attempt to impress Anaxagoras had backfired—again.

Then, cutting through the stillness, came a voice. Quiet but firm.

"It’s not just about change. It’s about the system responding to its environment. If it doesn’t, it’s not really transformation. It’s just… repetition."

Ilias’s head snapped up. The voice had no warning, no introduction—just a cool, steady presence that seemed to effortlessly cut through the tension.

For a split second, he blinked in confusion, his mind scrambling to process what had just happened. He’d been so caught up in his own rambling, he hadn’t noticed anyone else was around. But there, seated a couple chairs over, was a girl he hadn’t seen before. Dark, hair, eyes sharp with quiet confidence, arms folded across her chest. She was a mystery—a calm, collected contrast to the chaos that he had just created.

Ilias swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "That was… uh. Really well put." His laugh was quieter this time, edged with something like genuine relief. "I was—yeah. Definitely struggling there." He hesitated, then, almost earnestly: "Thanks."

The girl didn’t say anything right away. Just tilted her head slightly, studying him with a kind of quiet amusement.

Anaxagoras’s gaze flicked between them, the silence stretching just a beat longer than comfortable. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, barely a sigh but just enough to be perceptible. His eyes landed back on Ilias.

"Struggling is a generous term," Anaxagoras said dryly.

Ilias groaned, dropping his head onto his desk with a thud.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Anaxagoras exhaled slowly, a faint, begrudging noise escaping him. His gaze flickered back to the girl for a moment, a brief acknowledgment that didn’t quite touch his eyes.

“Acceptable,” he said, his voice crisp and without fanfare, before his attention returned to Ilias. “This time.”

It was as close to praise as Anaxagoras was ever likely to give.

You grin. “That was impressive. Truly.”

Ilias glares. “I hate you.”

But across the room, Anaxagoras’ gaze flickers back to you for a fraction of a second—just enough for you to notice, just enough to make your pulse quicken.

And then, as always, he moves on as though nothing happened.

Yet, your thoughts linger, trailing behind you as the lecture ends, as you gather your things, as you step into the quiet corridors where the conversation still churns in your mind, unfinished.

The evening air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves as you and Ilias walk down the winding campus path, the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes the only sound for a few moments. It's a comfortable silence—both of you are still processing the mental gymnastics Anaxagoras just put the class through.

And then, of course, Ilias ruins it.

“I’m being publicly executed in that classroom,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Every. Single. Lecture.”

You glance at him, amused. “What are you even talking about?”

He throws his hands up. “Oh, I don’t know! Maybe the part where he treats me like an enrichment activity for the class while you get revered like some kind of academic deity.”

You snort. “I am not—”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he cuts in, shaking his head dramatically. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the designated clown. To live in fear of the moment he decides today is the day to obliterate me for sport.”

You raise a brow. “Maybe if you stopped making questionable philosophical takes—”

“No. It’s too late for me. But you—” He points accusingly. “You get the pauses.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The pauses,” he repeats, exasperated. “You ask something, and he actually stops. Like, for a second, he’s just standing there, processing, recalibrating his entire existence before he answers like he saw it coming all along, and proceeds worships the ground you walk on. Meanwhile, I breathe wrong, and he materializes a ten-minute verbal essay on why I’m incorrect.”

“…That’s not true.”

“Oh, it is,” he deadpans. “I’m a walking rhetorical question to that man. You, on the other hand? He actually looks pleased when you speak. It’s sickening.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And you,” he sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, before something catches the corner of his eye– "Hey! It’s a dog!"

You barely have time to process before he veers off-course, pointing toward a scruffy-looking mutt curled up near a campus bench. The dog lifts its head, ears perking, but doesn’t bolt. Its fur is a patchwork of colors—mostly brown, with streaks of white and black—and though it looks a little unkempt, it seems well-fed.

"Do you think it's a stray?" you ask, stepping closer.

"I mean, it’s wearing a bandana." Ilias crouches, squinting at the little fabric tied around its neck. The dog watches him, tail thumping hesitantly against the ground. "Could be a lost pet. Or maybe it just—"

The dog trots forward, sniffing at your shoes before nudging its head into Ilias’ leg. He yelps, stiffening. The dog wags its tail harder.

"Okay," he breathes, lowering his hand. "Okay. This is happening."

Just as his fingers brush the dog’s fur, a voice interrupts. "Ah—hey, hey, don't scare him!"

You turn towards the source—a striking figure with windswept white hair, piercing blue eyes, and an air of effortless charm, jogging up to you, grinning like you’ve all just been reunited after years apart. His crisp, button-down shirt is a pristine shade of ivory, tailored to fit perfectly without appearing rigid. Over it, he wears a sleek, deep-blue blazer, unbuttoned, its lapels lined with subtle gold embroidery that catches the light as he moves. The blazer is paired with well-fitted slacks of a similar navy hue, pressed yet comfortably worn. A fine gold watch glints on his wrist, peeking out whenever he gestures animatedly. His shoes—polished but practical—carry a quiet confidence, much like him.

His energy is immediate, warm and bright, like he’s been waiting all day for a reason to talk to someone.

"Sorry about that!" He slows to a stop, catching his breath. "This little guy's not a stray—he just likes hanging around here. We feed him sometimes."

You blink. "We?"

The dog immediately abandons Ilias and darts across, tail wagging furiously as a second man crouches, offering food from his hand—a stark contrast. This one has sharp red eyes, dusty red hair falls at his shoulders. He, in contrast, wears black. A fitted, long-sleeved dress shirt clings just right, the top few buttons left undone, exposing the faintest hint of skin. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing the inked patterns winding down his left arm. A single silver ring rests on his hand, catching the light as he idly scratches behind the stray dog’s ears. His charcoal-gray slacks fit comfortably, cinched by a belt with an unembellished black buckle. Unlike… blondie’s polished look, his ensemble leans effortlessly sharp—a perfect balance of refinement and disregard.

"That answers that," you murmur.

The white-haired one—Phainon, judging by the way his companion sighs his name in exasperation—grins. "Sorry if he harassed you. He’s just a friendly little guy. I’m Phainon, by the way! And the one who’s pretending not to give a damn right now is Mydei."

At his name, the other man—Mydei glances up briefly, gaze flickering over you and Ilias before returning to his task. He places the container on the ground, and the dog immediately perks up, trotting over to eat.

Ilias, still kneeling awkwardly, exhales. "Okay. Not a stray. Noted."

Phainon beams. "Yeah, he just likes people! Kind of like me."

"Don’t compare yourself to a dog," Mydei mutters, scratching behind the mutt’s ears. Despite his dry tone, there’s a distinct lack of bite to it.

You exchange a glance with Ilias, who looks like he's trying to decide whether this interaction is going to be amusing or exhausting.

Mydei, meanwhile, finishes setting down the food, and the dog immediately perks up, trotting over to eat. Phainon watches with fondness before turning back to you both.

Ilias, undeterred, crouches slightly, watching as the dog happily devours its food. Then he tilts his head. "Wait, does he have a name?"

Phainon perks up. "Oh! Yeah, we call him—" but before the word fully escapes, Mydei cuts in flatly. "No, he doesn’t."

Phainon sighs, as if wounded. "Well, someone refuses to name him anything else–"

"He doesn’t need a name," Mydei replies, scratching the dog behind the ears. "He’s fine as he is.”

“We call him—his name is Dog." Phainon interrupts and proudly exclaims.

Mydei exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "'Dog' is not a name."

"It's a perfectly functional name," Phainon counters, crossing his arms. "It tells you exactly what he is."

"It tells me you’re uncreative," Mydei mutters.

Ilias lets out a quiet laugh. "The dogs name is… Dog?"

Phainon nods enthusiastically. "Yes! And he responds to it! Watch—Dog!"

The dog does, in fact, lift his head, ears twitching.

Mydei gives him a long, unimpressed stare. "He also responds to literally any sound you make. You could call him ‘Toaster’ and he’d do the same thing."

Phainon gasps. "Toaster is kind of cute."

"Absolutely not."

You exchange a glance with Ilias, both of you barely holding back laughter. The dog—Dog?—wags his tail, blissfully unaware of the existential debate happening over his name.

Phainon turns his attention back to you, his grin softer now, less performative. "Anyways, you two should join us in the evenings if you’d like to befriend Dog over here! We usually hang out around here and—well, I do… and Mydei pretends he just happens to be here."

"Because I do," Mydei deadpans, but he doesn’t refute any further, turning his gaze to you instead.

Ilias glances at you. "Well, I don’t have anything better to do."

You hum, considering. The dog has finished eating and is now curled up against Mydei’s side, content. Phainon looks at you expectantly, his posture light, easy.

...That does not sound like a productive use of your time.

"... I’m in." you say.

Phainon cheers, Ilias pats you on the back, and Mydei only shakes his head, unimpressed.

But even as laughter rings in the air, your notebook sits heavy in your bag, pressing against your side like a restless thing. The pages whisper against each other with every step, the unfinished nonsensical equations scrawled within tugging at you like a sleeve caught on a nail—persistent, insistent, refusing to be ignored.

Maybe that's what brought you here, you tell yourself.

The door to Anaxagoras’ office door creaks as you push it open, stepping into the dimly lit office. Anaxagoras looks up from his desk, dark eyes flicking to the threshold with the mild expectation of a routine interruption. But when he sees you—alone, unannounced—something in his expression shifts.

You don’t exactly wait for permission, as you cross the room, pull out the chair opposite him, and sit.

His pen hovers over the page. He does not tell you to leave, nor does he acknowledge your quiet audacity. Instead, he sets his pen down, fingers pressing lightly against the desk’s edge, and waits. A slight lift of his brow, but no verbal response. Just patience. A steady, expectant silence.

"Professor," you greet, as if a sliver of formality might excuse the sheer audacity of your unannounced arrival.

Your gaze flickers down to your notebook, its pages filled with hurried, half-formed thoughts—equations scrawled into the margins, trailing off as if they were abandoned mid-realization. You don’t need to check them. You already know they lead back to the same question.

"The base function," you begin, voice measured, "remains the same, no matter how many iterations occur. No matter how much complexity emerges, the original structure is never erased."

Anaxagoras leans back slightly in his chair, studying you with the kind of intrigue usually reserved for theorems that refuse to be solved.

"And?"

You exhale, fingertips brushing over the ink-streaked paper. "If that applies to consciousness—if the mind isn’t just pattern recognition, but recursion—then that means identity isn’t fixed. It’s an evolving expression of an underlying structure."

Something flickers in his gaze. He rises.

Not abruptly, not impatiently, but as if drawn by the gravity of the conversation. His chair scrapes softly against the floor as he crosses the small space between you. He does not sit at the edge of the desk, does not fold his arms in some passive stance of authority.

Instead, he leans over your notebook, shoulders nearly brushing yours.

The scent of coffee lingers on his shirt, mingling with the fainter trace of old paper and ink. His gaze moves over the mess of your notes, scanning the tangled web of equations and annotations, before settling on you again.

"You're making an assumption," he says, voice lower now, more measured.

You tilt your chin slightly, meeting his gaze. "Of what nature?"

His fingers hover near the edge of the page, not quite touching, but close enough that the movement draws your attention. "You assume that the core of identity—the thing that stays the same through every iteration—is purely structural."

The silence stretches between you, taut as a thread on the verge of snapping.

Your breath is steady, but something in your pulse betrays you. He is too close. Not inappropriately so, not in a way that crosses any boundaries—only in a way that makes the air shift. The room smaller. The moment stretched just slightly beyond its logical bounds.

It would be easy to answer. To argue, to press forward, to let the academic current carry you both into safer waters.

Instead, you only watch him.

And for the first time, you wonder if he feels it too.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.

"The base function has to be structural," you counter, though your voice is softer now, measured against the weight of the space between you. "If it weren’t—if it were mutable at its core—then what holds continuity between iterations? What prevents identity from collapsing into chaos? What keeps one’s identity from falling apart?"

Anaxagoras doesn’t move away. He studies you the way he studies difficult problems—patiently, intently, as if waiting for the answer to emerge in real time.

"And yet," he muses, "if it were purely structural, if the function was rigid rather than dynamic, then identity would be deterministic. There would be no true variation between one individual. and another"

Your breath catches—not at the words, but at the way he delivers them. Low, deliberate, as if testing their effect.

Your eyes flicker back to your notes, searching for the answer already buried in the ink-scrawled equations.

"If recursion alone dictated identity," he continues, fingers brushing the page near a half-written derivation, "then all of our decisions would be predictable, predetermined by the constraints of that function. But something else is at play."

You glance back up at him. "Emergent complexity."

A small, almost imperceptible nod. "Iteration isn't replication. Each step in it's expansion is influenced not just by the base function, but by external conditions—context, interference, interaction. No two paths are identical. Every recursive process has the potential for divergence."

You inhale sharply, following the thought as it unfolds, as it threads itself between the logic you already understand and the realization taking shape.

He watches the shift in your expression—sees you arrive at the same conclusion.

"If identity," you say slowly, "is shaped not just by its internal function, but by its interactions—"

"Then when two distinct but intrinsically linked patterns cross paths," he interjects, "neither walks away unchanged."

The words land too heavily.

Not just because they are true, because they make sense.

But because he isn't speaking in hypotheticals anymore.

For a moment, neither of you move. He is still leaning over your desk, too close, breath dusting lightly against your shoulder—warm, uneven, just barely there. His presence presses into the space between the pages, the margins, the frantic scrawl of your thoughts.

Your fingers brush against the edge of your notes. "And what happens," you murmur, almost to yourself, "when two of these... structures become entangled?"

Anaxagoras holds your gaze.

"You tell me," he says.

A slow breath. Hesitation.

"...Change is inevitable," you murmur. "Not a choice, not an accident—just a consequence of proximity."

Something flickers across his expression—too brief to name, too quick to be certain.

He should correct you. Should challenge the conclusion you’ve drawn.

Instead, he watches you, head tilting just slightly—less like a professor considering a theory, more like something else entirely.

Your breath stills. The moment lingers too long.

You shift slightly, glancing down at your notes.

"Perhaps," Anaxagoras says at last, his voice quieter than before, "but not all change is equal."

"... And what determines the difference?" you ask, softer now.

His eyes don’t leave yours. "The depth of the resonance."

The night air hums with a quiet sort of clarity as you step out of the grove, the weight of the conversation still curling around your ribs like an uncollapsed waveform. The campus pathways are near-empty at this hour, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. Each footstep crunches softly against the gravel, the rhythm steady, measured—nothing like the chaotic pulse beneath your skin.

You aren’t entirely sure how long you sat there in his office. The concept of time had blurred somewhere between the pages of your notes and the weight of his gaze. Between the fractal recursion of thought and the unsettling realization that—perhaps—you weren’t just speaking of equations anymore.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you walk.

(If recursion applies not just to thought but to interaction—if the base function of identity is altered through contact—then what does it mean that his presence lingers in your mind long after the conversation has ended?)

The wind shifts, cool against your skin, but it does little to steady the unshaken cadence of your pulse.

Anaxagoras had let the silence stretch before you left. No dismissal, no final remark to wrap the conversation into something neat and containable. Just that lingering weight—his dark eyes studying you, as if waiting for you to arrive at the realization before he acknowledged it himself.

(The depth of the resonance..?)

You exhale sharply, shaking your head as if that alone could unravel the thought from your mind.

Your dormitory looms ahead, its familiar outline silhouetted against the night sky. The building is quiet when you step inside, the soft hum of distant voices muffled through the walls. You move through the dimly lit corridors with muscle memory, feet carrying you forward while your mind is still somewhere else.

Your door clicks shut behind you, shutting you into the quiet stillness of your room.

Everything here is familiar. The unmade bed, the clutter of books on your desk, the notebook you’d left open earlier with some half-scribbled thought that now feels embarrassingly simplistic. The air smells faintly of old paper and the lingering trace of coffee grounds from this morning—scents that should root you back into the present.

But they don’t.

Not when your mind is still back in that office.

Not when you can still hear the quiet cadence of his voice, the deliberate pause before he spoke—

You press your fingers to your temple, willing yourself to unspool the loop of recursion that has latched onto your thoughts.

It’s fine. This is fine.

The conversation had been an extension of an intellectual discourse, nothing more. You were both speaking in abstracts, exploring a hypothesis. That’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done.

Then why did you feel so different?

You swallow, exhaling through your nose.

Your notebook is still in your hands, the pages curled slightly from the way you’d gripped them on the walk back. Slowly, carefully, you set it down on your desk, flipping back to the last scrawled equation.

Identity = f(Iteration, Context, Interaction)

A slow inhale. Your fingers brush over the ink-streaked margin, a reflexive motion—an attempt to ground yourself.

Then, after a moment, you reach for your pen.

The ink flows smoothly as you add another line beneath the equation, hesitating for only a second before you let the words take form.

Resonance determines the rate of transformation.

You stare at it.

And then—slowly, deliberately—you close the notebook.

-> a/n: hey, if you've made it this far i SERIOUSLY commend your strength. i had to take several breaks while proofreading this because i, the writer, myself could not process their words at one stretch... erm... so, here's a mini explanation with an analogy, if any of you are actually interested in what they were talking about. Imagine you're building a snowman. At first, it’s just a small snowball in your hands. But as you roll it, more snow sticks, and it grows bigger and bigger. You stack more snow on top, shape it, maybe add a scarf or a carrot nose. No matter how much it changes, the first snowball—the one you started with—is still there, buried inside. It never went away, it just became part of something bigger. That first snowball here is like the core of 'identity'. Everything else—your experiences, choices, and changes—builds on top of it, but it’s always there, shaping who you are.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette@hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom@yourfavouritecitizen @sugarlol12345 @aspiring-bookworm @kad0o @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mavuika-marquez @somniosu

#❅ — works !#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x gn reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr anaxagoras #anaxagoras x reader

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ceyanabbiolo · 4 days ago

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PHOTOGRAPH // M.S [12]

Summary: Daphne Denoire, a 21-year-old, returns to Boston after 3 years—but working for her brother’s best friend, Matthew Sturniolo, wasn’t part of the plan. He’s a 26-year-old multimillionaire. She’s the girl he was never supposed to feel this way about. With secrets between them and boundaries set, how far will they go for a love they never saw coming?

Warnings: mentions of r@pe & SA, pure angst

wc: 5288

Chapter 12: We Hug Now

The last week in LA dragged more than I thought it would.

Daphne and I barely talked. Not like before. Not like when things were good. We spoke when we had to—work stuff, schedule updates, quick comments during shoots—but that was it. Every other moment was filled with silence that felt too loud.

I kept telling myself to be patient. Maybe she just needed space. But every time she avoided eye contact or sat on the other side of the room during meetings, it chipped at something in me.

Now, we are back in Boston.

The plane had just landed, the seatbelt light dinged off, and everyone started shuffling for their bags. I didn’t look back to see where she was. I knew where she was—three rows behind me, middle seat. Quiet. Like she’d been all week.

I grabbed my carry-on and headed out into the terminal. The cold Boston air hit differently after two weeks of California sun, but honestly, it just matched the way everything felt now. Colder.

She was behind me, walking silently as we made our way to the exit.

And I hated it. I hated how familiar she had become, and how foreign it felt now just being near her.

“That car will take you home,” I said, turning to her. “I got a separate Uber.”

She looked up at me, her eyes tired and unreadable, but something about the way she nodded tugged at me.

“That’s fine,” she said quietly.

I nodded back and slipped into my car, but I didn’t let my driver pull off until I saw her Uber pull away first. My gaze lingered on the disappearing tail lights for a moment longer than I’d admit.

The ride to my place was quiet—too quiet. The city passed by outside the window, all movement and noise, but inside the car, my head was full of only one thing.

Her.

That night had been a mess. And I wasn’t even angry—just... confused. Hurt, even. Daphne wasn’t cruel. That wasn’t her. So the way she snapped, the way she recoiled from me like I was dangerous... It shook me. I’ve never seen her like that. Never seen her eyes so full of fear—or pain.

I knew I must’ve triggered something deeper, something she hadn’t told me. But how the hell was I supposed to help her if she wouldn’t let me in?

She was shutting me out completely. Walls up. Lock and key.

Even though I told myself I’d give her time, the ache in my chest wasn’t letting up. I just wanted to understand. To fix it, but maybe this wasn’t something I could fix. Maybe this time... I wasn’t what she needed.

It was laughable, really—Daphne and I were “together” for, what, five hours? Talk about the shortest relationship in history. World record-worthy.

By the time I got to my apartment, I was barely holding my eyes open. The door was already unlocked, and I could hear voices coming from the kitchen.

I wasn’t alarmed. I already knew which hooligans had made themselves at home.

“Here he comes,” I heard Nick’s voice call out as I dropped my luggage near the front door with a heavy thud.

“Yup,” I said blankly. “I’m back.”

I stepped into the kitchen and found Chris perched on the island, a soda in hand, looking far too relaxed for someone who was dealing with thirty different things right now.

“Why do you sound sad?” Nick asked, eyebrows raised as he leaned against the fridge. “You tired or... what?”

I just nodded, brushing past them. “Yeah. Long flight. Long two weeks.”

Chris narrowed his eyes a bit like he could already smell something off. Thankfully, neither of them pressed further. At least not yet.

I opened the fridge, more for a distraction than anything else, pretending to search for something when really I just needed a second to breathe. To shake off the tightness in my chest.

Nick walked around the counter, grabbing a bag of chips. “So, how was LA?” he asked with a mouth half-full.

“Busy,” I said. “A lot of running around.”

I shut the fridge without grabbing anything and turned to Chris, arms crossing lazily over my chest.

“When are you leaving for Milan?” I asked, mostly to change the subject.

Chris looked up from his phone. “Probably in a few days,” he said casually. “Got a couple of meetings lined up, and I need to check on the new office.”

Right. The empire never sleeps.

Chris ran a few businesses out there—luxury goods, fashion consulting, something in tech I didn’t fully understand. Milan was basically his second home. Sometimes his first.

“You going for long?” I asked.

He shrugged. “A couple of weeks, maybe more. Depends on how things go.”

I nodded slowly, my eyes drifting back toward the kitchen counter where I leaned. The conversation was light, but everything in my body still felt heavy. I knew I should probably say something—anything—to distract myself, to act normal. But all I could think about was her.

Chris must’ve picked up on it, because he tilted his head. “You good?”

I deflected, throwing it back at him. “I’m good. You good? Those accounts still leaking?”

Chris let out a tired huff, glancing at his drink like it might have answers. “Yeah. Michael’s getting smarter, I guess.”

Michael—our uncle. Blood, technically. However, lately, more of a parasite. He’d been quietly draining money out of the business for months now. Millions gone. Every time we got close to tracking him down, he slipped through another crack.

It’s the whole reason Chris is getting married. A fine, well-dressed man with a problem, shaking hands with another rich man, offering his daughter like some kind of trade. Marriage was in exchange for saving the empire.

Cliché, I know.

Corporate survival with a bow on top.

And Chris? He’s playing the part. Always does.

Chris leaned back on the counter, his eyes scanning me like he could read between the lines. “So… what are you doing now?”

I shrugged, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and cracking it open. “Not much. Catching up on emails, maybe hitting the gym later.”

Chris raised a brow. “That’s not what I meant.”

I looked over at him. “What’d you mean, then?”

He tilted his head. “I mean, with Daphne. I know you don’t just look like that after a work trip. You look like you came back broken or whatever.”

Chris was cold, sure—but not oblivious.

I exhaled sharply. “You were right. We got close, but… I don’t think it’s gonna work out.”

Chris tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Close how?”

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Like, close close.”

He raised an eyebrow, finally connecting the dots. “You and Daphne?”

I didn’t answer right away, just gave a small nod and looked down at the floor.

Nick let out another dramatic sigh and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re a dumbass, Matt.”

I shot him a look, sarcasm thick in my voice. “Oh really?”

Chris stood from the barstool, brushing off his slacks with a sigh of his own. “I don’t have time for this shit. I’ve got a meeting and a dozen other things to handle.” He clapped a firm hand on my shoulder as he passed. “Figure it out,” he said simply before heading to the door and disappearing down the hall.

That left me with Nick.

He stared at me for a long moment, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Matt. I’m not gonna pretend I understand everything going on with you and Daphne—but I know you, and I know when you care, you care hard.”

I stayed quiet.

Nick’s tone dropped slightly. “I know she’s Noah’s sister, but don’t walk away from it just ‘cause it’s not simple”

I looked down, chewing the inside of my cheek.

Nick grabbed his keys off the counter. “Just… don’t make her feel like she has to be perfect for you to stay. She probably already thinks she isn’t.”

I glanced at him, caught off guard. “When did you get so insightful?”

He shrugged, smirking. “I’ve been through some shit too, y’know.” Then he headed toward the door. “Anyway, I’ve got to bounce—but seriously, stop being a dumbass. At least try.”

With that, I was alone.

Again.

I finished off whatever scraps Chris and Nick had left in my pantry, not really tasting any of it, then hit the shower to clear my head. Still restless, I grabbed my gym bag and headed out. When I train, I don’t hold back—it’s the one place I let everything go. No thinking, just movement. Sweat, reps, noise. It helps.

Afterward, I picked up some takeout on the way home, but I barely registered the flavor as I sat slumped on the couch, eating in silence. My apartment felt too quiet, too clean.

I reached for the remote, flipped through channels without watching.

Every once in a while, my eyes would flick to my phone. No notifications.

I didn’t expect one from her, but I wanted one anyway.

My phone buzzed just as I tossed the empty takeout container onto the coffee table. I glanced down at the screen.

FaceTime from Noah.

I stared at it for a second before answering.

“Yo,” I said, leaning back into the couch.

“Hey,” his voice came through casually, but I could tell he wasn’t just calling to chat. “You back in Boston?”

“Yeah. Got in earlier today.”

There was a brief silence on the line.

“She seemed off when I called her earlier,” Noah said. “Sounded upset. Something happened?”

My chest tightened, but I kept my tone even. “No?” I replied casually. “Did she say something happened?”

“No,” he said, a bit uncertain. “But she wasn’t herself. Moodier than usual.”

“Maybe she’s just tired,” I offered quickly. “The trip was long. Jet lag probably hit her harder.”

I hated how easily the lie slipped out.

Noah hummed on the other end, not entirely convinced but not pressing either. “Yeah…maybe.”

I swallowed hard. I wasn’t about to tell him that his little sister had confessed in my arms last week, the kisses, or that she shuts me out when I touch her. Or that I walked out on her when she needed me the most because I didn’t understand.

“Anyway,” Noah continued, “I was thinking of coming back around Christmas. We need to hang, man.”

Christmas was in like a month. We spoke about random things for like half an hour before we hung up.

“Cool. Later, man.”

“Later.”

The call ended, but my mind didn’t. I stared at the dark screen, guilt crawling up my spine like a shadow that wouldn’t let go. Daphne had said nothing to him.

I knew she probably wasn’t the type to go crying to her brother about boys.

It had been weighing on me all day. The silence. The way she wouldn’t talk to me. The way I let my own pride keep me from reaching out first. But I wasn’t in the wrong… was I? I wanted to help. I tried to understand. I just… couldn’t if she didn’t tell me.

The hours dragged on, quiet and dull. I went through portfolios, answered a few work emails, barely touched dinner, showered, and got into bed.

It was nearing 11 PM. I turned off the lamp on my nightstand and leaned back against the pillows, letting the dim street light bleed through the blinds.

My phone lit up with a buzz. One message. Daphne.

I sat up without thinking, heart already pounding as I unlocked the screen.

Daphne: Are you awake? I replied instantly. Matt: Yeah, I’m up.

The typing bubbles appeared, disappeared, then came back again. She was hesitating.

Daphne: Can I come over?

A wave of worry hit me hard. I didn’t even stop to think. Matt: No, don’t Matt: I’ll come to you. It’s late.

A pause. Then her response came quietly. Daphne: Okay.

I left my house almost immediately, because if she needed someone, I'd always be there first.

DAPHNE

I hadn’t planned on texting Matt. I stared at my phone for what felt like hours. My fingers hovered, typing and erasing the same message again and again.

It was eating me alive. I had hurt him.

The one person who had slowed down long enough to actually care, to stop and look at me and ask if I was okay when no one else ever really did. And I’d pushed him away. Again.

My chest ached with guilt. I hated how things ended. I hated how it happened at all.

The silence between us had stretched for too long. I couldn’t take it anymore.

So I sent the text. Are you awake? When he said he’d come to me instead, I felt something crack open in my chest. Something soft. Something scary.

I got up from my bed, nerves twisting in my stomach as I pulled on a hoodie and made my way to the living room to wait.

I didn’t know what I was going to say. I just knew I had to say something.

I thought I’d be able to wait calmly, but the quiet in the apartment felt too loud, too sharp. My nerves were buzzing beneath my skin, and my chest wouldn’t stop tightening.

Maybe I shouldn’t have texted him.

Maybe this was a mistake.

I sat down on the couch, curling into the corner, knees to my chest. I didn’t even realize my eyes had fluttered shut.

Just for a moment.

Just to breathe.

I rubbed my palms down my thighs, trying to steady my breath when—knock knock.

I froze.

The sound was gentle, almost hesitant. It felt like thunder in the quiet apartment.

He was here.

Only took him fifteen minutes.

Everything in me screamed to retreat, to hide, to pretend I had never sent that message. But my legs were already moving toward the door. My hand rested on the knob, and I closed my eyes for a second—just one second—to find some sort of courage.

Then, slowly, I turned the handle.

I opened the door.

There he stood—Matt.

Hair slightly messy from the wind, hoodie thrown over a white t-shirt, and those eyes… They were soft tonight. Searching mine like he already knew I was falling apart inside.

“Hey,” he said quietly, almost like he was scared to speak too loudly.

“Hi,” I whispered.

We just stood there for a second. I was gripping the door, and he was standing in the hallway like he wasn’t sure if he should step in.

“You gonna let me in?” he asked gently, a small tilt to his head, voice laced with concern but not pushing.

I stepped back. “Yeah…sorry.”

Matt walked in, slow and cautious, like he knew I was a live wire. He stopped in the middle of my living room, not touching anything. Just waiting.

The air was thick. My throat felt dry.

“You okay?” he finally asked, breaking the silence.

I nodded too fast, like always.

Matt didn’t say anything. Just looked at me, really looked at me, the way no one else ever had.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I said.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, “I’m here when you need me.”

We sat in silence.

The kind of silence that felt thick in the air, like fog you couldn’t see through. I didn’t know what else to say—everything in me felt used up, wrung out from the truth I had just admitted. I stared at my hands. My fingers were laced in my lap so tightly I felt the bones press.

Matt sat next to me, close but not too close, giving me room to breathe. His hand was still resting near mine, open, waiting. His knee bounced a little—nervous energy, maybe.

Then he sighed. Soft but heavy.

“Why’d you call me, Daphne?” he asked quietly.

His voice wasn’t cold, but it held something tired. Hurt, maybe.

My throat tightened again.

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

“I’m not mad,” he said after a moment. “I just… I need to understand.”

I blinked fast, trying to hold it together. “I don’t know,” I finally whispered.

Matt looked at me, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” I added, voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight. I—I didn’t want you to leave like that. Not when you didn’t know the whole story.”

He nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on me. “But you didn’t say anything when I left.”

“I’m sorry, Matt,” I whispered, voice shaking. “I’m sorry I let you down.”

His expression softened, his voice quiet but steady. “You didn’t let me down, Daphne. I’m just... confused. I don’t know what I did.”

I looked down, fingers twisting in my lap as I shook my head. “You didn’t do anything, Matt.”

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat before I finally let them out.

“I’m just… really, really sad,” I said, barely holding it together, voice shaky, “I’m not okay.”

There it was, the first confession said out loud.

I watched Matt’s face shift—his usual ease replaced with raw concern. His brows furrowed, his mouth parted slightly like he wasn’t sure what to say first.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you sad? What happened?”

It wasn’t just a question. It was the kind that came from someone who really wanted to know. Someone aching to help carry the weight.

But I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t even bring myself to open my mouth. The word, the memory—it was thick in my throat, threatening to choke me. I haven't said the word out loud once. Not to anyone, not even to Noah.

“I–I can’t say it out loud, Matt.” My voice cracked as a sob crept up my chest. “I’ve never told anyone. Not once.”

Matt didn’t move right away. He just stared at me, something shifting in his eyes. Then, without a word, he stood up. My heart dropped—was he leaving?

But he only crossed the room. I heard the drawer slide open, the faint scrap of wood. When he came back, he held a sticky note and a pencil.

He sat in front of me, not crowding, just close enough.

“Then write it,” he said softly, holding them out in his palm. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Matt didn’t push. He didn’t ask again. He just stayed there, still and quiet, holding out the pencil and note like it was the most important thing in the world. Like I was.

But he looked away, eyes turning toward the floor like he was giving me privacy even here, in this unspoken moment. Maybe he sensed I needed the space. Maybe he didn’t want me to feel watched. Either way, I was grateful.

My hand shook as I took the pencil.

It felt heavier than it should’ve.

The sticky note trembled slightly between my fingers as I held it in my lap.

My mind screamed not to do it, but I knew I had to. I needed to. For him to understand. For me to breathe again.

I lowered the pencil.

My fingers hovered for a second. I wrote down the words ‘I was’ then continued.

R My heart clenched. Just one letter, but it already felt like a crack through glass.

My throat tightened. My chest burned. It’s okay. You’re okay.

P I hesitated. My breathing was shallow now. You’ve never written this down. You’ve never even said it.

The line was shaky. I couldn’t see clearly—my eyes were clouding, tears blurring the edges of everything.

I put the pencil down the second the last letter was done. It burned me. Like it might scream the word out loud.

For a second, I didn’t breathe. I just stared at the paper.

Five letters.

Five letters that changed me.

Matt hadn’t looked yet. He still faced the other way. And all I could do now was wait for the moment I’d never thought I’d reach.

I folded the paper slowly, carefully, like it was something fragile, because it was.

The letters on the page felt heavier now that they were written. They stared back at me even as I closed them between the folds. Five small letters that had lived in the shadows of my body for years.

I reached out, my fingers brushing his shoulder gently.

Matt turned at the touch, his eyes already soft with concern. I didn’t say anything—I couldn’t. I just held the folded note out to him with trembling hands.

He took it, gaze flicking between my face and the paper.

It was out there. My secret was in his hands.

He unfolded the paper slowly. When his eyes landed on the word, I saw the exact moment everything in him shifted.

His face fell.

His jaw tightened. His brows furrowed sharply, and his head snapped toward me like he was trying to piece something together—searching my face, my body, like he might still find signs of what had happened. Like he was too late to stop it.

Matt’s hands stiffened around the note, the paper crumpling slightly in his grip. His chest rose and fell once—sharply—like he’d been punched and was struggling to get the air back in his lungs.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. His gaze stayed fixed on the word like it physically hurt to look at, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Then, finally, he looked up.

His eyes were wide, glassy, red-rimmed. His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. He blinked once. Twice.

“Daphne…” he breathed. My name barely made it past his lips, hoarse and shaky, like it was caught in his throat.

I couldn’t answer. I just shook my head and curled into myself, arms wrapping tight around my body like they might hold me together.

He looked wrecked—like the weight of the word was too much. His lips parted again, but no real sentence followed.

“I—” he started, then stopped. His hand raked through his hair. “I didn’t… I didn’t know. what are you saying? Fuck, Daphne… ”

The curse slipped out like a reflex. Not at me. Never at me. It was painful. Anger. Helplessness.

He looked at me again, his voice raw, almost broken. “Who…when—no. I’m sorry. I’m not—I shouldn’t be asking that. Shit, I don’t even know what to say—”

He looked like he was drowning.

My chest caved in as the silence wrapped around us.

I tried to hold it in—I did—but it broke through anyway.

The first sob hit so hard, it startled even me. Then I couldn’t stop.

My shoulders trembled, hands clutched around my knees as I curled tighter into the corner of the couch, like I could hide from everything.

Matt lurched forward. “Shit—Daphne,” he said quickly, reaching out but not touching me. “Sweetheart, no—no, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I heard the panic rising in his voice, the guilt laced through every word.

“I didn’t mean to scare you—fuck—I’m sorry. I just… I reacted wrong, okay? Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do we need to go see someone? A doctor, or someone? Have you gone? You should’ve told someone, you should’ve—”

“I have,” I whispered through the sobs, my voice cracked and raw. “I did… I’ve been.”

He stopped rambling immediately. Just stared at me.

“It was four years ago,” I said quietly. “It’s not recent.”

Matt blinked, like the breath had been knocked right out of him again. Just stunned silence.

“Four… four years?” he repeated, voice low, disbelieving.

I nodded slowly.

“Noah knows,” I added, barely above a whisper.

Matt’s eyes flicked away from me like he needed something to focus on, his jaw tense, repeating under his breath, “Noah knows…”

There was something about the way he said it—almost like it grounded him.

“Noah knows,” he said again, firmer this time, like it settled something inside of him. “Okay. Okay…”

But I could still see it in him—the anger simmering beneath the surface, at the invisible person in the past who had hurt me..

He finally looked back at me, his voice softer now. “Did he… was he the only one who knew?”

I nodded again, my throat tightening. “And now you.”

A heavy silence filled the space between us.

I didn’t dare look at him—I didn’t want to see the pity or the rage, or whatever was swirling in his eyes now. My own gaze stayed fixed on the floor.

Then, after what felt like forever, his voice broke through.

“Who was it?” he asked, quiet—but laced with something sharp. Not cold, not cruel. Just... restrained.

I didn’t respond right away. I felt my hands tighten over the edge of the blanket draped across my lap.

Matt leaned forward slightly, voice lower now, but steadier. “Daphne, please. I just… I need to know. You don’t have to tell me everything. Just—was it someone I know?”

I finally looked at him. His brows were knit, his eyes searching mine with more emotion than I could take.

“Y-you won’t believe me,” I whispered.

“Sweetheart–what?” he said immediately. “Just tell his name.”

“Carter White”

I said quietly. The name felt sharp in my throat, like glass.

I hesitated, then added barely above a whisper, “He had a dragon tattoo…on his forearm.”

That’s when Matt’s eyes widened. Recognition flickered, then quickly turned to something darker, colder. His grip on the paper tightened until it crinkled in his hand.

“I remember him,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. “Tall…lacrosse team, right? Graduated a year before me.”

I nodded, and Matt’s jaw locked.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said under his breath, like it wasn’t a threat, but a matter of fact—an inevitable consequence. His entire demeanor had shifted into something barely contained, as though a switch had flipped.

I reached out, gently grabbing Matt’s wrist. “Matt—he’s in jail.”

He froze, blinking like he hadn’t heard me right. “What?”

“He’s in jail,” I repeated, slower this time. “Noah… Noah took it to court. He handled it. Everything. It went through.”

Matt’s chest rose and fell, like he was trying to catch up with what I was saying. His clenched jaw loosened slightly, but the fire in his eyes hadn’t gone out.

“He’s locked up?” Matt asked again, just to make sure.

I nodded.

Matt exhaled hard, the tension in his shoulders beginning to ease. He sank back down onto the couch beside me, still visibly shaken but quieter now.

“I didn’t know,” he said under his breath, guilt washing into his tone. “I had no idea.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” I said softly. “Nobody knows. Just Noah. And the court. It’s over now. I mean… legally.”

Matt looked at me then, eyes full of something that made my chest tighten—care, protectiveness, sorrow.

“But not for you,” he murmured.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The silence said enough.

Matt's hand dragged down his face slowly, like he was trying to wipe away the weight of everything he had just learned. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, jaw tense, breathing uneven.

“You were just a child…” he said, voice barely above a whisper, shaky, like it hurt to even say it.

I didn’t say anything.

Matt finally looked up at me again, and the expression on his face shattered me. He looked devastated. Speechless.

His lips parted like he wanted to say more, but nothing came out. He shook his head slowly, eyes glassy. “I—” he paused, trying again. “I don’t even have the words.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and held his head in his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You should have told me sooner, sweetheart.”

There was a pause again.

“I get it now,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You pulling away. I understand it all.”

The moment the words left his mouth, something inside me cracked open.

“I don’t want to be like this, Matt,” I choked out, my voice barely stable. “I don’t want to keep shutting you out.”

Tears burned my eyes faster than I could stop them.

“I want to feel normal—I do. I want to forget. I try to move on, I swear I do, but no matter how hard I try, it just—” My voice cracked again. “It always comes back. The memories. The panic. It doesn’t go away.”

My breathing turned uneven as the sobs came faster. I felt broken. Pathetic. Small.

A wave of shock shot through me as Matt’s own eyes started to water, no tears, but they were red. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He moved forward without hesitation, gently pulling me into him. His arms wrapped around me tightly, like he was holding something fragile.

“Let it out, sweetheart” he whispered against my hair, voice hoarse. “Don’t hold it in.”

I buried my face in his chest, sobbing against the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He just held me, rocking us gently back and forth, like he could protect me from the entire world with just his arms. His hand cradled the back of my head, thumb stroking softly.

I had wanted to cry to someone for so long. Really cry—to be held, to be heard. Not even Noah knew how deep it went. He only knew the surface-level truth: that it happened. He never asked for details. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

But Matt… Matt was listening. And because of that, I couldn’t stop myself.

“It was that night,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “The night of your and Noah’s college graduation party.”

I felt his arms tense slightly around me, but he didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

My throat burned, the words barely able to form. “Everyone was downstairs…drinking, loud. He said he was looking for a bathroom… but he came into my room.”

My voice broke entirely, and I had to pause to breathe through the rising sob in my chest. “He locked the door. I remember freezing. I didn’t know what to do, I just kept thinking maybe if I didn’t move, he’d go away.”

Matt’s breath was shaky against my temple. I felt one of his hands curl slightly into the fabric of my sweatshirt, like he was holding back everything inside him.

I continued, my voice fragile. “I didn’t scream. I wanted to. But I couldn’t move. My body just—shut down.”

Tears streamed down my face, landing on his shirt, dampening the cotton.

“I bleed so much.”

Matt's arms tightened around me.

“I hated myself for it,” I whispered. “For freezing. For not fighting back. I hated that he got to walk out of my room like nothing happened.”

“Don’t say that, sweetheart. Don’t blame or hate yourself. No one should have touched you.”

Matt pulled me closer, as if that were even possible, burying his face in my hair.

“I hate him so much” I cried, my cry a bit softer. “I hate what he did to me. I can’t feel anything good.”

His hands combed through my locks, as he held me, his lips occasionally pecking my scalp.

“I swear to you,” he murmured, voice shaking, “If he wasn’t already in jail, I would’ve killed him with my bare hands.”

I clung to him tighter because in that moment, his words were the only thing keeping me together. He was the only person who understood me.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: that was so emotional to write. Justice for my girl. three chapters in three days! like & reblog! mwah] –ceyana

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moonlitcelestial · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 22

Beyond the Lens - Logbook Videographer!Reader x OT8 Ateez

W/C 11,915

🎥 Series Masterlist 🎥

☽ Masterlist ☾

Inspiration Pictures

Pinterest Board Masterlist

Previous Chapter (Chapter 21)

Disclaimer: This story is purely a work of fiction. It is not meant to assume or mock anything about Ateez, Atiny, or anything relating to what I do not know about being a videographer. This story will follow several of the events that Ateez have done in the past year for Golden Hour Part 2, that being said I will not be able to include everything.

Contains she/her pronouns.

The logo in the center is mine. Please do not reuse or copy.

I strongly recommend looking at the inspiration pictures and the Pinterest boards linked above (which will be updating as the story goes on).

General Warnings: cussing, conflict, angst, fluff, and obliviousness.

CHAPTER WARNINGS - None, let me know if I should add any.

Let me know what you think! <3 Moonie

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

You finally landed in Paris, after being in a plane for upwards of 10 hours you were absolutely exhausted and stiff. Most of your time was spent rotating between sleeping, watching shows, catching up on some of the editing you could with the shotty Wi-Fi, and switching between listening to your most current audiobook and your favorite playlist. As soon as you landed you started moving to get your bags. Thankfully you had been in one of the first rows so you got off the plane quickly. When you got out and into the main portion of the airport you pulled out your phone to message everyone that you made it safely to Paris. They rapidly fired responses back to you shortly after. You knew it was early in the morning for them because of the time difference so you told them to get back to bed.

When you got out of the airport after grabbing your bag from the baggage claim you made your way out to get a cab. You finally flagged one down after a few minutes and the little old man was smiling at you, after a little while you safely made it to your hotel. Checking in was a breeze as this was a hotel you had frequented when you came up here. The older woman had recognized you and already had some of the things ready as you made it up to her counter. You thanked her with your very limited French and she giggled at your thick accent.

Your room was the perfect size for you as always. You took off your Beyond the Lens Studios baseball cap, threw it on the bed, and ruffled your hair out before you started to unpack your things. First you hung your clothes so they wouldn't wrinkle too badly, then you got your computer set up on the desk on the far side of the room right next to the door to the balcony. At one point you found a stray Jjongrami and Hetmongi, those sneaky bastards; you set the two of them up by the pillows on your bed. When you had those things set up you started getting more of your smaller things out, plugging in your cameras and all of the chargers for your electronics. You changed out of your airport outfit and into the blue space sleep set you brought. Flopping yourself into bed you sent off another message that you were in and settled at your hotel and that you would update them as you could throughout tomorrow.

While you were sprawled across the bed you checked your emails and some of your socials. There were several confirming the schedules of the shoots you were participating in. You shot off responses stating that you just landed and got settled and that you would be there at the requested meeting time. There was something that you were CC’d in from Aurora but that could wait until tomorrow. You responded to some of the other emails you had before getting on your socials. In the end you were watching edits and all sorts of things until your brain had slowed enough that you could get to sleep. With heavy lidded eyes you took off your glasses and plugged in your phone. Shortly thereafter you fell into a dreamless and restless sleep.

★☆☽ O ☾☆★

You woke up freely which generally meant early as hell. With a groan you moved to grab your phone. It had been lit up with several messages from everyone back in Seoul. They were already into their afternoon while you were just waking up. Forrest had updated you on the filming he was taking over for you with the Ateez boys. Willow told you about all of the things she was doing to keep you updated on the progress of the edits for the first logbook Beyond the Lens was in charge of as well as the other things you have filmed for them. She was nearly finished with her part and would be sending it back to you soon for final edits, sadly you would have to hang onto it until they debuted the music. Aurora was messaging you about the project you and her collaborated on giving you a general rundown of everything including the CC’d email. The boys had been giving you little updates on how everything was going throughout their day. Some of them had taken to sending you ridiculous selfies and odd blurry pictures of some of the other boys. You smiled and responded to all of them with a blurry selfie of you with the covers pulled up to just under your eyes the Jjongrami and Hetmongi next to either side of your head. The responses were immediate, most of them protesting that you brought only those two, the team was rolling as they watched the chaos. You had to explain that you hadn't packed them and the two in question were smug as they admitted to sneaking them into your suitcase. San and Wooyoung had sent a selfie together saying the real thing was better. You responded by telling them if they wanted to be that way you would buy plane tickets for Yeosang to come up here; you left Hongjoong out of it because he already was coming up here. They immediately stopped their ranting and instead sent good mornings and a few other stray pictures. You rolled your eyes at them and couldn't stop smiling.

Despite the initial chaos it felt like you were finally a part of a family, one that loved you as much as you loved them. You layed in bed for a little bit before you decided to get up and start getting ready. You threw on your cropped tank top, comfy shorts and one of your zip up hoodies as well as a few of the necklaces and rings you brought with you. When you finished getting dressed you grabbed your small backpack and put one of your cameras in it along with your essentials for going out on the town. Today was going to be a jet lag recovery day, you always planned a day into your schedule so you could adjust so you would be at your best when you were working. It also was the day you had been anticipating for weeks, something that you were extremely excited about.

As soon as you were ready you headed down for breakfast in the lobby. With a wave to the front desk people you started piling your plate high with some of the breakfast foods they had. In all honesty the food here was one of your favorite parts of the trip. As you sat down in the back corner of the dining room you brought out your phone and took a picture of your breakfast to send out to the Never-ending Nonsense group chat formerly known as the Ministry of Chaos. The name changed as soon as the boys Forrest and Aurora started arguing in the chat about something you can't even recall now. You dug into the breakfast and watched people as you ate. It was almost too quiet, the chaos from the boys was missing. It was weird how much the few days of chaos seemed to have ingrained itself into your mornings. Just as you were finishing up you were met with multiple vibrations of your phone. You checked it and your heart warmed with more cute responses of your favorite people.

After you finished your breakfast you started to make your way over to your first and most likely only stop for today. On the way you got sidetracked and decided to go into a small shop to grab some snacks for throughout the day. You snagged some danishes, croissants, a couple of donuts and macarons. As soon as you got to your destination you couldn't stop smiling. One of your acquaintances owned the shop you stood in front of; Midnight Inkworks. She must have seen you because shortly after the door opened with a cute ding. Aurélie was standing there with a large smile on her face as she peaked at you. Her tan skin and black hair was gorgeous as always. The colorful tattoos and silver piercings stood out against her darker outfit; very similar to your own. While she peeked out the door she was just about a head shorter than you. It always cracked you up how short she was compared to you. You laughed at her and started stepping toward the open door. As soon as you passed the threshold she hugged you.

“Long time no see dear,” You hugged her back and started chatting with her as she started asking her normal questions. You fell into conversation easily with her, the two of you had found common ground the first time you came here for the moon tarot card piece on your hip. She was thoroughly impressed with you because you sat through it in one sitting; she had said you were one of the best clients she had after the fact.

You set down the bag of snacks you procured while she pulled out the design you had been working on together. When you laid eyes on it your jaw dropped. It was absolutely perfect. This was the first time you got to see the finished product, the two of you had been shooting it back and forth working on it together for the past few weeks. The last time you saw it it was still fairly raw and unpolished, she had taken your visions and drawings and made them into a masterpiece. The sword through the middle was beautifully detailed with stipple shading. The yin and yang koi looked absolutely amazing with the small amount of shading she added to your initial drawings. The small flowers she added made the entire piece come together. (Tattoo it’s the last one) It was going to look perfect on the back of your left leg. You turned around so she could place the stencil. Before she did she took the first of several before pictures. After she placed it you stepped away from her and took a look at it in the large mirror and absolutely fell in love with the way it flowed.

Aurélie brought you over to her chair and made you stand there for a second set of before pictures. When she was satisfied with the amount of them she started her work.

You got to watch as her partner came in and had several clients throughout the morning, each time they left with large smiles on their faces. The two of them were the reason this business was constantly busy. They both were amazing artists with the kindest souls; even if they could be intimidating at first with their multiple sets of piercings and tattoos. You saw through them immediately because you were almost one in the same. People were always too quick to judge but if they truly got to know the people behind the ink they would realize that they were some of the best people you could have at your side.

There were only a couple of times you took a break for her and for you. At one point she sat in front of you while you snacked on some of the small pastries you brought. She asked you about how life was going in Seoul and how you were doing in the photography business. You filled her in about your old company and how you got Beyond the Lens. Throughout the story she was telling you how proud she was of you as she was once in a similar situation; which is how she ended up having a very successful tattoo shop. She also asked if you had any luck in the dating pool; to which you told her yes without giving too many details. You talked about all of the qualities of the different boys making it seem like it was one person you were discussing instead of eight. She was absolutely swooning at the mention of how you were treated.

While you were laying on your stomach in the chair you kept up with messaging everyone so none of them would get suspicious. Thankfully every time one of them asked how you were doing you could give a short noncommittal answer and then ask them what they were up to. Which generally resulted in a flurry of a bunch of different messages with everyone’s replies.

Before too long the constant chatter of a couple of other people, the buzzing of the tattoo gun, and the soft lofi music lulled you into a light sleep. Apparently you hadn’t gotten enough last night; like always.

You were awoken with light pats on your arms. Aurélie was squatting in front of you with a large smile on her face. The first time you fell asleep in her chair she panicked, almost calling the medics. After talking her off that ledge you told her that you fell asleep for most of your tattoos especially the large ones; which is what most of your body was covered with. This time was no different, “You're done doll, it came out amazing if I do say so myself.”

She helped you stand and you turned to look over your shoulder at the large tattoo spanning from your thigh just under your butt down to your calf and to your achilles. The way she made the koi fall on either side of the bend of your knee made it look perfect. You couldn't stop smiling and immediately lunged at her to give her a hug. The two of you laughed and you praised her talent while you rocked back and forth in her arms.

You separated from her and put your hands on her shoulders. “You are a saint, it looks absolutely magnificent. It is better than I imagined it being, I can't wait to show everyone back home!”

“I'm glad you like it Y/n! Let's get some after pictures!” You nodded at her and let her stage you for the several pictures she was going to take for her profiles. After she had enough pictures you pulled out your camera from your backpack and took one over your shoulder with her standing proudly in the mirror. Then came the large clear bandage to keep it from drying out for the next couple of days. When the two of you were finished you made your way over to the register as she was half assed explaining the aftercare to you; she knew you already knew what she was telling you anyway. When you got to the register you pulled your cash out and handed it over to her, making sure to tip generously. She had tried to give some of it back but you were already halfway out the door. You waved to her and stepped out of the store as she was protesting the amount; she was worth it for the work she did. By the time you got out of the shop it was already close to two, you had been in there for just about six hours. You decided to head back to the hotel to possibly get some of your work done.

★☆☽ O ☾☆★

When you stepped into the hotel you were met with the smiling face of the front desk receptionist. She watched you as you passed and went to the elevator. You unlocked your door and as soon as you stepped in you were met with the overwhelming scent of roses. Peeking around the room you spotted the bouquet of beautiful deep red almost black roses on the desk next to your laptop. You approached the desk and looked over the roses, there was a small note attached.

Our Treasure,

We are happy you made it safe and sound.

With love, your Pirates

How in the fuck did he even know where you were? You pulled your computer forward and turned it on so it could get booted up. While it was booting up you opened the balcony door so the fresh air could get into the room. Before you got too into work you decided to call the boys, it was getting late in Seoul and it felt odd not having them around.

You pulled up facetime on your Mac and clicked into the 9 Makes 1 Team group chat to start a group call with them. When it started ringing you moved over to the horizontal monitor on the left side of your laptop to see which projects you could help with in the Beyond the Lens Cloud. There were still some photos that needed editing for one of the shoots you were helping Willow with. You clicked into a few of them and brought them into Photoshop on your vertical screen which was on the right. While you were in the middle of adjusting the brightness of the first photo you heard the call ping alerting you someone had joined. Glancing over you realized Wooyoung was the first and only one to answer the call so far.

“Noona! Hi! How is the city of love?”

“Hi Woo, it's beautiful as always. It was absolutely gorgeous outside so I went out for a bit of a trip around the area and visited some shops.” You hadn't quite looked at him just yet, when you had the picture to a spot you wanted it to be you fully looked over.

“Did you get anything interesting?” He was watching you with a cute small smile. You grabbed one of the pastries you had leftover from earlier today and showed it to him before taking a large bite.

“That looks really good!” You covered the bottom half of your face and you nodded while Wooyoung laughed at you and your chipmunk cheeks. Yunho and Mingi popped up onto your screen next. The two of them looked slightly out of breath like they had just been dancing. They both waved at you as they took large drinks of water.

“Hi Princess! How are you? Is jet lag kicking your butt?”

“I’m doing really well. It was but I got a decent amount of sleep on the plane and took a nap earlier today so I’m good to go.”

“Yuyu took one too, he was worn out from being up so early.” Yunho lightly smacked Mingi for revealing that bit of information. You and Wooyoung laughed at the two who started to lightly bicker. Hongjoong popped onto the screen and immediately clocked the twin towers bickering, he shook his head with a click of his tongue.

“Hi Shutterbug, what are you up to?” He was looking at something beyond his phone, from what you could tell he had his phone propped up against his monitors in the studio. Sometimes you forget how similar you were to him. Workaholics at their finest.

“I think I am doing just about the same thing as you, talking to our loves while piecing some work together.” You started clicking around to see the before and after your quick edits. They looked good but there was still something you wanted to do to bring the focus to the model in the middle. There were a couple of clicks that came through his call as well. The two of you looked back at your respective devices at the same time which prompted a giggle from you and Wooyoung who was just watching everything. Mingi and Yunho’s bickering match paused hearing the two of you laughing. Hongjoong smiled at you before looking back up and speaking to someone. Shortly after, Yeosang popped into your view on Hongjoong’s call.

“Hi Sangie! Having fun recording?” He gave you a small wave before looking at Hongjoong and taking a step back. He motioned violently that he wasn't, you could tell it was in a joking manner. Hongjoong was watching him from the reflection in the monitor. He turned around quickly in his chair and Yeosang froze. Your eyes widened just like Yeosang’s did as he stood up deliberately slowly and murmured something that the microphone on Hongjoong’s phone couldn't quite pick up. Yeosang turned beet red and his mouth was in a tight line trying to suppress what you could assume was a smile. You could only imagine what he had said to him. You looked at Wooyoung’s little box and he was watching it with a sly grin. Mingi and Yunho were doing the same. San popped up behind Mingi and Yunho and startled them, they must not have been paying attention.

“Hi Sannie!”

“Hi Y/n-nie” He gave you a small wave and kissed Mingi and Yunho on the cheeks before squeezing himself between the two of them. You looked back to your right screen and a lightbulb went off, you knew exactly what you needed to do to get the picture where you were imagining it. A smile and a noise of triumph left you before you started furiously clicking around in Photoshop to adjust the things you needed. When you zoomed back out from the picture you clapped your hands, it came out perfect. You saved it quickly and sent off the several saved versions to Willow and put them into the cloud under the correct file. When you focused back on the laptop screen you realized that you were being watched by all eight of your boyfriends; even Hongjoong had looked away from his computer to watch you. When Seonghwa and Jongho had gotten there you had no idea. You felt the heat rush to your face as you tried to suppress your bashful smile.

“You're cute.” the words fell from the maknae’s lips before he could think anything of them. You crossed your arms with a small huff.

“You're one to talk, Aegiya (baby). I have to repress the urge to squish your cheeks any time I am in your presence” The responding laughter at your muttered phrase made the smile you were suppressing finally slip free. With a quick glance you saw that he was suppressing a smile and his face may have been just a little red. He was also rolling his eyes at you and the rest of your boys. The teasing of the maknae never stopped.

Your afternoon consisted of most of the boys chattering with you while you listened and worked. For the most part you have been productive until someone demanded your attention away from your photos. The first time it was Wooyoung, when he finally got your attention he made several aegyo faces at you. You rolled your eyes at him and continued your work with a smile. A while later the second time was Jongho who had taken you into one of the practice rooms with him. He serenaded all of you while he practiced. You had stopped all together to watch him while he sang, the smile never left your face. The third and final time was when Mingi, Yunho, and Yeosang had demanded that you watch them practice next. As soon as the music started you were absolutely a blushing mess as they started the choreography to Wake Up. When they finished they picked up the phone and took you with them to head back home. Most of the other boys did the same within the next 30 minutes. San had sent you pictures of the giants as soon as he made it to your house. There was also a video of Toothless screaming at him while he stood in the kitchen which made you laugh.

As it got later they slowly trickled out of the video call to go to bed. You had given them warm goodnights as they left. The only one that was there now was Hongjoong, he looked absolutely exhausted but you knew his mind was flowing with creative ideas and that he wouldn't stop any time soon. A little while later you glanced down and saw that it was just about 6 p.m. where you were, which meant it was almost 1a.m. there in Seoul.

“Joongie, you should probably go home to sleep some time soon.” He was in the middle of putting something together when you spoke. The only indication that he had heard you was the quick flicker of his eyes to his phone and then to something behind it. He opened his mouth like he was going to speak but as soon as the track he was working on started playing he muted himself. You tilted your head at him but after a minute of not being able to hear him shook your head and continued working on the last couple of photos in the album. You continued like this for a while before your stomach rumbled.

“Joongie, I know you can hear me. If I have to I will call someone to go pick you up and drag your ass home if you continue much longer. I know it is nearly 2 a.m. there.” He looked down at his phone and then to the computers behind it, the dark circles under his eyes were fairly prominent. He leaned forward like he was going to unmute himself and started speaking, not even glancing at you on his screen. You tried to get his attention to let him know he was still muted, you spoke, you waved your hands in front of your camera but nothing was working.

After a few more minutes of this continuing you decided to get up and go to your room’s phone. You called down and ordered yourself some room service for dinner. When you finished you looked back at your screen to see him still talking, but now you could see someone in the frame. That’s why, he was talking to someone and most likely deafened you. You made your way to the bathroom in the hotel room and looked at the back of your left leg. There were a couple of spots under the wrap that had blood on them but other than that it looked amazing. You ran your hand over the wrap that was on it, there was a slight twinge of pain as you made your way toward the back of your knee. It honestly surprised you that Hongjoong hadn't seen it when you were on the room phone. There was a small knock on the door to your room. You smiled widely at the man as he rolled the cart into your room.

“Thank you!” He sat the dinner on your dresser as the desk was full of electronics.

“Of course, have a great evening.” He nodded to you and started back out the door. You followed him and closed the door to the room. The food smelled absolutely divine. With quick steps you moved to the desk to push your computer back so you had enough room to eat; taking special care to avoid the roses. When it was situated at a good place you grabbed the tray of food and sat down to eat. Hongjoong was bopping to something while you ate. You just watched him quietly. He was so in his element but he really needed to go to sleep.

“Joongie, I don't know if you can hear me but I think you should go home, you have other schedules tomorrow morning and a packed full week. You need sleep if you're going to survive it without making yourself sick.” He was looking at something off the screen. You continued to watch him while you finished your meal, he had been completely silent and you had no idea if he could hear you anyway. With a sigh you decided to just hang up the call, “Please take care of yourself.” you whispered. Maybe if the light changed and you disappeared he would finally realize what time it is.

When you were completely finished with your food you took the plate and placed it outside the door. You decided to grab your camera and go sit on the balcony. The air was warm as you stepped outside from the open sliding door. You lifted your camera up and started taking pictures of miscellaneous things. First it was the small flower shop across the way, then it was the couple standing in front of it smiling at each other while they picked out flowers for a bouquet. You turned to look at the beautiful one that was sitting on the corner of your desk. With a small smile you turned back to look over the city, your eyes caught on the Eiffel tower. Your body moved before your mind registered, your camera came up to your face and you had taken off your glasses and set them on top of your head before snapping the picture. Most of the time you had the camera close enough to your face that you didn't need your glasses, it was either that or you smacked into them while moving quickly. You watched as the photo popped up and quickly disappeared. It went on like this for what felt like a few seconds, it could have been an hour for all you know. There was no concept of time to you when you were taking pictures. You followed the streets and captured the genuine interactions of the couples coming out of the restaurants with large smiles. You almost wished at least one of your boys was here right now so you could do the same.

A vibration came from beside you on the chair you tossed your phone into. You picked it up and held it extremely close to your face to see Hongjoong calling you. With a light roll of your eyes you answered the facetime call and put your glasses back to their normal place. He was pouting on the other end, before you could greet him he spoke. “You left.”

“You were in the middle of something, I tried talking to you but you had me deafened and you were muted.”

“I'm sorry Shutterbug, Maddox came into the room and was asking me a bunch of questions about the track I was working on.”

“That’s okay Songbird, I just figured I would be one less distraction you had to worry about while you were working, even though the both of you should be asleep because it is nearing” you tapped your phone which showed it was about 7:30 pm here, “2:30 am. You especially because I know you have a schedule tomorrow morning and then a flight here soon thereafter.” he rubbed the back of his neck with a small sheepish smile.

“I’m heading home now, I promise.” He flipped the camera and showed the back of one of the company vans. You nodded to him and flipped your camera to show the city, more specifically the Eiffel tower.

“Wahh, you've got a great view of everything! I love that you can see the tower without being too close to it.” He was leaning in close to his phone as he inspected the view. The wonder on his face was almost comical. You took a screenshot of him with a small smile.

“That’s why I chose this hotel forever ago. Every time I come here I use this hotel, I've been here enough that some of the long term staff recognize me at this point.” You flipped the camera to focus back on yourself. He moved away from the screen slightly and you smiled at him.

“Now that is a breathtaking view.” Your smile turned bashful and you could feel the heat creep up the back of your neck. When he saw that you were blushing his smile widened. The simplicity of the compliment made your heart flutter in your chest; it really didn't take much to make you blush like a schoolgirl talking to her crush.

“Joongie, I have a question for you.” He nodded at you indicating he was listening as he got out of the vehicle.

“How did you know where to send the bouquet you got me?” A small laugh left him at your question.

”Magic.” You rolled your eyes at his answer. Of course he wouldn't tell you, you should have known.

“Stalker.” There was a small snort of laughter that came from him as he walked in a door. You watched as he brought the phone up to his face and peered into your soul. All you could see was his eyes and forehead for just a brief second. He took you with him as he made his way through the darkness of the dorm. He changed out of your view and ended up carrying you to the bathroom and set it down on the counter while he brushed his teeth. It was so domestic, something that despite the several days they had spent at your house you haven't seen.

“Shutterbug, you're staring,” you straightened slightly, zoning back in and looked everywhere but the phone in your hand. What you didn't see was he was watching you too. You moved and settled yourself on the seat your phone was previously on. When you looked back at the phone he was laying in bed. The small smile that graced his face was beautiful.

“Stay with me?” You nodded at him as he settled. His small whisper showed how tired he was. You watched as his eyes slowly started to droop as soon as he was completely comfortable. There was just a little movement behind him that caught your eye. An arm moved around him and pulled him closer; you may or may not have wished that was you. There was a small sigh as the two of them got comfortable with each other. Hongjoong’s eyes had finally fallen closed and his breathing was just beginning to even out. The phone started tilting and before you knew it you were looking at the ceiling of his room. You stayed just a little longer making sure he was actually asleep before you hung up.

The warm air had kept you comfortable as you basked in the quiet, the only noise was the bustling city below you. For as much as you loved the chaos, you also loved the quiet. It may have felt odd before but now as you were sitting in the quiet you realized how much you almost missed it. The same quiet that sometimes destroys you. You sat there for a while just watching the sky change. Mother nature was always the best artist; you grabbed the camera from around your neck and started adjusting the settings to be able to capture the beauty. When you were finally satisfied that it looked good you took several shots.

Something overtook you then, the want to take more pictures. Your body was moving before you completely realized. You had slipped on your shoes, put on your Beyond the Lens ballcap and started making your way to the first floor. As soon as you stepped off the elevator you heard the laughter and clinking of glasses from the restaurant to your right. With a small smile you walked out to the street. The hustle and bustle almost overtook you but knowing how the flow worked here worked to your advantage. Falling into the rhythm of foot traffic you made your way wandering wherever you could. There was music coming from somewhere and you paused to listen for where it was coming from. When you found the source of the music you had completely stopped and watched the people dancing to the violin and piano. Everything was alive with joy, the people dancing, the crowd and the musicians. The warm lighting was perfectly shining to create soft shadows from the people scattered around. You lifted your camera and started taking pictures of the beautiful moment. The people were all smiling while you took pictures, you captured the genuine love in their gazes. You started garnering more and more attention as you took more pictures. This made you happy that you were wearing the hat that had your company logo, your personal photography social, and the QR code that brought people to your website.

While you moved expertly through the crowd the smile didn't leave your face. This, this is what you are meant to do. You are meant to capture people’s favorite memories. You moved toward the people playing the violins and piano. You took several action shots of the three of them, there aren't many people that would ever think of capturing the people that were creating the moments for others. That’s where you always wandered, someone needed to take care of the people taking care of others. As you were taking pictures the pianist glanced at you with a large smile, it was the perfect opportunity to capture his picture. With a quick movement of your fingers your camera shuttered. You tipped your hat to him before wandering over the duo playing the violins together. A man and a woman who were smiling at each other as they played. You captured the moment from several different angles before they caught sight of you. When they did they slightly bowed as they kept playing. Just like the pianist their fingers were moving quickly over their instrument.

You needed to move fast if you could capture the picture you wanted to. Gently you moved through the crowd to some of the chairs at a nearby cafe. You grabbed it and set it up so you could stand over the crowd that was laughing and clapping. Just as you were getting up onto the chair the end of the song was nearing, your movements were quick and precise as you brought the camera up above you. With a quick flip of the viewfinder you held and adjusted it to get the best angle. This was going to be either an amazing shot, or a blurry one. You took the chance anyway. Holding your finger over the button you let the shutter do its job. The musicians finished the piece with a flourish. You came off the chair and clapped along with the rest of the people.

There were a few of the couples that had seen you approaching you. You smiled at them while they approached. When they asked about where they could find the pictures you told them about your socials and the website QR code. There was a general spiel that you started spewing without thinking.

“We are a photography and videography business based in Seoul, South Korea. We travel all over the world for our clients and when we visit anywhere we always make a point of getting some more genuine pictures instead of the posed ones we always see. We do this not for the clout or money but for the people beyond the lens. We want to be able to make your memories come to life through our pictures. It will take a little while before I can get the pictures up but I promise it'll be within the next couple of weeks.” The couples listened to you while you spoke, the most rewarding thing was being able to show some of them their pictures. The gasps and general excitement that flowed from them made your heart happy. You took off your hat and offered the back of it so they could get the link to your website. When they had dissipated you slid one of your business cards to the man still sitting at the piano chatting with a couple of people. You did the same by dropping one in the violin cases for the violinists who were standing near a table talking animatedly with some people.

After you had made it away from the crowd you meandered around. Somehow you ended up in front of the Eiffel tower. You took a seat and just watched the people mill by you, some were dressed casually some were dressed to the nines. There was a couple that you saw standing together just looking everything over. You quickly got up, a gut feeling was telling you that you needed to capture the moment. When you got close enough the man separated himself from the woman. You knelt and brought the camera up to your face as quickly as you could; smacking into your glasses in the process. After a moment’s hesitation so you could recover you started snapping the pictures as he knelt in front of her.

Her hands flew to her mouth in shock, the man was grinning so widely as he held a box out in front of him with a gorgeous ring. The tower was perfectly behind them from this angle, the lights twinkling like starlight just like the ring in the box. You watched in real time as she nodded and threw herself into his arms. The both of them tumbled to the ground in a fit of giggles, she was laying on top of him just smiling while he slid the ring on her finger. You continued getting pictures intermittently as you approached the couple. They had gotten up by the time you finally got to them. They shared a sweet kiss while they held hands, you took one more picture.

You got closer to them and they both acknowledged you. “Hi, I’m so sorry for interrupting your absolutely beautiful moment, congratulations by the way. I just so happened to be nearby when I saw the two of you and felt the need to capture some pictures for you.” The woman squealed and looked over to her now fiance who was staring at you gaping. You let out a small chuckle at the two of them and moved forward to show them some of the pictures you captured of their life changing moment. The woman’s enthusiasm reminded you of San and Wooyoung. She was bouncing around excitedly and every once in a while she would smack her partner’s shoulder lightly when a picture came out particularly good. You stood there for a couple of minutes showing them the pictures, in the end you exchanged emails with the woman and gave her one of your business cards. They both thanked you several times before you parted ways.

There was a perpetual smile on your face the entire way back to the hotel. As soon as you walked in there was a younger woman who greeted you as you passed. In the elevator you hummed to yourself a tune that had no name. When you stepped into your room you started getting changed and plugged in your camera so it would be charged for the first of many shoots tomorrow. You pulled out your favorite all black suit and hung it on the back of the bathroom door for tomorrow. After doing your nighttime routine you got under the covers and cuddled down grabbing the two small plushies and squishing them as close to you as you could. Your mind took a little while to shut down but as soon as it did you were brought into a dreamless sleep.

★☆☽ O ☾☆★

Your alarm woke you up, you smacked around blindly and grabbed it before turning off the offensive sound and getting up. Trudging your way to the bathroom you checked your messages. Most of them stayed fairly consistent with yesterday but this time there were more pictures of the boys being professional from the team. With a light smile you saved all of the pictures you could. You did your morning routine and made quick work of light makeup. When you were done fixing yourself up to look at least somewhat professional you made your way over to your cameras and started packing everything up for the day. Before you left you grabbed your glasses chain and put it around your neck before attaching it to your glasses then you clipped your name tag to your blazer. You and the team had these made so people would recognize you and put a face to the name. Yours was a black name tag with white text; the other’s had colors corresponding with their alias’ Aurora with white, Forrest with gold, and Willow with purple. On your way out of your room you snatched your sunglasses and settled them over your normal glasses. You walked out of the hotel after grabbing a small breakfast to take on the road with you. Thankfully hailing a cab was fairly quick, you gave her the address and were there within thirty minutes.

You walked into the building closest to the bridge and immediately the woman at the front desk greeted you and asked for your credentials so you could get back to where everyone was. Once you got all of the things sorted and had a photographer’s pass you made your way back. When you walked in it was absolute chaos, the models were sitting at their stations with makeup artists surrounding each of them. The stylists were surrounding the racks of clothes and there were people running around trying to cater to everyone’s every whim. The chaos from your boys seemed to pale in comparison to this. You were approached by someone who held an air of confidence among the chaos. It was an older woman holding a clipboard, one that you recognized as the manager. She was beaming at you while she walked.

“Onyx, wonderful to see you again. We are preparing for the initial shoots and then the show later. We are going to be taking the pictures on the bridge so once you get everything taken care of here we can head outside. Let me show you where you can get yourself set up.” You nodded to the woman and followed her through the crowd of people. You and her weaved through it with expert precision having done this many times. When you got into the makeshift studio you relished in the quieter nature of the room. She smiled at you and left you to get yourself set up. First the harness, then the extra lens holders, and finally your cameras. You made your way back out of the room and were met with her standing there speaking to someone. When she realized you were ready she led you back to the large room everyone was in. she already knew how you ran things so she let you take the lead. You grabbed a chair and stood on top of it and put your middle finger and thumb into your mouth to let out a loud whistle. Some people gasped and others completely froze at the high pitched noise. Perfect.

“Alright everyone, my name is Onyx. I am the designated head photographer for today. I will be relying on all of you to help me make this go smoothly. I know all of you are stressed for the show later tonight, so if we can make this as quick and seamless as possible you will have less on your plate to worry about as the clocks tick down. I know that there is a tentative schedule all of you have for the shoot. That being said, I am going to be relying on all of you to help me through this process. Stylists, I am relying on you to have each model ready for me as we finish the shoots and get approval of the pictures. If there are group shots it will be your job to coordinate them with each other. Makeup artists, I would like a few of you on hand just in case we need touch ups. The reason I request only a few is because I need all the room I can get without having to worry about tripping over people. Staff, I will be counting on you to keep everything in a decent order, I will need you to be bringing out the models as they are finished among other things like keeping everyone on schedule. While I know that is a monumental task considering how many people we have here I know you can do it. Models, pre-show jitters are normal, in my years of working in this industry I have seen them in even the most experienced models. Do not forget you are the stars of the show today, I know this is stressful so I will try to make it as easy on you as I can.” Your voice carried over the large room and as you spoke each of the groups you spoke to were smiling and nodding along with you. Some of the crowd was whispering amongst themselves as you spoke to them, hopefully to create their gameplan.

“All of that being said, I look forward to working with all of you. Let's make this a memorable shoot and kick ass on the runway together!” You held up your fist in a fighting motion like you had almost every other time you had photographed someone in Seoul, it was an unconscious habit at this point. There were cheers from some of the people as you stepped down off the chair. You made your way out and past the large group of people with the manager. The first model appeared shortly after and you gave him a smile. You gave light instructions to each model as they came through. When they finally got into the flow you smiled and joked with them; something you found made them loosen up a little. When you did this it made for the best pictures.

★☆☽ O ☾☆★

Most of your day consisted of getting the pictures taken care of. Throughout the entire thing the miscellaneous staff kept you informed of the time and some of them even brought you things to snack on between the models. At one point between models you had gotten too warm so you ended up taking off your blazer, after adjusting your nametag and harness, and threw it over your shoulder. The woman who had become like your assistant gently took it from you shortly after. Some of the people gaped at your tattoos, most of the models had come closer to inspect them as you waited for the approval of their shots. It was endearing how they were fascinated by you, most of them expressed the want for a tattoo but they couldn't because it was a one way ticket out of their industry.

When the final pictures got approval everyone started celebrating, yourself included. It had been a fast paced eight hours, but this is what you loved. Most of the models were laughing and celebrating having enough time to be able to relax before the chaos of show time started. You made your way away from the large crowd of people toward the back of the large bridge. When you were finally far enough away you pulled out your bluetooth headphones and hooked one of them up to your phone. You grabbed your phone out of your vest pocket and clicked on one of the members you knew you could just bask in the quiet with.

After a couple of rings Yeosang appeared on the screen. “Hi Y/n-nie!”

“Hi my Sangie, how are things back home?”

“They’ve been hectic. Joongie-hyung is trying to cram lots of things in before he leaves.” There was a lingering exhaustion in his gaze. “How are things in Paris?”

“It's also been hectic, I just finished an eight hour shoot for Louis Vuitton and then I have their runway show at eight. I wanted to at least see one of you today, and you are okay with just being in the quiet so I thought of you.” He nodded with a small smile. The two of you just sat there with each other, soaking in the moment of peace between your hectic schedules. In the background you could hear some of the other boys rustling around. His eyes flickered to who you could assume was Jongho by the sound of his voice. Just a second later the man in question appeared on the screen.

“Hi Sojunghan,” you tilted your head at him.

“It means precious,” Yeosang was quick to come to your rescue. The flush that came to your face was instant at the realization of what Jongho just called you. You thought he would have been more reserved with nicknames. He had just proven you so absolutely and utterly wrong.

“Hi, Aegiya (baby), how are you?” The small smile on his face widened just slightly at your term of endearment. Yeosang was looking back and forth between the two of you as you just looked at each other for a second.

“I’m surviving the chaos of the rest of the children around here.” Yeosang let out a noise of complaint and you laughed at the irony of his complaint. Of course he was ‘suffering’ through the childishness of the other boys. You shook your head at the two of them. Jongho was snickering at his own joke as he leaned back with an arm around Yeosang.

“Onyx, we are about to order some food for the staff, do you want anything?” The woman that approached was someone you had worked with in the past; you just couldn't for the life of you remember her name.

“I'd love some,” you gave her your order and she took it down in her phone before offering a small wave goodbye.

You turned back to your phone, Seonghwa had joined the two sitting in the frame. You smiled at him and gave him a slight wave. He returned the gesture and continued to look at something beyond your field of view. The three boys were just chatting quietly while you watched them. Being in their presence, although not physically, brought you a calm in the middle of the chaos. There were several voices that echoed toward you, with a glance you saw several of the staff coming your way. They probably wanted to escape for a little while too.

“Loves, I think I should probably go. It is getting close to the chaos starting back up before the show.” the three of them whipped their heads to look down at Yeosang’s phone as you spoke. There was a slight pout on Seonghwa’s lips when he realized what you said.

“Okay our treasure, good luck with everything. We can't wait to hear about it when you get back.” Seonghwa was the first to speak up after his exaggerated pout. The other two boys echoed something similar before you hung up the call. You stood up and slid the phone into your vest pocket before getting up and making your way back to where the main portion of people were hanging out. As you were walking you procured a couple of the younger models. They had asked you several questions about how things worked and what you did in the field. You animatedly answered them, happy to be able to talk to someone about your interests. The other models rotated in and out of the conversation as you walked telling you that they had fun and that you did an amazing job. When the food finally got here you sat in a large circle of stylists and makeup artists and ate.

★☆☽ O ☾☆★

It had been about an hour before people started showing up. You were led to where you would be taking pictures of the celebrities that were showing up. When you got into it the moments blurred by. You recognized several of the people you got to take pictures of. They were all kind to you, especially the ones who recognized you from your work in Seoul. BamBam and Jackson Wang in particular were a couple of the people that gave you some of the most dazzling smiles before they gave you quick hugs and left you with a pat on the shoulder.

When everyone had finally trickled in you had to bust your ass to get out to the opposite side of the bridge. You passed some of the models on the way and gave them a large smile and thumbs up. At this point you were practically running to make sure you got to where you needed to be on time, your cameras were in your hands as you were moving. Some of the people you passed cheered you on, there was a shout of that's my friend from someone that had a very thick Korean accent. You didn't have time to look and see who it was but you had to guess it was BamBam. When you finally skidded to a halt you were met with some of the other photographers lined up. There was a space in the middle for you held by a couple of the staff members. As soon as you got yourself planted there the music started and Pharrell Williams made his appearance. Your brain was already moving your hands to get your long shot lens. When it was connected you started getting the shots.

Your night consisted of much of the same thing. This was one of the times you had been happy to have two cameras on you. When the models were walking you used the long range, when they were closer you used the closer range. You expertly flipped between the two while the models walked. Amid some of the shots you took off your glasses and let them hang from the small star and moon chain around your neck. You moved with some of the models as you were getting their pictures. One of your favorite moments was when all of the models walked in a large group, it gave you some of the best shots from the night. Some of the people were blurred while you focused on one in particular, it gave it a sense of movement that you always loved to capture in pictures. There were a couple of times you directed some of the other photographers so they could get some more sideline shots. They surprisingly listened well. Generally there was a power struggle when a woman, who was obviously younger than most of the other photographers, was bossing people around. The camera crew that was filming above you was a well oiled machine, you didn't even have to worry about them.

When the show came to an end you lingered and took more pictures. At one point someone was yelling your name through the crowd. It confused most of the photographers in the group that didn't know you well enough. The staff had been laughing at the confusion before BamBam and Jackson appeared in front of you. A large smile appeared on your face as they approached you at a quick pace. You gladly accepted their hugs.

“You've grown from the little shy photographer from forever ago.” You rolled your eyes at Jackson. BamBam was just standing there nodding along with him. You were happy to have people that you knew here. Crowds of this size generally freaked you out a little bit, but knowing that someone you knew and appreciated was here eased your mind a little.

“You did amazing! I can't believe you were heading this whole thing! Y/n-nie, I am so happy for you. It's awesome watching someone that is like a little sister to me doing such big things.”

“Yah, I’m only a few months younger than you.” you were smiling the entire time you interacted with the two men. They had stuck by you while you were making your rounds. After a while a lot of the crowd had cleared. Some of the other photographers said their goodbyes while others continued to take pictures; your time was officially over as the show was over. You had been walking toward the building your things were in while talking animatedly. There had been a couple of people that looked at you weird as they passed, they must have been confused as to why you were speaking Korean. Oh well. BamBam had insisted on getting a picture with you and Jackson before you had to part ways. You posed with the pair holding up your camera and a finger heart. They continued taking pictures, both rotating doing some sort of cute poses while you laughed at them. You smiled as you watched them leave, they had unknowingly provided you with a little calm amongst the storm. Your phone pinged and it was a message with the pictures you just took with BamBam and Jackson. Your smile grew as you saved the pictures.

Quickly and methodically you packed your things up and made your way out. Several of the models and other people stopped you and thanked you for making the day go so well. Most of the staff gave you waves as you passed. Even Bernard Arnault stopped you and thanked you for your services. In the time that you worked with Louis Vuitton you had only met him a handful of times. You were smiling ear to ear and offered him a polite bow out of habit. He chuckled at you and gave you a small pat on the head before he was called over by some other people. Finally you made it outside and far enough away from the event that you could hail a cab. When you did it was fairly quiet on the ride over, you could feel your shoulders slump as more time went on. As you walked into the hotel you could feel the exhaustion of the day physically weighing on you. When you finally made it to your room you gently set your bag on the chair in front of the desk and plugged everything in. Muscle memory took over for you at that moment. You checked your phone and realized that most of the boys had sent you goodnight messages. You sent a couple of pictures BamBam had taken with the caption “Look who I ran into!” Before plugging in your phone and flopping into the bed. You fell into memory lane, a good one this time.

Today was one of the longest days you have had in a long time. You wouldn't trade it for the world. This opportunity was huge for your little on the rise company.

You had gotten many opportunities in college to intern with your professors, which gave you connections with JYPE, BigHit, Pledis, and Dreamcatcher Company. You were integrated on the idol side but you also knew that if you wanted to excel in the field you would have to be well rounded. You had come out of college and immediately chosen your old company for their rap sheet within the fashion and idol worlds not knowing it was going to be a shitty place to work in. Your extensive portfolio had impressed them and they almost immediately hired you after your initial interview. You excelled there because of the freelance work you did, and with the help of the professors that personally vouched for your skills. It also may have been because they could barely keep anyone on their teams.

That's where you came in, your attitude was different. You didn't tolerate too much bullshit, you helped where you could and you made it so they were not competing with each other. That company thrived while you were there and sometimes you wondered what happened. If you had to guess they lost a lot of their business when your team left. You didn't have many things you were thankful for with that company, but the opportunities they gave you was one of the few. Those thoughts led you into sleep, a small smile gracing your face.

★☆☽ O ☾☆★

You were awoken by your phone vibrating incessantly on the bedside table. You reached for it and squinted at the name. San? You sat up and answered the facetime call, the look on his face was worrying. He was wide eyed and ramrod straight. The first words out of your mouth were “Are you okay, is everyone okay?”

“I think there is someone in the house.” It felt like a bucket of ice water was poured over your head as the words left his mouth. You were definitely awake now. You grabbed your glasses and quickly put them on your face, almost stabbing yourself in the eye in the process.

“Where are you at right now?”

“I'm in your room with the giants, we were cuddling before I had to get up like we have been for the past couple of days and then I heard someone shuffling around on the first floor.”

“Fuck, okay. I need you to go close and lock the door.” You watched as he got up out of the bed, this was the first time you noticed that he had been shirtless. Now is not the fucking time for admiring your beautiful boyfriend. You heard the soft click of your door closing and the lock turning.

“Okay, there is a bat in my closet. I want you to grab it and hang out while I figure out what the hell is going on okay.” He nodded at you while you clicked out of the facetime app and got into the cat cams you had all over the living room and kitchen. When you looked through all of them you spotted the culprit. Your mother. For fucks sake, you told her that someone was watching your children, generally that means you don’t need to show up. You clicked back into the facetime app and saw him sitting on your bed with the bat next to him. He looked like he was in the middle of debating his life choices.

“Sannie, everything is okay, the person downstairs is my mom. I guess she decided she needed to come check on the giants even though I told her someone was taking care of them.” His shoulders sagged and you heard a heavy breath leave him.

“Jagi, this is not how I wanted to meet your mother.” You let out a laugh at his frazzled state.

“I know Sannie, it's not how I wanted it to go either. But here's what we are going to do. You're going to put on a shirt and we can go downstairs and scare the shit out of her like she did to you. Don't worry, she's pretty chill.” He gave you a questioning look before nodding, he set the phone down on your bed while he moved around the room. Beans was investigating San’s phone as you cooed at her. She had gotten up fairly close and you took a screenshot of her while you waited. A minute or two later San had gently relocated Beans and grabbed his phone. You smiled at him and he matched it.

“Before you start going to scare her, are you okay with me telling her you're my boyfriend and then telling her about the rest later?”

“Yeah, I'm okay with that Y/n-nie. This really is not how I expected my morning to go,” he muttered while walking toward the door. He was being silent as a cat while he made his way through your house, he had you looking out the back camera. You caught sight of your mother looking in the cat treehouse for the giants. San’s simple greeting to your mother elicited a scream from her, she leapt back and whipped around. Your laughter rang through your hotel room and you slapped a hand over your own mouth. You had neighbors that most likely wouldn't like being woken up by your giggles. You watched with amusement as she sized San up, she greeted him and looked into the camera. Your view moved to San’s pretty face as he approached her and handed her the phone.

“Hi mom, having a fun drop in?” She shook her head at you and fixed you with one of the most motherly glares she could muster.

“You are just like your grandmother I swear. You even got him into it.” Your grin widened, that was the ultimate compliment.

“Yeah well you scared him first so we are even. Mom, this is San, my boyfriend.” She gaped at you, her gaze flickered between the two of you several times before she settled it back on you.

“Boyfriend? You haven't told me about a boyfriend.”

“It’s fairly new, I wanted to be able to introduce you in person but since you decided to make a drop by visit you moved it up.” Her face turned just a little red at your comment. Serves her right, she should have just left well enough alone.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” You could just picture the polite man he was being. The small bow that he had most likely just given her was stuck in your head. You could also see the smile on his face clear as day, even if you couldn't physically see him, his dimples on full display.

“Likewise San, when Y/n gets back we will have to go out to dinner to get to know each other better. I’m sorry that we had to meet like this and that I scared you. I just wanted to see the grand kitties and wasn't expecting anyone here.”

“I look forward to that,” She had transferred the phone back over to him after giving you a knowing look. The smile on his face was exactly how you pictured it as they chattered while he walked her to the door. Honestly, you couldn't have thought of a better one of your boyfriends to meet your mother first. While you absolutely loved the other boys they could be a little too chaotic, San had perfect manners and it really showed here. As soon as they had parted ways San looked fully at you. You were grinning already at him. He seemed to have recovered from the shock of everything. You heard the deep breath he let out like he had been holding it the entire time she was in his presence.

“You did good Sannie, I’m sorry she just popped in.”

“That's okay jagi, I’m sorry for waking you up in the middle of the night.” You shook your head at him.

“I would rather you have called me than you scaring yourself shitless, and then scaring my mother shitless with your shirtlessness while you walked around my house.” That was a damn tongue twister. San was laughing at you while he made his way back to your room.

“Jagi, you should go back to bed, I can see how tired you are.” You took stock in your body and felt the exhaustion pulling at you, you could feel your eyes drooping without you even noticing it.

“Alright, I love you Sannie, I hope your day goes a little better than this morning has.”

“I love you too, jagi. Have a good day when you actually wake up for it.” You smiled at him before he hung up the call. When he did you set your phone on the bedside table and cuddled back down into your comforter. You would have never expected your mother meeting one of the boys like that, but life had a weird way of taking the reins. A little while later when your body had gotten rid of the little bit of adrenaline in your system you fell into sleep.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

Next Chapter (Chapter 23)

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nanamineedstherapy · 3 months ago

Text

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento F!CHRO Reader x Higuruma Hiromi

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage.

Previous Chapter 21 (alt ending 2.12) - What the Living Do - Part 1 - (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 21 (alt ending 2.12) - What the Living Do - Part 2

Penthouse Building: Common Biophilic Garden

The garden was your favorite part of the penthouse complex—not just because you’d sunk an obscene amount of yen into modifying it but because it was the perfect blend of opulence and function. The entire space was a biophilic marvel: traditional Japanese landscaping with ecologically responsible elements—an elevated koi pond with a self-cleaning filtration system, bonsai grown from ethically sourced seeds, and a digitally controlled hydroponic system that saved 40% more water than conventional methods, so efficient it made environmentalists weep.

And birds naturally came there. So many fucking birds.

That part had been for Takahashi—currently tethered to his full-body Hermès leash (because Gojo insisted all his kids would have standards).

Your eldritch albino toddler raccoon was crouched by the pond, chittering at a sparrow like a demonic wind-up toy. Except instead of chasing it, he was dunking a rock into the water over and over, as if conducting a cursed baptism.

You weren’t sure what this meant, but you were sure that the leash had bite marks on it.

“Jr., if you’re planning another jailbreak, I will revoke your snail-watching privileges.” You warned.

Takahashi froze. Then, with deliberate slowness, he shoved the rock into the pond.

You narrowed your eyes. "That’s what I thought."

A ping from your laptop cut the standoff.

You adjusted your posture on the hand-carved bench—ergonomic, sustainably sourced, and stupidly expensive—and flicked open the screen.

Subject: HUSBANDS: THE HORROR

From: Dove (Game Dev - Main Villain Branch) Attachments: 2 Files

The second Nanami’s rendered face loaded, you choked on your sparkling yuzu water.

There he was: pixel-perfect, brow furrowed with enough disdain to vaporize a lesser CEO.

Incoming video call: Dove.

You accepted. “Dove. My husband looks like he just smelled a bankruptcy filing. Perfect.”

“I know, right?” Dove cackled. “I even added a forehead vein expansion feature that activates every time the player breathes incorrectly in his vicinity.”

“Good. But his eyes are wrong.”

“They’re hazel…? I swear I saw it when he dropkicked Jeremy into the VR rig and fixed his cuffs.”

Shit. You couldn’t outright say golden—too many old photos might resurface. “They are brown, but add a luminous amber filter for combat mode. Subtle. Like… sunlight through honey whiskey.”

Dove squinted. “So they’re brown.”

“They are, but they have this subtle henna-like green tint. If you look closely, it’s his soft expressions—or maybe his aura—that makes them feel warm.”

A pause. Then you smirked. “I know, right? Fake-ass tsundere—”

Behind the koi pond, hidden among the manicured sakura trees, Gojo Satoru had officially transcended human function.

He’d been lurking—silent, technically obedient—hovering behind a row of blossoms, dressed down in a suspiciously casual black sweater and joggers, not making his presence known because, technically, today was Nanami’s day, and only Nanami was allowed to speak to you.

He knew this.

He respected this. (Tolerated at best.)

Gojo hadn’t meant to hover like a deprived Victorian ghost, but he’d spotted you by pure accident.

—He had been bored, searching for some other unsuspecting billionaire in the building to annoy, probably that retired arms dealer lady and her husband. That was until your voice carried through the garden like a targeted auditory curse.

He hadn’t expected to hear you go off about Nanami’s eyes like you were writing a love letter with Pantone codes.

But the skirt.

The hoodie.

His hoodie. His wife. Sitting there, gorgeous, pregnant, absolutely radiant—

And you were talking about Nanami’s eyes.

Gojo knew his husband was attractive. Objectively. Infuriatingly. But you—his wife, his pregnant, glowing, hoodie-stealing wife—were dissecting Nanami’s irises like they held the secrets of the universe.

His own eyes were rarer! More ethereal! Six-Eyes-certified!

Then—

“Next. Gojo’s hair.”

Gojo perked up.

You scowled at the screen. “This hex code is dogshit. His hair isn’t chalk white—it’s lavender-tinted, with micro-tones of pink and heavy violet undertones.”

Gojo's mouth parted, eyes wider than the sun.

A sound escaped him—something between a whimper and a seismic event.

On autopilot, he stumbled to the nearest water feature, staring at his reflection. The artificial moonlight caught it just right—

Oh.

Oh shit.

His hair did have undertones.

You noticed that? You memorized it?

You paid that much attention?

He gripped a sakura branch for support, the delicate blossoms brushing against his fingers. He knew you were always the one.

But holy shit. Even he didn’t know his Pantone.

You continued, typing furiously, “It’s #F5F3FF base, #E6E6FA overlay, shifting to #BCD9FF and #C9D7FF in direct light—faded at the roots like he’s literally too powerful for permanent dye jobs—like his roots are rejecting permanence on principle—"

Gojo was going to die.

His knees bent. His hands shook. He needed air. He needed oxygen. He needed to—

You—you—were reciting his hair’s color theory while holding on to a Porsche Design P’3135 titanium pen between your teeth like it was a damn lollipop.

Gojo short-circuited so hard it was audible.

You were wearing his hoodie—stolen—and a skirt that, scientifically, was shorter than memory allowed. Your pregnant belly, now third-trimester terrifying in its special grade geometry, barely fit beneath the hem.

And you were multitasking: sketching UI wireframes for a proprietary neural interface update, taking a call with your lead visual dev, and accidentally killing Gojo with every “mm” and “no, that curve’s wrong.”

He wanted to yank that pen out of your mouth with his teeth and kiss you until your portfolio blurred.

But then—then—

"That's way too small," you huffed, suddenly.

Gojo stopped breathing. His brain rebooted with a Windows error chime.

Dove, oblivious, hummed through. “Yeah? You think it should be bigger?”

“Obviously,” you said.

Gojo twitched like a man struck by lightning.

“More?”

“Yes. More.”

A sharp inhale. His vision pixelated.

"No. Not... it's not curved like that."

Gojo stopped breathing.

“More—okay, hold it,” you said. “Now add gloss over it.”

Gloss. You said gloss.

Gojo was seconds away from crawling through mulch and pine needles to die in your lap.

A few meters behind, Nanami Kento arrived, Espresso Tonic with Charcoal Dusting in hand, brow already furrowed. He’d expected the garden. He’d expected Takahashi. He’d not expected his very pregnant wife sitting under moonlight in couture maternity wear complaining about “curve” and “gloss” with Gojo twitching in nearby foliage.

Nanami halted.

You were on a call.

Gojo was crouched like a burglar.

And Takahashi—who hated Gojo with nuclear intensity—was vibrating on his leash like he’d just rolled a natural 20 for Smite Sorcerer Trash Husband.

Shoko had warned them about hormones. But nothing—nothing—prepared either man for the way you moaned the words “more, more, more” while holding a titanium pen in your teeth and barking revisions to a multi-million-dollar UI overhaul.

Gojo looked like he was about to ascend to another plane of existence. Nanami looked like he was about to run away.

Then—Takahashi decided diplomacy was over.

The raccoon lunged, leash snapping taut, eyes glowing with ancestral rage. A tiny, furious hiss burst out like a battle cry.

Gojo’s head whipped around. He made direct eye contact with the raccoon. His lips moved in panic.

“No, no, no—shh. Shut up, little demon. This is not the time—”

It was too late.

You turned.

Your gaze locked on the tragic figure of Gojo, hiding like a rejected himbo behind ornamental trees. His snow-white hair caught the moonlight. His sweater clung to him like a fan edit.

Your eyes narrowed.

He tried to shrink. Takahashi puffed up, snarling like a raccoon possessed by Mahito.

Gojo sent him a desperate look.

Takahashi sneezed at him in disgust.

Nanami sat down beside you at the stone table, placing his drink with deliberate grace. "Well," he said calmly. "It seems the toddler leash is effective."

Gojo stumbled into the open like a man exiting confession. "Babe, listen—"

“You were lurking.”

“I—” He scratched his neck. “Okay. Yes. I was lurking. But you were talking about me.”

You blinked, unimpressed. “And what exactly did you think I was talking about?”

Nanami took another sip of his drink, watching like it was theatre.

Gojo broke eye contact. Mumbled something unintelligible.

You leaned in. “Come again?”

He exhaled, flushed. “I thought you were talking about my dick, okay?”

Silence.

Dove—still on the call, apparently—wheezed. “I’ll talk later, boss.” She hung up so fast you could hear her sprinting away to share the new gossip.

You stared at Gojo, scandalized. Then glanced at Nanami, who looked like he was trying to decide whether to lecture or laugh.

Gojo dropped onto the bench beside you with theatrical grief. “You—” he pointed, betrayed, “—you made me believe—”

Takahashi, now near the koi pond, let out an unholy screech that echoed off the stone walls like an ancient curse.

You smirked. “No, I was talking about your ass.”

Gojo blinked. “My what?”

“For fan service, Satoru,” you said, snapping your laptop shut. “We’ve got a TikTok collab with Dove’s team for the next console teaser. Your glutes are getting a close-up.”

Gojo opened his mouth, then closed it, then looked at Nanami like a betrayed second wife.

“You heard all that,” he said, horrified.

Nanami ran a hand through his unstyled hair. “Every word.”

Gojo groaned and dropped his face into your lap—where the small skirt was riding up—like he was hoping the twins would kick him into unconsciousness. You didn’t move, just twirled the pen between your fingers.

Takahashi, still glaring, made a noise so pointed Gojo flinched.

You eyed the raccoon. “He still hasn’t forgiven you.”

Gojo sat up, affronted. “For what?! I bought him a custom stroller and three kinds of duck jerky.”

“He knows,” you said, voice grim. “About the Roomba incident.”

“I—what Roomba incident?!”

Nanami looked away, mouth twitching.

You grinned. “Ask him.”

Gojo turned slowly toward the raccoon. “Takahashi... what the fuck did I do to you?”

Takahashi hissed, lifted his tiny paw, and smacked a pebble directly at Gojo’s shin.

Gojo yelped. “Nanami. He assaulted me. Did you see that?”

Nanami did not reply. He was already texting Shoko:

Update: He said “fuck” again. Raccoon remains hostile.

A few minutes later, the koi pond gurgled softly, an ambient counterpoint to the rustling of the sakura trees in the artificial breeze. Takahashi had finally abandoned his rock-drowning ritual and was now perched indignantly on your lap, munching on treats that Nanami had brought him. His tiny claws gripped your hoodie like a spoiled gremlin, and he continued to stare daggers at Gojo, who was still battling a spiritual crisis over the revelation that you had memorized the subtle tints of his hair.

Nanami, seated beside you, calmly sipped his one-too-many-steps coffee in a black hoodie. His posture was relaxed, one arm draped along the back of the bench—casual yet protective. Unlike Gojo, who was fidgeting with his hair, Nanami’s golden eyes were trained on you in quiet scrutiny.

Despite the amusement, the teasing, and the absurdity of it all, Nanami had noticed something.

You kept flicking your gaze toward your phone. Not checking it, but looking at it. A single name sat at the top of your notifications, its call attempts ignored.

Nanami set down his drink, his expression shifting.

“You’re avoiding something.”

Your fingers, mid-scratch against Takahashi’s cream fur, twitched.

Gojo perked up, momentarily distracted from his vanity crisis. “Who’s calling?” He tilted his head, leaning in closer. “Need me to deal with it?”

“No.” You didn’t look at him. “It’s work.”

Nanami and Gojo exchanged glances behind you, their concern palpable.

Gojo, not one to miss an opportunity to be involved, pressed in close enough that you could feel the warmth of his large body radiating through his sweater. Nanami shifted slightly, exuding a more subtle but equally present support.

They waited.

Then suddenly, Takahashi’s snout was buried inside your hoodie.

Again.

Nanami, resigned, muttered something about “filing a complaint with the raccoon union.” Gojo, on the other hand, was actively trying to negotiate with the creature like a man desperate to de-escalate a hostage situation.

“Taka-baby,” Gojo cooed, hands held out as if soothing a small child—or a ticking bomb. “Buddy. Pal. My tiny, vicious fur-kin. Let’s not violate personal space—”

Takahashi growled.

You didn’t move. At this point, you were too pregnant, too emotionally drained, and too done to care that your mutant trash raccoon son was trying to breastfeed off your hoodie strings.

“Leave him,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “He’s asserting dominance.”

Gojo looked genuinely wounded. “Over me?”

“Obviously,” Nanami said. “He considers you a threat to the mammary hierarchy.”

Gojo turned to you, his expression earnest. “Is that true? Am I not your number one anymore?”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because Takahashi had now crawled higher onto your chest, one clawed paw gripping the edge of your bra like he was about to sue for custody.

Nanami leaned forward slightly, and plucked the raccoon off you with a well-practiced scoop. “You are not a marsupial,” he muttered as Takahashi yowled indignantly, limbs flailing like a drunken toddler mid-tantrum.

“You try telling him that,” you muttered, slumping further into the bench. Your body ached. Your hormones were throwing raves. Your unborn twins were practicing jujutsu in your uterus. And somehow, you were also expected to be the face of a trillion-dollar empire with both your war criminal husbands lurking around like cursed Greek statues.

You exhaled, looking at the sky. “They want me to do an interview.”

Gojo blinked. “That’s it?”

“It’s for Vogue,” you added flatly.

Gojo’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you should definitely do it.”

You groaned.

Nanami exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting to the sky—the same way yours had moments ago. “It’s a PR move, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “The board thinks it’s necessary after someone ‘accidentally’ revealed our marriage, and now the internet is spiraling.”

Gojo leaned back with an exaggerated shrug. “Pfft. They’d have found out eventually.”

“They found out when you yelled about it in a public lobby and punched my employees,” you deadpanned.

Gojo pulled you into his chest, arms curling around you protectively. “I’m sorry, baby.”

Nanami, already massaging his forehead, turned his attention back to you, his tone gentler. “So why don’t you want to do it?”

You exhaled deeply. “Because I’m tired. I am seven months pregnant with your godforsaken body-horror twins. My feet hurt. My back hurts. My boobs—” You stopped yourself just in time—because Gojo’s horny ass would absolutely pounce on that. “—everything hurts. And the last thing I want is to sit under studio lights while some Vogue journalist who doesn’t know a single thing about the gaming industry asks me invasive questions about my uterus.”

Silence.

Then—“We could threaten them,” Gojo offered helpfully.

Nanami’s eyes slid shut. “We are not threatening Vogue.”

“Just a little threat?”

“No.”

Gojo pouted.

You sighed, shifting slightly. Their gazes were still on you—warm, patient, concerned. It made your throat feel tight.

Nanami set his coffee aside. Then, without a word, he reached for your hand, his fingers threading through yours with quiet ease.

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” he said simply.

Gojo, for once, nodded in agreement.

You swallowed. “But if I don’t, the PR backlash—”

“Will fade,” Nanami finished, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “It always does.”

Gojo tilted his head, a glint in his eyes. “And besides, if anyone gives you trouble, I can just…” He made a vague, ominous hand gesture.

Nanami shot him a warning look.

Gojo sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll let you handle the intimidation this time.”

That earned him an amused snort from you.

You stared down at your lap, feeling the weight of the moment. “I just… I never thought I’d be here.”

Gojo leaned in, feigning offense. “You mean married to us?”

“No,” you said, then hesitated. “I mean—yes, I was sure I’d die alone, but ya—” You gestured vaguely to your stomach. “This.”

Nanami’s grip tightened slightly, a silent reassurance.

Gojo’s expression flickered—just for a second—before he covered it with an easy grin. “Yeah,” he said, his voice lighter than his eyes. “Same.”

Nanami exhaled, his gaze darkening. “I never thought I’d live long enough to be a father.”

The weight of that statement hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. You didn’t miss it. Neither did Gojo.

Nanami had spent his whole life preparing for a death he assumed was inevitable. But he was still here. And now, he was bringing children into a world he never thought he’d see.

Gojo, for all his loud bravado, had spent just as long dreading fatherhood—not because he didn’t love you, but because he knew what happened to strong children. He had watched power be twisted, children turned into weapons. Even his own parents had let it happen.

He never wanted that.

And you—

You had never planned for kids. You had spent years building a life for yourself, crafting a future from scratch. You had worked too hard to be anything but untouchable.

They loved you. That had always been enough.

But here you were.

Nanami sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know if I’ll be good at this.”

Gojo snorted. “You’re already a better dad than mine ever was.”

Nanami shot him a flat look. “That is a very low bar, Satoru.”

Gojo’s smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough for you to see the ghost of the boy his family discarded. Then the mask slid back into place. “I know,” he said, smirking again. After a pause, he nudged you with his shoulder. “You, though. You’re gonna be great.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words.

Gojo smiled, softer now, unexpectedly earnest. “I mean it.”

Nanami’s thumb swept over your knuckles—once, twice—a silent I’m here in Morse code. “So do I.”

The admission hung between you, fragile as the ice you’d been walking on since the pregnancy test.

“What if I—” Your voice cracked. “What if I turn into them? What if I get overwhelmed? I’m not good when I’m frustrated. I run away.” You muttered to yourself, the fear creeping in.

Nanami’s palm settled over your bump, warm. "You won’t become them." His tone was simple, absolute. "And if you need to leave, we’ll follow. Every time. If you need to scream, we’ll listen. That’s the difference between you and them—you’re afraid of becoming a monster. They never were."

Gojo’s knee bounced against yours, a subtle reminder that his support was there too. Nanami’s words were meant for him as well, just in a different way.

You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

Then—because tears were for people who hadn’t learned to swallow them by age six—you cleared your throat. “Names,” you croaked. “We should… talk about names.”

Gojo immediately perked up. “Megumi 2: the Electric Boogaloo—”

You turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. “I genuinely am fascinated by what goes on in that brain of yours.”

Nanami snorted, a hint of amusement breaking through his serious demeanor.

But Gojo was undeterred. “I vote for Satoru Jr.”

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

Gojo pouted, crossing his arms.

Nanami tapped his fingers against yours. “Have you thought of any names?”

You hesitated, then a memory surfaced. “You remember when we were in Bora Bora?”

Gojo’s grin turned immediately smug. “You mean when we made them?”

Nanami rolled his eyes, though a faint blush crept up his neck beneath a hoodie.

You ignored him, focusing on the moment. “You mentioned something about names. You were joking, but… I liked them. They’ve been stuck in my head since I found out.”

Gojo perked up, curiosity piqued. “Oh? Lemme hear ‘em.”

“For the girl… Emi.”

Gojo blinked, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “That’s cute.”

Nanami nodded thoughtfully. “It suits her.”

“And the boy…” You frowned, thinking. Then—“Kaito.”

Something passed between them—an unspoken understanding.

Nanami hummed. “Emi and Kaito.” He rolled the names over his tongue. “I like it.”

Gojo grinned. “Me too.”

For a moment, the air felt lighter, filled with the warmth of shared dreams.

Then, just as you were about to lean into the warmth of the moment—

Nanami’s phone buzzed.

He sighed, checking the caller ID. Then he turned the screen toward Gojo.

Gojo took one look, then groaned, throwing his head back. “Ughhh. What do they want now?”

“They want you back at Jujutsu Tech.”

“To take over?”

Nanami just smirked, a predatory glint in his eyes.

Gojo’s smirk widened. “Mm. Seems they’re short on leadership.”

Ah.

Nanami leaned back, crossing his arms. “How tragic.”

Gojo stretched lazily. “Very. Wonder what happened to the old higher-ups?”

Nanami didn’t even blink. “I hear they suffered sudden, unexpected deaths.”

Gojo tsked. “How unfortunate.”

Nanami had just barely deposited the shrieking, wriggling raccoon onto the grass when Takahashi made a desperate break for your chest again—his pink, suspiciously sharp little nose twitching. The moment Nanami’s hands loosened, he leapt up your shin like a furry Terminator with mommy issues, clambering with singular purpose toward your boobs.

Gojo instinctively caught the beast mid-flight, cradling him like a furious child mid-tantrum.

“Hey—hey now,” he coaxed, trying not to flinch as Takahashi bared tiny teeth. “We’ve talked about this, okay? You are not… lactating adjacent. You’re a raccoon, not a breast enthusiast.”

Takahashi hissed, as if he paid rent on your mammary glands and Gojo was the eviction notice.

You just leaned back again, dead behind the eyes, letting your hoodie fall askew like a white flag.

“Just let him do what he needs to do,” you mumbled, exhaustion creeping in.

Gojo blinked, concern etched on his face. “Baby. He’s trying to suckle.”

“I know.”

Nanami—knees bent, watching Takahashi like a predator tracking a flightless bird—sighed deeply, rubbed his temples, and muttered under his breath, “There’s no HR department in hell, but I will build one.”

The absurdity of it all might’ve cracked you into laughter if you weren’t currently a pillow for both a trash mammal and two cursed womb roommates. Instead, you stared blankly at your phone again, then at the koi pond. You could see your reflection—dark circles, swollen ankles, faint mascara smudge like an exhausted raccoon queen. So maybe that’s why Takahashi liked you. Trauma recognized trauma.

Gojo sat back down beside you, the raccoon still in his lap like a protestor demanding equal access to boobs. His voice was soft this time. “You’ve really given up, huh?”

“I gave up the moment I started arguing with a raccoon about personal space and lost,” you replied, a hint of bitterness creeping into your tone.

Nanami didn’t laugh. He only moved to take the phone from your lap, reading the notifications with his usual detached efficiency. After a beat, he said, “It’s your CHRO again. Third time today.”

“She’s just worried,” you murmured, brushing a hand against your bump. “She keeps sending me articles about postpartum depression. And nannies. And how all the rich people are freezing their embryos now.”

Gojo raised a brow. “Kinda late for that.”

Nanami didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “Do you want a nanny?”

You stared ahead, watching the koi gather, waiting for food and your hand absentmindedly moved to turn on the automatic feeder. “I don’t know.”

Gojo leaned forward, his voice quieter. “You don’t have to know yet.”

“No, I should,” you snapped, a little sharper than intended. Takahashi perked up, looking offended.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I keep thinking about the delivery. About holding them for the first time and just… not feeling anything.”

There it was. The raw thought. The fear that made your chest tighten every time the twins kicked. What if the hormones didn’t fix it? What if you resented them? What if the damage was already done before you even met them?

Nanami’s voice was low, grounded. “That’s not unusual.”

Gojo tilted his head, his expression softening. “My mom left right after I was born. Didn’t even name me.” He gave you a crooked, fragile smile. “You already care more than she did.”

“That’s not a high bar,” you rubbed his back, trying to keep the conversation light.

Nanami, without fanfare, placed a hand on your knee. “We’re not measuring you against ghosts.”

“But I’m still afraid,” you said, and you weren’t even sure who you were saying it to. Yourself, maybe.

They were both quiet, but present. Gojo reached up and gently scratched behind Takahashi’s ears, whispering nonsense in a sugar-sweet voice until the raccoon flopped over, utterly seduced by Gojo’s baby talk.

Then, unexpectedly, Nanami said, “I think I’ll be the strict one.”

Gojo turned to him, grinning. “You are the strict one.”

“I mean with them,” Nanami said, glancing at your stomach. “The twins.”

Gojo scoffed. “Yeah, and I’ll be the cool one.”

“You can’t even get Takahashi to stop motorboating her chest.”

“I could if you’d let me use the squirt bottle!”

They fell into harmless bickering again, but you didn’t interrupt. You let it carry you like a tide, like static, as you watched the sun make silhouettes of the koi beneath the water. Then—

“I’m afraid I’ll ruin them,” you said softly, and everything fell silent again.

Gojo didn’t joke. Nanami didn’t analyze. They just sat with you in the hush of the garden, the koi pond gurgling like the world’s softest metronome.

“You won’t,” Nanami said, his voice steady.

“But what if I do?”

Gojo exhaled slowly, leaning in, resting his chin on your shoulder, even as Takahashi reclaimed your belly like it was his emotional support trampoline. “Then we’ll fix it. Together. You’re not doing this alone. Even if I die, I’ll haunt you like a friendly titty ghost.”

You didn’t laugh.

But the tears came.

Hot. Quiet. Infuriating.

You wiped them away quickly, but not quickly enough.

Nanami was already pressing a clean handkerchief into your palm. Of course he was.

“I’m not ready,” you whispered, leaning on his chest instead as he rubbed soothing circles on your back.

“None of us are,” Gojo said gently. “That’s the point.”

“You always talk like that,” you mumbled through the fabric. “Like failed therapists who fuck.”

Gojo beamed. “I should take Maya’s job. I’d be so much better at it.”

Nanami, finally letting the smile tug at the edge of his mouth, leaned back and gave you that look. The one that said he was tired, too. That he was also scared. That he understood.

“I think being ready means you’ve stopped caring if you fail,” he said quietly. “We care too much. That’s the only reason we’ll make it.”

And that?

That almost made it okay.

Almost.

Then Takahashi climbed halfway up your chest again and screamed into your ear like a traumatized siren.

Gojo clapped once. “Okay! Time for someone to go into his designer stroller!”

Nanami scooped the raccoon up with the dead-eyed efficiency of a man who'd once done this with cursed spirits. “Your tyranny ends here, Takahashi.”

You slumped against the bench with a long sigh as Gojo pressed a kiss to your temple. “Wanna go lie down, baby?”

“Only if neither of you talk for an hour.”

Gojo looked like he was physically restraining himself from a joke.

Nanami stood, already hauling the raccoon like a sack of rice. “Deal.”

You let them help you up—awkward, slow, heavy with children and fatigue. But also, you didn’t feel like you were walking alone.

There were hands under your arms.

There were men arguing over stroller brakes.

There was a raccoon making increasingly sexual-sounding threats in a baby voice.

And somehow, it was enough.

---

When you woke up, your penthouse was quiet—well, as quiet as it could be with a three-month-old raccoon tearing through the room like he had declared war on gravity.

Takahashi was currently engaged in a one-sided battle with the corner of your gaming chair, gnawing on the fabric like his life depended on it. His tiny claws scrabbled against the polished floor, his pink eyes gleaming with mischief. Maybe in another universe, he’d be Sukuna’s vessel.

You scratched his fluffy head absentmindedly, sprawled on the couch with a blanket draped over your legs. Your back ached, your feet were swollen, and your belly felt like it was carrying two baby kaiju instead of actual human children. But you were fine. Really.

It wasn’t like you cared that your husbands were currently on the other side of the room, laughing at something you didn’t understand.

Gojo was draped over the arm of Nanami’s chair, laughing so hard he was practically wheezing, while Nanami—Nanami, the man who rarely showed amusement outside of private moments—had his forehead resting in one hand, shoulders shaking with laughter.

You frowned.

You hadn’t been ignoring them, per se—you were just letting them enjoy themselves. But something about it felt… weird. Like you were watching them from behind glass.

You nudged Cloud Save, who chattered at you before rolling onto his back and promptly falling off the couch.

Gojo wiped at his eyes, still breathless. “God, I haven’t laughed that hard in ages—”

Then he saw your face.

The laughter dimmed. Not completely—Gojo never stopped radiating chaotic energy—but enough that he was watching you now.

Nanami followed his gaze, his expression smoothing into something unreadable. “What’s wrong?”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

Gojo tilted his head, still upside down over the chair arm. “Mmm, liar.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to Clout Save, who had now discovered the joys of burrowing into your blanket.

“It’s not a big deal,” you muttered. “You were just laughing about something I didn’t get.”

Gojo was immediately next to you, leaning against the couch, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Oh, baby,” he cooed. “Did we make you feel left out?”

You shoved his face away. “No. I don’t care.”

Nanami sat on the other side of the couch, his hand resting lightly on your knee. “It was just a reference to something from our school days. We didn’t mean to exclude you.”

Yes, definitely, by speaking in that rapid-fire traditional Japanese, you were still not a hundred percent sure you understood.

Gojo looped an arm around your waist and pressed his forehead against your temple. “You sure you don’t care?”

You could feel the warmth of them—Gojo’s body heat, Nanami’s steady presence, the weight of their attention.

And… maybe you had felt a little distant. Not because of them, but because your brain had been tangled in a mess of hormones and exhaustion and impending motherhood.

You sighed, relenting just a little. “I was just happy to see you both relax. That’s all.”

Gojo blinked, his grin softening.

Nanami’s fingers traced soothing circles on your knee.

“You’re an idiot,” Gojo announced fondly.

You kicked him in the shin.

He yelped, and Takahashi took that as his cue to launch himself at Gojo’s face.

Nanami exhaled heavily. “I am going to pretend I didn’t see that.”

Gojo, now wrestling the raccoon, just grinned up at you. “Love you, too, babe.”

---

Kashimo found another tracker.

---

“You ever get tired of pretending to be normal?” Sukuna asked.

His voice was flat, but something about the way he flexed his jaw at the end made Choso pause mid-game. The screen glared white-hot into his face—another kill. He didn't turn around yet.

“I’m not pretending,” Choso muttered, clicking reload. “This is normal. You’re the one who picks fights with a CHRO at 3 AM because she screened your calls.”

Sukuna scoffed, leaning back into the expensive imported leather couch like a king growing bored of his court. He was shirtless, his tattoos stretching and disappearing into low-slung black joggers, barefoot and annoyed. “The woman isn’t just screening me. She’s fucking toying with me. Like some middle-management Riko clone who thinks I’ll fold if she says ‘no’ three times in a polite tone.”

“She probably doesn’t want you around her boss,” Choso pointed out. “If you’re calling her “small” before a hello, maybe she’s got a point.”

"I'm fed up, Choso." His voice was gravel-thick, simmering.

Choso didn’t turn from his game. “Why.”

Sukuna rubbed at his temple like the question itself was giving him a migraine. “Why is she so hard to reach? And why is she still with those two idiots?”

He exhaled, head tilting back over the couch, exposing the sharp lines of his throat and collarbone—his hair unkempt, black with a dark-red undercast, temple scars mostly faded but still there, like someone had tried to erase a god and failed.

“Her CHRO keeps blocking me. I offered a full tech overhaul, guaranteed stock recovery, even hinted I’d dump eleven figures into the company. Nothing. Silence. Just polite corporate fuck-you silence.”

“She’s probably got real skills,” Choso muttered, not even looking. “Not nepo. Probably doesn’t trust powerful men. I wouldn’t, if I were her.”

Yuji was outside yelling at Junpei not to put slugs on his Balenciagas.

Sukuna’s lips curled. “It’s not that. That company’s built like a fortress—not around money. Around her. They’ll chat for hours if you don’t mention the CEO, but the moment you even imply her name, they clam up like I said a slur.”

He’d tried everything. Cold calls to ex-employees, old investors, even friendly clients. Each one folded the moment he probed into the personal life of the CEO—the mysterious, currently-on-maternity-leave tech empress whose very mention made the air change. Whose existence had started gnawing at his brain like a parasite.

“I don’t get it,” Choso said. “Why her? Why are you spiraling?”

Sukuna's eyes narrowed at the back of Choso’s head. The kind of look that once preceded mass bloodshed. Choso paused his game and finally turned.

“It’s a real question,” he said. “You’re not sleeping. You’re skipping meals. You’re watching her old keynotes like a divorced ghost.”

Sukuna didn’t answer for a long moment. His throat worked, and then:

“It feels like... like I already knew her. Like I already had a life with her. A full one. Long. Loud. Domestic. I remember the feeling of carrying her to bed after she fainted, barefoot on cold tile. I remember arguing in airports. I remember her laugh, post-orgasm. I remember twins that never made it past the month she’s in now.”

He looked down at his hands. Still weapons, no matter how well-manicured. “I’m not even sure they were mine.”

Choso blinked. “Sounds like a curse.”

Sukuna glared. “No one alive is strong enough to curse me.”

“Then what? Hormonal imbalance? Constipation? You are pushing 40—”

Sukuna's phone rang, cutting him off.

The caller ID read: DO NOT KILL

He picked up, not bothering to mask the venom. “Finally returning my calls, bitch.”

Choso flinched and pointed to his temple. Don’t call women bitches, he mouthed.

Sukuna rolled his eyes and mouthed back at him; she made my life hell.

“Listen to me, Yorozu. I didn’t plant you in there so you could play therapy godmother. I don’t care if they’re ‘finding their way back to each other.’ You want Kashimo? Earn it. Drive. A. Wedge.”

He ended the call with a tap, knuckles white around the phone. The cityscape stretched infront of him—Osaka lights, thick humid air, his house glass glinting like a warning.

Choso stared. “You are…?”

“She was already obsessed. I just… redirected it.”

“You’re trying to destroy her marriage.”

“I’m trying to see her.” Sukuna said it like it hurt. “You don’t get it. There’s something... left over. Not obsession. Not lust. Something—ancient. And I don’t even want to be in love. I just... I remember being hers.”

A beat.

“And I don’t know if she remembers me.” He exhaled.

Choso’s expression softened. “Maybe she does,” he said thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to the newspaper. “At least our efforts to take out those who tried to go after the bounty on her head counts for something. Maybe that’s why she’s hiding.”

Before Sukuna could respond, the front door opened.

Yuji walked in holding a jar of pickles. Junpei followed, looking suspiciously damp.

“Are we out of ice cream?” Yuji asked.

“I think Junpei fed it to the frogs,” Choso said.

Junpei shrugged. “He looked like he was going through something.”

“Same,” Sukuna muttered.

---

Later That Night – A Secure Line in Tokyo

Megumi hung up the encrypted phone.

“He’s getting closer,” he muttered.

Across from him, Haibara Yu tilted his head and smiled like a cat watching a mouse forget it’s being watched.

“Let him try,” Haibara said. “If he gets through, I’ll kill him with kindness. Or something sharper.”

“Don’t kill him,” Megumi said.

Haibara’s eyes gleamed.

“Yet.”

---

A week later

“Shit, she’s going into cardiac arrest.”

“Fucking move over.” Shoko pushed the RN.

Gojo rages at doctors for answers, while Nanami methodically signs consent forms with shaking hands.

They have to choose between maternal DNR orders or sacrificing the twins.

A/N: So like. Which part emotionally decapitated you the most: The haori? Nanami’s mango dissection? (something is coming next up with the mangoes trust me.) Gojo saying “I’ll get us all pregnant”? Why is Maya hotter than 80% of men in this fic? Does Gojo deserve forgiveness yet, or should we launch #PregnantInPradaAndPetty? Who deserves to suffer the most in the next chapter for their crimes against you? Gojo "Voice Actor Fraud" Satoru Nanami "My Face Is Her Favorite Food" Kento Haibara "Better Than You" Yu Megumi "Toji 2.0 With Access to Stock Options" Fushiguro Maya "I'm in your walls" Daddy Sukuna "Your wife calls me daddy too" Ryomen Tell me which part made you laugh, which made you cry, and which part made you want to punch Maya in the throat or marry her. COMMENTS FEED ME. Or I will send Kashimo in wet mode to your house. 🩸 Also since you can see I updated the ships, CHRO & thirsty Lawyer incoming in the next chapter, (it's mostly ready so should be here soon.) And yes, Cloud Save will get his POV soon. Probably while eating drywall.

Next Chapter 22 (alt ending 2.13) - Things Broken Are Still Yours - Part 1 - (Tumblr/Ao3)

A spin-off Crack series in the same AU - (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

Beta - @blackrimmedrose

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