#and they had to rush to do whatever else they meant to do

[grinchwrapsupreme]

and why did everyone want nate back so bad??? he was so shitty to them and such an asshole! and out of NOWHERE the team unanimously wants him back?? why??? and why does he "need" to go back when he himself said that he likes being a waiter?? that he's happy when he's not coaching?? when they just put so much emphasis on being happy over being successful literally the previous episode

[storfulsten]

The way you draw bf is so cute and i love it, can i give him a lil kiss on the forehead

aw thanks, I'm glad you like the way I doodle him and such ha

as for the lil kiss on the forehead...

don't think whitty'd like that very much sorry lol

[kenmaspuddinghair]

Honorably discharged disabled Simon, who swears he is perfectly fine and capable of doing everything himself. But it doesn’t really matter what he thinks says because Price sees differently. He sees the way Simon’s hands shake and how he’s started fidgeting when he’s never done that in the past, he can see Simon’s right side, the side that was crushed under rubble during an attack, he sees it shake and almost falter every time Simon puts even a little bit to much weight on it, but what worry’s Price the most is when Simon zones out and stops paying attention to his surroundings or whatever he’s doing. Not to mention now Simon has to go back and live in civilization, when all he’s known is military life since he was still a teen.

So although Simon claims he’s fine, Price gets him live-in-help, you. You’ve been with him the past week and although he rarely talks you’ve learned a few things. The blinds always need to be fully open unless he’s sleeping, he needs to be able to see what’s happening but it’ll keep him up when he’s trying to sleep, so they close at night. He gets very tense when he can’t see your hands, it hurts you a little to know he doesn’t trust you but you understand. He can't cook at all, unless you prepare food for him he’ll only eat a prepackaged dinner nothing else, of course that isn't healthy so you've started fixing him both breakfast and lunch which he accepts with a grunt but he doesn’t eat till you’ve started. He never takes off his mask around you unless he's eating and even still only up to his nose. Lastly you've noticed something always sparked in his eyes when you called him Simon, you haven't been able to figure out what it is so instead of risking offending him or something, you've stuck to calling him Ghost.

Price chose you for two reasons, you were quite, something he thought Simon would like, he was very wrong. It’s probably the oddest thing about him, he doesn’t like when you're super quiet you've learned it cause he doesn’t know where you are or what you’re planning the other reason is Price hired you is because you were a military nurse for quite a bit so you would always be there for Simon. This was something Simon actually did like it meant he didn’t have to leave his flat just to see a doctor, what he didn’t think about though was the cut and bruise on his face that he would have to remove his balaclava for.

“Okay Ghost” you paused not sure how he would react to having to take his mask off “I-i need you to remove your mask for me please” almost immediately he grunted out a why “because you have a cut and bruise on your face and I need to make sure it’s healing properly” Simon stilled completely for a few seconds before he slowly pulled the balaclava completely off. You took a second looking over his entire face before you brought your hand up inspecting the area “your bruise is completely gone” you whispered slightly surprised it had only been a week, you went to write it down but the moment your hand left his face he spoke up “it’s still ere, jus can’t see it” carefully your brought you hand back to his face to carefully push on his check “does that hurt” “bit” was all he grunted out, you hummed to yourself as you removed your hand and started writing, but had you been looking at him you would have seen the almost pout gracing his face.

Once you finally looked back up, placing your hand on his face “okay let’s finish this quickly” you say looking over his scar “I know I’m not that pretty but you ain’t gotta rush” he said in the quietest voice. You looked up into his eyes quickly only to find them looking back at you with what you could only describe as curiosity mixed with need “Gh-Simon that’s not what I meant, your very beautiful I just thought you wouldn't want me touching or looking at your face any more since you always hide it behind that mask” he never replied to you, just kept staring with that look in his eyes. Finally you peeled your eyes away, finished writing whatever you needed to in your book then you got up and walked away “I’m gonna fix us some lunch, okay Simon?” you called from in the kitchen already, and that’s when Simon managed to place the feeling he had been having every time he saw you. He liked you, he had a crush, a crush! “Simon?” You called again “yeah okay” he called back, he wasn’t gonna fuck this up, not when he thinks he might have found a new purpose in life.

pt 2 here

[satellite-evans]

in his eyes

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: it doesn't matter what people say on the internet, because Lando loves you.

Word count: 3.3k+

Warnings: giving birth, angst, fluff, insecurity, nasty people on the internet

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The room was still and peaceful. After hours of pain and screaming, it was finally quiet. You could hear the faint beeping of the heart monitor in the background, but it was as if everything else had faded away. In that sacred silence, your heart felt fuller than it ever had before.

Lando’s voice broke through the quiet again, but this time, it was a little more hesitant, as if he were trying to put words to the flood of emotions swirling in his chest. “I always dreamed of this moment... but seeing her here, in my arms... it’s so much more than I imagined.”

Your heart swelled at his words. You had always known how much he longed for this day—how much he dreamed of becoming a father. But to witness it, to see him holding their daughter with such reverence, was beyond anything you could have ever expected.

“She’s so tiny,” you whispered, leaning in a little closer to get a better look at the little girl in Lando’s arms. "It’s hard to believe she’s ours."

Lando nodded, his thumb gently stroking the baby’s tiny hand, his gaze never leaving her face. “I just want to protect her. I want to give her everything. She’s going to have the best life.”

You smiled, feeling tears well up in your eyes again. You had always known Lando was capable of deep love, but seeing him like this, seeing him so vulnerable, made you fall even deeper in love with him.

“I have no doubt, Lando,” you said softly. “She’s going to have everything she needs... and more.”

Lando turned his head toward you for the first time since he’d been holding their daughter, his eyes glistening with emotion. He smiled, a soft, loving smile that melted your heart. “I couldn’t have asked for a better partner. I can't believe she's mine as much as I can't believe I'm yours. We’re in this together.”

You reached out to gently stroke the side of his face, your thumb tracing the curve of his jaw. His words meant everything to you. There was no one else you’d rather share this moment, this journey, with. "I feel the same. You're going to be the best dad, Lando."

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’ll try my best. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she’s happy.”

The quiet room filled with the sound of a small yawn from your daughter, followed by the soft rustling of blankets. Lando chuckled softly, clearly enchanted by the tiny noise. “She’s already got her own little personality, huh?”

You both laughed quietly, and the sound felt like music, the kind of sound that made everything else in the world feel right. “I think she’s definitely going to keep us on our toes.”

Lando nodded, but his eyes were still soft and full of awe. "I'm ready for that. As long as we’re together... we can handle anything."

Your heart fluttered as you looked at him, this man who had been your partner, your best friend, and now, the father of your child. There were no words to fully capture the depth of what you felt in that moment. All that mattered was that you were here, together, in this perfect little bubble of love with your daughter.

“She’s going to love you so much, Lando,” you whispered, your voice full of certainty.

He smiled at you, a rare vulnerability in his eyes as he gazed at their daughter again. “I already love her more than I ever thought possible.”

As the moments passed, the three of you simply existed in this space, letting the world outside the hospital room fade away. There was no rush, no need for anything other than this precious time you had together, letting the quiet joy of the moment fill every corner of your hearts.

Lando's voice was low and full of affection as he spoke again, almost as if to himself. “This... this is everything I’ve ever wanted. You, her... us.”

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "And we're just getting started."

The first few weeks after giving birth were a whirlwind of emotions, adjustments, and challenges. Your body was healing, and there were days when you felt overwhelmed by the exhaustion. Physical recovery was tough, and mentally, you wondered if you were doing enough. The sleepless nights, the constant feeding, the emotional rollercoaster—it was all a lot to process. But through it all, Lando was there.

You often found him hovering around you like a quiet guardian, making sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed. The first night you came home from the hospital, Lando insisted on taking the baby for a few hours to give you some rest. You were still recovering from the birth, and the thought of trying to breastfeed, soothe the baby, and manage the pain seemed overwhelming. But Lando stepped in without hesitation.

"I’ve got her, Y/N. You rest," he said, his voice soothing and steady as he gently took their daughter into his arms. You had to fight the urge to stay up, but you trusted him. You allowed yourself to close your eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you slept soundly for a few hours, knowing your baby was safe and loved.

When you woke up, the sight that greeted you made your heart swell. Lando was sitting on the couch, holding the baby against his bare chest. His face, usually so focused and intense, was softened in a way you had never seen before. He gazed at her with such love and tenderness, whispering sweet words to her as she napped peacefully in his arms.

" I know I said it like a hundred times already but, she’s perfect, Y/N. Absolutely perfect," Lando had said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid to disturb the serenity of the moment.

He made sure you didn’t feel the weight of the housework either. Whenever the dishes piled up, Lando was the one to wash them, even when he had been working on the simulator for hours or when the demands of his racing career were overwhelming. "I’ve got it. You just relax. You’ve done enough," he’d tell you. He even took on the responsibility of cooking, though you could tell his meals weren’t quite as delicious as when you were in charge. But it didn’t matter—what mattered was the effort, the care, the thoughtfulness he put into everything.

Lando was constantly reassuring you when you doubted yourself. He saw the way your shoulders would slump after a long day of caring for the baby, how the sleepless nights began to take their toll, and he’d be there to remind you that you were doing an amazing job. When you expressed how hard it was to adjust to motherhood and how difficult it felt to bounce back physically, Lando was quick to reassure you.

“You’re incredible. You brought life into the world, Y/N. That’s something amazing. You are enough,” he said with conviction, never once faltering in his support.

There were nights when the baby would cry, and Lando would take the lead, waking up to comfort her before you had even opened your eyes. He’d hold her, rock her gently, and whisper soft lullabies to her, making sure she felt safe and loved while you caught a few more hours of sleep. His patience was endless.

Sometimes, when you’d express that you didn’t feel like yourself, that you didn’t look like yourself, Lando would gently take your face in his hands, his eyes filled with love. “You’re the same Y/N I fell in love with. You’ll always be her. Nothing about you has changed, except maybe... you’re even more beautiful now,” he’d say with a warm, playful smile, easing the weight of your worries with his words.

Lando’s support wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, too. He never let you feel alone in this new chapter of your life. When you cried from the frustration of sleepless nights or the pressure of balancing it all, Lando would simply pull you into his arms. “I’m here, Y/N. We’re in this together,” he’d say, as you let the tears fall.

Even when you doubted whether you could be the kind of mother you imagined yourself to be, Lando believed in you completely. "I’ve never seen anyone do what you do with as much strength and love as you have. We’re a team," he’d remind you over and over again.

And he was right. He never let you feel like you were doing it alone. When you struggled, he didn’t hesitate to pick up the slack. Whether it was handling late-night feedings or changing diapers, he did it all with a quiet grace that made you admire him more than ever.

In those early weeks, as you both navigated the unfamiliar waters of parenthood, it became clear to you just how deeply Lando cared—not just for you, but for your little family. He did everything with the thought of making your life a little easier, even when he was running on empty himself.

"You’ve given me the greatest gift, Y/N," he told you one evening, after putting the baby to sleep. “And I’m so thankful for both of you.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I couldn’t do it without you.”

Lando smiled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’ll never have to,” he promised. "I’m always going to be here."

And in that moment, you knew—you were never alone.

One sunny afternoon, you felt like you had enough energy to step outside. The last few weeks had been a blur of late nights, feedings, and tender moments with Lando and your baby. You loved every second of it, but you also needed a break, a small taste of normalcy. You had always enjoyed little walks and small outings with Lando, and today, you wanted to do something nice for him. He’d been so incredible, taking on the lion’s share of the care and support, and you wanted to return the favor.

So, you decided to walk to your favorite bakery. The idea was simple: get a couple of your favorite pastries as a treat for both of you. It would give you some fresh air and a little exercise, and you couldn’t wait to surprise Lando with something sweet. You’d always shared a love for pastries, and there was something comforting about going there alone, just to clear your mind for a while.

As you strolled down the street, the air felt crisp and refreshing. Your body was still adjusting, but with each step, you felt a bit more like yourself. It was the first time in a while that you didn’t feel overwhelmed, and you even caught yourself smiling at the thought of Lando, who was back at home taking care of the baby.

When you arrived at the bakery, you paused for a moment to take in the familiar, cozy atmosphere. The warm, inviting smell of freshly baked goods hit you, and you felt comforted by the thought of how much Lando would appreciate this little gesture. As you stood in line, your fingers fiddled with your phone, glancing at the screen before it was your turn to order.

“Hi, I’ll have two of the almond croissants and one of the chocolate eclairs, please,” you said, giving the cashier a friendly smile.

But then, as you stood there waiting for your order, you heard the sound of giggles behind you. You barely registered it at first, but then it came again—a group of girls, no older than your mid-twenties, talking and laughing loudly.

“You know, I saw Y/N out in public the other day…” one of them said, her voice dripping with that judgmental tone. “She’s huge now. Like, I know she had a baby, but how can she just let herself go like that?”

The other girls snickered in agreement. “Lando deserves someone better than her,” one of them added. “I mean, he could have anyone, right? Why stay with someone who just let themselves go like that?”

The words felt like a sharp slap to the chest, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to blur. You didn’t know whether to cry, shout, or just run out of the bakery. They weren’t whispering or trying to hide it—they were speaking loudly, thinking you wouldn’t hear. But you did. Every word stung.

You wanted to turn around and say something, to defend yourself, but instead, you kept your eyes on the counter, trying to hold it together as the cashier bagged your pastries. You could feel the heat rise to your face, the tears pricking at the back of your eyes. It had been so long since you’d felt self-conscious, and yet, their words dug up insecurities you had worked so hard to bury.

You paid for the pastries with a forced smile, muttering a polite “Thank you,” before quickly exiting the bakery. You had to get home. You needed to get away from the cruel laughter that still echoed in your ears.

Once you were back home, the door clicked shut behind you, and you stood there for a moment, taking in the quiet of the house. You set the pastries down on the kitchen counter, the warm scent of fresh-baked goods filling the air, but it did little to lift the weight that had settled in your chest. You could still hear the words from the bakery echoing in your mind, the sting of the comments, and the cruel judgments of people who didn’t know you or what you’d been through.

With a sigh, you rubbed your eyes, exhausted both physically and emotionally. Your heart was heavy, and it felt like everything was crashing down around you. Lando had been so caring, so supportive, and you didn’t want to burden him with this—it wasn’t fair to him. He had done so much to make you feel loved and beautiful, and here you were, doubting it all because of a few words from strangers.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake it off. You didn’t want to ruin this moment—this quiet, peaceful time at home with your family. So instead of seeking out Lando, you slipped quietly into the living room, phone in hand, and tried to lose yourself in something else.

You knew scrolling through social media wasn’t healthy—especially right now—but it felt like a distraction, something to fill the empty space in your mind. But the moment you unlocked your phone, it all came crashing in. The familiar blue light illuminated the room, but instead of calming you, it brought a flood of negativity.

The comments began to pour in, one after another, and with each notification, your chest tightened. The words were sharp, cruel.

"She’s disgusting." "Lando should dump her and find someone who takes care of themselves."

The comments continued to pile on, each one worse than the last. "Fat," "ugly," "why does she think she’s still worthy of him?" They cut through you like daggers, tearing into every insecurity, every vulnerability you’d tried so hard to hide. The words hit you harder than you could have imagined, and it felt like the air was being sucked out of your lungs. Your heart ached as your eyes filled with tears.

Before you knew it, the tears were flowing, and there was nothing you could do to stop them. The hurtful words from the bakery combined with the hateful comments made everything feel too overwhelming. You wiped your face quickly, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

It wasn’t long before you heard footsteps upstairs. Lando had gone up to check on the baby, and now, his soft footsteps echoed down the stairs as he walked back into the living room. When his eyes found you, his expression immediately shifted from calm to concern. His gaze locked onto your red, tear-streaked face, and he froze, clearly taken aback by the sight.

"Y/N…" he said softly, his voice full of worry as he rushed over to where you sat. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitated for a moment, trying to hide the phone in your lap, but he could see the pain in your eyes. He knelt down in front of you, gently taking the phone from your hand. You didn’t have the strength to say anything, so you simply let him read what was on the screen.

His face darkened immediately as he scanned the words. The anger was evident in the tightening of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils. “What the hell is this?” he asked, his voice sharp and protective. His fingers clenched the phone as his eyes lifted to meet yours, filled with disbelief and fury.

“These people… they don’t know anything about you. About us,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. The softness in his expression faltered as he took in the full weight of your hurt. He sat down beside you, his arm wrapping around you and pulling you gently into his chest.

“Y/N…” he whispered again, his voice soft but full of conviction. “Listen to me. You are amazing. You gave me our beautiful daughter, and your body—your beautiful, strong body—did something incredible. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Inside and out.”

The words melted your heart, but it was still hard to fight the weight of the hurt. You sniffled, resting your face against his chest, your voice breaking. “But the comments… they’re right. I don’t look like I used to. I don’t—”

Lando pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up, his thumb gently wiping away a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You’ve never looked more beautiful to me. Not once, not ever. You’re the woman I love. These people? They can say whatever they want, but they don’t get to decide how I see you.”

His words washed over you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the tight knot in your chest began to loosen. He cupped your face gently in his hands, his eyes full of love as he whispered, “If all the women in the world gathered together and shouted it, they couldn’t ever suppress your whisper. You’re perfect, Y/N.”

A fresh wave of tears stung your eyes, but they weren’t from sadness this time—they were from the overwhelming love you felt in this moment. Lando leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than usual.

“I’ll always see you for who you truly are,” he murmured, his voice full of warmth and tenderness. “And if they don’t see it… that’s their problem. But as for me? I’m right here, loving you more every day.”

You laughed softly through your tears, feeling the tension in your chest dissolve. Lando’s playful tone lifted your spirits even more. "And let’s be honest," he added with a cheeky grin, "even if all of them did shout, I’d still be right here. Loving you. And no one can change that."

The gentle teasing helped lighten your heart, and for the first time in hours, you felt a small flicker of hope. Lando was right. His love for you wasn’t based on anything as fleeting as looks. It was about who you were, what you’d been through together, and the life you’d created. No one could take that away.

Lando pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips—gentle and reassuring, as if to seal the promise of his words. And for the first time since you left the bakery, you allowed yourself to believe it. You were enough. You were perfect, just as you were.

And you were loved, more than you could ever imagine.

[theskywithin]

The Ascendant Degree: Where the Soul Re-Enters the Story

The degree on the Ascendant marks the soul’s re-entry point, the psychic imprint of whatever wasn’t finished last time. It’s not a trait. It’s a tension. A reason. A rhythm. A scar you agreed to wear so you wouldn’t forget the lesson.

0°

You entered this life like a question mark. New to the shape you took. Detached from the one you left. There’s no echo in this degree, only instinct. You’re here to start again, without script, without certainty. To learn that beginnings are not proof of readiness, just permission to begin.

1°–3°

You came back with hesitation in your bones. Still unsure if you were ready to be here. This life carries the residue of reluctance, not regret, but caution. You’re learning how to stay long enough to want it. To let desire reawaken without demanding certainty first.

4°–6°

You slipped in sideways, softly. Like someone who learned, once, that being seen too soon could hurt. You don’t rush into rooms or identities, you listen first. This degree is learning that silence isn’t weakness, and presence doesn’t need volume to be real.

7°–9°

You inherited a script that doesn’t feel like yours. Old expectations cling like costumes, heavy, ill-fitting. In a past life, you had to become what others needed. Now, you’re learning to take the role off. To stop performing safety and start becoming truth.

10°–12°

You arrived with a faint echo of something remembered. A feeling you’ve been here before, though the details blur. This degree brings subtle recognition: a soul still adjusting to its shape. You’re learning to trust what feels quietly true, even when no one else can see it yet.

13°–15°

This is where the soul stops negotiating. You came back to carry something real, to shed the identities you once used to survive. There’s no more pretending. Only the slow, strong work of becoming the shape you were always meant to be.

16°–18°

You remember being shaped by rules that never fit. Your soul came back to rebel, but also to reconcile. There’s friction here between the old obedience and the new truth. You’re not here to pick a side. You’re here to learn how to live in the tension without needing to resolve it.

19°–21°

You returned carrying echoes too blurry to explain, but too loud to ignore. There’s a weight in your instincts, a sense of déjà vu that pulls at your choices. This time, you’re not meant to repeat. You’re meant to move forward without waiting for things to feel familiar.

22°–24°

You split yourself early, one self for the world, one self for the soul. This degree learns how to merge the two. You don’t need to erase the difference, only to let them sit at the same table. You are a conversation waiting to be heard.

25°–27°

You didn’t come back as a beginner. You came back because something still matters. This degree carries leadership, repetition, and emotional weight. You’re here to finish something, but this time with integrity.

28°

You are wrapping something up. This isn’t the start of a new story, it’s the closure of an old one. You came back for resolution, not repetition. To say goodbye without vanishing. To leave better than you arrived.

29°

You didn’t have to return. But something called you back. This degree is heavy with both wisdom and weariness. You’ve mastered something but it still needs healing. This life isn’t for doing it all again. It’s for changing how it ends.

[tender-rosiey]

lock jaw — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: when I said silence, I meant it literally btw <3

it starts the way it always does—with him talking.

satoru loves to talk. he thrives on it, really.

his voice fills every space he enters, a mix of cocky and teasing remarks, words tumbling out of him like they were just waiting for an audience.

he has no problem being that audience himself, either, monologuing even when no one’s listening.

and right now? right now, he’s very much talking at you.

“—so obviously, I had to step in, because nanamin was totally going about it the wrong way, y’know? I mean, the guy’s got skill, sure, but zero flare. no pizzazz. no—hey, are you even listening?”

you are. technically. but you don’t give him the satisfaction of confirming it.

instead, you tilt your head up at him, one brow raised in that way that always makes his grin twitch wider.

satoru doesn’t like being ignored. that’s why you do it.

and, sure enough, he scoffs. “oh, I see how it is. you think you’re cute, huh?”

you hum, noncommittal.

his fingers drum against the table, restless energy leaking into movement. “it’s a good thing you’re married to me, ‘cause—”

you lift a hand.

it’s not much. just a simple flick of your wrist.

the moment your fingers move, his words catch, cut off like someone pressed pause on a song mid-verse. his mouth is still open, brows furrowed like he can’t quite believe it.

oh, but he believes it.

your technique has always been a thorn in his side. you don’t know what makes it work, just that it does.

no one else can silence him like this—literally silence him, rendering every word, every noise, completely null the second you decide you’ve had enough.

it drives him insane.

you let a few beats of silence pass before you drop your hand. his voice snaps back into existence, mid-word.

“—ain’t no way you just did that again,” he grumbles, like this is somehow the first time.

his mouth pulls into a pout, the corners twitching with the threat of a smirk. “y’know, most wives enjoy hearing their husband talk.”

“I do,” you say, because it’s true.

satoru leans in, one hand propped beneath his chin. “so? why do you keep shutting me up, then?”

you lift your fingers again, just slightly, and watch the way his whole body stiffens in response. he goes silent before you even activate it, eyes narrowing.

“I swear—”

your fingers twitch.

nothing.

his mouth slams shut anyway, like muscle memory has kicked in. his whole face scrunches up, torn between irritation and reluctant amusement.

it takes him a second to realize you never actually used your technique, and when he does, his eye twitches.

“oh, you suck.”

you smile. “I know.”

satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. “how’d I get stuck with you?”

you just hum, pretending to think. “bad luck?”

he snorts.

and just like that, whatever annoyance he was pretending to have dissolves into something else—something warmer. his head tilts, his voice dropping into that low, teasing hum. “or maybe good luck.”

you don’t let yourself react, but a wave of warmth rushes through you anyway. his eyes gleam behind his glasses, sharp and knowing. he feels it, too.

it’s always been like this with satoru—this push and pull, this game of who can get under whose skin first. he hates being shut up. but he loves being shut up by you.

that’s probably why he keeps trying.

the next time he catches you alone, it’s in the kitchen.

you’re getting water, half-distracted, when arms loop around your waist from behind, a chin dropping onto your shoulder.

“whatcha doin’?”

“getting water,” you deadpan.

“oooh. riveting.” his arms tighten just slightly, like he’s trying to keep you there. “y’know, I was thinking.”

“that’s new.”

satoru gasps, scandalized. “rude!”

he nuzzles closer, all dramatic offense and fake hurt. “as I was saying—I was thinking about how unfair it is that you get to shut me up whenever you want, but I can’t do the same to you.”

you sip your water, unimpressed. “sounds like a you problem.”

“exactly! and since we’re married, your problems are my problems—so really, we should fix this together.”

you know where this is going. you don’t like where it’s going.

“…no.”

“but I didn’t even—”

“no.”

his arms squeeze tighter, his voice dropping into that saccharine lilt. “c’mooon. just one little pact—no more silencing me, and in return…”

“in return what?” you ask, humoring him.

“in return, I’ll—uh—” he pauses. “I’ll try not to annoy you as much?”

you turn your head just enough to squint at him. “you could just not annoy me in the first place.”

“pfft. impossible.”

you roll your eyes, setting your glass down. “then no deal.”

satoru pouts. “you’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty fun.”

“not to me.”

you lift a hand.

his mouth clamps shut instantly.

“…I hate you.”

you drop your hand. “no, you don’t.”

his pout deepens. “no, I don’t.”

and because he’s satoru—because he’s infuriating—he suddenly dips forward and presses a kiss to your cheek.

it’s quick, but deliberate, with his lips lingering just enough to tease you. by the time you turn to scold him, he’s already slipping away, whistling like nothing happened.

the sneaking doesn’t stop.

if anything, it gets worse.

he tests you in public now, dropping snarky comments just to see if you’ll silence him mid-sentence.

he tries to get the upper hand, too—kissing you without warning, murmuring things low enough that only you can hear, things designed to throw you off balance.

and it works. sometimes.

but the thing about satoru? he talks a lot.

he always has.

and that’s exactly why you win.

it happens in front of his students.

which, really, is something he should’ve seen coming.

you’re standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching as megumi practices his stance. nobara is stretching. yuji is bouncing on his feet like he’s ready to fight someone on the spot.

it’s peaceful. quiet.

and, naturally, satoru can’t have that.

he claps his hands together. “alright, kiddos! who’s ready for an essential, life-changing lesson?”

yuji perks up immediately. “ooh, what kinda lesson?”

“the most important kind,” satoru declares, straightening his posture like he’s about to reveal the secrets of the universe. “a lesson in style.”

megumi exhales sharply. nobara groans. you don’t even have to look to know they’re both already tuning him out.

but he’s not done.

“you may think you know fashion, but you don’t. not like me. there are levels to this—depths of drip, if you will—like an expertly curated wardrobe of absolute perfection.”

he gestures grandly to himself. “and lucky for you, I am both your teacher and your fashion icon.”

nobara shoots you a look. “this is every day for you, isn’t it?”

“unfortunately.”

satoru hears it. of course, he hears it.

he places a hand over his chest like you’ve wounded him. “unfortunately?” he echoes, all faux devastation. “sweetheart, you wound me.”

yuji chokes on a laugh. “wow, sensei. that was fast.”

“you don’t get it, yuji.” satoru points at you, sunglasses slipping down his nose.

“this woman right here? my beloved, my precious, my better half? she is cruel.” he sighs, tilting his head dramatically.

“every day, she shuts me up without a second thought. do you know how unfair that is? the strongest sorcerer in the world, silenced—just like that.”

megumi, who has absolutely witnessed this before, doesn’t even look up. “sounds like you deserve it.”

satoru gasps. “et tu, megumi?”

“yeah,” megumi deadpans. “et me.”

satoru clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “see? this is what I deal with. betrayal. disrespect. my own wife using her technique against me at every turn.”

yuji raises a hand. “wait, wait—so she actually can shut you up?”

“oh, she can,” satoru grumbles. “and she does.”

nobara perks up, eyes gleaming. “no way. prove it.”

satoru freezes.

you see the exact moment realization dawns on him—what he’s just done, the challenge he’s issued on your behalf.

you see it in the way his jaw shifts, the way his weight shifts ever so slightly on his heels.

you raise a brow. “you want me to prove it?”

satoru narrows his eyes. “don’t you dare.”

you lift your hand.

“don’t you—”

silence.

satoru’s mouth is still open, but no sound comes out. nothing. not even the beginnings of a protest. his lips move, forming words you can’t hear, before he snaps his mouth shut entirely.

the silence stretches.

then—

“oh my god,” nobara breathes.

yuji loses his mind.

megumi simply nods. “good.”

satoru’s eye twitches. he points at you, accusing, but there’s nothing he can do. you smile sweetly.

after a long beat, you drop your hand.

“—believe you just did that in front of my students,” he huffs, voice returning in the middle of a sentence.

his sunglasses slide down his nose, revealing wide, scandalized eyes. “my own wife, betraying me in front of my kids.”

“they asked me to.”

“yeah,” nobara pipes up. “that was amazing. do it again.”

satoru splutters. “hey! whose side are you on?”

yuji is grinning. “I mean, sensei, that was kinda cool.”

“it was humiliating!”

“you deserved it.”

“I did not!”

you hum, faux thoughtful. “you kinda did.”

satoru stares at you, horrified. “et tu, my love?”

“yeah.” you smirk. “et me.”

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[rizzanon]

06 | ANOTHER SUFFOCATING DAY

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The sharp cool air bit at your cheeks as you walked down the streets of Gotham, the din of the city surrounding you. People rushed past, bundled up and hurried, but you barely noticed. Your thoughts were too loud, replaying the awkward lunch with Barbara.

And Dick.

You knew they planned it. It wasn’t a coincidence. Dick showing up just as Barbara tried to soften you up? His concerned eyes, his cautious tone, the way he leaned forward every time he spoke—as if proximity could somehow mend what was broken. It was calculated. All of it.

You didn’t hate them for trying. But you couldn’t sit there and let them pick at the wound they’d left in you.

The moment Dick started talking about “your life” and how “you both haven’t spent some time together”, you felt your chest tighten, the coffee in front of you suddenly too bitter to swallow. You hadn’t meant to leave so quickly. But the words had stuck in your throat, choking you. You made some excuse about having plans and got out of there as fast as you could without outright running.

It wasn’t a lie. You did have plans. Caitlyn and Adrien were meeting you at the library later. But “later” was still a few hours away. You could’ve stayed and talked to them. You could’ve let them say whatever it was they needed to say.

But you couldn’t do it.

Why couldn’t you?

The question burned in your mind, eating away at the edge of your thoughts. You didn’t understand it entirely. Sure, you had expected to feel awkward seeing them again after all this time, maybe a little angry. That much made sense. But what you felt in there was something else entirely. Something heavier. Sharper.

It was like a storm had cracked open inside of you, filling your veins with rage and grief that didn’t belong to you.

It didn’t feel like you. No, that wasn’t right.

It did belong to you—it just wasn’t yours anymore. It belonged to someone you used to be, someone you thought you’d left behind.

Sixteen year old you.

That version of you, when your father had been lost in the timestream—presumed dead—and the weight of Gotham’s shadow had fallen heavier on your shoulders. On everyone’s shoulders. When you threw yourself into every mission and patrol, desperate to prove yourself. To prove to everyone else that you were useful—that you could help. The one that was benched and replaced, the one who’d walked away with more bruises inside than out… that’s what you’d felt.

Your older self had moved on—or at least you thought you had. You weren’t that angry, reckless kid anymore. You’d told yourself you understood why Dick and Barbara did what they did, even if it hurt. You had buried whatever sort of negative emotions you felt back then. You’d told yourself you forgave them. Because they meant well.

They only did what they thought was right at the moment.

But sitting across from them just moments ago, seeing their faces, hearing their voices—it all came rushing back. The raw, unfiltered pain. The bitterness you thought you’d buried. The feeling of being left behind by them.

And it wasn’t fair. Not to them, and not to you either. But it was there, clawing at your chest, screaming for attention.

None of this matters, you told yourself.

It shouldn’t matter.

Not now. Not anymore.

You weren’t sixteen. You weren’t the same girl who needed their validation to feel whole.

So why was that old pain refusing to go away? Why was it still clawing at your chest like it was desperate to be heard?

Was it because you were back in this time? Back to when the wounds were still fresh, when everything was falling apart?

The ache throbbed like a second heartbeat, making you grit your teeth.

You exhaled sharply, willing yourself to focus. None of this would matter in a few hours when you were with Caitlyn and Adrien. For now, you just needed to clear your head.

As you walked, your mind wandered aimlessly through the noise of Gotham’s streets. You were too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice much—the chaotic honking of cabs, the sharp clatter of hurried pedestrians, or the faint scent of roasted nuts from a street vendor. Everything was muffled, distant, like the city itself was trying to fade into the background.

That’s why the sudden impact took you completely off guard.

“Whoa!”

The force slammed into your side, nearly knocking you off balance. You staggered a step, your boots scraping against the pavement as you barely managed to steady yourself.

Blinking, you looked down to see a small figure sprawled on the sidewalk.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, your voice softening as you knelt down to check on the kid.

The kid on the ground, no older than nine you think, was rubbing his back, wincing. His round face scrunched up, his wide brown eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, blinked up at you.

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking up at you. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

You sighed, offering him a hand. “No, it’s okay. You just caught me off guard. You sure you’re not hurt?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding, though his wince when he tried to stand made you narrow your eyes. That’s when you noticed it—a scrape on his shin, the fabric of his pants slightly torn. A thin trail of blood trickled down his pale skin, standing out starkly in the cold light of the afternoon.

“Hold on,” you said gently, guiding him to a nearby bench. “Sit here for a second, okay?”

The kid obeyed, his small legs swinging idly as they dangled above the sidewalk.

“I’ll be right back,” you promised, already heading towards the convenience store on the corner.

Inside, you quickly grabbed a small bottle of antispetic, some wipes and a pack of bandages, rushing back to where the kid sat. The boy was still swinging his legs, humming softly to himself as he traced the patterns on the bench.

“Okay,” you said, kneeling in front of him again. “This might sting a little.”

The boy just shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

You arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment. As carefully as you could, you wiped the scrape clean, dabbing at the blood with gentle precision. He flinched only once, biting his lips to keep from making a sound, but his tiny hands gripped the edge of the bench tightly.

“There,” you said after pressing a bandage over the wound. You patted his knee lightly and smiled. “Good as new.”

The boy tilted his head to look at his leg, then back at you. His big brown eyes practically sparkled with wonder. “Thanks! You didn’t have to do that.”

“Sure, I did, you replied, leaning back on your heels. “It was my fault you fell and scraped your knee, after all.”

He giggled, a soft, bubbly sound that melted through the cold air. “It wasn’t your fault! I wasn’t watching where I was going. I was running.”

“Running, huh?” you asked, tilting your head. “Why the rush?”

He puffed out his chest a little, trying to act tought almost. “I like running! It makes me feel like a superhero!”

The earnestness in his voice made you chuckle. “A superhero, huh? Well, superheroes need to be careful too, you know. Especially in Gotham. You don’t want to go running into the wrong kind of person.”

“I won’t!” he promised, his little hand lifting as if he were making a vow. “I will run really fast, so no one can catch me!”

“Good plan,” you said, giving him an approving nod.

He kicked his legs again, glancing around the bustling street. “My name’s Elliot, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Elliot. I’m (Name).”

“Nice to meet you too!”

He tilted his head, studying you with a curious look. “You’re really nice. Are you from around here?”

“Yeah. I live nearby.”

You studied him for a moment, his small frame dwarfed by the oversized coat he was wearing. “What about you?”

“I live at the orphanage,” he said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The casualness of his tone tugged at your chest. “The one down the street?”

“Yeah.”

There was no sadness in his voice, no hesitation. Just a simple fact.

“How long have you been there?” you asked, leaning back slightly.

He shrugged. “I dunno. A while, I guess. I don’t really remember anything else.”

The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and uncomfortable. The casual way he said it made something twist in your chest. You cleared your throat. “Well, you should be more careful running around out here. Gotham’s not exactly the friendliest city, you know.”

He nodded earnestly at your words.

“Just don’t go running into any supervillains, okay?”

He giggled. “Okay!”

Satisfied that he was okay, you stood and brushed off your jeans. “All right, kid. You’re good to go. Take care of yourself.”

“Okay! Bye, (Name)! Thanks again!” he said, hopping off the bench.

You watched as Elliot disappeared into the crowd, his small figure weaving through the bustling pedestrains with ease. The city swallowed him up in seconds, his bright energy and carefree smile lingering only in your memory.

And then all of a sudden…. something hit you.

Flashes. Sharp and sudden, like a flood of images pouring into your brain.

You saw Elliot. But not on the street. He was in a dimly lit room, his wide eyes filled with fear. Shadows moved around him—figures closing in. You heard muffled cries, the sound of something heavy scraping against the floor.

And then it was gone.

You gasped sharply, your breath catching in your throat, as you clutched the back of the bench for support. The world tilted for a moment before steadying again, but the ache in your chest hadn’t left.

“What the hell was that?” you muttered, your voice trembling.

You glanced back toward the spot where Elliot had disappeared, your pulse racing. The flashes still lingered in your mind like afterimages, vivid and unshakable. You could still feel the weight of his fear, the sharp edges of the shadows closing in on him.

It felt real. Too real.

But it couldn’t be.

Could it?

Your chest tightened as you wrestled with the questions clawing their way to the surface. What was that? A vision? A hallucination? You’d never experienced anything like that before. There was no warning, no explanation to what you just experienced, just those flashes of something you couldn’t comprehend.

Your gaze darted over the crowded street, searching for the small boy, but he was long gone. A part of you wanted to chase after him, to grab his hand and demand answers—even if you weren’t sure what those answers could possibly be. Another part of you felt frozen, stuck in the swirling chaos of your own thought.

Even if you did catch up to Elliot, would he be able to give you the explanation you needed? From the looks of it, the kid seemed fine. He looked content with where he was, content with his life. Nothing seemed amiss.

Nothing…?

No. There was something amiss.

His clothes.

They weren’t in terrible shape, but they were clearly old—faded fabric, a few loose threads, and patches in places that made it clear they weren’t new. Passed down. Not what you’d expect from a child living in an orphanage funded by Wayne Enterprises’ charity foundations.

Your father’s charity had strict guidelines. Proper care, sufficient resources, and decent clothing for all the kids under its wing. That much you knew. Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes didn’t fit that picture.

But that wasn’t proof. You had no solid foundation for your suspicions—just flashes of fear and shadows that may not have even been real. For all you knew, it was nothing. Your mind could have been playing tricks on you, filling in blanks that didn’t exist.

Still, the thought gnawed at you, refusing to let go. There was more to this. There had to be. And you knew it. You had to check this out. You had to investigate this—

But then came the reminder: you weren’t Batgirl anymore.

You clenched your jaw at the thought. You’d quit that life, stepped away from the vigilante world and everything that came with it. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t go back—not for anyone, not for any reason.

But what if there was something deeper here? What if those flashes were real, not some random trick of your mind? You couldn’t ignore it. Not completely.

A sigh slipped past your lips as the internal battle raged on. Investigate? No, that wasn’t who you were anymore. And yet, you couldn’t just let it go.

For now, there was only one thing you could do without crossing the line you’d set for yourself: check out the orphanage in the Batcomputer’s database. If there was something wrong, there’d be records—staff changes, supply reports, funding discrepancies. Something that could confirm or deny the flicker of unease twisting in your chest.

You’d start there. That much, at least, was safe.

You had other plans with Caitlyn and Adrien. Whatever this was, it would have to wait until later.

…..

Damnit. You couldn’t wait. This couldn’t wait.

With that, you turned to head towards the orphanage down the street. You had to see with your own eyes that Elliot was okay. That what you experienced was a figment of your fucked up imagination.

The orphanage loomed ahead as you walked down the street, its iron gates standing tall, though not imposing. A modest building of faded red brick with large, neatly trimmed hedges lining its perimeter, it seemed well-maintained. The kind of place that didn’t scream luxury but gave the impression of care.

You hesitated just outside the gate, your fingers curling around the cold metal bars as you peered inside. The soft sound of laughter drifted through the crisp air, and you spotted a handful of kids running around in the garden. A boy and girl were tossing a ball back and forth while another group of kids crouched near a flowerbed, clearly engaged in some secretive game.

And then you saw him.

Elliot.

He was in the middle of the yard, darting between two other kids as they played an energetic game of tag. His oversized coat flapped as he ran, his laughter echoing through the space. His carefree smile, his bright energy—it was a relief to see.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

He was fine. He looked fine. And so did the rest of the kids.

Maybe you were imagining things after all. Lack of sleep? Stress? Yeah, probably. The flashes you’d seen earlier couldn’t have been real. There was no sign of fear here, no shadows closing in. Just kids being kids, carefree and safe.

Still, you couldn’t shake the unease simmering in your chest. The orphanage itself didn’t give off any bad vibes. The garden was tidy, the kids seemed happy, and the building looked well-maintained. But something about it all still felt off.

You leaned against the gate, lost in thought. Was it guilt? Anxiety? Or was there actually something here you were missing?

“Can I help you?”

The sudden voice startled you, making you flinch.

Your eyes snapped up, landing on an older woman standing just beyond the gate. She was thin, with silver hair neatly pinned back, and she wore a pale green cardigan over a plain blouse. Her sharp, gray eyes studied you with polite curiosity.

“Oh, uh…” you stammered, stepping back from the gate. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—uh, I wasn’t—”

Her expression softened, and she offered you a small smile. “No need to apologize, dear. It’s not every day someone stops to stare at the children playing.”

You cringed internally at her words. Damn, the way she put it made you sound like a creep. But before you could say anything more, she stepped forward and gestured for you to follow. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea? It’s much warmer inside.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the kids before nodding.

Inside, the orphanage was cozy but simple. The hallway walls were painted a soft beige, and framed pictures of smiling children lined the space. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mixing with the aroma of freshly brewed tea.

The woman led you into a small sitting room with worn but comfortable-looking furniture. A sturdy wooden table sat in the center, and on it was a tray with a teapot and two mismatched cups.

“Please, sit,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs as she poured tea into the cups. “I’m Mrs. Cole, the warden here. And you are?”

You introduced yourself, feeling a bit awkward under her steady gaze.

“So,” she said, handing you a cup before settling into her own chair. “What brings you here today?”

You hesitated, your hands warming against the cup’s surface as you searched for the right words. “I, uh… I was just… checking on one of the kids. I bumped into him earlier on the street, and I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

Her brows lifted slightly, and then she chuckled softly. “I see. Spying on children, were you?”

The way she said it—lighthearted and without malice—made your shoulders relax, but the heat still rushed to your face. “That sounds so bad. I didn’t mean—ugh.” You groaned, cringing at your own words. “I didn’t mean to make myself seem so suspicious and creepy.”

Mrs. Cole waved a dismissive hand, a warm smile on her face. “It’s quite all right. You don’t seem the type to mean any harm. Which child was it that you were worried about?”

“His name’s Elliot,” you said, setting your cup down. “I just wanted to check in, that’s all.”

“Oh, Elliot,” she said, her tone light. “He’s a lively one, isn’t he? Always running around, full of energy.”

You nodded, watching her carefully as she took a sip of her tea. “Yeah. He seemed pretty happy.”

“Of course,” she said with a soft chuckle. “We do our best to make sure all the children feel safe and cared for. It’s not an easy task, but it’s rewarding.”

Breathing is steady.

No rapid blinking.

Stance isn’t rigid.

No notable pupil dilation either.

Either she’s telling the truth, or she’s an excellent liar.

“Has he been here long?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.

“Elliot? Ah, yes,” she said, setting her cup down. “His parents passed away in a car accident when he was only a few months old if I remember correctly. There was no next of kin, and he ended up in my care. He’s grown up well. A sweet boy, really. A bit of a dreamer.”

You nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. “That’s good to hear.”

But it wasn’t. The pit in your stomach only grew. You wanted to believe her, to convince yourself that everything was fine, that you were overthinking this. But the image of Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes kept gnawing at you. And then there was that flash—the fear in his eyes, the shadows.

You glanced around the room, taking in the neat but modest surroundings. There were no obvious red flags, no signs of neglect or mistreatment. And yet… something felt glaringly wrong.

“I don’t mean to pry,” you said carefully, “but I noticed his coat seemed a bit… old. Do the kids get new clothes regularly?”

Mrs. Cole’s smile didn’t waver, but you noticed her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the handle of her cup. “We do our best with the resources we have. Of course, donations don’t always cover everything we’d like.”

“Right,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “Well, it’s great that you’re doing so much for them. I’m sure it’s not an easy job.”

Mrs. Cole inclined her head, her smile firmly in place. “It’s a labor of love, as they say.”

You nodded, though your mind was already racing. Something about her demeanor—the way she’d hesitated when you mentioned Elliot, the overly smooth responses—set off alarm bells.

Her words sounded rehearsed, like something you’d hear at a charity gala. Polished, pleasant, but impersonal. Something in your gut twisted. You didn’t have proof—nothing concrete—but the flashes from earlier refused to leave your mind.

But maybe it was nothing. Maybe you were projecting, letting your own guilt and unresolved issues cloud your judgment. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this place than met the eye.

You finished your tea quickly, standing up and offering a polite smile. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Cole. I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, rising to her feet. “It was lovely to meet you. Do stop by again if you’d like to volunteer. The children always appreciate new faces.”

You nodded, murmuring a quick goodbye as you stepped out into the cold air. The sound of laughter still drifted from the garden, but it felt distant, almost hollow.

Your mind raced as you walked away, replaying the conversation over and over. The flashes you experienced, the shadows closing in—they didn’t feel like random visions. They felt like something real, something you couldn’t ignore.

And then there was Mrs. Cole. Polite, warm, and perfectly pleasant on the surface. But there was something beneath it all, something she wasn’t saying. You were sure of it.

You glanced back at the orphanage, its brick walls bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

You weren’t Batgirl anymore. You weren’t a detective or a hero. But right now, none of that mattered.

Something was wrong here. You didn’t know what, but you were going to find out.

Tim stared at the coffee cup in front of him, the steam long since gone cold. The café was quiet, save for the hum of conversation and the soft clatter of cups against saucers. But his mind was loud—too loud. Gotham’s shadows seemed heavier lately, the air thicker, and even though crime rates had started to level out with Bruce’s return, Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was just him. Bruce was back. Dick was Nightwing again. Damian was still Robin. Everyone seemed to be slipping back into their old roles, their old dynamics.

Everyone except him.

He stirred his drink absentmindedly, watching the ripples swirl and fade. Red Robin was his now, his own identity carved out of necessity. He wasn’t exactly proud of what he’d built with it, but the question lingered: what did Red Robin mean in a Gotham where everything was supposed to be falling back into place? He wanted to feel like things were normal again, but there was an unease in his chest that he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way Bruce had been lately—colder, more distant, like the time apart had left cracks in the foundation of their already-fragile relationship. Maybe it was the weight of managing Wayne Enterprises on top of everything else. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he hadn’t figured out yet.

“Tim.”

The voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Cassie standing across from him, arms crossed and a brow raised. She tilted her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Brooding even in a café. Classic Tim Drake.”

“Cassie.” he said, blinking away the fog in his head.

Tim hadn’t even noticed the time pass until Cassie slid into the seat across from him. “Did you forget the whole reason we invited you out to eat?”

Tim glanced up from his coffee. “You mean forcing me to postpone my work and dragging me out to eat?”

Cassie shrugged unapologetically. “Same thing.”

Tim sighed, already feeling the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold. He hadn’t wanted to go out, hadn’t wanted to leave his thoughts behind. But here he was, surrounded by familiar faces. The air of the café was warm, the clinking of cutlery and cups acting as a faint soundtrack to his spiraling thoughts.

Cassie leaned forward, eyes softening as she looked at him. “So, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Just the usual.” Tim tried to brush it off, shifting his gaze away. But Cassie wasn’t buying it. He felt like he was wearing his discomfort like a badge, too heavy to ignore.

“Don’t even try it. You’ve been cooped up with work, patrols, and whatever else Gotham’s been throwing at you. But this is something else. When’s the last time you got out of your own head?”

He hesitated, looking down at his cup. “I’m fine, Cassie.”

“Tim.” Her voice softened, and when he looked up, her expression was tinged with concern. “You don’t have to do that with me. What’s going on?”

Tim opened his mouth to respond, but his mind flickered to Gotham once again—its fractured streets, its shadows that felt even darker now. He leaned back in his chair, taking a long breath, trying to find the right words. “It’s Gotham. It’s everything. Bruce is back, Dick’s Nightwing, Damian’s still Robin, and I’m… Red Robin.” He let the words hang in the air, not fully knowing what to make of them. “It’s just—where do I fit in all of this? Everyone’s falling back into their roles like nothing’s changed. But I’m not sure I fit anywhere anymore.”

Cassie raised a brow, clearly sensing the deeper meaning behind his words, but she didn’t push him too hard. Instead, she tilted her head and spoke in a gentle, teasing tone. “Are you sure this is just about Gotham? Because if it’s only Gotham, that’s a lot of caffeine for someone who’s just having a ‘midlife crisis’ at, what, eighteen?”

Tim let out a half-laugh, the first hint of relief he’d felt all day. He was grateful for the distraction, but the nagging feeling at the back of his mind wouldn’t let go. Gotham was one thing, but there was more to it, something beneath the surface. He couldn’t stop thinking about how things had shifted within the family, how everything had changed after Bruce’s return. Even with Stephanie as Batgirl now, there was something unsettling about the way Bruce had leaned into her role, leaving you behind.

You.

Tim’s grip on his drink tightened.

Maybe that’s what’s been off.

You had been Batgirl, the title was yours before Bruce being lost in the timestream turned the whole family upside down. When he returned, Tim thought it would bring you relief—that it would give you the chance to be Batgirl officially again, to rebuild what had been fractured. But instead, it seemed to push you further away.

Tim wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed how Bruce had interacted with you, how he seemed to choose Stephanie over you, without even saying a word. Tim had noticed the way Bruce seemed to regard Stephanie as Batgirl more openly, more comfortably, than he ever had you. It wasn’t spoken out loud, but the difference was there, in the little things Bruce did—or didn’t do. And Tim knew better than most how much that could sting. How it could make you question whether you really had a place at all.

And that was what gnawed at him the most. He knew that feeling intimately. And unlike him, you hadn’t fought back.

No.

You had fought back.

But it hadn’t been enough. Not really.

And now, you’d chosen to step away completely. And Tim couldn’t fathom why.

That wasn’t all that had changed.

Something about your recent behavior, the way you’d started to act differently, unsettled Tim in a way he couldn’t explain. The day he’d seen you and Damian talking had only made things worse. You’d apologized to him over something. And Damian—he had actually apologized too. That alone had been jarring enough, but the way he leaned into the small pat you gave his head afterward? The way he smiled—actually smiled—when you walked away?

Tim couldn’t wrap his head around it. You and Damian, who were once at each other’s throats constantly—more him than you—were suddenly… close?

Maybe not that close. But whatever had shifted between you two, it felt monumental. And it only made Tim’s unease grow.

He couldn’t help but wonder if your connection with Damian was what solidified you decision to quit being Batgirl.

Tim hated not knowing for sure. Hated feeling you were slipping further away while he stood on the sidelines, powerless to understand why.

You had stepped away, and the world kept turning, and yet, Tim was left here wondering why he was the only one who noticed how wrong it all felt.

Why was it so easy for everyone else to move on?

Why did it feel like you were disappearing right in front of him?

And why—

Why did it bother him so much?

Tim exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face, barely registering the scrape of his palm against the stubble on his chin.

He was spiraling. Overthinking. Doing exactly what Cassie didn’t want him to do when she dragged him out here.

“Still with me, Drake? Or am I interrupting a brooding session?”

Tim didn’t even look up, though he felt a sense of relief wash over him at the sound of his friend’s familiar tone, watching him slide into the seat next to Cassie. “What do you want, Kon?”

“Food. And maybe some actual conversation?” Kon’s grin was sharp, teasing, but Tim could hear the undercurrent of something else beneath it. Concern, maybe. Annoyance. Behind him, Bart bounced in, all energy and bright eyes. “Hey! You really went out and left us all wondering if we’d get the invite back into your brooding circle.”

“You’re late,” Tim deadpanned. “I’m already way ahead of you in the ‘feeling sorry for myself’ game.”

“Yeah, that’s a surprise,” Kon muttered, tossing a fry into his mouth. “So, what’s up, man? You finally coming to terms with how much Gotham sucks?”

“Do I look like I’m ‘coming to terms’ with anything?” Tim said dryly, running a hand through his hair.

The words sat heavy in his throat.

Because no. He wasn’t coming to terms with anything. He was still stuck in that place between knowing something was wrong and not knowing how to fix it.

He wanted answers. He wanted to understand.

Because this wasn’t just about Gotham, or Damian, or the changes in the family.

It was about you.

The words about you were sitting just on the tip of his tongue, but something was holding him back. Was he ready to say it out loud? Was he ready to admit to them that the problem wasn’t Gotham, but you?

“I don’t know,” Kon teased. “You don’t look nearly as miserable as you usually do when you get all angsty. Cassie’s worked her magic on you?”

Cassie rolled her eyes, but before Tim could reply, he felt Bart’s gaze flickering over to him with that sharp energy he always carried. “So, who’s the real problem? Because I’m guessing it’s not Gotham, but you’ve been keeping something from us.”

Tim hesitated, his hand tightening around the cup in front of him.

He hadn’t meant to talk about this.

But the words were already there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, refusing to be swallowed back down.

“It’s nothing,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “It’s just… (Name).”

There, he said it.

The words hung in the air.

“You mean your sister?” Bart questioned.

Tim paused. The simplicity of the question caught him off guard.

Your sister.

The word sat strange in his chest, like an ill-fitting puzzle piece forced into place.

Was that what you were?

Of course, that was what everyone thought. What everyone had always assumed. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Easier to slap a label on something so tangled and complicated and pretend it all made sense.

But did it?

Because the truth was, the two of you had never really acted like siblings. Not in the way that mattered. Not in the way Dick had been like an older brother to him all these years, not in the way Bruce had been a mentor and partner to him. There had always been distance, always something unspoken and unresolved. You were just… there. Always there. Not quite a sibling, but not not one, either.

You weren’t like Stephanie, who shoved her way into his life until he had no choice but to care. You weren’t like Cassandra, who slipped into the role of family so seamlessly that it felt inevitable.

You were just… there.

Sometimes close. Sometimes so far away he couldn’t even read you.

And yet—

Yet, there had been moments. Quiet ones. The kind that didn’t fit into any neat, easy definition of family but still meant something. The nights after patrol when neither of you spoke but just sat in the bat cave in companionable silence. The rare times you had backed him up without hesitation, without question, even when no one else had. Moments where, in your own quiet, detached way, you had shown that you cared.

Hadn’t that meant something? Or had he just imagined it?

Tim faltered, staring down at his hands. The words felt heavy in his throat.

“No, she’s—”

He stopped.

He couldn’t say it.

Because what was he going to say? That you weren’t his sister? That you had never really felt like one?

Or that you were, that you always had been, even if neither of you had ever been good at showing it?

He couldn’t say it, because at the end of the day, you were his sister. Maybe not in the way that everyone assumed. Maybe not in the way that was easy or simple or made sense.

But you had been there. And Tim didn’t just let people go. He couldn’t just let people in his life go.

No matter how far away you seemed now.

“Whatever,” Tim said quickly, brushing it aside. “That’s not the point.”

“Sure, sure,” Kon said, his tone full of mischief. “Whatever you say, Tim.”

Before Tim could respond, Bart’s eyes suddenly widened. He tapped the table, pointing past Tim toward the window. “Oh, wait, isn’t that her right there?”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

He turned.

And there you were.

Walking past the café, completely unaware of the inner turmoil that had just been about you.

What were the chances?

“Oh yeah,” Kon said, leaning back in his chair as he squinted through the glass. “That is her.”

Tim felt his grip tighten around his cup.

Cassie tilted her head, watching you as you passed by the café window. “Oh, she cut her hair. Looks good on her.”

Tim barely processed her words, too caught up in the sheer coincidence of it all. Or maybe it wasn’t coincidence at all. Maybe Gotham was just cruel, always forcing things in front of him that he wasn’t ready to deal with.

“Should we invite her over?” Kon asked casually, already shifting in his seat.

“No—” Tim started quickly, panic flashing through him.

But Bart was already gone.

A gust of wind, a sudden rush of air—

And then you were there.

Hair windblown, eyes wide with confusion, breath still catching up from the sudden shift in space.

“The hell—” you started, blinking fast, clearly trying to process the fact that you’d just been yanked off the street and dumped at their table.

Tim didn’t even have time to glare at Bart for pulling this before your gaze finally settled on him.

Tim met your gaze on instinct.

And just as quickly, he wished he hadn’t.

Because the moment your eyes landed on him, your expression shifted. Slightly. Just the smallest shift. It was subtle. Barely even there. Just a small, fleeting change in your features.

Just enough that someone else might have missed it.

But Tim saw it. Of course he saw it. He always saw it. He felt it.

Like a blow to the chest, knocking the air right out of him. Like something sharp was twisting in his gut.

He barely kept himself from wincing.

Well, this is already going great…

Your visit to the orphanage had left you feeling unsettled. You kept replaying the conversation with Mrs. Cole in your head, dissecting every word, every glance, every hesitation. There was something about her that didn’t sit right with you. Something about the way she had looked at you, the way she spoke, like she knew more than she was letting on.

But before you could dwell on it any longer, you suddenly heard someone call your name.

You barely had time to turn, to see who it was, before—

Everything blurred.

The world around you shifted in a rush of wind and color, and the next thing you knew—

You were inside.

Inside a random café, sitting at a table surrounded by familiar faces.

The scent of coffee and something sweet hit you first, warm and inviting, but your brain was still playing catch-up.

Your eyes landed on Bart, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“Ta-da!”

You blinked.

What.

Your eyes then landed on the others at the table.

Cassie, Conner, and—

Tim.

Oh.

Oh.

Your stomach twisted.

It took you longer than it should have to realize what was wrong, why seeing Tim like this felt off.

Because this wasn’t the Tim you remembered.

This was a Tim who was younger, just as you were younger now.

It was the first time you were actually seeing him like this since you had found yourself back to when you were sixteen.

And god, did it feel weird. It never stopped being weird.

“Hey!” Bart grinned, all bright energy and no regard for personal space. “You looked like you were gonna wander around aimlessly, so I figured—why not save you the trouble?”

You blinked. Your brain was still trying to process what the hell just happened.

Kid Flash. Right. Speed. No sense of boundaries. No concept of asking first. Should’ve expected that.

You inhaled, barely holding back the urge to sigh, schooling your expression into something neutral, something polite. “Right. Thanks for that.”

“Oh nice! You didn’t scream,” Bart noted cheerfully, plopping into the seat next to you. “That’s an improvement.”

You turned to him, blinking. “Excuse me?”

“Y’know,” Bart waved a hand. “Last time I zoomed someone into a new location without warning, they kinda freaked out. You just looked mildly horrified.”

“That’s… comforting,” you said dryly, still adjusting to the sudden shift.

“Glad to be of service,” Bart chirped.

You exhaled sharply, finally taking in the people around you.

Cassie, smiling, looking a little amused.

Kon, grinning, elbows on the table.

Tim, staring at his coffee like it suddenly got so interesting.

You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

The café was warm, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air, but you felt off, like you didn’t belong here, like you had been dropped into a scene that wasn’t meant for you.

Because you weren’t close to them. Not really.

Sure, you’d fought alongside them before, shared battlefields, been in the same circles because of Gotham and Tim, but outside of that? Outside of the life you’d left behind? There was nothing. No real connection. You weren’t friends.

Cassie leaned forward slightly, her expression open, easy. “You cut your hair.”

You blinked at the casualness of it. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Looks good on you,” Kon added, resting his arm on the back of his chair like he had all the time in the world.

You stared at them for a beat too long, trying to figure out if they were messing with you. If this was some kind of setup.

But their expressions were… genuine.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

Why were they even being this nice?

Why were they looking at you like they actually wanted you here?

“…Thanks,” you said eventually, the word feeling foreign in your mouth.

You’d never really talked to them before. Not beyond polite small talk or necessary battle strategy. But now they were trying to make conversation, pulling you into their little group like you belonged there.

You watched as Kon casually elbowed Tim, who hadn’t said a word. Not once.

“What? Not going to say hi to your sister?”

Tim’s posture stiffened, like he hadn’t expected to be dragged into this.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

The tension was immediate.

Cassie sighed, kicking Kon under the table. “The one time I’m asking you to not make things awkward..”

“I’m not the one..!” Kon tries to argue, but he backed off under Cassie’s glare.

Bart, either oblivious or just not caring, was still watching you with that bright-eyed curiosity, like he was studying something interesting under a microscope. “So what were you doing before I heroically saved you from walking around alone?”

You tensed, caught off guard by the question.

“I wasn’t—” You cut yourself off, shifting in your seat. “I was just running errands.”

Not a lie, exactly. But not the truth, either.

Mrs. Cole. The orphanage.

That wasn’t something you were about to share. Not yet.

Bart hummed, clearly not convinced but also not pushing it. “You sure? You looked pretty deep in thought.”

“Yeah,” Kon added, tapping his fingers against the table. “You weren’t exactly giving ‘casual stroll.’”

You glanced at them, at their easy camaraderie, their familiarity with each other. With Tim.

He still hadn’t said anything.

You could feel his presence across from you, a steady weight pressing at the edges of your awareness, but you didn’t look at him.

Not really.

You weren’t exactly ignoring him, but you weren’t acknowledging him either.

It was easier this way.

Easier to pretend like there wasn’t a tension suffocating the air between you two, like his presence wasn’t pressing against your awareness like a phantom touch.

But his friends?

They definitely noticed.

Of course they did.

Bart’s gaze flickered between you and Tim, curiosity written all over his face. Cassie’s smile faltered slightly, like she could sense the awkwardness and was trying to find a way around it. Even Kon, usually laid-back, was watching the both of you a little too closely.

Not subtle in the slightest.

And you hated it.

Hated that they were trying to figure you out.

You weren’t stupid.

You knew how this worked.

They were trying to get something from you, weren’t they? Information? They were being nice because they wanted to know something. About you. About Tim.

But why?

You barely even knew them.

Sure, you’d crossed paths, had mutual connections, but that wasn’t enough for them to care. So why were they acting like it was?

You didn’t want to be a part of this.

Didn’t want to be here.

“Y’know,” Cassie begins, breaking the silence. “You had this really intense thinking face on. Do you always look that serious?”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I—”

“I bet she does,” Kon interrupted before you could finish. “Bet she’s just like Tim—probably broods in her free time, too.”

Tim, for the first time since you joined the table, finally acknowledged the conversation, shooting him a glare. “She doesn’t brood.”

Kon raised a brow. “You sure? Because I was getting major brooding vibes when she was outside.”

“I don’t brood,” you said flatly.

“See?” Tim muttered.

Kon just shrugged. “Alright, alright. Serious vibes then. That better?”

“Not really.”

“I dunno,” Bart chimed in, resting his chin in his palm. “I kinda like the serious vibe. Makes it even more fun to mess with you.”

You gave him a blank look. “That’s not very reassuring.”

Bart grinned. “Wasn’t supposed to be.”

Cassie sighed, shaking her head. “Ignore them. They get like this when they meet new people.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “New people?”

Cassie shrugged. “I mean, kinda? We’ve never really hung out before. Outside of fighting crime, that is.”

And that was true.

You had crossed paths before, sure. But actual conversation? Actual interaction? It had been minimal.

Which made this—whatever this was—even stranger.

You were still trying to figure out why they were doing this.

Why they were talking to you.

Why they were being nice.

You weren’t stupid.

They were fishing.

For what, you weren’t sure.

But you didn’t want to find out.

So you took the out when you saw it.

“I should go,” you said abruptly, pushing your chair back.

Kon blinked. “What? But you just got here.”

“Yeah, well I have other plans.”

Cassie frowned slightly. “Are you sure? You don’t have to rush off—”

“It’s fine,” you reassured, already standing. “It was nice seeing you guys.”

Your voice was polite. Empty. And you still didn’t look at Tim. You barely spared him a glance.

Cassie sighed, but didn’t push. “It was nice seeing you too, (Name). See you around?” You gave a polite nod at that, and then turned to leave.

But for a second, just a second, as you turned to leave, you felt it—

The way Tim’s gaze lingered on you.

You saw something flicker in his expression.

Something that looked almost like—

No.

You didn’t let yourself think about it. Didn’t let youtself feel anything about it.

It was something you didn’t have the energy to unpack.

So you didn’t.

You just walked away.

Bart let out a low whistle as the café door shut behind you. “Well, that wasn’t awkward.”

“Bart,” Cassie scolded, elbowing him lightly and shooting him a pointed look.

“What? It’s true.” He gestured at the door. “Did you see that? I mean, I was expecting a little awkwardness, but that was painful.”

Cassie sighed, giving Tim a quick glance, but he wasn’t reacting. Not outwardly, at least. She knew what was bothering him. They all did. It was impossible to miss, the way his shoulders were slumped, the way his hands fidgeted with the cup in front of him, his gaze unfocused as he stared down at the table like he was trying to break it apart with sheer willpower, the weight of the encounter settling heavily in his chest.

It wasn’t like Tim didn’t know things were weird between you two. But that—that was something else. His mind kept returning to the look on your face, that tiny flicker of discomfort as you’d stepped into the café, only to fade into polite indifference.

Indifference. That’s all it was.

He’d expected… what? That you’d at least acknowledge him more? That you wouldn’t act like he was just another person at the table?

Because that’s what it had felt like. Like he was just another acquaintance, someone who happened to be there, and nothing more.

You were polite, careful, giving Cassie, Kon, and Bart the same level of conversation you always did. But with him? It was like you had a wall up so high he couldn’t even see over it. And what made it worse was how easy it was to see through it. You weren’t ignoring him outright, but you also weren’t letting yourself interact with him beyond the bare minimum. It was deliberate.

Which meant you were doing it on purpose.

Which meant you didn’t want to talk to him.

And the worst part? Tim couldn’t even pinpoint why it bothered him so much. He’d seen you pull away before, but this felt different—he could see it in your eyes, the way you actively avoided him, the way you kept your answers to him curt, brief. Every word from you seemed to fall flat, like you were already somewhere else, mentally preparing to leave. He hadn’t expected an embrace, or anything dramatic, but this? It felt like an emotional wall, one that he wasn’t sure how to scale.

Tim swallowed, shaking the thought out of his head before it could get too deep.

Kon, likely sensing the shift in mood, stretched his arms over his head and leaned back in his seat. “Anyway, how’s everyone’s food? Because my burger is phenomenal.”

Cassie gave him a flat look. “Seriously?”

“What? I’m just saying, good food is good food.”

Bart, thankfully, jumped onto the change in conversation. “I knew I should’ve ordered the burger…”

Tim let the conversation fade into the background, keeping his expression neutral. He should just move on. It was one interaction. One awkward conversation. Nothing worth thinking about.

Except he was thinking about it.

He couldn’t help but compare it to the way you were with Damian.

That still didn’t make sense to him.

Because while you barely even looked at Tim, you were actually getting along with Damian now?

You’d apologised to Damian. Damian had apologised to you.

Tim had seen the way you pat Damian’s head, how Damian had smiled at you.

Damian, who used to view you as nothing but another obstacle, another person he had to prove himself better than. Damian, who you used to dismiss just as easily.

Tim gritted his teeth slightly.

When did that change? How did that change?

What had he missed?

And why did it even matter to him?

You were your own person. He had no right to dictate who you were close to, who you let in. It wasn’t like he had a claim to your time or attention.

But it did matter. Because for all the years you’d spent working together, for all the time you’d spent in the field, all the fights you’d fought—together—he’d never once seen you look at him the way you’d looked at Damian. Like you trusted him. Like you cared.

He shut his eyes briefly, then exhaled. No.

He was overthinking it.

He had to be.

He forced himself to let out a short breath, fixing his expression into something neutral before glancing back at Kon, who was now dramatically going on about his burger.

Tim let himself nod along, pretending to listen, pretending everything was fine.

But his mind was still on you. And no matter how much he tried to push it away, the feeling sat heavy in his chest.

“Ever going to turn to the next page?”

Adrien’s voice cut through the haze in your mind, snapping you out of whatever daze you’d fallen into. You blinked, realizing your eyes had been stuck on the same paragraph for—who even knows how long? Right. You were in the library. With Adrien and Caitlyn. You should be focusing on this now. But no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t. Not after the absolute mess of a day you’d had.

“Right. Yeah.” You muttered, hurriedly flipping to the next page even though you hadn’t actually processed a single word from the last one.

Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a glance. You didn’t see it, but you could feel it. That unspoken concern. You weren’t exactly the most talkative person on a normal day, sure, but this was different. This reminded them of before. When you were on the brink of exploding. When you pushed them away because of everything that had happened.

And Caitlyn? She was having none of it.

She leaned in slightly, keeping her voice low for the library’s sake. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

You shook your head. “Nothing. Just exhausted.”

Adrien snorted quietly. “You say that every time you don’t want to talk about something.”

“Because I am exhausted,” you shot back, but your voice lacked any real weight behind it.

Adrien didn’t buy it. “Uh-huh. And I’m Batman.”

That earned a small huff from you. “No, you’re an idiot.”

Caitlyn smirked. “He can be both.”

Adrien gasped, mock-offended. “Et tu, Cait?”

“You were literally just shoving the cart return door for five minutes before realizing you had to pull it open,” Caitlyn deadpanned.

“Okay, but in my defense—”

“You have no defense,” you and Caitlyn said at the same time.

Adrien groaned. “Okay, you two suck. I’m being bullied.”

It was lighthearted, easy. A familiar rhythm. But it didn’t last long, because the next time Caitlyn looked at you, her expression softened again. “Seriously, though. You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“Liar.”

“I’m—”

“Liar,” Adrien echoed.

You let out a sharp breath, the sudden pressure getting to you, and the next words left your mouth harsher than you intended. “Can you two just drop it?”

There was a brief pause. Adrien and Caitlyn both stared at you, taken aback.

You sighed, immediately regretting it. “I’m sorry. I just—there’s a lot of bullshit going on.”

Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “You wanna tell us?”

You hesitated.

Where would you even start?

With the lunch you had with Barbara? The way she invited you out, how it seemed normal at first—until Dick showed up and you realized it was a setup? That it wasn’t just a casual lunch, but an intervention in disguise? Dick trying to talk to you like you weren’t avoiding him, like things weren’t still awkward between you two? The way he looked at you, like he still saw that younger version of you that needed him, and not the one that knew how to work without him now?

And the worst part? You could tell Dick actually believed he could fix things between you. That he could sit across from you, act like things weren’t broken, like he could just talk and that would somehow be enough to undo everything that happened.

Or maybe you should start with bumping into Elliot? How after your little encounter with the little boy, your head had suddenly filled with these flashes—images? Visions? Hallucinations? Images that weren’t yours but felt too real to be just dreams. You didn’t know what they were, only that they left you feeling unsettled, disconnected from your own reality.

And that was what led you to visit the orphanage. Where you met the warden, Mrs Cole. How something about Mrs. Cole didn’t sit right with you. How everything about her felt too perfect, too practiced, too pristine—like a picture frame with something ugly hidden behind the glass. Like she was playing a role rather than living a life. Something about her had unsettled you, made your skin crawl in ways you couldn’t even articulate. You weren’t sure if it was paranoia or instinct, but something about her wasn’t right. And that thought had lingered long after you left.

And then, of course, there was Tim.

Tim and his friends.

That whole encounter had been worse than you could’ve expected. When Bart had suddenly whisked you into that café, you hadn’t even had time to process it before you were sitting across from Tim and his friends, completely caught off guard.

Superboy. Wonder Girl. Kid Flash. You weren’t close to them. You had barely interacted with them, and yet they had acted so welcoming—too welcoming.

And Tim?

Tim barely spoke.

And neither did you.

You answered questions too quickly, too politely, all while making a conscious effort not to look at him. And Tim—he did the same. The two of you danced around each other, careful and distant, as if eye contact alone would shatter whatever fragile thing was left between you.

And the more you thought about it, the more it frustrated you, because—why had it been so awkward?

It shouldn’t have been.

There was nothing to be awkward about.

And that was exactly the problem.

There was nothing to be awkward about.

No bond. No closeness. Nothing substantial.

If anything, the two of you had the kind of dynamic distant coworkers would have—barely interacting, only speaking when necessary, a mutual awareness of each other but not much else.

So why had it felt so suffocating? Why had it felt like you were both tiptoeing around something?

And you knew it wasn’t the current you feeling like this. It was your sixteen-year-old self.

And you couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

Maybe it was because of everything that had led up to that moment. Maybe it was because of what happened before all this.

Because despite everything—despite the distance, despite the lack of an actual bond—there was still something there. Something unspoken, something unresolved.

And that was what made it awkward.

That was what made it feel like more than just an uncomfortable run-in.

It was why you had left as soon as you found an opening.

It had been a mess. The whole day. One tangled, suffocating mess. And even now, hours later, you could still feel the weight of it.

There was no way in hell you could tell Adrien and Caitlyn all of that.

You let out the biggest sigh, slumping back against your seat. The sound was loud enough to earn multiple hushed scoldings from around the library. You muttered out a quick, hushed apology before running a hand down your face, fingers threading through your hair.

Adrien nudged your foot under the table. “Hey. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Caitlyn nodded. “You don’t have to tell us everything. But just—don’t shut us out, okay?”

You swallowed, the guilt creeping in. Because they were right. They were always there for you, and yet here you were, keeping them at arm’s length. Not because you didn’t trust them. Not because you wanted to. But because dragging them into your family’s secrets—into the chaos that surrounded you—would only do more harm than good. For both them and your family.

Some truths just weren’t meant to be shared.

You exhaled through your nose, glancing between the two of them. “I know. And I appreciate you guys. Really.”

Adrien narrowed his eyes. “That felt like an ‘I’m not actually going to tell you anything but please don’t be mad at me’ appreciation.”

You let out a small, dry chuckle. “It’s exactly that kind of appreciation.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “Of course it is.”

Silence settled between you.

Yet, you found your thoughts drifting towards Elliot once more. The flashes that you still couldn’t pinpoint whether they’re real or just a fucked up hallucination. The orphanage that felt off in ways you couldn’t quite put into words.

You couldn’t let it go.

You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you didn’t at least try to figure out what was going on.

You needed an excuse. A reason to go back. A way to investigate without drawing too much suspicion.

And then, suddenly, something clicked in your mind.

You looked up at your two friends, a new thought forming. “…What do you guys think about volunteering at an orphanage?”

FInally done with this chapter ohmygod…. thank you all for being patient with me and hopefully you guys enjoyed this chapter 🥰 lmk your thoughts on this chapter lol. also, this was definitely more of a world-building/plot developing chapter (yes! the plot is finally moving lesgo!!) expect more of young justice core 4 and uf trio in chapter 7 as well as two surprise people soon 🤭

reader 🤝 tim — overthinking things to the max (i actually hope i did his character justice 😬)

also i promise i’ll answer my inbox soon 😭 there is just so much stuff to reply to but i’ll eventually empty it out sooner or later

taglist is closed ‼️

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[pretty-little-mind33]

James Potter x Slytherin!fem!reader

Summary: Being friends with benefits with James Potter isn't all you want, it just takes you a while to come to terms with that reality.

Genre: a mix of everything

Warnings: reader and James are 18, suggestive, sex, friends with benefits, misunderstanding trope, reader and James are both delusional lol, reader is stubborn and headstrong, James x Lily, hint of enemies to lovers

ask: [...] like give me the angst of wanting to be detached but feeling insecure when you see him with someone else (or vice versa) or the hurt comfort where you both start to fall for each other but don’t know how to deal with it!

~ thank you for requesting my dear 🫀anon. Sorry this took forever ~

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

When the four infamous Gryffindors saunter into the Common Room to attend one of the Slytherin parties, no one is surprised, at least not since Sirius and Regulus Black reconciled their differences.

Tonight is Regulus's 17th birthday, which meant Sirius had made James promise he would be on his best behavior. 

However, the latter doesn't seem to be doing a good job as his eyes are trained on Severus Snape and Lily Evans, who are standing much too close for his liking. James downs his fourth fire-whiskey and turns to Remus, shaking his head drunkenly.

"What a pompous prick," he slurs, his cheeks turning pinker. The collar of his chemise is overturned and Remus sighs, fixes it for his best friend.

"He isn't hurting anyone," Remus mutters.

James rolls his sharp hazel eyes, glaring at the couple in the corner. He hates how Lily laughs at whatever stupid joke he's telling her. He hates how happy she looks with someone who isn't him. Ever since their break up a few months ago, James's patience with Severus has been almost non-existent.

He walks forward, his shoulders squared, and walks right into you. 

His drink spills all over your blouse, causing you to gasp. 

"Sorry," James grumbles but he doesn't even glance your way as his gaze remains fixated on Lily.

You snap your head up, glaring at him. You feel embarrassed as James's drink is sticky. He doesn't seem to care as struts over, successfully breaking up Lily and Severus' conversation, and leaving you alone. Your gaze narrows.

"You good?" Daniel, the guy you've liked for a while, asks, coming up behind you as he returns from the loo. You don't answer him, simply watching as James embarrasses himself and shoves Severus away. "He's a twat, even outside the pitch," Daniel grunts, crossing his arms and sending James a dark look.

You knew of his rivalry with James Potter but honestly, you couldn't care less at that moment. All that matters is that Daniel's attention is on you as he inspects your blouse. You shrug. "He's a dick. C'mon,"

You lead Daniel up the stairs, to a secluded corner near the dormitories. Daniel leans against the wall, frowning a little as he senses your hand slide up his chest and your lips hover close to his neck. He catches your wrist and laughs, his gaze sharp on yours. 

"You're joking, right? 'M not gonna sleep with you, Y/l/n. You're not that kind of girl." 

You snatch your hand away from him, an expression of hurt spreading across your features. "I'm not what kind of girl?" you ask, narrowing your gaze at him. Daniel's eyes watery from his laughter and you feel even more stupid. 

"The kind you sleep with," Daniel shrugs, "It's not a bad thing, let's go back to the party,"

"Do you not think I'm pretty?" you interrupt, the drinks you'd had rushing to your head as your eyes narrow. When David looks like he could burst into laughter again, you don't give him much time to explain himself as you run up the stairs to your dorm.

You've never felt as stupid as you do now. You slam your door shut, collapsing onto your bed as you hug your pillow. Tears threaten to spill but you don't let them. Daniel McLaggen can fuck himself.

You're the kind of girl someone fucks.

You are. 

Wiping your tears, you stand and rush down to the Common Room again. This time, you simply walk by Daniel and you don't even bother turning to see his expression when you brush him off as you make a beeline towards someone who you wouldn't have even considered otherwise.

You only think of him because of Daniel's previous words.

James Potter stands to the side now, having been pulled away by Remus, still fuming. Without thinking you walk up to him. He turns his gaze, his eyebrows creasing. 

"Can I help–"

"Can I kiss you?" you blurt out, cheeks burning. You needed to ask. You couldn't just ambush him without consent. Still, James looks just as shocked as he would have if you'd simply kissed him. His jaw falls open and he clears his throat. 

"Is this some kind of joke?" he asks, uncharacteristically nervous. 

You shake your head, resisting the urge to make sure Daniel is watching. You keep your eyes on James. "It might make Lily Evans jealous," you try and convince him, although you aren't even sure if she'd care. 

James thinks abut it for a moment.

"Oh, well, okay, sure," James says with a small nod and you move closer, wrapping your hand around his tie. Without wasting time, you pull him into you and crash your lips onto his. He tastes like fire-whiskey and raspberry pastries but you don't care. You move your hand to his hair, tighten your fingers in his curls, lips moving in sync with his. Once James kisses you back, his hands find your hips and he holds you steady. 

He's a pretty damn good kisser. 

Soon, one thing leads to another and you wake up in his dorm room. Your clothes are scattered around the floor. Thank Merlin he's Head Boy or you'd have his roommates to worry about. James is still sleeping, his arm tucked under his pillow as he snores lightly.

Sitting up, you hold the sheets over your naked body as the events of last night play in your mind. You look at James, biting the inside of your cheek. You shouldn't have taken things this far. All to prove yourself to some arsehole? No, this shouldn't have happened. 

Your gaze softens. James looks so peaceful in his lip. You resist the urge to touch his hair.

Cursing, you promise yourself it will never happen again as you sneak out of his room.

And still, week after week you find yourself twisted in his sheets again and again. 

Turns out, fucking around with James Potter is addictive.

* * * Four Months Later * * *

"Hiya, love," James announces happily, plopping himself onto the chair in front of yours in the library. He's loud so you shush him, your finger pressed to his lips as he leans forward over the small desk. You don't look up from your book. You need to pass Potions and you don't have time for distractions. 

James smirks against your finger. "Whatcha workin' on?"

"An essay, now be quiet, you're annoying me."

James laughs and lays his head on his arm, his dark curls falling over his features as he draws small little hearts near your hand as you write. He's teasing you on purpose. Looking up, you narrow your gaze. "What's your problem, James?"

"Are you coming over tonight?"

The question causes you to flush and you look away, focusing on your essay again. You think for a moment, letting his words wash over you. It is Thursday, meaning you usually meet him in his dorm. Your cheeks burn. 

"Hmm," you nod and then push his hand away, "now bugger off, you're being such a knob." You keep your voice calm and steady, knowing James has too much power over you.

In all honesty, you're still not used to this; being friends with benefits with James Fucking Potter. You're barely friends, it's mostly all benefits, or at least that is what you like to think. It makes the situation so much easier when you're riding him in his room and he's muttering praises in your ear.

It helps keep the lines clear. 

Lines that James loves to blur.

That evening as he snaps your bra open and presses kisses on your chest and stomach, he makes conversation; "Will you come to my game tomorrow?" he asks hopefully, still kissing you. 

You gasp, arching and running your hand in his hair as you lean into his mouth. "U-um, yeah–sure."

He pulls away and sends you an adorably stern look. "I'm being serious. Please come. I want you there."

Your chest rises and falls as you gently rock your hips against him. "I said I would," you whisper, annoyance lacing your tone. James senses your frustration and smirks. He leans forward and wraps his strong arms around your back, attaching his lips to your nipples. 

"Good," he says with a devilish smirk. 

You moan in response.

You didn't think you would actually go. Going to support James, the Captain of the Gryffindor team as a Slytherin, was too close to girlfriend activities for your liking. Plus, you'd stopped trying to make Daniel jealous months ago so there was no reason to be there.

Only, James asked you and in the moment, that seems reason enough. 

The game is loud and you feel a little awkward sitting in the Gryffindor section instead of the Slytherin one. James's friends are rambunctious and one practically bumps into you as he cheers loudly. You move closer to the balcony edge, leaning against it as you focus on the game.

Your eyes drift to a familiar figure in the distance. He's holding the quaffle under his arm, his dark hair is even messier than it usually is and he's clearly an experienced flyer. He throws the quaffle into the hoop and scores. Cheers erupt around you and you straighten up, a small smile forming on your lip. James does some, obnoxious, victory flips and your smile can't help but grow. 

Instantly, you feel embarrassed and you control your smile. You shouldn't be smiling so hard at James Potter. Your heart is pounding and unwanted thoughts swirl into your mind. You spend the rest of the game pretending you're not looking at James. 

Once the game ends, you wander around the Gryffindor Common Room at the after party. You'd promised yourself you would congratulate James and then leave immediately. Only you've been in aimlessly wandering around for thirty minutes and you still haven't found him. You're beginning to become annoyed.

Where the fuck is he? 

Finally, you turn a corner and see him. Well, you see his back, but that's unmistakably his jersey. You open your mouth to call his name as you walk forward but your voice dies in your throat. Someone's hands are in his hair. Your heart sinks and you suddenly feel like throwing up. 

James twists his body as the girl comes into view. Your nose scrunches in disgust. Lily Evans? Why is Lily Evans kissing your James? Just as the thought pops into your mind, another wave of nausea washes over you. James isn't yours. If anything, he'd only been passing time with you when he wanted Lily back all along. 

Your breathing is labored as you watch Lily kiss him.

No. This is so wrong. You shouldn't be crying over him.

You back up, turn around and rush out the door before James or Lily could see you. You wipe at your tears, focusing on anger instead of sadness. 

Fuck this. 

* * *

James hasn't seen you in three days and he's becoming worried. You haven't answered any of his Owls, you crumple up any note he writes to you in class, and you avoid him outside of classes.

He doesn't understand what he did wrong. 

He'd waited up for you after his game. He'd had this entire speech planned, some stupid, love-sick confession of his feelings, and yet, you never even showed up. He wants to be angry with you but he can't bring himself to be. He can never stay angry with you even when he tries. 

However, it seems like you're angry with him because when he coincidentally sees you on your way to Honeydukes and he calls your name, you spin around and glare at him. "Leave me alone, Potter," you spit and that wild look he usually loves so much, now scares him a little. Still, he runs up and his hand brushes your arm. 

You turn around again and shove him. With a thud, James falls to the ground. He hadn't expected you to push him and he lost his balance on the mud from the morning rain. "Oi, bloody hell, woman! What is your problem?" 

You're standing over him now and you look furious. 

"You're my problem!"

"Me?" James scrambles up, dusting the dirt from his jeans. He looks at his Converse and they're covered in mud. Great. He looks back up, an expression of hurt obvious on his face. He doesn't have time to worry about his shoes when you're this upset. "I don't understand! What did I do?"

You're breathing heavily, your gaze locked onto his. The truth is too hard to admit. 

"Just, leave me alone," you snarl again, turning back around. James catches your wrist and turns you towards him once more. You're a little surprised but you don't push him or pull away. Instead, the air around you both feels thicker.

"I like you," James blurts out.

Your chest tightens so much it hurts.

"Don't lie to me," you say, your voice hoarse. 

James looks flabbergasted and he moves forward, taking your other hand in his. "What? I'm not lying. I wanted to tell you after my game but you never came—"

"I did come, you tosser!" you snap and James's brown eyes widen. You've never looked more beautiful, even if you do look like you want to kill him. You push your index into his chest. "I came to the game and I saw you play and I even stayed afterward like an idiot because I wanted to see you. And you know what I saw?"

James shakes his head. He's a little petrified.   

"I saw you kissing Lily Evans. Lily Evans of all people! And what's worse is that I shouldn't have been surprised because it was always her. I should have known—"

James blinks and out of all the things he could have said, the only thing that slips from his mouth is, "Y/n. Did you listen to anything I just said?"

That only angers you more because you look like a vein on your forehead could pop at any moment. "What?! James, did you just listen to what I just said?!"

"I never kissed Lily. She kissed me," James says matter-of-factly and then leans in so his face is close to yours. "Now what did I say?"

"That isn't how that works! You both kissed!"

"Nope. I did not. Now, what did I say?!"

"Don't patronize me," you hiss.

"Y/n."

"You said you like me but—"

James places his index on your lips, cracking a small smile. "Exactly. I like you, not Lily. I told her as much after she kissed me. She means nothing to me anymore. My heart belongs to you and only you."

Your lips part under James's finger, your eyes still wide and a little glossy. His words swirl in your chest, warm and so so dangerous. "You're such an idiot," you whisper against him, his confession finally sinking in. You push him away. "I don't believe you. Why should I believe you!?"

"Because it's the truth. You drive me crazy." James moves his hand and cups your cheek. He's staring at you now like you're the only person in the world who matters. You feel like he's stared at you like this before, you just never knew what it meant.  

James moves a little closer, his large hands framing your face. "I have felt like this for months. Months. And I've been meaning to tell you. I like you. I want you. Not just in my bed as a passing fancy, not to make anyone jealous, but just because I want you."

Your heart catches in your throat, and you know you should say something—anything—but instead, all your defenses come crumbling down as you crash your lips into his and kiss him. 

James responds instantly, hands curling around your waist as he lifts you slightly off the ground and hugs you, his lips still on yours.

Once you finally break apart, his forehead finds yours, and he mutters, "So, does this mean we can finally be done pretending we're just casual now?"

You scoff. "Is that what we were doing?"

James smiles, his dimples appearing as he nuzzles his nose into yours. "Mm, it was," he whispers.

You smile gently. "It suppose was, wasn't it?"

He leans in and kisses you again, smiling against your mouth. "I'm yours. If you'll have me. I am completely and wholeheartedly yours."

"Does that mean you promise to stop being such a knob sometimes," you say and shoot him a pretend annoyed look, keeping him close.

James grins. He raises an eyebrow and wiggles it playfully. "No promises," he teases but he leans in and kisses you again, a silent promise. A promise that he loves you, he loves you more than anything.

[gamergirlwrites]

Title: Caring

Pairing: Sevika x Female!Reader

Synopsis: You and Sevika settle things after a fight.

CW: Smut. Dom!top!Sevika. Bottom!sub!Reader. Mean!Sevika. Strap-On Usage. Cunnilingus. Rough Sex. Throat Fucking. Strap referred to as cock. Breeding kink.

You hated fighting with Sevika. She could be confrontational in her no-bullshit attitude, so you steered clear of conflict with her. The way that she managed to handle herself as you hurled insult after insult at her to get a rise always left you devastated in the end. It didn't matter how many times Sevika picked up the pieces of your heart after a fight, you always remembered the way she carried herself in the moment.

"Watch your tone," Sevika warned. Her patience had been lacking since she had come upon her new position on the council. It was tiring without the physical outlet that running things in Zaun had given her. She had been able to do things a different way whenever she had just been another person that she missed as a councilor.

"Is this really going to be what it takes Sev? Do I really have to stand here and scream at you for a little attention? Don't you fucking care about me anymore?" You couldn't stop yourself. Each question loaded up to come out one right after the other.

Sevika pinched the bridge of her nose as she sighed. You were grating on her nerves. Everybody wanted to pull her one way or another it seemed, but you were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be the one she came back to every night happily. Admittedly, she had been a bit busy for you with late nights and after-hours meetings, but if she had loved you back in Zaun, she still did in Piltover.

"I could ask you the same fucking thing a thousand times, but I never did. I trusted that you loved me even when you spent every chance you got hanging off of whoever had the biggest purse. How many people did you spread your legs for before I took you up here with me? You can say a lot of shit, but don't you ever accuse me of not caring," Sevika told you. Her voice was harsher than it had sounded in a long time. You hadn't fought like this in forever, not since everything that had happened with Jinx and Isha.

Sevika's gaze was angry as she stared at you, but you could see the inkling of something else behind it. A long, hard day's work for Sevika usually meant one of two things for you. Sometimes, it was an argument if you tried to pester her for attention followed by Sevika giving you exactly what you wanted. Other nights, things happened on Sevika's terms, and you knew what kind of night you were in for this time.

"I care enough not to throw you out on the streets, but what have you done for me lately? Has it been hard keeping your legs shut all day? Do you miss the drunk idiots fucking into you like it's their last night here?" Sevika asked you. You swallowed nervously as she closed the distance between your bodies. There was barely a moment of hesitation before her mouth was on yours.

Sevika's lips pressed against yours harshly in a bruising kiss. Her metal arm tightened around your waist, holding you securely against her body. You brought one hand up to cradle the back of her head as the other balled up around her shirt. Sevika nipped at your lip as she pulled back just enough to see the dazed look on your face.

"Don't think I forgot about the way you used to beg me to fuck you like the slut you are." Sevika's words brought a rush of memories back for you. Nights that you had spent riding her when she'd come see you after roughing someone up. There was something intoxicating about the way Sevika had been rough with you before her feelings settled in. You missed it sometimes, even if you wouldn't have traded the way Sevika loved you for anything.

"Whatever, you've always been too soft for that shit." You regretted your words the moment that they left your mouth. Sevika's grip on your back tightened a little as she hauled you over her shoulder. You knew that she was taking you to bed. You knew that she was going to give you a stark reminder of the way she used to be, and then some. There was more aggression pent up inside of Sevika that she was usually too tired to vent out.

Sevika dumped you unceremoniously onto the bed with your head dangling off the edge of it. She placed her hand on your stomach and pushed it down, just past the waistband of your underwear. Sevika was unsurprised to feel that you were wet. She knew that nine times out of ten, your attitude was caused by the fact that you felt physically neglected by her.

"Jesus Christ, I haven't even done anything yet and you're already leaking onto my fingers," Sevika teased as she swiped her fingers through your folds. A little teasing trace of your entrance had you actively dripping onto her hand just like she had said. You closed your eyes and pushed your hips just enough to push her fingers inside of you. That was when Sevika pulled them back at the last second.

"Sev, please," you whined. Sevika removed her hand completely and plunged her fingers past your lips and into your mouth. Sevika had positioned you perfectly on the bed. She managed to keep her fingers in your mouth as she grabbed her favorite toy from the bedside table.

Your eyes widened as Sevika removed her hand to remove her own pants. She kept her underwear on as she stepped into the harness. You knew that it was only a matter of time before you were completely bare in front of Sevika. She's keep the rest of her clothes on until later, giving you plenty of time to squirm at the feeling of being so exposed.

"I don't want to hear a word from your mouth for a bit. In fact, you're not gonna open your mouth unless it's to take my fucking dick," Sevika ordered. You swallowed nervously as she began to stroke the toy. You squirmed a bit on the bed as she teasingly brought the tip to your lips. Sevika backed away for a second before squeezing your cheeks to open your mouth.

Sevika didn't inch her way into your mouth this time. You took every inch of her down to the hilt. Sevika planted her hands on the bed as she started thrusting back and forth. You knew that the toy was putting a bit of pressure on her. You could feel the heat radiating from her cunt as she spread her legs to fuck even deeper into your throat.

It would be only a matter of time before she was fucking you like this, and you knew it. Sevika's thrusts were rough, harsher than they had been with your mouth in quite some time. You had enough practice for a lifetime of this though, and Sevika knew it. She had seen some of the things you could do firsthand, and even if it wasn't usually her cup of tea, Sevika appreciated it. She appreciated the way your body could take and take without breaking, but tonight, Sevika wanted to break you.

"That's it, fucking swallow every bit of me like the slut that you are. I can see your pussy getting wetter the harder I go like this. You couldn't even pretend to fucking choke on it, could you?" Sevika's words lit a fire in the pit of your stomach. She knew just how to press your buttons to both piss you off and turn you on. You took everything she gave you with the hope of getting the chance to make her beg you for her own release later.

In a bold move, you placed your hands on Sevika's hips. She could have easily gotten onto you for it, but before she could open her mouth to say anything, you pulled her further into you. Sevika's jaw dropped as she watched you take her even further into your mouth somehow, defying what she thought was even possible.

"Oh my fucking god. I need you right now," Sevika swore. She pulled out of your throat and quickly flipped you around on the bed so that your cunt was closer. Sevika made quick work of ripping your shorts and underwear off of you in one fluid motion. Your shirt fared a different fate as Sevika literally tore it practically to shreds to free your breasts.

You were absolutely soaking wet, and despite herself, Sevika ignored the slick skin that was calling out to her. She stroked her hand along her strap, as if it was an actual cock. The toy was slick, her mechanical hand gliding along the length of it effortlessly thanks to your saliva. Sevika knew that she wouldn't even have to touch you to get every inch of herself inside of you tonight.

"Your pussy is mine," Sevika told you with a sharp slap to your cunt. She'd never touch you with her mechanical arm. It was too dangerous in her mind. It was pretty rare for her to even leave it on this long. She only needed a single arm to hold you in whatever position she wanted, which was a true testament to her strength.

"I'm yours," you told her. Sevika leaned forward and grabbed your face in her hand. This time, it was the mechanical one, and you shuddered at the feeling of cool metal against your skin. Sevika smirked as she wiped a trail of drool left over from her fucking your face. "Yours."

"Mine," Sevika echoed. She moved her hand to plant it on the bed as her hips snapped forward. Every inch of her dildo was pushed inside of you, stretching you practically in half for a moment. Sevika didn't bother watching you stretch around her toy, instead caught up in the look of pleasure on your face. "Dirty fucking whore. Letting me split you open like this and liking it. You're fucking sick, and I've got no choice but to fuck it out of you."

Sevika began thrusting into you at a rough pace. The bed frame knocked against the wall with each thrust of her hips. You were almost certain that she would fuck you out of the house if that was even possible. Sevika's hands balled up in the sheets as she hammered into you. The pace was fast and rough, but you knew that it wasn't for you.

You watched as the toy moved in and out of you, being swallowed wholly each time. Sevika's eyes finally trailed down to your cunt to watch as well, and you noticed the stutter in her hips when she saw the state of you. She was fucking you selfishly, and despite the evidence of your arousal on her cock, you were nowhere near as close as Sevika was.

"Cum in me," you told Sevika. You perched yourself up a bit, holding onto her shirt for leverage. Sevika's eyes widened, and you could tell from the way her hips just rocked against yours that she had listened. Sevika came with soft pants as her face was buried in the side of your neck. Slowly, she pulled out of you and knelt down in between your legs.

"You're such a fucking mess, and you're not even done yet. You still need more, don't you? You fucking creamed all over my cock, but you didn't cum, did you? Are you gonna soak the sheets too? We'll have to sleep in the fucking guest room after this. It's filthy, just like you," Sevika said as she placed her hand over your clit. She rubbed furiously, almost to the point of hurting more than pleasure.

The pressure made you shoot up a little, curling into yourself. Sevika could tell that you were close as your hole fluttered around nothing. She kept rubbing her fingers over your clit, not watching anything other than the way you dribbled and gushed from it. Sevika missed the way that your arms limply tried to reach for her to push her away. She could have gone like that all night, but after about a minute of her harshly rubbing you through aftershocks, you managed to find the strength to kick her away.

"Such a fucking bitch, I swear," Sevika muttered as she stood up. You looked clearly and thoroughly fucked out. You had only cum once, but Sevika had put your body through the ringer with that one. She knelt onto the bed next to you and pressed a kiss to your forehead before she leaned in to whisper, "Don't you ever tell me that I don't care about you again. Don't be fucking stupid, you know I love and care for you."

"Sorry Sev," you apologized. Sevika pulled your head into her lap as she scratched at your scalp. You nearly drifted off to sleep like that, but Sevika didn't let you. She pulled you into the bathroom, setting you on the side of the tub as she wiped away the mess that she had made of you. "I know you care baby, I know it."

Sevika's cheeks were tinted a bit pink as she looked away from you in a vain attempt to hide her blushing. You clung to Sevika until she dressed you in a pair of her boxers and a t-shirt. She brought you into the guest room to lay, where you quickly fell asleep while she took care of the sheets and blankets from your room. There would be more to clean later, but Sevika yearned to curl up in bed with you instead. She placed her mechanical arm by the bed before she climbed in with you, smiling to herself when you immediately moved towards her subconsciously.

[munsonify]

check-ins

pairing. bob reynolds x fem!reader

summary. when a mission goes sideways, the team loses track of the only lead they had. after countless injuries and a long, drawn out argument between you and john, you storm right to your room in the compound. the only person who comes to check on you and comfort you is bob.

content warnings. missions, mentions of the usual mcu violence, kinda gory injuries (blood, kinda deep cuts and gashes), non-established relationships, romantic and sexual tension, kind of oblivious bob, pining, hurt/comfort, bob being a cutie patootie, one use of y/n, swearing, mentions of r’s curves, r in a sports bra, not proofread

word count. 3075

a/n. i’m not too good at writing violence or injuries, but i am good at the romance and the pining so you guys are just gonna have to stick this one out lmfao

———

you weren’t sure where the man had came from. one moment, you were slowly stalking the long hallways of the facility, trying to track down information valentina insisted she needed. research documents, intel on the people involved, or anything that could be used as blackmail or leverage, really. the next, you were being thrown through a metal doorway, slamming down onto the ground. he came out of no where, truly. even with your impeccable hearing and your constant state of awareness, you didn’t know anyone was even near you.

it took you a little too long to get the upper hand on him. by the time he was knocked out on the floor, he’d already gotten a few hits in himself, a stab wound on your side, a gash on your knee, and soon to be bruises proof enough of that. more unfortunately, he had enough time to radio to the rest of his crew inside of the facility, alerting them of your teams presence. that gave you guys two choices - stay and retaliate, or flee with whatever intel you had.

you guys attempted to retaliate, rushing to get what you could, fighting who you came across. it was clear you guys didn’t have any real plan right now. that’s why john made the executive decision to call it quits, to leave while you still could. this wasn’t apart of the mission, you were meant to stay hidden. undetected. to get in and get out.

the moment the team narrowly escaped, fleeing the scene inside of the quinjet, john started his usual angry post-mission ramble. this time, it was directed at you.

“that was careless,” he started, pulling off his helmet, before jabbing it in your direction. “we were doing fine until you went and fucked up.”

“oh come on, walker!” you exasperated, eyes widening angrily as you start to defend yourself. “you’re acting like i did that on purpose. he came out of nowhere! what was i supposed to do?”

“uh, i dunno, maybe pay more attention? we were given explicit instructions to get in and out undetected. no bullshitting around. if you would’ve just kept a better eye out no one would’ve known we were there until we were far gone. but now we barely have anything to show for this mission except a complete screw up. the cleanup mission for this is going to be insane, so thank you, y/n. really, thank you for this.”

this catapulted a 40 minute argument between the two of you. between the pain searing through your body, the blood staining through your suit, dripping into your hand, and the adrenaline coursing through you, your head was spinning. you were truly exhausted, and so was the rest of your team. despite their several interjections, telling walker to simply drop it, he just kept going. he barely wanted to hear what you had to say, let alone everyone else. that left you fending for yourself against his relentlessness.

the relief everyone felt when the quinjet landed on top of the tower was palpable. walker finally stopped his arguing, watching you storm off with a slight limp, hand clamping at your wound. he received a few frustrated insults from the team as they followed behind you.

the walk to your room was the first moment of silence you had since the mission. you were aware you messed up. you should’ve been more careful, even if you didn’t notice the man who attacked you. that didn’t warrant walkers aggression, something you were planning to hold against him for a long while. you’d worry about that mess properly when you weren’t in so much pain.

that’s what your first priority was when you finally pushed through your door. you fumbled with toeing your shoes off, thankful you weren’t wearing your intricate boots this time. your hands quickly found their way to your back afterwards, despite how your body ached at the loss of pressure and the burning stretch, unzipping your uniform. it stuck to your blood and sweat soaked skin as you tried to peel it off, the worst of it coming from un-peeling it from your side. it clung inside of your wound in a way that made you more uncomfortable than anything.

it left you in nothing but a black sports bra and tight spandex shorts. you discarded your uniform in an empty hamper in your bathroom, knowing full well that was going to be a pain to wash. you waddled your way to find your medical supplies, dropping them all on the counter of your sink, before you got to work on the cut on your side. this process was like second nature to you, something you liked assisting the rest of the team in. you appreciated being useful in the same way you liked dealing with your injuries on your own, without any help. it proved that you could do things right. it proved you had control over things, even if minute.

it took you 20 minutes to finish with your wound on your side, thankful you didn’t need to waste another 20 on stitching yourself up. you had white gauze wrapped around your torso, keeping proper pressure on your injury, catching any last bit of blood that leaked free. while the pain was still annoyingly present, the pressure and the meds you took helped relieve you.

before you could put your focus into the gash on your knee, a very gentle knock on your bedroom door echoed into the bathroom. you let out a huff, eyebrows furrowing together as you debated answering it. you didn’t want have to deal with any more of walkers anger, or any debriefing that came along with a mission gone sideways.

still, you knew you should answer anyways, waddling your way out of the bathroom and towards your door. despite being low on energy, you opened the door slowly and peaked out hesitantly, only to reveal bob. of course it was him. sweet, observant bob, who had nothing but concern laced in his features as he waited on you.

his round eyes found their way from the floor to your face at the sound of the door opening. he had two water bottles in one hand, ice cold and ready to drink, a bowl of freshly cut fruit in the other. you were hid behind the door, shielding your body slightly from him out of instinct.

“hey,” bob whispered out, hands moving slightly upwards to present to you what he had. he didn’t say anything for a few seconds before it clicked with him that he should explain himself, launching himself into a messy ramble he couldn’t quite contain. “yelena told me what happened. ya know, with the mission and walker and everything. i wanted to come check on you. brought the fruit i was cutting up in case you wanted to share, water too. i thought you might be hungry or want some company or something, i dunno.”

bob let out a nervous chuckle after he spoke, internally scolding himself for the long winded speech he just gave you. his eyes drifted down to the bowl that nearly tipped over in his hold, before finding his way back up to you, searching for an answer. he felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of you now unblocked from the door. the first thing he noticed was your lack of clothes, and the tightness of what you did have on. every last curve of yours was on display for him to see. bob couldn’t help but stare for a few moments, lingering enough for you to notice just barely, before his eyes to drop to your side where the wound was at.

you nodded your head in towards the inside of your room, giving him permission to step inside. bob was quick to stumble in, his grip on the bowl of fruit tightening as he finds a place to set everything down at. he looked like he was about to say something more, though you spoke before he could.

“thank you,” you finally replied, grateful that it was him that showed up at your room, and even more grateful for his kindness. normally after a mission, you would’ve went straight to bob to catch him up on what he missed. he must’ve noticed when you hadn’t this time.

“i wouldve came and told you everything if i wasnt so angry. not to mention, ya know,” you told him, motioning down to your injuries. that’s when you started to fully process how exposed you were to bob. you didn’t have much time to hide yourself or dwell on it, though.

“it’s okay, i get it!” he quickly reassured. “i was a little worried, though, still am. does it hurt?”

“not really,” you told him, offering up a small, unconvincing smile to him. bob saw right through you, you know he did. your voice was weak, and your face was etched with pain and frustration.

his eyes fell down to the gash on your knee, noticing you hadn’t cleaned it up yet. blood and sweat mixed at the gash in a way that made him a little squeamish. bob, however, pushed that down the best he could for your sake. he shuffled his way into your bathroom, hands searching for a clean rag to wet, neosporin, and more cotton to tape properly over your knee. bob may not know how to treat a wound as big as the one on your side, but he did know how to help a skinned knee.

something about seeing him like this, all worried and caring and ready to help, made your heart clench. he wasn’t mad at you for what happened during the mission, he wasn’t upset at you for not coming to see him afterwards - in fact, he came searching for you instead. you let yourself softly gaze at him while he had his back turned towards you, admiring him and his thoughtfulness.

you started your slow walk towards the bathroom, watching as he turned to usher you the rest of the way in. bob pointed you towards the toilet, his silent way of telling you to sit down on the lid. you did just that, shoulders slouched slightly as you look up at him. you brought a hand up to take the warm, damp wash cloth from the man, just to see him shake his head at you.

bob had ahold of an antibacterial soap as he moved in front of you, kneeling onto the hardwood floor to be more level with your body.

“i can do this myself,” you told him, body tensing up as you realize what he’s doing. you’ve dealt with worse, something you knew bob was aware of. he’s heard your stories from before the new avengers were formed, and he’s seen the injuries you’d help the rest of the team deal with.

“i know,” bob stated plainly, making a pretty obvious glare down to your side. “doesn’t mean i can’t help you.”

your jaw clenched as you thought, eyes falling into bobs. he was already looking at you expectantly, waiting patiently for you to give him permission. with a small huff of air out of your nose, you nodded quickly.

hesitantly, bob brought his large hand up to your calf, holding you steady before he brought the cloth to your skin. his touch was gentle, barely there at first, like he was afraid of hurting you more than you already were hurt. he started to wipe around your wound, getting the excess blood off of you with a little soap first and foremost. there was a bowl of clean water on the sink next to you, one that he used to rinse the blood off of the wash cloth, before he found his way back to your raw skin.

slowly, bob pressed the warm rag against the scrape, firmly applying pressure to it. it stung a little, your calf tensing under his touch a little, though it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle, especially with how careful he was being with you. he noticed quickly how you reacted to his touch, suddenly becoming away of the warmth of your skin. his mind began to wander towards the sight he had in front of him, the one his eyes so desperately wanted to admire. instead, he focused on cleaning you up instead, eyes staying glued to your knee the entire time.

you watched as he gently squeezed out some neosporin onto his thumb, before bringing it right up to your now clean knee. he spread the medicine along the raw and reddened skin, making sure he covers every inch in a thin layer. you noticed how a few strands of his hair fell onto his eyes as you began to admire him.

bob always looked so kind. you’d always admired how, even after everything he’d been through, everything that he’s seen, he still had that goodness in his heart. his will was just as strong as his body was. during your admiration, your hand absentmindedly found its way up to his forehead, fingers pushing his hair away from his vision. his eyes that were once focused on properly aligning the gauze to your knee found their way to yours again. he froze in place as you tuck their hair behind his ear.

you offered up another smile, one that was much more confident than before. bob saw how soft your eyes looked accompanied with your smile and knew this one was true, he knew you meant this one. you watched as his eyelashes fluttered, eyes reluctantly drawing back down to finish up his job with your knee. your hand fell back into your lap with your other one, twiddling your thumbs as he tapes the gauze to your skin. your eyes drifted down to his forearm and how it flex slightly as his arm moved, shamelessly admiring how nice it looked.

“all done,” bob whispered, snapping you out of your thoughts. his hands lingered at your leg for only a few short seconds longer, before they dropped down to find all of the supplies he’d used.

“nuh-uh,” you whispered out, shaking your head slightly. bob fumbled with everything in his hands as his head snapped up to look at you. he thought maybe he’d forgotten to do something, or that he’d done something wrong. “didn’t kiss it better yet.”

a large grin grew on his face quickly at your words, your giggles breaking free from your chest at the sight of him. part of you was teasing him, knowing that would make the man smile. the other part of you was being a little hopeful, even if you knew he’d take it as a joke. you watched him get up from his knees, setting everything back down on the sink, head shaking in disbelief. everything in him wanted to do it, to kiss right in the middle of your knee, gentle and playful. it made his stomach jump at the thought, despite fully believing you were only kidding. if only he knew.

“can you stay?” you asked him, bracing the sink as you helped yourself up off of the toilet. you looked at him hopefully, eyes begging him to agree. “gotta change first, but i would like if you would. the fruit you brought in looked good.”

“of course,” bob nodded quickly. “i’ll always stay.”

he found his way back out into your bedroom, watching as you fumble to your dresser, searching for soft clothes to wear. you settled on a hoodie and sweatpants - loose, warm, and comfortable. you were happy to free yourself from your sports bra as you changed in your bathroom, body still aching from your injuries. all you wanted to do was huddle up in bed and relax.

bob seemed to have the same idea. you came out of your bathroom to find him sat in your bedroom, resting up against your headboard with the bowl of fruit in his lap. he was searching through a handful of movies to turn on when you climbed up into bed next to him, sitting shoulder to shoulder, resting back just like he was. you brought a hand down to the bowl, grabbing a slice of strawberry, bringing it to your lips excitedly.

“can we watch a romcom?” you asked him after you were finished chewing, looking over at him hopefully. you had the cutest look on your face when you asked him. romcoms were never his thing, but when you looked at him like that, how could he tell you no?

bob let you choose the romcom - 10 things i hate about you - as he started to pick at the fruit too.

he enjoyed having your company more than you knew. you always smelt nice, always looked so nice too. you were kind and funny, you held good conversation. you spoke to him like he was a normal person and not some superhuman, or some empty shell of a man. you never saw him as just broken. you always saw him for who he truly was. complex, compassionate. a grown man, rather than some broken child. you made him feel seen, even if you didn’t quite mean to.

about halfway through the movie, you two settled down further into the bed, heads resting against the pillows as you watched. you were only inches away from bob, his heat radiating off of him and directly towards you. you wanted to reach out to him, to hold him and feel him. you craved his touch even more now that he’d helped you so carefully. you also felt compelled to speak to him, even if he did seem invested in the movie. you simply had something to get off your chest.

“i really wish walker wasn’t such a dick sometimes,” you whispered, eyes still glued to the screen. “i really didn’t mean to draw attention to us.”

“i know you didn’t,” bob affirmed, even if he wasn’t there. he knew how good you were at your job. he knew how careful you were. his eyes didn’t move from the screen either as he spoke. “it’ll blow over eventually. you could totally kick his ass if it doesn’t though.”

you couldn’t help but giggle, hand finally reaching out to him to nudge him slightly. you could practically feel his smile. “i totally could couldn’t i?”

“totally,” bob doubles down.

[k1mbe3rly]

can i request a thanos and namgyu threesome smut?

ofc🥵

Can you handle it?

warnings; smut, ⚠️threesome⚠️ double penetration, anal, maybe a bit forced? rough sex, dom! Thanos and Namgyu, Shy!reader, Mean!nam gyu

Thanos and Nam gyu had chose you to play with them for the Six legs game, and honestly during it you felt rushed since Nam gyu would scream at you if you messed it up, but in the end yall made it out alive, THANK GOD.

“Guys. Once we vote all of yall are gonna keep playing. Just one more game until it hits one billion at least” Nam gyu spoke, you looked at him, “W-well i think that’s enough money for everyone..i mean.. you spoke shyly

“I said to fucking pick ‘O’ bitch! be fucking lucky, we practically saved your life!” Nam gyu yelled as you flinched a bit

“Nam-su chilll..i’m sure she knows what’s best for her.” Thanos said looking at us, he seemed like he was high or something.. who knows, “Dude..It’s Nam-gyu, don’t embarrass me infront of the Huzz..” Nam- gyu spoke

You raised an eyebrow and ignored it, you looked over at the rest of the team, Se-mi and Min-su, Se- mi had a palm to her hand looking bored as Min-su was just looking around nervously

You looked back at the two other boys, “So.. Señorita..what’s your name huh?” thanos called out leaning on the stairs

“Uh..y/n” you said fidgeting with your sleeve a bit, Thanos hummed and nodded “Pretty name for a pretty girl eh? right bro?” Nam-gyu said laughing and nudging Thanos, Thanos nodded and laughed a bit

You watched awkwardly as you laughed nervously but stopped not knowing what to do, they begin laughing even harder at something else, you got even more awkward scooting away a bit.

Time passed and it was time to vote, since you were player 427 you were the last one to vote out of all of them, you watched one by one, As se-mi voted she picked ‘X’ which made you bright up a bit.

As soon as your number was called you slowly walked over to the buttons looking around nervously, you looked at Se-mi who stared at you for a bit and looked back at thanos and nam gyu who were just smirking a bit

Finally you clicked on ‘X’ and quickly went to Se-mi.

“What a fucking bitch..” Nam gyu muttered, “Nah it’s alright, she’ll get what’s coming” Thanos said as he danced around a bit, Nam gyu looked at him with confusion but quickly realized what he meant and chuckled.

It was near lights out and you had went to the bathroom, and you were washing your hands, the door opened as you looked up and quickly widen your eyes at the two familiar figures, you quickly turned around trying to leave but thanos placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Hold onnn.. we’re not mad at you” Thanos said as you panicked, “Yea even tho you fucking betrayed us but whatever.” Nam gyu said as he grabbed your shoulder, “S-so if your not mad than.. w-what do you want..?” you said in fear, it was until Thanos slightly pushed you into a stall, “We just wanna have fun with you for a bit” Thanos said smirking, he pushed you onto the toilet seat.

Nam gyu looked around real quick before entering, he quickly walked into the stall and closed it locking it, he quickly faced you basically ripping off your jacket, you didn’t refuse or anything.

Once your jacket was off, Nam gyu shoved you up, and immediately shoved off both of your pants and panties roughly making you gasp, he quickly rubbed your pussy for a bit and stopped as he took off his own pants and boxers

“Have you ever took it up the ass pretty girl?” Thanos asked suddenly as Nam-gyu sat down on the toilet seat, “h-huh?!” you quickly said, “Have you ever had someone fuck you in the ass?” thanos stated again boldly, “What? no.. why would i-..” you said as you realized why he asked you that

“Well there’s a first time for anything.” Nam gyu said as grabbed on your hips, “Wait! I’ve never done this before!” you quickly said, “Chill..it’s just gonna hurt for a minute” Nam-gyu stated as he slightly spread you asscheeks a bit and had you sit over his cock for a minute, he grabbed his cock feeling your tight hole for a moment, without hesitation he quickly slammed your hips down making you scream a bit as thanos covered your mouth “Shh.. be gentle man.” Thanos said to Nam-gyu as he scoffed.

Nam gyu kept you there for a minute, you felt just a small sting of pain as it slowly went away “Does it still hurt?” Nam-gyu asked, at least he’s being a BIT gentle.., you shaked your head, he smirked as he started thrusting up, feeling your tight hole stretched out. you moaned a bit loudly on thanos hand.

Thanos than pulled down his pants and boxers as well and started jerking off to the sight of you and nam-gyu a bit, after a minute or two he grabbed your legs spreading them open in the air, he chuckled as he lined up his tip against your pussy. He than slowly bucked his hips towards a loud groan coming from him as you moaned from thanos and nam gyu still thrusting up into you.

Loud slapping sounds filled the stall as thanos was more vocal than Nam-gyu, thanos groaned quite loudly as he thrusted into your pussy hard and rough

Nam-gyu was way less vocal but you could still hear hard breathing from him as he fumbled with tits a bit thru your shirt while thrusting into your tight hole.

The knot in your stomach was starting to form realizing you were close to your orgasm, “Mm~!! m’gonna cum! augh~!” you moaned out loudly, Nam-gyu cock twitched as he groaned out a bit throwing his head back. Thanos was still fucking you hard and rough not slowing down at all.

After a bit you cummed on thanos cock as you moaned out loudly, Thanos didn’t care as he kept thrusting, Nam gyu groaned out loudly as he cummed into your hole. “Fuck..” he whispered as he stopped thrusting up and stayed there for a moment, Thanos kept going as he went even faster to cum as well, you kept moaning loudly “Fuck- i’m almost there holy shit!” thanos growled out as he gripped on your ankles, your eyes rolled back at the overstimulation, finally Thanos cummed inside you as he quickly pulled out his cock landing on your clit as his cum covered your clit a bit, he rubbed his tip against your clit for a moment and stopped once his cum stopped.

Thanos chuckled as he backed up. “Get this slut off me already.” Nam gyu said panting “C’mon get up princess” Thanos said grabbing you and pulling you up, Nam gyu slid his pants back on and walked out the stall without hesitation. “Don’t mind him.. he’s always like that” thanos said laughing. You didn’t say anything as you quickly put on your pants as well, thanos followed along and gave walked away turning back a blowing a kiss to you than laughing and leaving. What assholes.

[k0mmari]

SYSTEM! SHEN YUAN AU (Pt.2)

Pt.1

Im not done with this, so to the people that wanted more, here it is! I, fortunately or not, have thought way too much again, so once more this is going to be a very, very, VERY long post. If you guys have any ideas about this btw, please do share them! I really am just letting my mind wander a bit more than usual, so maybe someone else can have more structured thoughts than me lol. (Fair warning, there probably will be plot holes, so sorry in advance!)

Please read Pt.1 if you haven't, or this won't make any sense!

After SY warped away from his impromptu meeting with Binghe, the last place he would like to end up would be even deeper into the Endless Abyss, but according to his System, the next piece of the virus was here. While not happy, since his Personal System was (mostly) working as intended, SY managed to activate Ghost Mode and walk towards the next part without having to deal with any of the creatures down there. (He had to try very hard not to get distracted by the monsters, lest his supervisor thinks he also went missing.)

It takes considerably more time to find the virus this time, so much in fact, SY starts to recognize his surroundings from SQH's ramblings (not that he was interested or anything), and he feels a cold sense of dread running down his spine. There was no way he was that unlucky that the object that got corrupted this time was-

He was that unlocky. Lo and behold, after entering a run down ruin, SY is faced with the legendary Xin Mo, power so overwhelming it manifested as dark fire covering the blade. The only reason why SY wasn't immediately writhing on the ground from the sword's power was Ghost Mode, which he could not rely for too long, as his Personal System was displaying warning after warning about Possibility of Corruption and God Like Plot Point. It all meant that SY was on a timer, and if he took too long, the sword would start corrupting his System, which in turn could corrupt him.

Now, since this was a VERY important Plot Point, Luo Binghe had to find Xin Mo or else the plot would derail to an unfixable degree, SY couldn't just snip at it, which was a problem, since manual debugging took a considerably longer time! Still, he summons his Scissors and positions it so he can start at least trimming off the virus.

His plan immediately backfires however, as an ominous crack sounds through the air and he's suddenly pushed away from the sword by a gust of energy. A bit disoriented, he shakes his head and acesses the sit-

Xin Mo, the horrible sword it was, was apparently so OP that it seemed to detect the Scissors at the last second, and the thing attacked back! The metal of the Scissors was dark and broken where it came close to the sword, almost broken in half! Which, not good! It any other time, a pair of broken Debugging Sheers would be more or less fine, if not a major inconvinience (and pay deduction) for SY, but since he'd been warping all over the time for a while now, his Personal System's energy reserves were carefully rationed, and if he were to use a chunk to send the Scissors back for some emergency repair, he'd only have one chance to go back to HQ. Alone.

He couldn't delay it any longer, he desperately needed to find SQH and pray he still had some energy reserves left.

Setting his Personal System's next warp location to SQH's last known location, SY wouldn't have guessed in a million years that he would go back to Cang Qiong Mountain, but whatever; maybe SQH had wanted to start with fixing the bug on Binghe's pendant? Not that this was the right time since it was after Binghe fell into the Abyss, but SQH had never been good at warping. It takes a bit of wandering and going inside different buildings, but eventually his Personal System managed to get a dirrect ping on SQH's System, which sent a massive wave of relief rushing through SY, since it meant that SQH was still slive.

Though as to why he was at An Ding Peak, SY could only guess.

After a bit more wandering, SY enters on what seems to be a (very messy) office space, SY feels all the pieces coming together in his mind. Half sprawled across the table with piles of paper covering the entire table's surface lay the An Ding Peak Lord, which- was already weird, since wasn't this guy supposed to be an enemy of the Peak now? After the whole betrayal thing or whatever? But that would've been something to look into later, were it not for said Peak Lord casually scrolling through a Personal System screen. A Personal System that could only be used by the System's Maintanence Staff.

SY wastes no time in deactivating Ghost Mode, and when SQH's eyes snap to his, the man jumps so high from his chair he almost falls back. It's not a happy reunion by a longshot, since SY immediately jumped his friend co-worker and demanded an explaination, almost screaming about it was all his fault for doing shitty maintenence, and creating this shitty world if it's shitty OP sword which broke his Sheers? Do you know how expensive these are?? I know you do, cause the supervisor never lets you touch the good ones cause you keep cracking all the other pairs-

It takes a more or less one whole hour to calm down SY, but eventually the younger settled and lets SQH say his bit of the story: Apparently, in his messing around with the System's world creation program when he was trying to find the bug in his world, he'd accidentaly managed to get himself actually transmigrated to PIDW, though still with (limited) acess to his Personal System, which let him still send messages to their supervisor and pretend that everything was ok. He'd gotten so unlucky too! Out of all the people to accidentaly select, did it have to be the An Ding Peak Lord? Couldn't it have been Binghe? Or MBJ- (SQH cuts his lamenting when he notices SY's absolutely viscious death glare being stared right through his soul.)

Long story short, he'd initially did try to fix his blunder, but as more time passed and SQH's access to Maintenance priviledges went out one by one on his System, he eventually just... Started actually living there. In fact, he was living so well there that he dared say his life as Peak Lord was even better then when he was with the System! Of course, since he had been integrated as a 'character' now, he had his limitations, he actually managed to get to know his fellow peak lords! He knew the name of his character's family members and his disciples! He'd managed to build a life he never even thought he could have inside the System.

Sure, did he betray the Peak? Yes, yes he did. Were they all going to die in a few years time when Binghe came back from hell? Yeah, yeah they were, and he was immensely guilty and terrified, but! The plot could be changed! He already assumed someone from the System had popped up in the Conference, as when Binghe had recently made his alliance with MBJ, and had mentioned in passing this weird thing that had happened to him just before he fell into the Abyss.

Anyways, eventually SY begrudgingly accepts SQH's decision to stay in PIDW, but he still had to help SY; and so they form a plan: SY was going to transfer some energy to SQH so he could temporarily get his acess to the full version of his Personal System and use his energy reserves to send SY's Sheers and get them fixed. SQH was also going to properly apologize to their supervisor for suddenly quitting without notice AND order some more energy stacks to be sent to SY's System. SY on the other hand had devises a plan to get closer to XIn Mo without the sword exploding his face off:

Infiltrate Demon Emperor Luo Binghe's palace as a lowly staff member and slowly debug the sword from the inside.

A perfect plan! What could go wrong?

SY selects to warp to a time where Binghe had Xin Mo mostly in control, so it is to no surprise he warps to a place were the Demonic Emperor's Palace is absolutely filled with women. Not the best situation, since a lot of people could and probably would be able to see him, but with that many harem members, it wasn't too much of a stretch to assume there was also a considerable number of staff, which, to SY's luck, there was! In fact, after he managed to activate a disguise for his clothes so they matched the rest of the servants, no one bat an eye on his presence; at most someone would inquire about his short hair, but other than that he was as noteable as a fly.

The first phase of his plan was already a success, so now he had to move on to reconnaissance which was mostly easy and the worst thing in his life. He was mostly looking for Binghe's quarters could be as he probably kept the sword close to him at all times, though with how big the palace was, his objective had gradually shifted to mapping out the labyrinth of halls as much as possible (SY was very glad that the System allowed him to create a map in real time or he might have gotten lost in the first five minutes). He walks so much he even manages to catch a few pieces of gossip, though the most interesting one by far being one about Binghe:

Apparently, a year ago, the Emperor had a qi deviation where, for a day, he seemed to have completely shifted his personality; he refused to touch any of his wives and kept screaming for his long dead Shizun. SY doesn't really remember that plot point, though his wondering is cut short when he hears people walking towards his direction. instinctively he his behind a dark corner, momentarily forgetting that he 'worked' at the palace now.

At list his bad luck was finally turning over as the Golden Protagonist himself walked past him with one of his wives hanging off his arm, looking just as cool as SY had always imagined. He had to snap himself out of his stuppor though, as two things caught his attention: First, Xin Mo was, predictably, strapped to his waist, still glitched but at least the virus seemed more or less contained, which gave SY a bit more time to work, though the other thing he noticed...

Hanging onto an old-looking braid laid SY's missing tassle that Binghe had found for him all the way back at the Conference.

What the hell was Luo Binghe doing wearing that old tassle at this day and age??

A few days passed and the Tassle Incident (as he called it) had to be set aside, as it seemed that passing as a servant also meant that other servants and even some wives expected SY to actually work. Not great, he sucked at cleaning and the other servants spared no words to make it clear to him, but it at least gave him something to do while he waited for his Scissors to arrive. SQH had sent him a few messages saying he'd gotten his part of the deal done, so now all SY could do was monitor Xin Mo's condition (from very far away), and occasionally manually debug some small virus pieces that had fallen from the sword, which luckily were easy enough to deal with that he didn't need to cut them off.

The only thing that was worrying him now is how... odd Luo Binghe seemed. Of course, he was supposed to be the pinnacle of the Cool Guy trope, so some edginess was to be expected, but Binghe didn't look just Edgy, he looked straight up depressed. There were bags under his eyes, and he barely seemed to tolerate the presence of 99% of his wives, and that damned braid with the damned tassle was still there-

Point is, Binghe acting so weird really threw SY through a loop, and he may have gotten a bit careless. At a random day when SY was carrying some dirty laundry another servant had just shoved at him, he had no prior warning before a voice sounded from behind him: "You seem to have dropped something."

He barely managed to shake off the violent sense of deja-vu that had sucker punched him in the face before he realized what was happening; Luo Binghe was talking to him. Directly to him. Shit- shit! Did he notice? Was Binghe doing a clever call back, spider-man style?? Was SY going to die????

SY shakily turns to Binghe, keeping his eyes locked onto the floor, bowing as much as possible that he still seemed respectful but the bag of clothes he had didn't all just fall to the floor. Thankfully Binghe didn't seem to mind, and simply put the fallen piece of clothing on top of the others and walked away. Though, just as SY was regaining his breath, Luo Binghe's voice stops him again. "You... Have we met before?"

SY trembles something about only being hired recently and not having the opportunity to formaly meet Junshang, and it seems to be a decent enough that Binghe just stares at him for a while longer before walking away. He really should grow out his hair if even the Emperor got weirded out like that...

Binghe started eyeing SY way more after that day. The protagonist would rarely speak directly to him, but SY could feel his gaze as if it were burning; though, since Binghe never said anything, SY just assumed that whatever Binghe's problem with him was, it was likely nothing to worry about.

In fact, it probably was because one of Binghe's wives had used SY is an impromptu act to try to get Binghe jealous (he just frowned, separated the two and walked away) and after that she had gotten infatuated with him, so she'd turned SY into her personal servant. Because of that SY saw Binghe at most two times a week instead of the 50% chnace of seeing his shadow once a week. Wow.

Because of this, as much as Binghe noticed SY, SY noticed Binghe as well, the protagonist seeming to get even more down as the days went. The tassle was still braided in his hair (SY worried it was just going to become a lock at this point), his eyebags never seemed to leave his eyes, and he was always muttering about... something. (SY managed to overhear something about 'fairness' and what Binghe actually wanted...?)

It all culminated at a seemingly random night. Most of the wives and servants had gone to sleep, only the more in-human women still hanging around, and SY, of course, but mostly it was because he wanted to see how close he could get to Binghe's quarters (aka Xin Mo) at night. Not that it was necessary, as when he was walking his attention was adruptly caught by the strangest sight: Luo binghe, sitting on one of the stone stair that lead to one of the many courtyards, being absolutely drenched in rain. The weirdest part was that a few servants and wives had also passed this place, and they all seemed like they didn't see Binghe, or didn't care.

Hating to see such an usually proud man (not that he'd seen much of that either) just soaking outside as if he'd just caught the love of his life cheating with another man, SY decided that at least he'd do a good job as a servant and take care of 'his Lord'. He grabs an umbrella from one of the adjacent rooms and slowly walks outside, covering Luo Binghe's form, not really caring if he was also getting soaked.

They stayed silent for who knows how long, but eventually, Binghe's eyes that had been laser focused on the horizon slowly blink once, as if coming out of a trance, and slowly move to SY's face, up to his hand holding the umbrella. "My Lord should get back inside. He'll get sick that way." SY half murmurs.

Binghe doesn't respond, though after a few seconds, his eyes seem to widen a bit and his breath comes out a little shaky. SY doesn't dare comment on it.

"Have we met before?" Luo Binghe asks again.

"...Yes." Shen Yuan says.

Binghe closes his eyes, and they stay like that for another hour.

Pt.3

[cumtastiics]

+

tw yandere // library scene // 0.3k words

"can you let go of my bag?"

your voice was low, but tense- meant to stay polite.

he was standing too close behind you, fingers hooked around the strap on your shoulder like he owned it. like he owned you.

"why?" he asked, voice soft, far too soft for how tight his grip was.

"you’re not in a rush, are you?"

you didn’t answer. you just shifted, tried to step forward, but his hand didn’t move. the bag stayed caught between you.

"i saw you laughing earlier," he said. "with that guy. alex or… whatever his name was."

you froze.

"you touched his arm." his voice dropped further. "you do that with everyone or just him?"

"it wasn’t like that," you said quickly. your throat felt dry.

you glanced at the tall windows lining the back wall- black with night, your own reflection staring back at you.

an expression full of fear.

empty library. empty halls. janitor probably already gone.

"hm..." he tilted his head slightly, watching you.

"you’ve been different lately. colder. like you're trying to...pull away."

his eyes never blinked, never looked away. "i don’t like that."

you tried again, quieter this time.

"please. just let go."

"you know," he whispered, leaning in so his breath grazed your ear, "if you really didn’t want to be here with me... you wouldn’t still be standing here."

he laughed softly- almost kindly.

“i mean, you could’ve screamed. could’ve run. library doors aren’t locked yet.”

you didn’t know if he was lying.

"you’re not stupid," he murmured, brushing hair back from your cheek. "you know i notice everything. every little shift in your tone, every look you give someone that isn’t me. i feel it. i see it."

he let go of your bag. for a second, your body loosened with relief- until you felt his hands rest gently, possessively, on your shoulders.

"you don’t need anyone else," he said, voice lower now, more certain. "i give you everything. i memorize you, you know that? i know your schedule, your favorite pens, what you wear when you're tired. i even know when you're lying."

you didn’t move.

"you’re not scared," he said after a pause. "you’re mine. that’s why you’re still here.”

and then, like none of this had happened, he smiled. soft. calm.

“want me to walk you home?”

[itzpookiepooh]

ahh I love ur work!! ❤️was wondering if you could do a fic of the lads guys accidentally making mc cry (she hypersensitive) keep up the good work! ❤️❤️❤️

Cry If You Need To

“If you don’t hurry up I’ll go without you.” Xavier teases as he puts his jacket on and grabs the door handle. You rush out with a pout on your face.

“You’d leave without me?” Your waterline filling up. Xavier’s smile drops as he matches your pout.

“I was just joking I’d never leave without you.” He spoke softly wiping at your eyes. He felt bad now, he didn’t mean to make you cry.

He hugged you, rubbing your back gently. After he helped you fix yourself up so you guys could leave. He stood there waiting until you were ready to go. He apologized countless times for making you cry and you forgave every single one.

Caleb was cleaning out the fridge when he came across a plastic bag with your food in it. Did he know it was your food? No. Everything from this week simply slipped his mind. So he threw it away and didn’t think about again until you came home scavenging for it.

“Where’s my food?” You asked him as he sat on the recliner reading a book. He looks up and smiles seeing you appear.

“Food?” He asks genuinely confused. He didn’t remember throwing out food.

“It was in a white bag.” You clarify further. He went pale, he threw it out. You knew immediately as you could feel tears burning your eyes.

“I’m sorry pips.” He quickly spat out before rushing over to hug you. You sobbed in his arms before he agreed to go out and get you whatever you wanted even if it was to replace your original meal.

You were trying to ask Sylus a simple question. Sylus who was in businessman mode. His tone firm and eyes calculating so when you were trying to speak his tone hadn’t changed. He wasn’t annoyed with you or anything, he just didn’t snap out of it. Your eyes watered as his soften. He realized what he had done.

“I’m sorry, kitten. I didn’t realize.” He coos holding you close to him.

“That was so mean.” You whimper into his chest. He pouts a little but you couldn’t see him.

“I know I’m so sorry,” He holds you tightly to reassure you he was here and he meant what he said. If anyone else saw or heard this it was be a massacre. Those sly twins however, got Mephisto to record it and send it to them.

You had been trying to get Zayne’s attention in the best way you could. He was working overtime countlessly. Honestly you were so subtle that he didn’t catch it at all. If he was on the phone and asked you to wait and got sidetracked you wouldn’t bring it up again. All of it caught up to you so you cried.

“What’s wrong my love?” He asks his hand on the small of your back. You sniffled, facing him.

“I want to spend time with you but you’re so busy. It feels like we’re drifting apart.” You whimpered as he consoles you. He felt bad, he hadn’t noticed that you felt this way.

“My apologies. I had no idea, I was so caught up in work I didn’t notice.” He sighs holding you close.

He took off for the weekend so you guys could do anything you wanted. Most of it was enjoying city festivities (eating sweets) but Zayne wasn’t complaining.

Rafayel had a big event to go to and you were his plus one. So upon your request he had to chime into the outfits you tried on. He didn’t like most of them which put you down. You assumed they were all ugly which brought tears to your eyes.

“Why are you crying?” He panics rushing over to you. You dab under your waterline before speaking, “You hate all my outfits.” Your voice cracks.

“I don’t hate them! They don’t go with the event we’re going to. I just want you to be on theme.” He comforts you making eye contact. He wipes your tears away with the pad of his thumbs.

“Really?” You ask as he nods. “Yes really!” He says sincerely as you both hug it out. He made note to watch his criticism carefully.

Short I know but my sister graduates tmr so I’m a liiiiiittle behind

[orphicmeliora]

Evermore

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC!Reader

SUMMARY: You have spent your life inside hospital walls, your world stitched together with IV lines, late-night alarms, and the quiet acceptance that some things cannot be fixed. You've been passed from one doctor to another, another test, another trial — all chasing a miracle that never came. Somewhere along the way, you stopped waiting for tomorrow.

But life, in its quiet cruelty and unexpected grace, gives you something you never thought to ask for — a glimpse of another world. A different kind of heartbeat, steady and sure, weaving its way into your fragile one. Moments you never believed you could have: laughter, longing, dreams too big for a hospital bed.

You don't know how long it will last. You don't even know if you dare hope for more.

But when the night is quiet and the snow falls just right, you let yourself believe — for one stolen breath — that maybe your story isn't meant to end here.

Maybe, somehow, you are just beginning.

WORD COUNT: 9.5k

You're dying.

For as long as you can remember, you've known more of hospitals than your own house. It's gotten to a point where when you think of home, it's not a cozy living room or the scent of your mother's cooking that surfaces — it's the sterile, cold corridors of Akso Hospital. The beeping machines. The too-white sheets. The antiseptic sting in the air. That's home.

You've been passed from hospital to hospital like a worn file folder, a case study waiting for a miracle. Doctors, researchers, specialists — all curious, all clinical. Some of them smiled too brightly when they poked at you; others barely met your eyes as they dictated notes into recorders. No matter their faces, it was always the same: a child with a heart too fragile for the world she lived in. Congenital heart disease, they'd say, like it was a sentence you had to carry. Words like hypoplastic, cardiomyopathy, degeneration slipped off their tongues without a second thought.

Research papers had been written about you. Trials run, theories floated, hands reaching inside your chest like gods trying to rewrite fate. But there was no saving you. Not really. Only delaying the inevitable.

At some point, death stopped being a frightening monster lurking at the end of the hallway. It became a quiet fact. A gentle inevitability. Like winter following fall. Like the last leaf leaving the branch. Sometimes you even think of it fondly — a release from the endless pricks of needles and the sting of failed hope.

You don't cry about it anymore. You stopped doing that years ago.

Just you, and the slow ticking of monitors, and the muted conversations outside your door.

But there are still things that ache. Things that death doesn't erase.

Like the school uniforms you never wore.

The scraped knees you never had from playground games.

The friendships you only knew from books and half-forgotten fairy tales read to you by bored nurses.

You grew up surrounded by adults: brisk nurses with kind smiles, tired doctors with far-off eyes, other patients far older than you. No childhood secrets whispered under blankets at sleepovers. No first crushes shared during recess.

Today is supposed to be your sixteenth birthday. A milestone for most kids — laughter, cake, maybe even a little rebellion. You asked for so little. Just a single scoop of ice cream. Something sweet, something that would make you forget, just for a second, that you're broken inside.

Maybe your body decided it was too much joy. Maybe it was just bad timing. Whatever it was, the chest pain started fast and sharp, a blooming fire that stole your breath and sent the world spinning. They rushed you to the ICU, alarms blaring, voices cutting through the fog of your consciousness.

Doctor Li was there, of course. He's always there. A steady presence when everyone else felt like passing shadows. You caught glimpses of his furrowed brow, the tightness in his voice as he barked orders you were too far gone to understand. He was fighting for you. He always did.

The world blurred. Faded. You remember thinking — distantly — how strange it was to die with the taste of vanilla on your tongue.

You don't die that night. Not yet.

But something inside you, small and bright and hopeful, dims just a little more.

The next few days bleed together in a haze of machines and murmured reassurances. You drift in and out of shallow sleep, tethered to the world by the soft beeping of your heart monitor and the cool, practiced touch of the nurses adjusting your IVs. Doctor Li checks on you more than usual — lingering longer at your bedside, as if afraid that if he looks away, you might simply vanish.

You hear snatches of conversation sometimes. Fragments that weren't meant for your ears.

It’s strange how even in survival, you feel like a guest overstaying her welcome.

"She stabilized, but barely."

"Should we consider moving her back to the general ward?"

"Give her time. Let her rest."

On the third day, you notice a figure lingering near the doorway. Not a nurse — they’re always in motion, efficient and brisk. Not Doctor Li, either — this figure carries a stiffness to his stance, a sharpness that cuts into the sterile quiet.

You glance over, disinterested. A boy, maybe a few years older than you, dressed in street clothes that look out of place in the hospital’s sanitized world. Dark hair that falls messily into his eyes, a scowl permanently etched across his face like it was born there. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he doesn't want to be here.

You recognize the look immediately — resentment barely contained behind a mask of detachment.

You turn your head away. You couldn't care less.

Let him glare. Let him hate. You’re used to people looking at you like that — like you’re an inconvenience, a burden. You’ve spent your whole life apologizing for existing, even when your lips stayed silent.

He says nothing to you, and you say nothing to him.

Good. Silence is easier. Cleaner.

Later, you hear the nurses whispering about him.

You don't understand why any of it matters. To you, he’s just another shadow passing through your world. Another person whose life will keep moving forward, even when yours stands still.

"Doctor Li’s son. Came straight from his graduation. Poor kid."

"Must be hard, sharing your father with the hospital."

"He'll understand someday. Sacrifices have to be made."

You close your eyes and let the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lull you back into sleep.

Tomorrow will come. Or it won’t.

It hardly makes a difference.

Tomorrow comes. And then the day after that.

Somehow, despite everything, you keep breathing.

You're moved out of the ICU eventually, back into the quieter, less urgent wing of Akso Hospital that has become more familiar than any childhood bedroom you never had. The walls here are softer shades of green, the windows wide and bright — an illusion of freedom you stopped believing in a long time ago.

Your days fall into a familiar rhythm: early morning blood draws, midday vitals checks, whispered conversations with nurses who treat you like a little sister they can't protect. You read when you can, mostly battered romance novels left behind by old patients, and sometimes you simply lie there, counting the cracks in the ceiling tiles like they hold some secret map to a life you’ll never live.

And Zayne —he starts appearing again.

At first, it’s just glimpses. A flash of dark hair down the corridor, the low murmur of his voice when he trails after Doctor Li during rounds. He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. He keeps his gaze clipped to charts and clipboards, face tight with the kind of focus you recognize all too well: the kind born from trying to control what can’t be fixed.

You wonder — briefly — why he keeps coming back.

Most people your age would run from a place like this. Wouldn't they? Chase the world outside with hungry hands, desperate to live, to feel something more than fluorescent lights and beeping machines.

But Zayne stays.

He stands at his father's side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his lab coat, frowning at words too complicated for you to care about. He listens when Doctor Li explains your charts, your declining numbers, the latest tests they want to run. Sometimes he asks questions, voice low and rough around the edges.

You don't bother trying to hear the answers.

You’ve long stopped hoping anyone had any real ones to give.

The way his shoulders stiffen when Doctor Li mentions your heart’s deterioration. The quick, darting glances he thinks you don’t catch when you wince from another IV insertion. The rare moments his mouth tightens in something almost like frustration, or helplessness.

Still...

You notice things.

You pretend you don't see.

You pretend it doesn't matter.

And you — you have always been leaving.

Because it doesn't.

You have learned, through years of slow dying, that getting attached only makes the leaving harder.

It happens on an afternoon like any other.

The kind where the sun slices through the window just enough to make you ache for the world outside — a world you’ve only seen in pictures and half-forgotten dreams.

You’re sitting up in bed, a book resting on your lap, though you haven’t turned a page in what feels like hours. Your IV pole hums faintly beside you, the only real reminder that you’re still tethered here.

You glance up without thinking — and there he is. 

You hear footsteps before you see him.

Not Doctor Li’s sure, even strides.

Softer. Slower. Hesitant.

Zayne. 

Hovering awkwardly just inside your room, clutching a thick textbook to his chest like a shield. He's not wearing his usual scowl today. Instead, his face is carved into something tighter, more uncertain, as if he isn't quite sure whether he should even be standing here.

You raise an eyebrow, silently daring him to speak.

He clears his throat. It sounds painful.

"I—" he starts, then immediately cuts himself off, glancing away. His hand tightens around the book's spine.

You blink at him, unimpressed.

If he’s here to offer hollow pity or awkward small talk, he can save it. You’ve heard it all before — the forced conversations, the clumsy sympathy from visitors who can't even look you in the eye for long.

You drop your gaze back to your book, pretending he isn't there. Silence stretches thick and heavy between you.

For a moment, you think he’s going to retreat, like so many others have.

But he doesn't.

You freeze, your thumb hovering over the corner of the worn page.

Instead, after a beat of hesitation, you hear him mumble — so quiet you almost miss it —

"…That book’s terrible."

Slowly, you glance up again. He’s staring at the battered cover, expression wrinkling in disdain.

"I mean," he says, awkward and stiff, like every word is being dragged out of him by force, "the plot makes no sense. The heroine falls in love with a guy who literally tried to kill her in the first chapter."

You blink once. Twice.

"Yeah," you say, voice hoarse from disuse, "but it's not like I've got a lot of options."

And then, unexpectedly, a small huff of air escapes you — not quite a laugh, but close.

You hadn't realized how long it had been since someone your age spoke to you like that. Not like you were breakable. Not like you were already halfway gone.

He shifts his weight, looking vaguely guilty now. Like he hadn't meant to insult your sad little world.

You watch him for a moment longer, studying the way he fidgets — a boy trying very hard not to look like he cares, even though it’s written in every line of his posture.

Without thinking, you extend the book toward him, offering it out like a peace treaty.

"Got any recommendations, then?"

He stares at you, startled. Like he wasn’t expecting you to talk back. Like he wasn't expecting you to choose to talk to him.

Slowly, almost warily, he steps forward. Takes the book from your hand, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second—warm and real and alive.

Something small shifts in the air between you.

Barely there.

But you feel it all the same.

But right now—for the first time in a long, long while—you don’t feel quite so alone.

Maybe tomorrow he'll disappear again.

Maybe you’ll still die before you ever really know him.

The next day, you don’t expect him to come back.

People make gestures sometimes — quick, impulsive things born of guilt or pity. You’ve learned not to get your hopes up. You've learned not to expect anyone to stay.

But late in the afternoon, as the sun dips low and the room fills with that golden, aching kind of light, you hear familiar footsteps outside your door. Slower, more deliberate this time. No shuffling nurses, no hurried doctors.

You glance up from your spot on the bed just as Zayne leans into the doorway, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, the other holding something behind his back like a guilty secret.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you, frowning faintly, like he’s annoyed to find you still there. (Or maybe annoyed with himself.)

You raise an eyebrow, a silent question.

He scowls a little deeper — a defense mechanism, you think — and mutters, "You said you didn’t have good options."

Before you can reply, he pulls his hand from behind his back and tosses a book onto your bed.

It lands with a soft thud against the sheets, the cover facing up.

You blink at it, surprised. It’s thick, heavier than the flimsy paperbacks you usually get stuck with, and worn around the edges like it's been read a dozen times. A fantasy novel, from the looks of it — something with sprawling kingdoms and sword fights and impossible magic.

You run your fingers lightly over the embossed title, almost afraid it might disappear.

"I had it lying around," he says quickly, too quickly. "Figured you could use something... less stupid."

You look up at him again, and this time you catch it — the faint pink dusting the tips of his ears, the way he can't quite meet your gaze.

You almost smile. Almost.

Instead, you trace the cover one more time, letting the weight of the book settle into your lap like something precious.

"...Thanks," you say, quiet but sincere.

Zayne shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t care. But he lingers a moment longer than necessary, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Finally, he jerks his head toward the book. "Page ninety-seven is the best part," he says gruffly. "Don't skip to it, though. You have to earn it."

And with that, he turns and stalks off down the hallway, disappearing before you can say anything else.

You watch him go, your chest feeling strangely full, like someone had opened a window inside you after years of stale, closed-off air.

You pick up the book, flipping it open carefully. On the inside cover, in faded ink, there’s a name scribbled messily: Zayne Li.

You smile — small, private, and fleeting.

—

Maybe you were wrong.

Maybe not everyone leaves.

You tell yourself it’s just a book.

And every single one of them — every single page — is littered with traces of him.

One book turns into two. Then three.

Each one arrives without ceremony — sometimes left on your bedside table when you’re asleep, sometimes handed over with an awkward grunt and averted eyes. Always worn. Always loved.

Little notes crammed into the margins. Sharp, neat handwriting in black ink. Observations. Sarcastic comments. Underlined passages with a single word beside them — you. Sometimes a whole phrase: this reminds me of you or you'd probably argue about this part.

It’s like Zayne is sitting beside you as you read, muttering in your ear.

The strange thing is — the words, the quiet thoughts he left scattered across the pages — they make you feel something. Something unfamiliar and terrifying. A buzzing under your skin, a pressure behind your ribs, too wild and heavy to name.

You devour the books hungrily.

You savor every messy annotation like it’s oxygen.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You're just imagining things.

Until the night it isn’t.

You’re halfway through another novel — a sweeping, painful story about a dying girl and a boy who loved her too much — when it happens.

Your heart flutters.

You freeze, book slipping from your hands onto the bed.

Not in the way it usually does — the panicked, stuttering rhythm that sends alarms shrieking and nurses running.

This flutter is different.

Soft. Gentle. Terrifying.

For a second, you can't breathe — not from weakness, but from something that feels suspiciously like hope, like longing.

Within seconds, your room explodes into motion — nurses flooding in, monitors flashing to life, Doctor Li himself arriving in a whirl of urgency.

You panic.

You hit the pager beside your bed, repeatedly.

They swarm you with equipment, prick your fingers, measure your heart rhythms. Voices rise and fall in a symphony of concern.

In the middle of it all, you sit there, dazed and mortified.

Because you realize — slowly, stupidly—you’re not dying.

When the chaos finally ebbs, when the monitors hum their steady, forgiving rhythm again, Doctor Li kneels beside your bed and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder.

Not yet.

Not from this.

"You’re alright," he says, voice warm and steady. "It was just... an excitement response. A little arrhythmia. Nothing dangerous."

You nod, face burning.

You don't tell him it wasn't excitement about life. It was about his son.

It was the first time in your memory that your heart had jumped not from fear, but from feeling something more.

It was a start.

Time moves strangely after that.

You learn him.

Weeks blend into months.

Zayne visits more now — under the pretense of study sessions with his father, but you both know better. He still brings you books, still pretends it's nothing, but sometimes he stays to see which parts make you smile. You argue with him over characters. He rolls his eyes when you get too emotional. You learn the patterns of his dry humor, the sharp warmth hidden under his guarded exterior.

And, quietly, dangerously, you start to want more.

One afternoon, you find yourselves alone. Doctor Li is caught up in surgery. The nurses are busy elsewhere. The hospital is unusually quiet.

Zayne sits slouched in the chair beside your bed, tapping a pen against his knee. You’re thumbing through the latest book he loaned you — a nonfiction this time, something about stars and deep space, endless distances that make your small, fragile life feel even smaller.

For a while, you exist in comfortable silence.

Then, without looking at you, Zayne says, "You know you’re sick. Really sick."

It's not a question. It's a fact, laid bare between you.

You close the book slowly, pressing your palm flat against the cover to keep your hands from shaking.

"I know," you say, voice barely a whisper.

Zayne leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.

"I want to fix it," he says roughly. "I’m studying to fix it."

You stare at him, heart twisting.

"You can't," you say, almost gently. "Nobody can."

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl into fists against his thighs.

"I have to," he mutters. "Otherwise... what's the point?"

The words hang there between you — raw, desperate, infuriatingly beautiful.

You swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes.

"You don't have to waste your life on me," you say. "You have your own future. Your own world."

Finally, he lifts his head and looks at you — really looks at you.

And in his dark, tired eyes, you see it.

"I'm not wasting it," he says.

The stubbornness.

The grief.

The terrible, trembling hope.

He says it like an oath. Like a prayer.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe — just a little — that maybe, just maybe, you're not fighting alone anymore.

You glance up from your book, startled to see Zayne standing by your bedside, a mischievous glint in his otherwise serious eyes.

A rustle of cloth. The scrape of a chair being quietly pushed back.

He holds out his hand to you — palm up, steady.

"Come on," he says, voice low and urgent. "Before someone notices."

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

"I’m not exactly mobile, in case you forgot," you say dryly, gesturing weakly at your IV stand and the tangle of wires monitoring your heart.

Zayne’s mouth tugs into the smallest, briefest smirk.

"I planned for that," he says.

He lifts a second IV pole from behind him — wheels it forward like a grand conspirator revealing his secret weapon. It’s empty except for a few dummy wires and a hastily knotted hospital gown draped over it like camouflage.

You blink.

He actually planned this.

"You're insane," you whisper.

"Maybe," he says. "But so are you for trusting me."

His fingers curl around yours, warm and sure, and for the first time in a long while, you feel something electric under your skin — something alive.

You don’t trust easily.

You never have.

But tonight — with the sterile hum of the hospital around you, and the fierce, reckless light in Zayne’s eyes — you find yourself reaching for his hand anyway.

Carefully, painstakingly, he helps you out of bed, maneuvering your real IV to look as inconspicuous as possible. You clutch his arm for balance, and he doesn't flinch or pull away. He just stands there, solid and steady, like he was built to hold you up.

Together, you slip out of your room and into the dimly lit hallway.

The hospital at night is a different world — softer, quieter, suspended in time. The usual sharp edges of sterile life blur into something almost magical.

Zayne leads you through the labyrinth of corridors, past empty nurses' stations and closed doors, moving like a ghost through his second home.

Eventually, he pushes open a heavy door, and you find yourself on the hospital’s rooftop.

You don't ask where you're going.

You trust him.

The cool night air hits you like a blessing. Linkon city sprawls out below you, lights blinking like a thousand tiny stars scattered across the dark.

Above you, the real stars stretch in endless constellations, faint but stubborn, refusing to be erased by the city's glow.

You stand there, breathing in the night, the IV pole at your side forgotten for a moment.

Zayne leans against the railing, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"This," he says, tilting his chin toward the sky, "is the closest I could get to taking you out of here."

You stare up at the heavens, feeling something bloom painfully in your chest.

"You’re not supposed to do this," you whisper, but there’s no anger in your voice. Only wonder.

Zayne shrugs. "Sue me."

You laugh — a small, broken sound — and he turns his head slightly, like he wants to hear it again but is too proud to ask.

Finally, you glance over at him.

For a long time, you just stand there.

Two kids on a rooftop.

One dying, one refusing to let her go quietly.

"Thank you," you say simply.

His mouth twitches — the barest ghost of a smile.

"You’re welcome," he mutters.

Then, after a beat:

"You’re not allowed to die yet, by the way."

You blink at him, startled.

"That’s an order," he adds, looking away as if embarrassed. "Doctor’s orders."

Not if there’s still more of him.

You bite back the emotion swelling in your throat, smiling instead.

Because you realize, deep down, you don’t want to die yet.

Not if there’s still more of this.

After that first night, the rooftop becomes your place.

Whenever the nights are quiet and the staff is distracted, he appears in your doorway with a raised eyebrow and a silent question.

You and Zayne never talk about it.

You never plan it.

It just happens — an unspoken ritual.

You always nod.

And then you're off again — sneaking past monitors, wheels squeaking faintly, IV pole rattling slightly as you creep through the halls like co-conspirators against fate.

The rooftop feels almost sacred now.

Up there, the air smells less like bleach and more like possibility.

Up there, you aren’t just a patient strapped to machines — you’re alive.

You learn more about him — the way he hates instant coffee but drinks it anyway. His ridiculous sweet tooth. The way he grips the railing a little too tightly sometimes, like he’s afraid of losing control. How his smiles are rare but real, and he saves most of them for you.

Sometimes you talk.

Sometimes you sit in silence.

He listens. Really listens.

And he learns about you — the real you, the one buried under layers of hospital gowns and medical files.

He learns you love thunderstorms. That you used to dream of becoming an astronaut before you got too sick to dream at all. That you’re terrified, not of dying, but of being forgotten.

And something inside you, long frozen, starts to thaw.

You start pushing yourself during physical therapy. You sit up longer. You fight to stay awake through bad days just so you can catch a glimpse of him passing by.

You get stronger.

Not in the way that matters medically — your charts still fluctuate, your heart still falters sometimes — but your spirit grows stubborn. Fierce. Hungry.

And even if you don’t say it out loud, you know he wants it too.

You want more time.

You want more nights under the stars.

You want more him.

But the clock is always ticking.

Some nights, the pain comes back — sharp and sudden, clenching around your ribs like an iron hand. Some nights, the monitors scream and the nurses race in, and Zayne isn't allowed to visit until you're stabilized again.

On those nights, you stare at the ceiling and try not to think about how fleeting all of this is.

And then one night, when you’re both on the rooftop again, he blurts it out.

You wonder if he knows.

If he feels it too — the way the future presses down on you both like a heavy, inevitable sky.

"You’re getting worse," he says, voice low and tight.

You don't argue. You don't pretend.

Instead, you lean against the railing, the cold metal digging into your palms, and whisper, "I know."

You expect him to retreat. To shut down the way most people do when confronted with the ugly truth of you.

But Zayne just steps closer.

"You’re still fighting," he says roughly. "Even when it’s pointless. Even when you’re scared."

You laugh — bitter, broken.

"There's no winning this," you say. "No miracle cure. You know that, don't you?"

Then, very quietly:

He says nothing for a long time.

Just stands there, breathing hard, like he’s holding back something too big for words.

"I’m still going to try."

You turn your head, meeting his gaze fully for the first time in what feels like forever.

There’s no pity there. No empty promises.

And for the first time, you allow yourself to lean just a little closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

Only determination.

Only him.

He stiffens — startled — but then, slowly, carefully, he shifts so you fit against him better.

The IV line tugs against your arm. Your heart monitor blips faintly in the background.

But here, in this small, stolen moment, you aren't a diagnosis. You aren't a prognosis.

You're just a girl.

And he's just a boy trying to save you.

The night it happens, you’re both too tired to pretend you're fine anymore.

The rooftop air is thick and heavy, the heat of the day still clinging stubbornly to the concrete. You sit cross-legged on a worn blanket Zayne smuggled from the staff lounge, your IV pole parked dutifully beside you, your heart monitor muted to a low, steady pulse.

Zayne lounges beside you, long legs stretched out, arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the stars.

Neither of you say much.

The sky stretches overhead in an endless velvet sweep, pinpricked with faint light. Somewhere far below, Linkon city hums and breathes without you.

Words feel too heavy tonight.

Besides, you don’t need them.

You turn your head slightly, watching him.

His face looks softer in the dark — the stern lines of his mouth eased, the tension usually buried in his shoulders melted away. You can see the faint smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the little crease between his brows he probably doesn't even realize he has.

You realize — with a strange, aching clarity — that you want to remember this. You want to burn this version of him into your memory so you can carry it with you, no matter what happens.

Your eyelids grow heavier with each passing minute.

The monitors hum quietly beside you, a gentle lullaby.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, your body leans sideways — just a little, just enough — and without thinking, without planning, you drift closer until your head finds his shoulder.

Zayne goes rigid at first — like someone just pulled a fire alarm inside his chest — but after a long, tense second, he shifts carefully, allowing you to settle against him.

You half-expect him to tease you. To make some snide remark.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he stays perfectly still, perfectly steady, like he’s afraid even breathing too loudly might wake you.

You don't remember falling asleep.

But you remember the feeling —safe, warm, suspended in something fragile and golden —as you sink into dreams for the first time in months without fear clawing at your throat.

You wake up hours later to the faintest touch — Zayne carefully adjusting your IV line, his fingers clumsy with sleep, his eyes still heavy-lidded.

He blinks down at you, caught between guilt and something deeper, something raw.

"Sorry," he mutters, voice rough. "Didn't mean to—"

You cut him off by curling a little closer, burying your face in the crook of his arm.

Later, when you’re both back inside, tangled in warmth and silence, the question slips out before you can stop it.

And for once, he doesn't argue.

He just lets you stay.

You’re still curled under your hospital blankets, the faint beep of your monitor filling the room like a heartbeat. Zayne sits in the chair beside your bed, scribbling distractedly in his med school notebook, but you know he’s only half-focused at best.

"Zayne," you say quietly.

He hums in response, not looking up.

"If you could have anything," you whisper, "anything at all… what would you wish for?"

He freezes, pen hovering midair.

The silence stretches so long you wonder if he’s going to answer at all.

Looks at you.

Then, slowly, he sets the pen down.

Leans forward, elbows braced on his knees.

His eyes are tired and beautiful, reflecting every terrible truth you both carry.

You open your mouth — to ask with who, to demand more clarity — but he beats you to it.

"I’d wish," he says slowly, like dragging the words out of his chest hurts,

"for more time."

"With you," he says, voice breaking just slightly on the last word.

Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest — not from illness, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of him, of this.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he’s there, wiping a thumb under your eye, the touch so painfully gentle it almost undoes you completely.

He just stays.

He doesn’t ask for anything more.

He doesn’t try to kiss you, or make promises he can’t keep.

Because he knows. You both know.

This love—whatever it is, whatever it’s becoming—isn’t about grand declarations or fairy-tale endings.

It’s about now.

It’s about this fragile, fleeting moment where you are still here, still breathing, still together.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

The days that follow feel… different.

It’s subtle at first — a lighter step in your walk, a softer smile tucked at the corners of your mouth — but it’s there.

Hope.

Tiny, fragile, impossible hope.

And it’s all because of him.

You don’t dare speak it aloud — not when your body is still betraying you at every turn, not when your doctors still whisper in careful, practiced voices outside your room — but it grows inside you anyway.

A stubborn little flame.

Because of the way Zayne looks at you now — not like a patient he’s sworn to protect, not like a lost cause — but like a person.

A girl with dreams worth fighting for.

One night, when the hospital halls are unusually quiet and the rooftop is bathed in a silver wash of moonlight, you find yourself blurting it out.

Your secret list.

The things you thought you had buried.

"I want to see snow," you whisper, breath misting faintly in the cold. "I want to dance without an IV pole dragging beside me." A soft, broken laugh slips from your mouth. "I want to eat an entire cake without someone telling me it’s too much sugar."

You glance at him, embarrassed, cheeks hot. "And I want someone to kiss me like it’s the end of the world."

But Zayne just listens — really listens — every word sinking into him like gospel.

You expect him to laugh.

Or worse, to pity you.

And when you fall silent, when you turn your face away to hide the burning in your chest, he steps closer.

You blink up at him, stunned.

"So we’ll do it," he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

"We’ll do all of it."

"Zayne—"

"I mean it," he cuts in, voice fierce and steady. "Whatever time we have — we use it. Every second. No regrets."

You want to believe him.

God, you want it so badly your heart physically aches with it.

Still—still—

But you’ve been burned by hope before.

You know how cruel the world can be to people like you.

The way he looks at you now, fierce and soft all at once —the way he says we —you think maybe, just maybe, it’s worth believing again.

"Okay," you whisper, a little breathless, a little terrified.

He smiles then — not the small, careful smirks you’re used to, but a real, breathtaking smile that lights up his whole face.

"Good," he says, offering his hand to you like it’s a promise.

You slip your fingers into his, and the night folds around you, carrying your fragile hopes into the stars.

Later, back in your bed, curled up under warm blankets and still clutching the memory of his hand in yours, you allow yourself to dream.

Tiny dreams.

Stupid, beautiful dreams.

You fall asleep smiling.

You imagine catching snowflakes on your tongue with him.

You imagine dancing barefoot in a field, laughing until your lungs ache for the right reasons.

You imagine frosting on your nose, stolen kisses, clumsy hands trying to twirl you around.

You imagine living — even if it’s just for a little while — like you were never sick at all.

The night it happens, it’s unbearably hot — heavy, clinging summer air that sticks to your skin and makes the hospital walls feel even more suffocating.

You’re dozing restlessly in your bed when he appears at your door.

Zayne.

"Come with me," he says, without preamble.

His hair is a little messy, his white coat half-buttoned and wrinkled like he’s been moving fast — a little frantic, a little reckless.

He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the sprint through the halls.

You blink blearily at him, confused.

Before you can protest, he’s wheeling you out of the room, fast and determined.

He doesn’t explain. He just strides forward, unhooks your IV pole from the wall, checks the portable monitor strapped to your wrist, and mutters,

"You’re stable. Good enough."

You always have.

Your heart kicks wildly in your chest — a mix of fear and excitement and confusion — but you don’t ask questions.

You trust him.

—

He leads you to the rooftop.

It’s empty, quiet — the city sprawled out below you like a glittering sea.

The sky overhead is a deep, endless blue-black, scattered with stars.

And then —

Zayne closes his eyes.

Takes a slow, steady breath.

And the world shifts.

It starts slowly — a faint chill curling into the warm summer air, the barest shimmer of cold gathering around him.

Then, with a soft, almost imperceptible hum, it begins to fall.

Snow.

Tiny crystalline flakes drift from the sky, swirling in delicate, shimmering patterns.

You gasp — a real, sharp, alive sound — and reach out instinctively.

A flake lands on your fingertip, melting instantly against your warm skin.

"You said you wanted to see snow," Zayne murmurs, voice low and a little shy. "Real snow’s impossible right now, but…"

He trails off, lifting a hand helplessly, as if embarrassed.

As if this miracle he’s created isn’t enough.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

You can't speak. You can't even think.

You just stand there, under the impossible snowfall, heart thundering in your chest like it might break free entirely.

He watches you — watches the wonder bloom across your face — and his own expression softens, the usual tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

And then—

As if the night wasn’t already enough—

He pulls something out from behind a nearby bench.

A small, messy cake.

"I made it," he says gruffly, ears turning pink. "Don’t laugh."

Lopsided.

Clearly homemade.

Icing smeared unevenly across the top.

You laugh anyway — a bright, broken sound — and it feels good, like sunlight bursting through storm clouds.

He steps closer, offering you a plastic fork.

You scoop a big, absurdly sugary bite and shove it into your mouth without hesitation, icing smearing at the corner of your lips.

Zayne chuckles under his breath — a rare, breathtaking sound — and reaches out with a thumb to wipe the frosting away.

The touch lingers longer than necessary.

The world slows down.

Your heart is pounding so hard now it’s probably setting off alarms somewhere inside the hospital.

And you realize — you don't want this moment to end.

You don’t want to forget any of it.

But you don't care.

Because then—he sets the cake aside.

Takes your hand in his.

The snow still falls around you, shimmering under the rooftop lights.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just pulls you into a slow, clumsy dance — his hand on your waist, your IV line dragging along but forgotten, your feet stumbling awkwardly in hospital socks — and you laugh again, breathless and giddy and so impossibly alive.

You sway together, turning in small circles, the city spinning lazily beyond the rooftop’s edge.

You think maybe your heart is breaking and mending all at once.

You think maybe you’re falling in love.

And when the song of the night winds down to a hush, when you’re standing chest-to-chest and he’s looking down at you with that unbearably soft expression —

You rise up on your toes.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And you kiss him.

Soft.

Gentle.

Trembling with all the things you’re too scared to say.

It isn’t perfect — your noses bump, you’re both a little off balance — but it doesn’t matter.

Because it’s real.

Because it’s yours.

Because it’s every wish you never dared to make coming true at once.

You pull back a fraction, resting your forehead against his, breathing in the cold he summoned just for you.

Neither of you speaks.

You don't have to.

Everything you feel is written in the way his thumb strokes over your wrist, in the way your fingers curl desperately into the fabric of his shirt.

You are here.

You are together.

For however long you have left.

And for now, for tonight, that's enough.

The plan takes a week to set in motion.

Doctor Li is cautious, of course — his worry etched in the lines around his tired eyes — but in the end, he agrees.

Maybe because he sees the way you light up now, the way your charts have stabilized just a little, like your heart has found something worth fighting for.

Or maybe because he remembers — painfully — what life is supposed to feel like outside sterile hospital walls.

Clearance is granted. Nurses fuss and fret, loading your bag with medications and emergency supplies, setting strict curfews and contingencies.

But you don’t care about any of that.

Because when Zayne wheels you out the front doors into the bright, wild world, it feels like stepping into another life entirely.

The city is buzzing, golden sunlight pouring like honey over everything.

And the park — oh god, the park! It's huge and sprawling and alive, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the sound of children laughing.

Zayne’s hand never leaves yours as he leads you through winding paths, under archways draped in climbing roses, past glittering fountains that catch the light like tiny rainbows.

At one point he finds an empty patch of grass, drops a threadbare blanket he must have stolen from the hospital laundry, and you sit side by side under a tree, dappled sunlight dancing across your skin.

You’re breathless with wonder.

Breathless and alive.

For a long time, you just exist.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Watching the clouds drift by like lazy ships.

And then — quietly, almost shyly — Zayne starts talking about the future.

"Our own place," he says, tracing patterns in the air. "A tiny apartment, the kind where you can hear the neighbors arguing through the walls. We'd have to get a cat. Or a dog. Or both."

You laugh, heart aching sweetly.

He grins, warmed by your smile, and keeps going, voice steady and dreaming.

"I'd cook. You'd probably hate it. You’d tease me until I ordered takeout."

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you like a blessing.

"And someday…" His voice falters, softens. "If you wanted — we could travel. Anywhere. Everywhere. Mountains, oceans. I’d show you real snow."

You open your eyes, finding him already watching you.

There’s a look in his gaze that’s almost unbearable in its tenderness.

"You’ll see everything," he murmurs, like a vow. "I’ll make sure of it."

You smile.

You don't say what you’re thinking — that you’d be happy seeing anything at all, so long as he’s standing beside you.

You just tuck the dream away, precious and impossible, into the quiet spaces of your heart.

You spend the afternoon like that.

Eating terrible ice cream from a street vendor.

Dancing barefoot in the grass even when your knees wobble and Zayne has to catch you, laughing into your hair.

Taking blurry, ridiculous photos with his phone — him pulling faces, you struggling to keep a straight one.

You are tired beyond words when you return to the hospital — every muscle aching, your chest tight with strain — but you are happy.

So unbearably, blissfully happy.

For the first time in your life, you feel like you belonged to the world.

Like maybe you could carve a little piece of it for yourself after all.

But happiness, you learn, is a fragile thing.

Easily shattered.

Easily lost.

It starts slowly.

Nothing you haven’t dealt with before.

A missed heartbeat here.

A dizzy spell there.

Nothing serious.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

But soon it’s undeniable.

You don’t want to worry Zayne.

You don’t want to darken the light he’s given you.

You can’t catch your breath after simple movements.

Your fingers tremble when you try to hold a fork.

Your chest burns with a constant, gnawing ache that no amount of oxygen seems to soothe.

Zayne notices, of course.

He’s not stupid.

And he’s terrified.

The night you collapse in your room — monitors screaming, nurses rushing in a panic — Zayne shoves through the crowd like a force of nature, wild-eyed and desperate.

He’s the one who grabs your hand as they work frantically around you. He’s the one who keeps whispering your name, again and again, like he can anchor you here just by speaking it.

"Don’t," he chokes out, voice cracking for the first time since you’ve known him. "Don’t you dare give up. Not now."

You’re so tired.

God, you’re so tired.

Your vision flickers, the world tilting dangerously, but you find his face — blurry, beautiful — and focus on him with everything you have left.

"I’m so close," he says, begging now. "I’m almost there. Just a little longer — I swear — I’ll find a way —"

You smile.

Small. Broken.

You feel your heart weaken again — a tangible, physical slip inside your ribcage — but you hold his gaze.

You don’t have the strength for promises you can’t keep.

But you can give him this:

"I’ll try," you whisper.

It’s the truth.

It’s everything you can offer.

And it’s enough to make his fingers tighten around yours like he can hold you here by sheer force of will.

Like maybe love alone could be enough to save you.

It’s snowing again.

But not like before.

Not like rooftop snow under hospital lights, summoned from Evol and desperation.

This snow is real — thick, heavy flakes falling from a grey sky, the kind you can lose yourself in.

You’re standing in the middle of a wide, open field. Everything around you is blanketed in pure white.

And he’s there.

Zayne.

Not in a lab coat. Not with tired eyes and trembling hands. But whole.

Bright.

Smiling that rare, breathtaking smile he saves only for you.

"You made it," he says, voice warm as he reaches for you.

You laugh — really laugh — the sound echoing across the empty field like a song.

Your body moves easily, no wires tethering you, no weight dragging at your limbs.

You run to him.

You run.

He catches you effortlessly, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off your feet in a dizzying, laughing spin.

"You kept your promise," you murmur against his shoulder.

"I told you," he says simply, "I'd show you everything."

You don’t want to let go.

You don’t ever want to let go.

And so you don’t.

You stay like that — pressed against him, his heartbeat steady and sure under your palm — as the snow falls heavier, swirling around you like a blessing.

You close your eyes.

You dream bigger.

You see it all — the tiny apartment, the noisy neighbors, the stupid cat knocking over potted plants.

Burnt pancakes in the morning.

Train tickets to everywhere.

Laughing on crowded streets in cities you can't even pronounce.

Wedding rings slipped onto shaking fingers.

A life.

A real, messy, miraculous life.

With him.

Always, with him.

And for one shining, impossible moment—you believe.

You believe you’ll live long enough to see it.

You believe you already have.

The world is harsh when it drags you back.

Cold.

Bright.

Noisy.

You blink against the glare of fluorescent lights, the steady beeping of machines surrounding you.

The familiar, sterile scent of antiseptic stings your nose.

ICU.

Again.

You shift slightly — everything aches — and feel the tug of new wires and IVs threaded into your skin.

And then —

Warmth.

A hand.

Wrapped around yours.

You turn your head with effort.

And find him there.

Zayne.

Slumped in a chair too small for him, still in his hospital scrubs, dark circles bruising his eyes.

Sleeping.

But even in sleep, he doesn’t let go of you.

His hand is firm, steady, fingers laced with yours like a lifeline.

You watch him — your heart aching with something too big, too fierce to name.

You don’t move.

You don’t dare wake him.

And that’s enough.

Because for now — for this fragile, precious moment — you are still here.

He is still here.

—

You don’t know how long you just lie there, feeling his hand wrapped tightly around yours, listening to the steady blip of your own heartbeat on the monitors.

Eventually, he stirs.

You’re so tired.

But you're also… at peace.

A soft, broken noise leaves him — like even sleep can’t protect him from whatever war he’s fighting inside.

And when his eyes blink open, dazed and bloodshot, they land on you immediately.

As if he's terrified you'll vanish if he blinks again.

For a moment, he just stares.

As if he doesn't quite believe you’re real.

"Hey," you rasp, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His face crumples.

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against your joined hands, squeezing so hard it almost hurts.

You manage a smile — small, but real.

"You're awake," he breathes, voice wrecked with relief and exhaustion.

"God — you're awake."

"I wasn’t gonna miss your dramatic collapse," you joke, because you have to. Because the alternative — the raw fear in his eyes — is too much to bear.

It works, a little.

A huff of helpless laughter shudders out of him.

"You scared the hell out of me," he mutters against your knuckles, his breath shaking.

"You scare me all the time," you tease, lighter now, though your chest aches with every word. "But I’m still here."

He lifts his head, looking at you like you're something sacred.

"You have to stay," he says fiercely. "You have to — just a little longer —please —I'm so close —I swear—"

Your heart twists.

You wish you could bottle it up and drink it, let it heal you from the inside out.

He’s been saying that for so long.

So many promises.

So much hope.

You reach up, fingers brushing his jaw, feeling the stubble that wasn't there yesterday.

"I know," you whisper. "I know you're trying. I’m trying, too."

Your hand falls back to the bed, too heavy to hold up.

His hand follows immediately, cradling it again like he can shield you from the whole world.

"I can’t lose you," he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles, desperate and tender all at once.

"You won't," you whisper.

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

But it’s a kind lie.

The kind you tell someone when love outweighs truth.

His eyes glisten, wet and angry and afraid.

"You’re going to live," he says, like it’s a fact.

Like he can will it into existence.

You smile again — soft and sad and full of all the things you don't have the strength to say.

"I'll make sure of it," he vows, fierce and breaking.

"I’ll tear the world apart if I have to."

Even now, when your body feels like it’s slipping further away from you with every beat.

You believe him.

You always believe him.

Even now, when you know some promises are too big for this world.

You squeeze his hand weakly.

"I love you," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud.

The first and — you know — maybe the last.

He lets out a broken, shuddering sound, and leans forward until his forehead rests against yours.

"I love you more," he whispers back, trembling.

"I love you enough to move heaven and earth if that's what it takes."

You close your eyes.

You let yourself believe it.

Just for a little while longer.

Just until the morning comes.

The days bleed together in a haze of too-bright mornings and too-quiet nights.

Sometimes you’re strong enough to sit up, to laugh a little when he brings you sweets hidden in his bag, the ones the nurses pretend not to see.

Sometimes you can’t even lift your head.

But he never leaves.

Zayne is there through all of it — a constant, stubborn presence.

He drags a battered medical textbook everywhere he goes, flipping through it with growing desperation between moments spent at your side.

You catch him muttering to himself sometimes — notes, formulas, theories — a language only he and the universe seem to understand.

His eyes never lose that fierce, determined light. Not even when the others — the nurses, the doctors, even his father — start looking at you with that pitying softness usually reserved for lost causes.

Zayne refuses.

Refuses to believe you are anything less than a miracle still waiting to happen.

And for a while, you let him.

You let yourself believe it too.

You dream together — quietly, in snatches of exhausted conversation.

Little things.

You fall asleep with his hand in yours, and for a moment, you almost think you’ll wake up to that future.

Trips you’ll take.

Places you’ll see.

A life waiting just beyond the next sunrise.

Almost.

It happens in the middle of the night.

At first, it's nothing.

A shiver.

A slight breathlessness.

You're used to it. You think you’ll ride it out like all the others.

But then the pain hits.

A blinding, seizing agony in your chest that knocks the air from your lungs.

You’re distantly aware of Zayne shouting — your name over and over—his voice cracking in a way you’ve never heard before.

Monitors shriek.

Nurses rush in.

The world explodes into chaos.

You try to find him — try to reach out — but your limbs are so heavy, your vision swimming.

You catch one glimpse — just one — of him being dragged back by hospital staff, his face twisted in a raw, desperate kind of terror that tears something deep inside you.

But you can’t speak.

You want to tell him it’s okay.

You want to tell him you’re not afraid.

You can’t even breathe.

And as the darkness rushes up to meet you —you think, faintly —

I’m sorry.

He’s still holding your hand.

Hours later, long after the machines have fallen silent.

Long after the nurses have cried quietly behind the curtains.

Long after his father stood at the door, silent and broken, and then walked away because he couldn't bear to watch his son shatter.

Zayne is still there.

Head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Your hand cradled in both of his like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Come on," he whispers, voice hoarse and raw. "Come on — you promised. You said you’d try —"

He presses your hand to his mouth, breathing you in like maybe he can still find some piece of you, some lingering spark that he can fan back to life.

"You can't leave yet," he says, broken. "I’m not ready — I’m not—"

The words dissolve into a rough, gasping sob.

It’s not fair.

You were supposed to have more time.

You were supposed to see the world, to laugh and dance and live.

You were supposed to have a lifetime — not just borrowed days.

Zayne buries his face against your cold fingers.

He doesn’t care who sees.

Doesn’t care if it’s undignified or messy or hopeless.

You loved him.

And he loved you.

Enough to move mountains.

Enough to break himself into pieces trying to save you.

Enough to hold onto you, even now — even when the world is cruel enough to have taken you away.

"I’m sorry," he chokes out against your skin. "I’m so sorry — I wasn’t enough —"

It isn't true. You would have told him that if you could. You would have told him he was always enough.

But all that's left is silence.

Zayne stays there, long after the world outside your hospital room forgets.

Long after the snow he once summoned for you has melted away.

Long after the rest of the universe moves on.

Just like you.

He stays.

Because love doesn’t vanish with the heart that carried it. It lingers—stubborn and beautiful and devastating —like the first snowfall on a summer night.

The rooftop hasn’t changed much.

Zayne stands there now, a tall figure in a dark coat, hands tucked into his pockets against the cold.

The same cracked tiles underfoot.

The same rusted railings.

The same battered bench, where once — a lifetime ago — two dreamers sat and imagined a future they could almost touch.

It’s snowing.

Soft, heavy flakes drifting down from a sky the color of mourning doves.

The night he watched you dance in the middle of summer, your laughter lighting up the world more than any stars ever could.

Exactly the way it did that night.

The night he made it snow for you.

His throat tightens.

He tilts his head back, lets the snow kiss his skin.

Lets the memories wash over him — sharp and tender all at once.

The wind whistles softly around him, as if in agreement.

"You'd hate this," he murmurs to the empty air, a wry smile ghosting across his face.

"You always said snow was pretty, but cold was overrated."

He closes his eyes.

He can almost see you — spinning in the falling snow, hands outstretched, that shy, luminous smile you only ever showed him.

Almost.

Zayne shifts, pulling something from his coat pocket — a small, delicate bouquet.

Not flowers.

Paper cranes.

Hand-folded, each one painstakingly creased.

A thousand wishes, a thousand promises.

He sets them carefully on the bench.

A silent offering to the girl who once taught him what it meant to dream — even if dreams don’t always come true.

"I did it," he says quietly, voice rough.

"I kept my promise."

He swallows hard, staring out into the snowy city lights.

"I couldn’t save you," he admits, the old grief still a raw, tender thing inside him. "But I saved others."

Hundreds of them.

Patients who would have died, now living because of the research, the surgeries, the relentless fire you lit inside him.

Because of you.

Always because of you.

Zayne breathes in deep, the cold burning his lungs, grounding him.

"I hope... wherever you are," he says, soft and sure, "you're proud."

The snow falls heavier now, blurring the edges of the world.

Zayne stands there a little longer, letting the silence wrap around him like a memory, like a prayer.

Finally, he turns to leave.

But before he goes, he glances back one last time —and for just a heartbeat —he thinks he sees you.

He doesn't blink.

Standing there in the snow, smiling.

Weightless. Free.

He just smiles back, tears blurring the world into stars.

"Happy anniversary, angel," he says.

And then he walks away, carrying you with him — in every beat of his heart.

Always.

[floatyflowers]

Dark! Tarzan X Single Mother Reader

The storm was unexpected.

Waves slammed against the fractured hull of the ship as the night sky shattered with lightning. Your baby wailed against your chest, wrapped in whatever blankets you’d managed to grab before chaos took the crew.

The sound of splintering wood, screaming sailors, and crashing waves mixed into a cacophony of despair.

Then, a plunge into freezing black water.

You didn’t remember how you survived. Only the pull of maternal instinct, your baby's crying voice a lifeline in the storm.

You washed ashore on an unknown jungle coast, battered, trembling, and alone with your son.

Except... you weren't.

The baby cried, but it meant he was breathing.

That was all that mattered. You kissed their damp head and whispered promises you didn’t know how to keep.

"We will be okay. I will protect you."

You built a crude shelter from palm fronds and branches. Days blurred into one another searching for water, for food, trying to quiet your child's hunger. Your body ached. Your mind is tired.

But you weren't alone.

At first, you noticed footprints near your camp, large, bare, and human.

Then came the food which were fruits placed in careful piles, bowls carved from bark filled with clean water, and once, a rabbit skinned and cleaned.

Something or someone was watching you.

You tried to stay calm. Maybe it was a local. A tribal man? Or someone else who had survived like you?

But then you saw him.

He emerged from the trees; the stranger was tall, wild-haired, shirtless, his skin bronzed by the sun. Muscles tensed beneath every movement, but he crouched low, green eyes pointed at you with eerie stillness.

Then he vanished, back into the trees.

You told yourself it was a hallucination.

Until the next morning, when he stood just beyond your camp's edge, holding your baby.

Your heart stopped. You rushed forward. Yet you realised that the baby wasn't crying.

In fact, he cooed, nestled calmly in the handsome man's massive arms.

"Safe," the man said simply, his voice low, rough, like language was unfamiliar to him.

He stepped forward, carefully handing the child to you. "Safe with me."

You backed away, clutching your baby. "Who are you? What do you want?"

His head tilted. He looked confused.

"You. Mate"

The word landed like a stone in your gut. You stared at him, horrified.

"I don’t know you!"

He blinked.

"I know you. Long time. Since sea came. I watched. You… strong. Protect cub." His gaze softened slightly. "Good mate."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your blood ran cold.

From that day forward, he never left.

He followed at a distance, silently watching. Every night, he lingered near your shelter, unseen but felt.

When you gathered water, he would appear from the trees, walking alongside you as if you belonged to him.

He would pick fruit and place it in your basket, like a lover trying to please you.

And your baby? Adored him. Laughed when he appeared. Reached out for him.

That's why you finally decided to give him a chance to learn about him.

And from the information you managed to collect with hardship due to his lack of vocabulary.

You found out about his name, age, and how he grew up with animals like gorillas.

He also told you about how an english woman called Jane taught him the vocabulary before she left to return back home.

That made you warm up to him.

You taught him words, through gestures, repetition, soft correction.

And he mimicked you like a devoted student, eager to understand.

Tarzan was intelligent in a raw, primal way, his voice gradually shaping your language like it was his birthright.

Tarzan had found the remains of a treehouse, half-rotten but salvageable.

It was his parents’ long abandoned home, tangled in vines and broken wood. and he began repairing it.

For you. And your son.

You watched him every day, his muscles rippling as he lifted beams like they weighed nothing, his hands bloodied from work, but never complaining.

He carved handrails so you wouldn’t fall. Laid moss and furs across the floor so your baby had somewhere soft to crawl.

"I fixed it for you, and our son" he said one day, gesturing proudly. "Our home."

You touched the wall. It smelled of cedar and sun, warm, clean, and strong.

Just like him.

And you began to fall for him.

Because out here, in the wild, he was everything for you, food, shelter, and safety.

When you cried, he held you, when your child was sick, he sat awake through the night, bathing them in cool river water and humming low, wordless lullabies.

He didn't ask to sleep beside you, but one night, when the wind howled and your baby curled up between you, you didn't send him away.

You almost forgot the life you had before. The pain. The betrayal.

Until he came back.

Your ex-husband.

It was early morning when you heard the shouts, male, unfamiliar, human. Tarzan stilled like a hunting cat.

His green eyes narrowed at the intruder.

You rushed down the ladder of the treehouse, heart pounding, baby strapped to your back. And there he was.

Soaked. Sunburned. Bruised, but unmistakably him.

"Y/N?" he gasped. "Is it really you?"

You froze as he ran toward you, grabbing your arms.

"God, I thought you were dead! I came back, hired a search crew. The boat is nearby, it’s not too far down the coast. We can leave! We can-"

"Stop," you whispered.

He blinked, confused. "What?"

And then Tarzan stepped out of the trees.

Your ex froze, taking in the Tarzan appearance with wild eyes and an unreadable expression.

"What in the world is this?"

Tarzan moved beside you, putting a hand over your shoulder in a protective manner.

You didn’t speak as your former glared.

"You living with this freak now? Did you lose your mind out here?! He is dangerous, he is a savage!"

You felt your baby stir at the rising voices. You rocked him gently, trying to stay calm.

Tarzan’s breathing had grown shallow. Slow. Eyes locked on the intruder like a predator sizing up prey.

"Go," Tarzan said, voice flat.

When you opened up to Tarzan about the abuse you endured and how you fled on that ship to escape your ex-husband, it broke his heart, and left no doubt in his mind who the real villain was.

Your ex turned, glaring at Tarzan.

"Excuse me?"

"Go back to the tree house and protect our son.”

"She is my wife. That is my son!”

Tarzan tilted his head slowly.

"No."

The man tries to walk past Tarzan to get to you, but he doesn't get the chance to do so as Tarzan stabs him in the chest with his spear, killing him instantly.

A silent gasp escapes your lips, as you hide your son's face in your embrace.

The way Tarzan turns around to face you with a small smile as if he hasn't committed a murder in front of you is shocking.

But his proposal was something else.

"Can I be your husband now?"