#ring pivot with help

[wikiritmica]

[fortune-maiden]

I have to admit, while I did enjoy Mo Du Book 1 and got through it fairly quickly, it wasn't particularly gripping and only towards the end did I really start to get into it

Mo Du Book 2 on the other hand...

[earlgreylatte]

Variant Madness

You thought he was your Mark.

Omni Mark and Shiesty Mark 2V1 you.

Breathing in, you savour the fresh air of the mountain trail you find yourself on. You had visited years ago, but you decided to come again to enjoy the scenery. Maybe you could find a cool rock for Mark and Oliver, too.

You hope things are peaceful for them too, but even if there is another threat that needs to be taken care of, you’re sure Mark would be able to come find you easily enough.

You feel a bit pathetic that you already miss him, even though you’re going to see him in a couple of hours. You suddenly find yourself understanding Debbie’s usual amusement when she watched you two. You really acted like a lovesick puppy, sometimes.

Feeling your phone buzz from your pocket, you fumble for a second as you’re broken from your thoughts, rooting through your jacket to find it. Just as your fingers begin to pull it out a sudden rush of air hits you from behind, your jacket’s hood suddenly pushed over your head as you drop your phone onto the soil as dirt is kicked up into the air.

You whip around, to find…Mark? He was still wearing his black and blue suit, but his entire head was now covered, making him look a little intimidating, with his mouth and hair covered.

He stares at you wordlessly.

“Were you in that much of a rush to show me your new costume? I mean, you just got a new one from Art just a couple of months ago,” you speak up, rubbing the dirt out of your eyes, “Honestly, you could have caused a dirt storm or something…”

He breathes out your name.

You tilt your head, “Is something wrong? Did something happen? Are Debbie and Oliver okay—!?”

Your worrying is cut off when within an instant he has you crushed to his chest, arms locked around you as he buried his head against your neck.

“I just really missed you,” he whispers.

Looks like he’s a lovesick puppy, too.

You can’t hold back a dopey smile, “I missed you too.”

You jolt in his arms when you realize your phone is still vibrating; a redial, so possibly urgent.

“Mark, my phone—“

You’re interrupted again when he pivots you so your back hits a nearby tree, his mask rolled up enough to reveal his mouth which soon presses against yours.

Anything you wanted to say is forgotten as you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer. He groans into your mouth as his hands plant themselves to your waist as he places a knee in between your legs.

He moves from your lips to your neck, pressing adoring kisses against your pulse point before helping you shrug off your jacket, letting it to the ground as his hands slide under your shirt, gloved fingers brushing against your ribcage.

“Mark,” you breathe, heart swelling at the sweet intimacy he was more than willing to give you.

Your attention is broken again when you notice your phone is still ringing, your gaze sliding from the man nestled against you to the forest floor where your phone laid.

Your body stiffens.

The caller ID illuminating your phone was one you could recognize even from afar just from the amount of heart emojis you set for…your boyfriend.

The boyfriend that was currently with you.

Whose grip on you begins to tighten as your heart starts to hammer in your chest.

You shakily bring up your hands to hook your fingers beneath his mask, slowly pulling it up as he remains as still as a statue. The face is familiar, if not a little more worn, but the brown eyes you held so dear were now filled with a sadness deep enough to drown you.

This wasn’t your Mark.

Mark was definitely lucky he was attractive, you decide.

If he wasn’t, you definitely wouldn’t have tolerated the sheer annoyance his two variants were causing you.

“Were you a virgin or something until now? Because you fuck like a noob,” A Mark with a wild rag mask laughed as the one that was dressed like Omni Man 2.0 pounded into you, your back pressed against an alleyway wall, the area long deserted from the destruction the two men unleashed on the city.

“I doubt you even know what you’re talking about, with how you talk like a preteen boy,” The red and white Mark huffs, tone passive enough that you’d think he didn’t care about his copy’s words if not for his pace speeding up and his thrusts going deeper and deeper until your voice reaches a new octave.

The other Mark scoffs, “Well, not that she minds, already looks cockdrunk off your tiny dick. Hey, sweetheart, bet I can take you to heaven and back with one stroke.”

“I will kill you.” The Mark fucking into you, tightens his grip, turning to death stare the now laughing Invincible.

“Aww, is daddy mad? Scared she’s going to want to run away with me once I slip my dick in her?”

You can’t believe you have to orgasm while listening to their dumbass argument…

“Hey, if you’re going to hog her pussy, at least move her so I can put that mouth to use—“

Annoying people really shouldn’t be so hot.

The invincible tag is so good rn, I’m actually in tears…

Decided to do a 2in1 special because people really want me to make a part two of that other variant post…it will come…

Masterlist

[hayatheauthor]

The Anatomy of Passing Out: When, Why, and How to Write It

Passing out, or syncope, is a loss of consciousness that can play a pivotal role in storytelling, adding drama, suspense, or emotional weight to a scene. Whether it’s due to injury, fear, or exhaustion, the act of fainting can instantly shift the stakes in your story.

But how do you write it convincingly? How do you ensure it’s not overly dramatic or medically inaccurate? In this guide, I’ll walk you through the causes, stages, and aftermath of passing out. By the end, you’ll be able to craft a vivid, realistic fainting scene that enhances your narrative without feeling clichéd or contrived.

2. Common Causes of Passing Out

Characters faint for a variety of reasons, and understanding the common causes can help you decide when and why your character might lose consciousness. Below are the major categories that can lead to fainting, each with their own narrative implications.

Physical Causes

Blood Loss: A sudden drop in blood volume from a wound can cause fainting as the body struggles to maintain circulation and oxygen delivery to the brain.

Dehydration: When the body doesn’t have enough fluids, blood pressure can plummet, leading to dizziness and fainting.

Low Blood Pressure (Hypotension): Characters with chronic low blood pressure may faint after standing up too quickly, due to insufficient blood reaching the brain.

Intense Pain: The body can shut down in response to severe pain, leading to fainting as a protective mechanism.

Heatstroke: Extreme heat can cause the body to overheat, resulting in dehydration and loss of consciousness.

Psychological Causes

Emotional Trauma or Shock: Intense fear, grief, or surprise can trigger a fainting episode, as the brain becomes overwhelmed.

Panic Attacks: The hyperventilation and increased heart rate associated with anxiety attacks can deprive the brain of oxygen, causing a character to faint.

Fear-Induced Fainting (Vasovagal Syncope): This occurs when a character is so afraid that their body’s fight-or-flight response leads to fainting.

Environmental Causes

Lack of Oxygen: Situations like suffocation, high altitudes, or enclosed spaces with poor ventilation can deprive the brain of oxygen and cause fainting.

Poisoning or Toxins: Certain chemicals or gasses (e.g., carbon monoxide) can interfere with the body’s ability to transport oxygen, leading to unconsciousness.

3. The Stages of Passing Out

To write a realistic fainting scene, it’s important to understand the stages of syncope. Fainting is usually a process, and characters will likely experience several key warning signs before they fully lose consciousness.

Pre-Syncope (The Warning Signs)

Before losing consciousness, a character will typically go through a pre-syncope phase. This period can last anywhere from a few seconds to a couple of minutes, and it’s full of physical indicators that something is wrong.

Light-Headedness and Dizziness: A feeling that the world is spinning, which can be exacerbated by movement.

Blurred or Tunnel Vision: The character may notice their vision narrowing or going dark at the edges.

Ringing in the Ears: Often accompanied by a feeling of pressure or muffled hearing.

Weakness in Limbs: The character may feel unsteady, like their legs can’t support them.

Sweating and Nausea: A sudden onset of cold sweats, clamminess, and nausea is common.

Rapid Heartbeat (Tachycardia): The heart races as it tries to maintain blood flow to the brain.

Syncope (The Loss of Consciousness)

When the character faints, the actual loss of consciousness happens quickly, often within seconds of the pre-syncope signs.

The Body Going Limp: The character will crumple to the ground, usually without the ability to break their fall.

Breathing: Breathing continues, but it may be shallow and rapid.

Pulse: While fainting, the heart rate can either slow down dramatically or remain rapid, depending on the cause.

Duration: Most fainting episodes last from a few seconds to a minute or two. Prolonged unconsciousness may indicate a more serious issue.

Post-Syncope (The Recovery)

After a character regains consciousness, they’ll typically feel groggy and disoriented. This phase can last several minutes.

Disorientation: The character may not immediately remember where they are or what happened.

Lingering Dizziness: Standing up too quickly after fainting can trigger another fainting spell.

Nausea and Headache: After waking up, the character might feel sick or develop a headache.

Weakness: Even after regaining consciousness, the body might feel weak or shaky for several hours.

4. The Physical Effects of Fainting

Fainting isn’t just about losing consciousness—there are physical consequences too. Depending on the circumstances, your character may suffer additional injuries from falling, especially if they hit something on the way down.

Impact on the Body

Falling Injuries: When someone faints, they usually drop straight to the ground, often hitting their head or body in the process. Characters may suffer cuts, bruises, or even broken bones.

Head Injuries: Falling and hitting their head on the floor or a nearby object can lead to concussions or more severe trauma.

Scrapes and Bruises: If your character faints on a rough surface or near furniture, they may sustain scrapes, bruises, or other minor injuries.

Physical Vulnerability

Uncontrolled Fall: The character’s body crumples or falls in a heap. Without the ability to brace themselves, they are at risk for further injuries.

Exposed While Unconscious: While fainted, the character is vulnerable to their surroundings. This could lead to danger in the form of attackers, environmental hazards, or secondary injuries from their immediate environment.

Signs to Look For While Unconscious

Shallow Breathing: The character's breathing will typically become shallow or irregular while they’re unconscious.

Pale or Flushed Skin: Depending on the cause of fainting, a character’s skin may become very pale or flushed.

Twitching or Muscle Spasms: In some cases, fainting can be accompanied by brief muscle spasms or jerking movements.

5. Writing Different Types of Fainting

There are different types of fainting, and each can serve a distinct narrative purpose. The way a character faints can help enhance the scene's tension or emotion.

Sudden Collapse

In this case, the character blacks out without any warning. This type of fainting is often caused by sudden physical trauma or exhaustion.

No Warning: The character simply drops, startling both themselves and those around them.

Used in High-Tension Scenes: For example, a character fighting in a battle may suddenly collapse from blood loss, raising the stakes instantly.

Slow and Gradual Fainting

This happens when a character feels themselves fading, usually due to emotional stress or exhaustion.

Internal Monologue: The character might have time to realize something is wrong and reflect on what’s happening before they lose consciousness.

Adds Suspense: The reader is aware that the character is fading but may not know when they’ll drop.

Dramatic Fainting

Some stories call for a more theatrical faint, especially in genres like historical fiction or period dramas.

Exaggerated Swooning: A character might faint from shock or fear, clutching their chest or forehead before collapsing.

Evokes a Specific Tone: This type of fainting works well for dramatic, soap-opera-like scenes where the fainting is part of the tension.

6. Aftermath: How Characters Feel After Waking Up

When your character wakes up from fainting, they’re not going to bounce back immediately. There are often lingering effects that last for minutes—or even hours.

Physical Recovery

Dizziness and Nausea: Characters might feel off-balance or sick to their stomach when they first come around.

Headaches: A headache is a common symptom post-fainting, especially if the character hits their head.

Body Aches: Muscle weakness or stiffness may persist, especially if the character fainted for a long period or in an awkward position.

Emotional and Mental Impact

Confusion: The character may not remember why they fainted or what happened leading up to the event.

Embarrassment: Depending on the situation, fainting can be humiliating, especially if it happened in front of others.

Fear: Characters who faint from emotional shock might be afraid of fainting again or of the situation that caused it.

7. Writing Tips: Making It Believable

Writing a fainting scene can be tricky. If not handled properly, it can come across as melodramatic or unrealistic. Here are some key tips to ensure your fainting scenes are both believable and impactful.

Understand the Cause

First and foremost, ensure that the cause of fainting makes sense in the context of your story. Characters shouldn’t pass out randomly—there should always be a logical reason for it.

Foreshadow the Fainting: If your character is losing blood, suffering from dehydration, or undergoing extreme emotional stress, give subtle clues that they might pass out. Show their discomfort building before they collapse.

Avoid Overuse: Fainting should be reserved for moments of high stakes or significant plot shifts. Using it too often diminishes its impact.

Balance Realism with Drama

While you want your fainting scene to be dramatic, don’t overdo it. Excessively long or theatrical collapses can feel unrealistic.

Keep It Short: Fainting typically happens fast. Avoid dragging the loss of consciousness out for too long, as it can slow down the pacing of your story.

Don’t Always Save the Character in Time: In some cases, let the character hit the ground. This adds realism, especially if they’re fainting due to an injury or traumatic event.

Consider the Aftermath

Make sure to give attention to what happens after the character faints. This part is often overlooked, but it’s important for maintaining realism and continuity.

Lingering Effects: Mention the character’s disorientation, dizziness, or confusion upon waking up. It’s rare for someone to bounce back immediately after fainting.

Reactions of Others: If other characters are present, how do they react? Are they alarmed? Do they rush to help, or are they unsure how to respond?

Avoid Overly Romanticized Fainting

In some genres, fainting is used as a dramatic or romantic plot device, but this can feel outdated and unrealistic. Try to focus on the genuine physical or emotional toll fainting takes on a character.

Stay Away from Clichés: Avoid having your character faint simply to be saved by a love interest. If there’s a romantic element, make sure it’s woven naturally into the plot rather than feeling forced.

8. Common Misconceptions About Fainting

Fainting is often misrepresented in fiction, with exaggerated symptoms or unrealistic recoveries. Here are some common myths about fainting, and the truth behind them.

Myth 1: Fainting Always Comes Without Warning

While some fainting episodes are sudden, most people experience warning signs (lightheadedness, blurred vision) before passing out. This gives the character a chance to notice something is wrong before losing consciousness.

Myth 2: Fainting Is Dramatic and Slow

In reality, fainting happens quickly—usually within a few seconds of the first warning signs. Characters won’t have time for long speeches or dramatic gestures before collapsing.

Myth 3: Characters Instantly Bounce Back

Many stories show characters waking up and being perfectly fine after fainting, but this is rarely the case. Fainting usually leaves people disoriented, weak, or even nauseous for several minutes afterward.

Myth 4: Fainting Is Harmless

In some cases, fainting can indicate a serious medical issue, like heart problems or severe dehydration. If your character is fainting frequently, it should be addressed in the story as a sign of something more severe.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Quillology with Haya Sameer; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! While you’re at it, don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey! 

[korn-dawg]

phone sex with streamer!ellie (hiatus breaker/writing warmup)

✩ streamer!ellie who's devastated at the news of your business trip. you're a pivotal part of her daily routine, how is she supposed to adjust without you?

✩ streamer!ellie who warms up to it when you promise to call her as much as you can, making you pinky promise that'd you'd facetime her as soon as you got off your first meeting

✩ streamer!ellie who starts counting down the hours when you actually leave, making herself go stir-crazy waiting for your call, only to check the time - it's been a 1/2 hour since you've left

✩ streamer!ellie who decides to start up a stream to distract herself in the meanwhile, booting up her hardcore world on minecraft

✩ streamer!ellie who immerses herself fully into the stream, hyperactive as she bounces around from one topic to the next, her chat barely keeping up with the everchanging conversation

✩ streamer!ellie who almost forgets about your awaiting call - almost.

✩ streamer!ellie who checks her phone between commentary or while her character's sleeping to avoid phantoms, refreshing her notifications a few times before setting the device down

✩ streamer!ellie whose phone starts to ring a few hours into the stream, her hand snatching the thing off her desk as she gives a lackluster excuse of a family emergency to go offline

✩ streamer!ellie who accepts the call as quick as her shaky fingers allow her to, grinning like an idiot at the sight of your face

✩ streamer!ellie who talks to you as you get unready from your meeting, already partially distracted by that stupid button up that was just barely see-through and the tired lilt in your voice

✩ streamer!ellie who stops talking a few minutes in, spacing out staring at you while you try to get her attention

✩ streamer!ellie who catches herself and tries to continue on like normal, suddenly a little more shifty in her chair

✩ streamer!ellie who can't sit still when you start to get undressed to shower, trying to find a position to relive the worsening ache between her thighs

✩ streamer!ellie who keeps you from getting into that shower, subtly asking for a little help with some well-worded compliments

✩ streamer!ellie who finds herself slipping her hand in her sweatpants under your instruction, leaning back into her chair as she eagerly spreads her legs to feel more of her own touch

✩ streamer!ellie who gives you a play by play of what she's doing as she's doing it as if it wasn't obvious, adjusting her actions to your liking

"'m rubbing my clit for you right now ma'am. slower? okay, okay- i'll go slower. like this?"

✩ streamer!ellie who lets you edge her despite nothing technically stopping the girl from getting herself off, pulling her hand out of her pants right as she's about to cum when you tell her to, leaving her whining with her hips bucking up into the air

✩ streamer!ellie who begs you to let her finger herself, babbling on about how good of a show she'll put on for you until you allow it

✩ streamer!ellie who shifts positions, sitting up in her chair, repeatedly thanking you like a prayer as she sinks her swollen cunt down onto her fingers, easing herself into riding her own hand

✩ streamer!ellie who mumbles on and on about how she wishes you were here with her, slumped forward with her free hand on the edge of her chair

✩ streamer!ellie who alternates between grinding and bouncing on her digits as if it were your strap, being extra vocal on purpose

✩ streamer!ellie who begs you to let her cum, voice cracking and whiny as her thighs start to burn

✩ streamer!ellie who barely thanks you before she's hurled into an orgasm, mouth dropping open as her eyes squeeze shut and her brows knit themselves together, spasming against her hand before slouching back in her chair to catch her breath

✩ streamer!ellie who holds her cum coated fingers up to her phone camera, letting you see them glisten in the light before you tell her to clean them off, chuckling weakly before bringing them up to her lips

✩ streamer!ellie who shows off a little, staring straight into the camera as she hollows out her cheeks, dragging them out of her mouth with a lewd 'pop' noise

✩ streamer!ellie who finally lets you go shower as she gets up to clean herself off and change her pants, walking back into her stream room, freezing as the little red light on her webcam catches her eye. did she close the stream, or just minimize the window?

im ngl im writing this in the back of my lecture hall after taking my final also HIHIHHIII IM BACKKK !!!!!!

taglist !! : @hihihhihahahha @lolitalovess @peskylez @saturnhas82moons @kylorey25 @lipglosskxsses @mars4hellokitty @cloudyorgy @elliezlils11utt @lovergirl-co @kaykeryyy @kissyslut  @elliewilliamskisser2000 @sunflowerwinds

[xichilie]

Dropping by to say that I absolutely live for your Phainon/Mydei X reader stories!! IDk if youll be interested in this idea but hear me out.. Since reader is so oblivious, what do you think would be our reaction to Mydei trying to flirt with reader in a Kreamnoan way? Sparring, Gifting weapons, ect. And would Phainon pass out from laughing at his attempts or actually try to be a wingman in this situation?

I love this idea, phainon would enjoy this. He would definitely tease Mydei, but he would help him, too.

Mydei x (fem)reader

The sun hung high over the training grounds, its golden light reflecting off the polished steel of the weapons scattered around. The air was thick with the scent of metal and sand, the rhythmic clash of blades ringing through the open space as Mydei and Y/N sparred.

Mydei’s golden eyes were sharp, focused entirely on Y/N as she lunged toward him, her form precise but still just a little off-balance. He deflected her strike with ease, the weight of their swords meeting with a satisfying clang.

“That all you got?” he teased, stepping back smoothly, effortlessly avoiding her next swing.

Y/N huffed, rolling her shoulders before gripping her sword tighter. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Mydei’s lips. Good. He liked a challenge. More importantly, he liked watching her fight—it showed her determination, her will. And in Kremnoan tradition, strength was everything.

Any other Kremnoan would have immediately understood the significance of his actions But Y/N?

She just thought he was a good friend.

So now he had to resort to a different method.

His grip tightened on his own blade as he surged forward, his movements deliberate—not aiming to overpower her, but to guide her into a rhythm, a dance of steel and instinct. Y/N met him head-on, eyes bright with determination, and for a moment, Mydei nearly forgot his original goal.

Then she grinned, dodging one of his strikes with surprising agility.

“You almost got me there,” she teased.

Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose, willing down the warmth creeping up his neck. Focus.

He moved fast, catching her sword with his own and stepping in closer, their faces mere inches apart. “You fight well,” he murmured, voice lower than usual. “But you still have much to learn.”

Y/N blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard. But before she could register anything, he took a step back, lowering his sword slightly.

“You should learn from me,” Mydei continued, his tone calm, almost… inviting. “I can teach you properly.”

Y/N brightened, nodding eagerly. “Really? You’d do that?”

Mydei barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Yes. Obviously. That’s the whole point. Instead, he simply nodded, expression unreadable.

On the sidelines, Phainon leaned lazily against a wooden post, watching the scene unfold with an amused glint in his blue eyes. He took a slow sip of his drink, barely holding in his laughter.

Y/N had no idea what was happening.

And Mydei was suffering.

Their blades clashed again, the force of the impact sending a small vibration up Y/N’s arm. She was getting better, Mydei noted—not as easy to push back, more sure-footed with each step.

But she was still a step behind him.

He decided to test something. Instead of countering her next strike, he let her sword glance off his, shifting his weight so she overextended just a little—just enough for him to use her momentum against her.

In a swift, precise motion, he hooked his foot behind her ankle, pivoted, and swept her legs out from under her.

Y/N let out a startled oof as she hit the ground, blinking up at him in shock.

Before she could move, Mydei was already on her, one knee pressing lightly against her thigh, one arm braced against the dirt beside her head. His other hand grasped her wrist, pinning it to the ground in a firm but careful hold. His golden eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unwavering.

For a beat, there was only silence between them, the weight of his presence pressing down like an unspoken challenge.

Then, Y/N grinned.

“That was awesome!” she exclaimed.

Mydei’s eye twitched.

She wriggled her wrist slightly. “Okay, so how do I get out of this position?”

By Nikador, give me strength.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, tightening his grip just slightly as he leaned in closer. “That depends,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual. “Do you want to get out of it?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering his words. “Well, yeah? I mean, what if someone else does this in a fight? I need to know how to counter it, right?”

There was a very long pause.

Somewhere off to the side, Phainon let out a choked sound that was definitely not a cough.

Mydei’s jaw clenched. He didn’t need to look to know Phainon was watching this disaster unfold with way too much amusement.

Still hovering over Y/N, he inhaled slowly, trying to push down his growing frustration. “It’s not just about the fight,” he said carefully, watching her expression for any sign of recognition. “It’s about…” He searched for the right words, ones that she would understand.

Y/N blinked up at him, expectant, curious—completely and utterly unaware of what he was trying to say.

Phainon made another barely contained sound from the sidelines.

Mydei’s eye twitched again.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a slow breath before finally pushing himself off her. “Forget it,” he muttered.

Y/N sat up quickly, dusting herself off. “Wait, did I miss something?”

“Yes.”

“…What was it?”

“Nothing.”

Y/N frowned but shrugged it off, already stretching her arms, completely unaware of Mydei’s silent suffering.

Meanwhile, Phainon was practically vibrating with barely suppressed laughter, his blue eyes gleaming with pure schadenfreude.

Mydei shot him a murderous glare.

Phainon smirked.

Oh, this was too good.

Y/N stretched her arms over her head, rolling out her shoulders as she caught her breath. “Man, I really need to work on counters,” she mused. “You keep knocking me on my ass.”

Mydei ran a hand through his hair, barely restraining a sigh. “You’ll improve,” he said, though his tone was a little strained.

Not at this rate, he thought to himself.

Phainon, still perched nearby, was doing his best to smother his smirk behind one hand. He was failing miserably.

“Alright, I’ll clean up,” Y/N said, already moving toward the weapon rack.

“No need.” Mydei stepped in front of her, reaching down to pick up her sword instead. He turned it over in his hands, the blade catching the light.

Y/N tilted her head. “What?”

He exhaled slowly. Fine. If words don’t work, maybe actions will.

“This isn’t good enough for you,” he said, inspecting the sword with mild disdain before looking back at her. “It’s too light. Not balanced properly. You need something better.”

Y/N blinked. “I mean, I like it—”

“It’s not good enough.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument. “Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and started walking toward the armory.

Y/N hesitated for only a second before following.

Behind them, Phainon slow-blinked before standing as well. “Oh, I have to see this.”

The moment they stepped inside, Y/N’s eyes lit up. The rows of polished weapons, the gleaming suits of armor, the scent of oiled leather and sharpened steel—it was beautiful.

Mydei didn’t waste time. He led her straight to a display of swords, scanning them with a critical eye.

“This one.” He reached for a blade and held it out to her.

Y/N took it carefully, her fingers curling around the hilt. It was heavier than her old one, the craftsmanship finer. The weight felt solid in her grip. “Whoa… This is nice.”

Mydei nodded in satisfaction. “It’ll suit you better.”

She grinned. “Thanks! I’ll make sure to train hard with it.”

Mydei’s expression remained unreadable as he stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice. “It’s not just about training.”

Y/N blinked up at him. “Huh?”

Mydei exhaled slowly, as if willing her to understand. “Weapons are important in Kremnos. They’re an extension of yourself. You don’t just use them—you rely on them, trust them.” He paused, his gold eyes steady on hers. “Giving someone a weapon is a sign of trust. Of something deeper.”

For a moment, the air between them shifted.

Then—

“Ohhh, this is fantastic,” Phainon’s voice cut in, absolutely thrilled.

Mydei tensed visibly as Y/N turned to look at him.

Phainon leaned against a nearby rack, arms crossed, grinning like he had just found his new favorite thing in the world.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to do this,” Phainon continued. “And yet—” he gestured vaguely at Y/N, who was still just smiling in appreciation, utterly unaware “—she still doesn’t get it.”

Y/N frowned. “Get what?”

Mydei gritted his teeth.

Phainon snickered. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all.”

Y/N huffed and turned back to Mydei, giving the sword a few practice swings. “Anyway, this really is amazing. I love it. Thank you, Mydei.”

For a fraction of a second, Mydei felt his composure slip. Her words—simple as they were—settled deep in his chest.

“…Good,” he muttered, looking away.

Phainon grinned wider. Oh, this was never going to get old.

The streets of Okhema bustled with life, filled with merchants calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices filling the air. Y/N strolled ahead, glancing at the different stalls with interest, occasionally stopping to admire something or chat with a vendor.

Phainon and Mydei trailed behind her, the latter watching her carefully, as if contemplating his next move.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Phainon asked, smirking.

Mydei barely spared him a glance. “Thinking about what?”

“Your next attempt.” Phainon stretched his arms behind his head. “It’s honestly fascinating watching you try.”

Mydei ignored him. This time, he had a new approach. If direct gifts and sparring didn’t work, perhaps a more… personal experience would.

Ahead of them, Y/N had stopped at a fruit stall, eyes lighting up at the sight of some unfamiliar fruit. “Oh, these look amazing.”

The vendor grinned. “A rare specialty! Grown only in the far southern regions.”

Y/N hummed in thought. “I wonder what they taste like.”

Before she could reach for one, Mydei had already stepped forward. With a single sharp glance, he picked out the best-looking fruit, tossed a few coins onto the counter, and turned to her.

“Here.” He held it out, his expression unreadable.

Y/N blinked. “Oh, wow! Thanks, Mydei!” She accepted it without hesitation and took a bite. “Ohhh, this is so good.”

Mydei watched her reaction carefully, the smallest bit of satisfaction creeping in. Finally, progress.

Then—

“So, this is your next strategy?” Phainon’s voice practically purred from beside him.

Mydei’s eye twitched.

Y/N, still savoring the fruit, turned to them. “Strategy? What are you talking about?”

Phainon casually leaned against a nearby stall, his smirk widening. “Oh, nothing. Just admiring Mydei’s… tactics.”

Mydei clenched his jaw, barely restraining the urge to throw Phainon into the nearest crate of cabbages.

Y/N, still blissfully unaware, happily chewed. “You should try one too, Mydei! Here.”

Without hesitation, she grabbed his wrist and pressed the fruit to his lips.

For half a second, Mydei froze. His gold eyes locked onto hers, and the world tilted just slightly.

She had no idea. None at all.

And then, as if to torture him further, Phainon let out the most obnoxiously loud snort of laughter Mydei had ever heard.

“You—” Mydei turned his head just slightly, glaring.

Phainon held up both hands, but his shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Oh, please continue. This is beautiful.”

Meanwhile, Y/N was still waiting. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Everything.

Slowly, Mydei leaned forward, taking a small bite from the fruit she still held up for him. The sweet taste lingered on his tongue, but the warmth of her fingers against his was far more distracting.

“Good,” he murmured.

Y/N beamed. “Right?! We should buy more!”

She turned back to the vendor, already discussing how many she wanted, completely missing the way Mydei exhaled sharply, reining himself back in.

Beside him, Phainon wiped a tear from his eye. “You are so down bad, it’s actually painful.”

Mydei didn’t even respond. He simply took another slow breath, clenched his fists, and prepared for his next attempt.

Because he would succeed. Eventually.

Maybe.

The evening air in Okhema had cooled, the market’s liveliness gradually settling into a more relaxed hum. People wandered at a slower pace, street lamps flickering to life, casting a warm glow over the cobbled paths.

Mydei sat alone on a bench near the marketplace, arms crossed, his golden eyes narrowed in deep thought. The interaction from earlier still lingered in his mind—the way she had unknowingly flustered him, the way Phainon had nearly died laughing at his expense.

This isn’t working.

He had given her a sword. He had sparred with her, tested her strength, tried to offer her food—all of which were clear, meaningful signs of courting in Kremnos. And yet, she remained completely, utterly oblivious.

He exhaled sharply, his frustration barely contained.

Then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.

Phainon.

Mydei didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.

“Sulking already?” Phainon drawled, dropping down onto the bench beside him, stretching his arms behind his head. “Didn’t think I’d see the great Mydei looking so defeated.”

Mydei scowled. “I’m not defeated.”

“Oh?” Phainon smirked, turning his blue eyes toward him. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sure looks like it.”

Mydei exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He hated this. Not the challenge—he lived for challenges—but the sheer absurdity of this one.

“What else am I supposed to do?” he muttered, more to himself than to Phainon. “She doesn’t understand what any of it means.”

Phainon’s smirk widened. “Well, yeah. That’s the best part.”

Mydei turned to glare at him, and Phainon held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Look,” Phainon continued, clearly enjoying himself. “If she doesn’t understand Kremnoan courting, then maybe it’s time you try something… else.”

“…Else?”

Phainon nodded, shifting to lean forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been treating this like a battle—strategizing, making moves, all that. But Y/N’s not Kremnoan, Mydei. She doesn’t think like one.”

Mydei frowned, considering this.

“So.” Phainon grinned. “Lucky for you, I happen to have a very brilliant idea.”

Mydei arched a brow. “You?”

Phainon placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “I’ll ignore that. Because this idea? Foolproof.”

Mydei sighed. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Phainon’s grin widened.

“We make her fall for you,” he said smoothly. “The way she’d understand.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?”

Phainon leaned in slightly. “Simple. We play by her rules.”

Mydei remained skeptical, but Phainon only laughed.

“Oh, trust me,” Phainon said, clapping a hand on Mydei’s shoulder. “This is going to be fun.”

Phainon’s grin had only grown wider as he observed the skepticism on Mydei’s face. The Kremnoan warrior looked utterly unconvinced, his golden eyes scrutinizing him as if trying to gauge whether this was another one of his ridiculous ideas.

Spoiler: It was.

But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work.

“Alright,” Mydei said at last, arms still crossed. “I’ll bite. What’s your plan?”

Phainon leaned back, tapping a finger against his chin. “Well, first of all, let’s establish something—you’ve been trying to court Y/N your way, right? Sparring, weapons, food, all that.”

“Yes.”

“And she has no idea what’s happening.”

“…Yes.”

Phainon clapped his hands together. “Which means it’s time for a new approach. One that makes sense to her.”

Mydei gave him a flat stare. “You keep saying that. What does it mean?”

Phainon grinned. “It means we’re going to romance her the way she understands.”

Silence.

Mydei stared at him as if he’d just suggested storming a fortress alone and unarmed.

“…What?”

“Oh, you heard me,” Phainon said, far too pleased with himself. “If she doesn’t understand Kremnoan courting, then we do it her way. Flirting, compliments, maybe even gasp—” he feigned a dramatic pause “—a date.”

Mydei visibly stiffened. “That’s—”

“Not your style? Obviously,” Phainon cut in, waving a hand. “But that’s the point. You need to do something different.”

Mydei looked like he was regretting every choice that had led him to this conversation. “…A date.”

“A casual one,” Phainon said, nodding sagely. “Something low pressure. You don’t have to call it a date if that makes you want to run into battle instead.”

Mydei still didn’t look convinced.

Phainon sighed. “Listen, Mydei. Do you want her to see you as more than a sparring partner, or do you want to keep swinging swords at each other forever?”

Silence again.

Then, Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose, golden eyes dark with reluctant acceptance.

“…Fine.”

Phainon smirked. “Great. Step one: You’re going to ask her to spend time with you—outside of training.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “Like…?”

Phainon shrugged. “A walk. A festival. Even something as simple as grabbing food together.” He smirked. “You do eat, don’t you?”

Mydei rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Good,” Phainon said. “Now for step two—compliments.”

Mydei looked even more reluctant at that.

Phainon grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.” He cleared his throat, adopting a dramatic pose. “Y/N, your strength in battle is admirable, but it’s your presence that truly sets the battlefield ablaze—”

Mydei promptly shoved him off the bench.

Phainon howled with laughter as he hit the ground.

“You deserved that,” Mydei muttered.

“I absolutely did,” Phainon wheezed, sitting up. “But you get my point.”

Mydei exhaled, rubbing his temple. “…Fine. I’ll try.”

Phainon beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

Now, he just had to see how Mydei would pull this off.

It took Mydei two full days to actually work up the nerve to put Phainon’s ridiculous plan into action.

It wasn’t that he was scared—he was a warrior, after all. He had faced countless battles, endured rigorous training, and held his own against some of the strongest fighters in Okhema.

But this?

This was an entirely different kind of battlefield.

Phainon, of course, was enjoying every moment of it. He was leaning against a nearby wall, arms crossed, watching Mydei with way too much amusement as he approached Y/N.

Mydei shot him a warning glare before he turned his focus on her.

She was standing in the courtyard, stretching her arms after finishing some light training. The late afternoon sun caught in her hair, making her look…

…Tch. He wasn’t going to let himself get distracted.

“Y/N.” His voice came out sharper than intended.

She blinked and looked over at him, smiling. “Oh, hey, Mydei. What’s up?”

Mydei cleared his throat. Okay. Casual. Just ask her to spend time with you.

“…Would you like to join me?”

Y/N tilted her head. “For what?”

Damn it, Mydei, specify.

He clenched his jaw. “To—” He barely stopped himself from saying train. “…For food.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Sure! I’m starving.”

Phainon, from the sidelines, gave Mydei a double thumbs-up.

Mydei ignored him.

It wasn’t a date.

At least, Mydei wasn’t calling it that.

But sitting across from Y/N at the bustling market eatery, watching her happily pick at the food, he couldn’t ignore the… different feeling settling in his chest.

This wasn’t sparring. There were no weapons, no battle strategies.

Just… her.

“This place has really good food,” Y/N said between bites. “I’m surprised you suggested it.”

“…Why?” Mydei asked.

She shrugged. “I dunno, I figured if we were hanging out outside of training, it’d be something warrior-like.” She grinned. “Like arm wrestling or hunting a beast or something.”

Mydei’s grip on his drink tightened. “I can do things other than fight.”

“I know, I just—” She laughed. “It’s just funny seeing you in a setting like this.”

“…Is it?”

“A little.” She smiled. “But I like it.”

Mydei’s brain shut down for a second.

Phainon, who was conveniently sitting at a table nearby (acting as the world’s worst ‘subtle observer’), nearly choked on his drink.

To Y/N, it was just a casual statement.

To Mydei?

It felt like a damn victory.

…Tch. Focus.

“Your form has improved,” he said suddenly, the words coming out before he could stop them.

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

Mydei set his cup down. “Your footwork. I noticed it earlier. More controlled.”

Y/N perked up. “Oh! Thanks! I’ve been working on it.”

Encouraged by the way her face lit up, Mydei pushed forward.

“Your speed, too. Faster than before.”

She grinned. “You are paying attention.”

“Of course I am.”

Y/N laughed. “Wow, Mydei. That was almost a compliment.”

“…It was a compliment.”

She giggled. “I know, I know, I just like teasing you.”

From across the room, Phainon wiped a fake tear from his eye. He’s learning.

After their not-a-date, Mydei realized something.

Compliments actually worked.

And so, he tried again.

The next day, they were walking through the city streets when he noticed Y/N adjusting her outfit, fixing the loose fabric.

It was a simple gesture. Nothing unusual.

But Mydei—remembering Phainon’s words about flirting in a way she understands—decided to speak.

“That suits you.”

Y/N blinked up at him. “Huh?”

“The color,” he said, a little gruffly. “It looks good on you.”

Y/N looked down at herself, then back up at him with a surprised smile.

“Oh… thanks!”

She was happy.

Which meant he was satisfied.

But just as he was about to move on, Phainon—who had been lurking (again)—whistled.

Mydei turned sharply to see him leaning against a stall, watching with barely contained laughter.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Phainon said, waving a hand. “I’m just so proud.”

Mydei clenched his jaw. Ignore him. Ignore him.

But Phainon wasn’t done.

“You’re really improving, Mydei. Soon you’ll be a natural at this!”

Mydei grabbed the nearest fruit off a vendor’s stall and chucked it at him.

Phainon dodged (barely) and ran off, laughing his ass off.

Y/N, completely oblivious to all of it, just smiled at Mydei again.

“…You’re being really nice today.”

I am always nice, Mydei wanted to say, but that would be a blatant lie.

Instead, he muttered, “Tch. Don’t get used to it.”

And somehow, that made her laugh.

Mydei had never taken Phainon’s advice before.

Mostly because Phainon was an idiot.

But after their last conversation—where Phainon insisted that “small, casual touches” were an effective way to fluster someone—Mydei found himself considering it.

Ridiculous, he had thought at first. Pointless.

And yet…

Here he was.

They were walking back through the marketplace again. The setting sun cast warm orange hues across the stone streets, and the air buzzed with the chatter of vendors closing up for the day.

Y/N walked beside him, talking animatedly about something—he wasn’t even sure what. He was distracted.

Because a strand of her hair had come loose, falling in front of her face.

This is it, Mydei thought.

Phainon’s voice echoed in his head: Just brush her hair back. It’s a smooth move. Works every time.

Dumb.

But effective?

There was only one way to find out.

So he did it.

Mid-conversation, he reached out, fingers brushing lightly against her cheek as he tucked the stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Simple. Quick. Just as Phainon suggested.

But the reaction?

He hadn’t expected that.

Y/N froze. Mid-step, mid-sentence.

Her words died in her throat as her eyes widened slightly.

For once, she was flustered.

She blinked up at him, a little stunned, her mouth opening like she wanted to say something—but nothing came out.

Mydei stared back at her, and for a brief moment, he felt a rush of satisfaction.

Then it hit him.

Oh.

Oh no.

What if she realizes? What if she figures it out?

He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

So, naturally, he did what he always did in unfamiliar situations—he defaulted to stoicism.

“…Your hair was in your face,” he said gruffly, looking away as if it was nothing.

Y/N blinked again. “Oh. Uh—right. Thanks.”

She laughed, a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck.

Mission success?

Mydei wasn’t sure. But he was sure of one thing—

Phainon, who had been watching from a nearby rooftop (because of course he was), was howling with laughter.

Mydei shot him a glare so deadly it could’ve killed a god.

Phainon just wiped a tear from his eye and gave him a dramatic thumbs-up.

Later that evening, when Y/N had gone off on her own, Mydei found himself regretting everything.

Because Phainon was never going to let this go.

“Oh Mydei,” Phainon sang, throwing an arm around his shoulder as they walked. “You absolute natural. Did you see her face? She froze. I almost fell off the roof trying not to scream.”

“Shut up.”

Phainon ignored him. “The hair move was perfect. Subtle. Smooth. I’m so proud.”

Mydei exhaled sharply, shrugging him off. “It was nothing.”

“It was everything,” Phainon countered. “You’re actually getting somewhere! Now you just need to—”

“I don’t need your advice.”

“Sure you do,” Phainon grinned. “Because I know you’re going to try again.”

Mydei said nothing.

Because, damn it, he wasn’t wrong.

After Phainon had finally stopped laughing, Mydei swore to himself that he wouldn’t take his advice again. Ever.

And yet, here he was.

Again.

Y/N walked beside him, completely oblivious to his internal struggle. The sun had set, and lanterns flickered along the streets, casting a soft glow over the marketplace. She hummed quietly as she admired some trinkets on display, utterly at ease.

Meanwhile, Mydei was not at ease.

Phainon’s words still echoed in his head: You need to build tension, Mydei. Do something that’ll make her think about you when you’re not around.

Mydei had no idea what the hell that even meant. But after the small success earlier, he figured a slightly bolder approach wouldn’t hurt.

Probably.

As they walked, Y/N turned to say something—he barely even heard what. He just saw an opportunity.

So he reached out and—without thinking—lightly brushed his knuckles under her chin, tilting her face up to his for just a second.

The second their eyes met, he let go.

And kept walking like nothing happened.

Y/N stood frozen in place. Again.

Mouth slightly open. Completely, utterly stunned.

Then—

Did her face just turn red?

For a brief, glorious moment, Mydei almost smirked.

And then—

A very, very loud choking sound came from behind them.

Phainon.

Mydei didn’t have to turn around to know his so-called friend was probably on the ground from laughing too hard.

Y/N, still dazed, finally snapped out of it. “Uh—what was—”

“Nothing,” Mydei said quickly.

Y/N frowned, confused, but didn’t push it. “Right. Okay…”

And just like that, she kept walking, muttering something under her breath.

Mydei exhaled slowly.

Was it perfect? No.

Did he get some kind of reaction? Yes.

And that? That was a victory.

Phainon finally caught up to him, barely holding himself together. “I—I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

Mydei shot him a sharp look. “Say another word and I will throw you off this bridge.”

Phainon wiped away a tear, gasping between laughs. “Worth it.”

Mydei sighed. He’d deal with Phainon later.

For now…

He just glanced at Y/N ahead of him—still slightly pink in the face.

Maybe, just maybe, he was finally getting somewhere.

[prosypepper]

growing old with kento nanami

word count: 2.8k

warnings: post-shibuya arc, descriptions of: surgery, recovery processes, depression, insomnia, trauma, therapy, coping mechanisms; pregnancy, marriage, crying. (18+ mdni!)

notes: this WILL have a part 2 and maybe 3! it will be very long so i'm splitting it up. even though the warnings seem kind of sad i promise it's a happy story :)

part 2 | masterlist

“marry me.”

proposing to you was nanami’s first conscious thought after being in a coma for 5 days after shibuya. you were reading a book, peacefully keeping him company in his hospital room, not even noticing he was awake. your eyes fluttered up from your book, back down, and then up again.

“marry me, please,” he repeated. you stayed silent for a moment, eyes widening and mouth dropping. he wasn’t supposed to wake up.

“kento, oh my god,” you yelped, dropping your book and rushing to the hospital bed to look at him. his eyes were open, only slightly, and the weakest smile he could bear rested on his lips. you gently settled your hands on each side of his face, barely hovering over the charred skin. he looked so tired, and yet, he was asking you to marry him.

kento groaned when you hugged him, but you couldn’t stop yourself, you squeezed him gently and with care. a weak hand rested on your back, in between your shoulder blades. he was too weak to repeat his question again. but the only thing on his mind was if you would be his wife.

“yes, yes, i’ll marry you,” you cried into his chest, wetting the fabric of the hospital clothing.

neither you nor nanami himself understood why he proposed to you in that moment. after waking up, his journey to recovery began with slow but steady progress. it took several months of intense rehabilitation and support from both sorcerers and doctors for him to regain his mobility. with their help, he was able to walk and move with a surprising degree of agility, nearly returning to how he was before shibuya. he also had a few cosmetic surgeries, in an attempt to minimize the scarring from all he had been through. within a few months, he was able to see his skin smooth out and hair grow from the side of his head. he wouldn’t look the same, ever; but you didn’t care. you loved kento, as he did you, the fact you were able to celebrate his recovery made you feel like the luckiest woman on the earth.

the loss of his previous strength and abilities weighed heavily on him, casting a shadow over his spirits. yet, amidst the struggles, he found solace in small victories and the support of those around him, your support meaning the most to him. although kento was deeply troubled by the realization that he could no longer pursue his life as a sorcerer, he came to accept it as the best possible outcome given the circumstances. this acceptance marked a pivotal shift in his perspective, allowing him to focus on rebuilding his life in new ways. before he turned in his resignation, he had made sure to recommend ino for a promotion. it was his last wish as a sorcerer.

after the almost year-long recovery process, kento surprised you with a beautiful ring, one of the ones you had talked about before he went on his trip. he proposed again, in the place you first met, this time without weak hands and barely audible words. he was able to find a job, one not nearly as draining as his job from before he returned to jujutsu – and began making plans for your wedding. the planning process didn’t take long, he wanted the wedding to make you happy.

your and kento’s wedding was outright beautiful. it was a stunning venue on a beach, hundreds of guests attended, friends and family alike. kento shed a few tears when he saw you walking down the aisle, clad in the most gorgeous attire he’d ever seen you wear, as his bride. his voice shook as he said his vows – vows that he wrote, almost a good 1,000 words – and he made you a million promises. promises he wouldn’t dare to break, promises to grow old together and live the life you both deserve.

at the reception, you told kento you had a surprise for him, and ran off to go get something from one of your bridesmaids. he was confused at first, because he didn’t need any more surprises, he was the happiest he’d ever been. a newlywed, married to you. but when you came back to the table, two small pieces of paper in your hands, he didn’t think it would be possible to be more joyous.

“we’re going to malaysia, for our honeymoon, kento,” you excitedly told him, showing off the two plane tickets scheduled in a week.

nanami was speechless, a huge smile with teeth plastered across his face, and he gave you the tightest hug he’d ever given anyone.

when the two of you traveled to malaysia, kento was at peace. he had never seen a place so charming and breathtaking, he remained entranced by the culture and landscapes. the two of you spent your time hiking in nature, watching waterfalls and having lovely picnics wherever felt right. kento was so ecstatic, a smile constant on his face as he watched his surroundings with never-ending wonder. he thanked you a million times over.

you had never seen him be so alive. he promised you that one day, he was going to build a house, right on the beach, just for the two of you.

once you were back at your shared apartment, the reality of the past year and a half hit kento like a train. so much time had been spent recovering, constantly in and out of the hospital, planning for your wedding and improving both of your lives, he never had a chance to reflect on the genuine trauma he went through.

you didn’t notice for a while, but kento grew depressed, and restless at the same time. he began to spend his nights awake, insomnia brewing like piping hot tea, staying conscious until the early hours of the morning, doing any exercise or meditation to calm himself down and go to sleep. yet the visuals replayed over, and over, and over. the blood, the curses, the flames, the death. it hadn’t bothered him before, he thought, but he just never gave himself the time to soak it all in. and the depression – the depression was an all-new low for him. when kento wasn’t working, he was at his house, in the bed, while you were working or off running errands. you only noticed his new behavior when you woke up in an empty bed at 4 a.m. one night, 3 months after your honeymoon.

“mm…kento?” you called, footsteps heavily plopping down the hallway towards the bright lights of your kitchen. when you entered the room, you saw kento sprawled out on the floor, knees bent, with sweat rolling down his forehead. stepping over towards him, you kneeled down to look at him, and his head rolled to the side to look at you, too.

kento’s eyes looked so tired, the eyebags you hadn’t seen in years were full-fledged, his eyelids were droopy and exhausted. just by the emotion his eyes conveyed, you could see he was silently suffering, and he had been that way for a while.

“kento, what’s wrong?” you asked, bringing a hand to the side of his face to rub a thumb over his sweat-glistened cheek.

“i don’t…know,” he replied, defeat in his voice, “i can’t sleep. i haven’t slept. i don’t know.”

your husband always had a plan. he always knew everything; he always took care of the unknown and intimidating parts of life. for kento nanami to say “i don’t know” meant something was wrong, seriously wrong.

“sit up,” you softly demanded, gently pulling his shoulders off the floor. you sat on the ground, crossing your legs, and kento mirrored your actions, slumping when he finally sat up. “kento, honey,” you began, taking his hand in yours and resting it on his knee, “what’s going on?”

he was never one to talk about feelings, to talk about emotions felt deep down, because he wasn’t sure how to convey anything that would make him vulnerable. but as he sat in front of you, chest slightly heaving, such a burnt-out expression on his face, you knew there was something he wasn’t saying, but that something needed to be said.

“i can’t…” kento muttered, stopping himself for a second, “i can’t stop thinking.” he finally admitted, causing you to furrow your eyebrows with concern.

“about what, honey?” you sweetly asked, thumb caressing the back of his hand, tenderly rubbing back and forth.

“everything.” he stated, eyes flashing away from you to look at the floor next to him. you knew what he meant, though, but you had never seen him so pained from his work, especially from something that happened so long ago.

“tell me, baby,” you soothed him. you grabbed his other hand, causing him to look back at you pitifully. kento stayed silent for numerous moments, unsure as to what you could handle. but you were his wife, someone he was supposed to be able to confide in.

“so many people…died…” he mumbled, “i almost died. i saw what it looked like, i faced death.” his words began to come out quicker, “i’ve never seen that many people die, not even in shinjuku, and there was so much blood, and gojo almost, he almost-,” kento’s voice began to get shaky and uneven, a crack in his words as tears stung his eyes. “gojo almost died, too, and…i almost died, i saw it,” he repeated, “and yuuji – looked so upset, and takuma got hurt,” he clenched his eyes shut, words still coming out as a single string.

you moved closer, shifting onto your knees and wrapping kento in a comforting embrace. he clung to you immediately, his hands gripping the fabric of your shirt as if trying to anchor himself in reality. his body shook with the intensity of his sobs, each breath coming in ragged gasps. the rawness of his anguish was palpable; his cries were filled with a pain that seemed almost too immense to bear. the image of the carnage replayed in his mind, a relentless cycle that he couldn’t escape. kento’s tears soaked through your shirt, repeating with his incoherent murmurs of horror. his face, once so composed, now twisted in an expression of deep, unrelenting despair.

kento wailed into your chest for hours that night, unable to stop his shuttering and repetition of the same phrases. he only calmed down when the sun began to rise, slowly illuminating the insides of your home. once kento parted his head from your chest, he looked you in the eyes, asking for help without saying a word. you wiped away his tears and grabbed the sides of his face, promising him you will get him anything he needs. kento fell asleep around 7 a.m. that morning, with the help of you running your fingers through his hair, shushing him and telling him it will all be okay.

he believed you. kento nanami put all his faith in you, his wife, to help him fix his problem he hadn’t an idea on how to mend. and so, you did everything in your power to help him. you spent countless hours on research, finding therapists that specialized in helping people like him, and you came across different mechanisms to help him cope. most of all, you continued your duties as a supportive wife, constantly telling him to get up and go to the supermarket, or out to the library. little by little, these smaller things combined together to work out, and kento began to get better. it was a breath of fresh air, as well as a weight lifted off both your and his shoulders, when he began to smile again, and shifted his view of life to a more positive outlook. he was alive, he began to feel alive again.

kento nanami was finally beginning to live the life he desired and deserved, all with you by his side.

a couple of weeks after kento’s 30th birthday, you came rushing into his office, tears of joy — and anxiety — pricked in your eyes. soon as his eyes landed on your seemingly upset expression, he was concerned.

“what’s wrong, dear?” he asked, pushing his chair away from the desk to stand up. you quickly closed the door behind you, leaning against it, and you dug around in your purse to pull out a small plastic baggie. when you tossed them to kento, it only took him a few seconds to realize what you were there to tell him.

“…you’re pregnant?” kento beamed, rushing over to you to wrap his arms around your waist. he quickly lifted you up in the air, grip so tight as if he never wanted to let go, your feet kicked happily.

kento always wanted to have kids, but being a sorcerer, he always thought it was too dangerous. you had some conversations about it after shibuya, and the both of you agreed that if it happened, it happened. and your children would have the best life possible, of course; but the glimmer of hope you had for having kids slowly burnt out over time with both of you increasing in age. in that moment, though, kento had so much hope and pure happiness, just at the thought of growing a little family with you.

the first few months of your pregnancy were hectic. between doctor’s appointments, mixed with morning sickness and fatigue, you thought it would never end. although you were happy to start a family, negative emotions easily overcame you, and kento noticed. he tried his best to be there for you, but his work schedule conflicted with your lives, and he soon realized he needed a change in his life. he needed to change your life and his, because he would be damned if he was going to return to the same boring life as he had before.

using his savings and bonus money from his job, he bought you a house. a real house, with acres of land and space for your family to grow, so much bigger than the previous apartment you shared with him. a house that he owned, a house that would contain all the joy for your future. he made sure it was grand, with a huge kitchen, and multiple bedrooms – not caring if only two of them were filled, or if all of them housed someone. before kento showed you the house, he set up a nursery.

“where are we going?” you inquired for about the 50th time that day. you had been in the car for hours, and all kento would say in return is, “you’ll find out.” nonetheless, you were excited, kento had always given you the best surprises, but you had never driven so far with him.

“we’re here.” kento stated, pulling into an empty concrete driveway big enough to fit 6 cars.

“where are we? did satoru move?” you asked, the huge display of a home proving to be a bit intimidating for you. kento didn’t reply this time, he only scurried out of the car to come and open your door, helping you get out with a kind hand.

you didn’t even understand what was going on until you walked up the front steps, and a few keys jingled in kento’s hands until he found the right one to unlock the door. the door to your new home.

“wait...wait. kento,” you said, standing still as your husband strode inside, “what is this?” the familiar tears of joy rushed to your eyes, and you just stood there with a shocked expression plastered on your face.

“this is our new home, honey,” kento chimed, reaching a hand out again to welcome you inside. you took his hand, albeit a little hesitantly, and stepped inside your house.

“oh, kento,” you blubbered, throwing your arms around his neck, tears beginning to trickle down your face.

you and kento explored the house for hours, marveling at all the space and beauty he bought for you. you thanked him a million times over, crying at each new space you discovered in the house, you felt sheer gratefulness for your husband and all he did for you. and kento, well, he did all of it to thank you, to thank you for never losing hope in him, and to thank you for the joy you’d made him experience. he was so undeniably in love with you, just as he had always been, and he promised himself he was going to do everything in his power to live the life he deserved with you. he was going to live up to every word he made in his vows, every promise he made with you, each and every word he had spoken to you was going to show in your lives.

even from the moment he met you, he knew he was going to spend his life with you.

taglist: @kundere20000000 @missakward123 @cherriee-ee @starlightanyaaa @lagataprrr @hazzelle-kento

let me know if you'd like to be added!

[bullet-prooflove]

Dumb Bitch: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @dizzybee03 @cosmic-psychickitty @puredicks @queenslandlover-93

Takes place the day before:

Stop Compressions, Start Compressions - Robby loses everything in the aftermath of Pittfest.

Companion piece to:

Lipstick (NSFW) - It's love at first blow job for Dr Robby.

Crisis - Robby has a bad day.

ASMR For The Soul - Robby doesn't sleep when you're not around.

Bunny - Robby discovers you've been keeping secrets.

Something To Complain About (NSFW) - You ignite the ire of Robby's neighbour with your bedroom noises.

Noise Cancelling - Robby discovers his neighbour keeps a spreadsheet of your antics.

Poolside - When Robby has a shitty day, he just wants to be whereever you are and usually that's the pool.

The Betting Pool - Robby discovers that his collegues have been taking bets on his relationship.

Fifty Shades of Robby - Robby's collegues see the truth of his relationship when they find your Instagram.

The reason Robby gets into a fistfight at the pool is because he hip checks ‘Charles, not Charlie’ into said pool. He’s had eyes on the fucker the entire swim season, watching him, watching you. He’s not a jealous man by nature, you’re an attractive woman who spends the majority of her time in a swimsuit, he’d drive himself crazy if he was.

However since he found out about the baby there’s a protectiveness in him that surges to the surface whenever he senses a threat and ‘Charles not Charlie’ is definitely a threat.

It’s the way looks at you with fuck me eyes, his hand straying into his pocket everytime you bend over in those sports shorts of yours. The fact he makes a point of getting your attention at the end of every swimming lesson, his hand on your lower back as he guides you away from the other parents under the guise of checking in on his son’s progress.

The thing is Robby knows he’s seen the ring because he can hear his voice bouncing around the pool room as he attempts to hit on you.

“You’re too pretty to be tied down like that.” Charles tells you as he lingers at the edge of the water, his hand coming to rest on your waist, thumb smoothing far too fucking close to where the baby resides. “I could give you the ride of your life-”

Robby hip checks him before you can break his fingers. It’s not even that hard, just a nudge that ‘could be’ accidental but it sends him careening into the pool spluttering and cursing up a storm.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” He snarls as he comes hurtling out, his finger jabbing into Robby’s chest.

“The husband.” Robby responds, squaring up to him. “And the father.”

Charles head pivots towards you as he lets out a malicious laugh.

“You let him knock you up?” He exclaims, his gaze coming to rest on your abdomen. “You really are a dumb bitch-”

It’s then that Robby coldcocks him, sending tumbling back into the pool.

“Fuck.” You mutter, shimmying out of the shorts when you realise Charle’s unconscious. “I can’t believe I’ve gotta rescue the asshole that just called me a dumb bitch.”

You’re in the water before Robby can say another word, making one of those absolutely perfect dives. He’d be turned on if he wasn’t already so pissed off at the turn this situation had taken. He helps you get Charles back onto the tiles before checking him over for breathing sounds. He barely has his hands on him before the other man rouses, slapping at Robby like when two kids are fighting.  

“What the hell happened?” He mutters as he gets himself into a sitting position.

“You fucked around and found out.” You tell him, arms crossed over his chest  as he touches his tender eye. “You’re lucky I don’t call your wife about how much of a sleaze you are. Now go, your kids waiting for you.”

“But I’m soaking wet and my seats are freaking leather!”

“Not my problem Chuck.” You say jabbing your finger towards the locker room. “Now leave before my husband decides he wants round two.”

Robby gives him a dark look before he raises to his feet with as much dignity as he can muster, trapsing towards the exit. There’s silence between the two of you as you watch him go, the swing door closing behind him.

“I know you can handle your shit.” Robby says, his palms coming to rest on your hips, framing the space where the baby resides. “But he  put hands on you and that’s not ok.”

“The baby makes you a little more protective doesn’t it?” You murmur and he inclines his head in agreement. “I kinda like it.”

You bite your lip and it sends a rush of blood down to Robby’s dick.

“I should probably get out of this wet bathing suit.” You say, your fingers entwining with his before you tug him towards the empty office. “You wanna help?”

“Yea.” He says, scooping up the gym bag with your dry clothes in. “I certainly do.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[azrielstherapist]

The Things We Keep in the Dark

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

One-shot, Smut with little to no plot [18+]

Warnings: knife play, shadow play, oral s*x (on both parts), face riding, not protected penetration (p in v), fighting, dirty talk, Dom!Azriel, Switch!Reader, (if I forgot something, pls let me know).

It always started with a blade.

Tonight was no different, cold steel glinting beneath the moonlight, the dull thud of boots circling on stone, and Azriel’s golden gaze locked on mine like I was prey he’d already chosen but hadn’t yet decided when to devour.

The training ring atop the House of Wind was deserted, the city far below glittering like stars scattered across a velvet cloth. I moved in silence, muscles humming, sweat trailing down my spine as I twisted and swung. He blocked. Pivoted. Parried. Again.

“You’re holding back,” I said, breathless, catching the flat of his dagger with mine.

Azriel didn’t answer. He never did, not unless it mattered.

Instead, his shadows coiled near his shoulders, shifting like a creature half-asleep. Watching. Listening. Waiting for his command.

I shouldn’t have liked the way they watched me.

But I did.

And that was the problem.

“You’re smirking again,” I said, ducking his blade and aiming a low kick. He caught my ankle mid-air.

“I’m not.” His voice was gravel and silk, soft but scraping. He stepped forward, forcing me to hop on one leg unless I wanted to fall on my ass. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m trained to observe. You’re definitely smirking.”

“And I’m trained to lie.”

Something like a laugh caught in my throat, but it didn’t make it out, because suddenly, he yanked my leg higher, and I lost balance. I went down hard, blade clattering from my hand. His knee pinned my thigh, one arm caging my wrists above my head, and gods, he was close. Heat radiated off him, sweat and shadows and the kind of tension that made every part of me tighten.

Azriel’s mouth hovered just inches from mine. He hadn’t smirked, but now, he looked like he wanted to do something far worse.

“Tell me what you see,” he murmured. “Since you’re so observant.”

My chest rose against his. His free hand reached for his dagger, not to threaten, but to lift it. He turned it flat and pressed the side of the blade gently to my collarbone.

I stilled.

The metal was cool against my heated skin, slow as it dragged across the curve of my throat. My pulse jumped, and his eyes locked on the fluttering beat beneath my jaw like he could feel it too. His shadows slithered low, almost possessive, curling around my thigh beneath my leathers.

“You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” he asked, so softly I almost missed it.

“No,” I whispered.

But I didn’t move.

He smiled then, not smirking. Real. Devastating.

“Liar.”

The blade slid down to my sternum, stopping just above the swell of my breasts. No pressure. No pain. Just the unbearable promise of what he could do.

Of what he wanted to.

My breath hitched. His shadows stirred again, brushing the inside of my thigh like a question. I spread my legs just slightly, testing. Daring.

Azriel’s gaze darkened.

And then 

— he pulled back.

The dagger vanished into its sheath, his body retreating like nothing had happened. Like my skin wasn’t still tingling, like I wasn’t still wet from the brush of his shadows and the look in his eyes.

He stood, offered me a hand, and said flatly, “We’re done for tonight.”

I didn’t take it. I climbed to my feet on my own, jaw clenched.

“You do that again,” I said, brushing off my pants, “and you better fucking finish it.”

Azriel’s hazel eyes lingered on my mouth for one second too long.

Then he vanished into the night.

Three nights later

I couldn’t sleep.

The House of Wind was quiet, too quiet, and I was too keyed up, every inch of me aching with unburned energy. I’d tried to distract myself. A book, a bath, a bottle of red from the cellar. None of it helped.

All I could think about was the weight of his body, the whisper of steel on skin, the look in his eyes like he wanted to ruin me slow.

So I went to the ring again.

Midnight wind howled over the cliffs, but I didn’t feel cold. I needed to move. To hit something. To—

“You never learn,” a voice murmured behind me.

I turned. He was already there, leaning against the archway like some ancient god sculpted from shadow and silent hunger.

“Neither do you,” I said, heart thudding.

Azriel walked toward me, slow, deliberate. His shadows wrapped around his boots like mist, and I hated how easily they obeyed him. How easily I wanted to.

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

“I think you know.”

“I don’t want to train.”

His eyes scanned my body once, lingering at my throat. “Neither do I.”

And then we were on each other.

His hands were on my hips, slamming me against the wall of the ring as his mouth crushed mine. No teasing. No testing. Just teeth and tongue and heat, like he’d been starving for me and I was the only thing that could satisfy it.

I moaned into his mouth, grinding against him, and fuck, he was hard already. I felt it through his leathers, thick and hot and demanding, and my hands fumbled to unbuckle him, desperate and shameless.

Azriel grabbed my wrists and pinned them to the wall.

“Slow,” he growled.

“You’ve made me wait long enough.”

“I’m not rushing this. You want me to use the blade again?”

I shivered.

“Yes.”

His lips curved against my neck. “Then behave.”

He dropped to his knees.

I gasped, grabbing his shoulders as he tugged my leathers down and off, peeling them like a second skin. His shadows slid in to help, teasing over my thighs, brushing my entrance.

When his mouth finally touched me, I nearly screamed.

Azriel ate like he had all the time in the world. Like he was memorizing every tremble, every whimper. His tongue circled, pressed, licked into me slowly, possessively, while his shadows held my legs wide, my arms above my head, keeping me open for him and only him.

“Fuck, Azriel—”

He groaned into me, and the vibration sent stars behind my eyes.

I rode his face like I was drowning and he was air, one hand tangling in his hair as his shadows slipped lower, curling between my ass cheeks and teasing just enough to make me writhe.

My orgasm hit hard, hips jerking, legs shaking. He held me through it, licking me slow as I came down, not stopping until I whined from overstimulation.

Then he stood.

His mouth glistened. His eyes were molten.

“Your turn,” I said hoarsely, sinking to my knees.

I knelt before him, still trembling from the orgasm he’d just wrung out of me, still high on the taste of his shadows dancing over my skin. My legs ached, my throat was dry, but I wanted more. I wanted him.

Azriel stood still, silent as a mountain god, watching me with melted gold eyes. His cock strained against his leathers, thick, leaking just enough that it had left a darkened patch. I reached up, unbuckled his belt with hands steadier than I felt. Each movement slow. Deliberate.

“I’m not breaking,” I whispered.

His head tilted, shadows curling around his shoulders. “You look like you already have.”

I smiled, wicked and slow, as I pushed his leathers down just enough.

His cock sprang free.

Hard. Thick. Veined. Long. So long. The tip was flushed, slick, perfect. My mouth watered.

“I’m going to ruin you,” I said, wrapping one hand around the base, giving him one firm stroke.

Azriel hissed through his teeth. “You can try.”

He didn’t touch me. He let me do what I wanted, which made it worse somehow, the stillness in him coiled like a viper. A male who knew his power and didn’t need to flaunt it.

So I used mine.

I licked the head first - just the tip - teasing my tongue around the slit until I felt him twitch in my palm. Then I licked lower, dragging the flat of my tongue down the underside of his shaft, savoring the weight of it. His cock jumped again, and I smiled against it.

“Stop teasing,” he growled.

But I liked teasing.

I took him into my mouth slowly, inch by inch, until he hit the back of my throat. I gagged a little, swallowed, pushed farther. He grunted, one hand finally tangling in my hair, not forcing, just there. Anchoring.

“You feel- fuck-”

I moaned around him, letting the vibration buzz through his length, and he swore again, this time in Illyrian.

I didn’t stop. I bobbed my head, sucked harder, used my hand where my mouth couldn’t reach, twisting at the base just as I hollowed my cheeks. His hips started to move, just slightly, a shallow thrust that betrayed how close he was to snapping.

“Don’t stop,” he said, voice hoarse.

I didn’t plan to.

But his shadows had other ideas.

They slid behind me, brushing between my thighs, again, teasing my sensitive, still-throbbing core. I gasped, and in doing so, nearly choked on him. Azriel pulled out instantly, hand cupping my cheek.

“You alright?”

I nodded. My eyes were glassy. My lips wet. I had never wanted someone like this, not like a lover, but like a fire I wanted to throw myself into.

“I want more,” I said, licking my lips. “All of it.”

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter.

And then - he stepped back.

He pulled a small, narrow blade from the sheath at his side. The one he’d pressed to my neck before.

My breath caught.

He walked around me slowly, until he stood behind me. I was still on my knees, bare, flushed, wet.

“Hands behind your back,” he said.

I obeyed.

He crouched behind me - close enough to feel the heat of him on my spine. I felt the kiss of the blade first - the flat edge sliding up my back, lifting strands of hair away from my neck. I shivered, but didn’t flinch.

“You trust me?” he asked.

“With the blade?” I said.

“With all of it.”

I turned my head to look at him. “Yes.”

Azriel kissed the back of my neck, just once, and that simple act made me ache.

Then the blade slid forward, tracing my collarbone, down to my sternum.

“I could cut the strings of your soul,” he whispered, “and you’d thank me.”

“I’d beg for it,” I said.

He hissed. “Fucking hells.”

The blade trailed down to my stomach, then lower, a whisper over my hip bone, the curve of my thigh.

Then he flipped it, pressed the hilt between my legs.

I gasped.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Dripping. Just from my shadows and steel.”

I whimpered, grinding against the cool hilt shamelessly.

Azriel’s hand snaked into my hair and pulled my head back gently.

“I want you on my face,” he said. “Now.”

I turned, breath ragged, eyes wide. “You want me to—?”

He was already lying back on the stone, wings spread, cock still hard and glistening against his abdomen.

“Ride my face,” he said. “I want to feel how sweet that cunt is when it’s smothering me.”

Mother Above, I moved.

I climbed over him, straddled his face slowly, and the second his tongue touched me again, I shattered.

He licked me like a starving man, his nose buried in my folds, tongue flicking my clit with practiced precision. I ground down against him, moaning loudly, openly. His hands cupped my ass, guiding me, pressing me harder against his mouth.

The shadows came again, swirling around my nipples, teasing them into hard peaks. I was overstimulated, overwhelmed, undone. My thighs trembled, my head fell back-

I came again. Loud. Wet. Shaking.

Azriel drank every drop.

When I finally collapsed beside him, gasping, he turned his head and said, “You think that was everything?” he asked, voice low and rough.

I smiled, dazed. “You mean you’re not done?”

“Not even close.”

He flipped me onto my stomach in one fluid movement. His cock pressed to my soaked entrance, ready, thick, desperate.

He leaned over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other steady on my hip. His voice was gravel-soft in my ear.

“Tell me you want this. Say yes, and I’ll give you everything.”

I turned my head just enough for our eyes to meet. “I’m yours,” I whispered. “I want you. I need you.”

He slid in slow. Deep. One inch at a time.

And fuck, he was huge.

I arched, groaning, clawing at the stone as he bottomed out.

Azriel leaned over me, mouth at my ear. “Now you’ll feel what my shadows already know.”

Azriel filled me slowly, a deep, grinding thrust that split me open in the most delicious way. I gasped, clutching at the stone floor beneath us, my cheek pressed against the cool surface as his hips met my ass.

“Fuck,” he groaned against my neck. “You feel…”

He didn’t finish. He just growled, low and hoarse, and started to move.

Slow at first. Purposeful.

Each thrust was a stroke of fire, thick and hard and dragging against every nerve inside me. My thighs were already sore, my body slick with sweat, my skin tingling from the memory of his shadows and tongue.

But Azriel wasn’t done with me.

He braced his hand beside my head, his other palm sliding beneath my waist to lift my hips just enough, angling me perfectly. When he thrust in again, I yelped.

“Right there?” he asked, voice rough, amused.

I nodded furiously, barely able to form words. “Don’t stop. Please-”

He didn’t.

He pounded into me with a brutal rhythm, all control gone, shadows writhing around our bodies like living threads of heat and silk. Every sound he made was raw - panting curses, moans that turned into snarls.

I wanted to crawl inside that sound.

His name tore from my throat as his fingers reached around and found my clit, rubbing tight, perfect circles that made my vision blur. The pleasure climbed too fast, unbearable.

“Azriel, I’m- I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me,” he ordered. “Let me feel you.”

I shattered.

Everything went white, the force of it so intense I collapsed beneath him, body convulsing around his cock. My pussy clenched so tight it pulled a broken groan from his lips, and he faltered, losing pace.

He didn’t stop thrusting. If anything, he slammed deeper.

Azriel’s rhythm became frantic, harder, rougher, until I could hear the slap of skin on skin, the wet sounds of my arousal coating him. His breath was ragged at my ear.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled. “So wet. You were made for this. For me.”

He pulled out, just in time, and flipped me again, dragging my legs over his hips as he lined up and slammed back into me from above.

I cried out, overstimulated, sensitive, but hungry for more.

He kissed me, messy, deep, open-mouthed, as he fucked me through my third orgasm. I arched beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes from the sheer intensity of it.

And still, he didn’t stop.

“You’re going to make me cum,” he hissed. “Where do you want it?”

I whimpered, biting his jaw. “Inside.”

His body shuddered.

“Fuck- are you sure?”

“I want to feel it. All of it.”

That did it.

Azriel groaned, long and broken, as he pushed in deep, buried to the hilt, and came. I felt it, hot pulses flooding me, his cock twitching deep inside as his body trembled above mine.

It was devastating. Beautiful.

He stayed there for a long moment, panting against my neck, shadows curling around us both like a blanket. One of his wings draped protectively across my body.

I stroked his hair gently, kissing his temple.

“I didn’t know shadows could be this… tender,” I murmured.

“They’re only tender with those they trust,” he replied, breath warm against my skin.

We lay tangled together, a sweaty, spent mess of limbs and pleasure and silence. His scarred fingers found mine, lacing them together over my stomach.

“You really didn’t hold back,” I said with a breathless laugh.

“I don’t when it matters,” he said simply.

He looked down at me, eyes half-lidded. “You’re not going to walk straight tomorrow.”

I smiled. “Good.”

His shadows hummed in agreement.

After a while, Azriel sat up, muscles rippling as he stretched. He reached for the blade, still gleaming faintly nearby, and sheathed it again with reverence.

“Do you want to go another round,” I asked, voice hoarse, “or are you finally satisfied?”

Azriel gave me a look that made my whole body tighten.

“Not even close.”

And just like that, he pulled me into his arms again, shadows rising like smoke around us.

This time, it was slower. More intimate.

But no less intense.

Because with Azriel, the dark wasn’t something to fear.

It was something to worship.

A/N: My first smut!!! Hope you guys like it, and if you do pls let me know in the comments.

Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | 10

"𝐂𝐎𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄"

"Information overload has consequences when your brain tries to map infinity. And some revelations about intellectual competition, tongue habits, and emotional resonance tracking really shouldn’t happen in the same afternoon."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.5k

content: noma being demandingly curious, yoongi being feral about her dying 16 times, jungkook trying to be helpful, cognitive temporal dissonance aftermath, sobbing jungkook, angry yoongi, taehyung not being able to register info as a threat, team guilt spiral ft. everyone learning why information is literally dangerous, noma waking up in hopemin's bed (jimin is SO pressed about it), mission briefing: formal wear edition, jimin's fashion expertise meets his general disdain for houseguests, hoseok being chaos incarnate about intellectual foreplay patterns, "the tongue thing" revelation (rip noma's brain), yoongi's arousal tracking hitting 347% (someone pls help this man), gala infiltration setup, and SO MUCH unresolved sexual tension it could power the entire resistance base.

— author’s note

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IT’S HEEEREEEE it’s FINALLY here. The chapter I have been holding in my evil little claws like Gollum with the ring. My precious… (⁠ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ⁠)

Okay okay okay. Deep breath. This chapter is so much. Like we are in full “this is why nobody should say anything around Noma without thinking first” territory. I’ve been WAITING to show you the consequences of information being mishandled around a brain like hers. And it was such a challenge to write because obviously YOU (dear reader) need to get some of this lore and intel too—but we’re not in omniscient narration. We’re in deep, close POV with Noma, and occasionally Yoongi, and that means there’s no “as you know, Bob” exposition. That’s amateur hour. Everything that comes through to you has to come through them. It has to feel lived in. Felt. Filtered. With weight.

And YEAH. There’s a reason I wrote it the way I did. The info needs to creep in, not be dumped on you. This chapter was a narrative challenge and a DREAM to tackle because of that. I went full evil little narrative goblin. There are crumbs. There are cracks in the wall. There is an entire buffet of lore and psychological tension here. If you don’t pick up on it… I will cry. And then stab you. Lovingly.

Also. That convo between Tae, Jungkook, and Yoongi? YEAH. That’s not filler. That is pivotal. I needed to show how people in a massive resistance organization aren’t perfectly synced or briefed. This isn’t a YA chosen-one fantasy. Jungkook is a literal baby with powers he doesn’t fully understand, Taehyung is a modded enforcer who doesn’t register information as a threat (which is SUCH a fascinating limitation, ugh I love him), and Yoongi is the only one who has full comprehension of the consequences. The disparity is real. Organic. Messy. And necessary.

Tae’s assumption that Noma chose to push herself?? Very on purpose. Because if any reader also thought that? WRONG. And I wanted that to get addressed in canon. Noma didn’t push anything. She’s not reckless. She’s a computer. A genius. The kind of person who hears a truth and immediately starts mapping it across every axis of possible meaning. She’s Yoongi’s intellectual match. They are both monsters of cognition. They get off on being the smartest person in the room and guess what—it’s each other, always. They’re each other’s equals. That’s what makes their resonance so terrifying. So fragile. So powerful.

And yeah. It’s like when someone tells you not to think of an elephant. Your brain immediately defaults to elephant. Same with telling someone like Noma “you control space.” It doesn’t stop at space. It spirals. What does that MEAN? What are the LIMITS? What are the variables? Her brain starts crunching a concept that shouldn’t be understood. And it fries her.

So yeah. Now you know why they have to be so careful about what they say to her. Why Yoongi said back in earlier chapters that forcing memories or info on her could be catastrophic. This was that moment. I’ve been waiting to show you.

Also HEEEHEHEE the Hoseok and Jimin section is SO FUN. I love them so much. I couldn’t go deep into their backstories here because your brains already got fried with the temporal dissonance meltdown, but I loved weaving in the details carefully. The way they look at each other for permission to share, the way they dance around what’s safe vs. unsafe to say, the way Jimin cuts himself off—TENSIONNNNNNN. There’s a REASON she doesn’t have access to everything. There’s a REASON some things are safe, and others aren’t.

And let’s be honest. The moment Yoongi detects her arousal spike from three floors down??? Bro. I am unwell. Imagine being a telepathic soulmate with emotional resonance and you’re trying to drink your 4am rehydration tea and SUDDENLY you’re aware the love of your life is thinking about your sexy dissertation and the angle of your tongue. I’m gooning. I’m shriveling. I’m vibrating.

Anyway. Chapter 10 is intense. And intimate. And so so layered. I hope you love it. I hope you scream. And I hope you pay attention. Or else.

— read on

ao3

wattpad

The transition leaves an aftertaste of ozone and broken physics.

One moment, you are a collection of atoms held together by sheer will and Agent Min’s grip; the next, you are solid again. 

Your feet meet a floor of polished, off-white composite material that seems to absorb all sound. 

Back in the resistance headquarters; your mind helpfully supplies. Back to that long, sterile corridor that stretches before you, lit by light panels that emit a flat, shadowless glow.

The raw, bleeding edge of the portal behind you pulses once, then seals itself shut with a sound like tearing fabric, leaving no trace it was ever there.

“What was that?” is your first immediate question, referring to their commentary about Jungkook’s apparent teleportation abilities. 

Your processing centers demanding data to fill the void left by the impossible event. It’s directed at the back of Agent Min’s head as he walks ahead.

No answer.

Agent Min’s shoulders remain rigid, mint-colored hair looking like someone splashed watercolor in a grayscale simulation.

You can see the unnatural angle of his left shoulder, the controlled set of his jaw against what must be a significant level of pain.

But his gait suggests someone who’s done answering questions for the next seventy-three hours.

The probability he is ignoring you registers at 98.7%.

Fine. If he won't provide the data, you'll find a more willing source.

You turn your head, your gaze finding Jungkook. “What did you do?”

Jungkook’s eyes dart from you to Min’s rigid back, a flicker of conflict crossing his features. He presses his lips into a thin, unhappy line and gives a minute shake of his head. 

A clear non-verbal cue: can’t.

The first spark of real frustration ignites in your chest. A low-grade thermal reaction. It’s inefficient. Annoying. 

“Why is nobody telling me anything?” The question bursts out, louder than intended, echoing off the sleek, quantum-reinforced walls. Your vocal modulation is off—pitch elevated by 12%, volume spiking beyond optimal conversational levels. 

You don’t care. The lack of input is suffocating, a void where data should be.

“What did he do? He mimicked my abilities, didn’t he? I registered that much. I heard it.”

The query is directed at Taehyung this time. He’s the most likely to respond, with a 43% higher probability of verbal engagement based on past interactions.

But he just lets out a long, weary sigh, the sound echoing unnaturally in the dead air of the corridor. He doesn’t reply. Instead, his hand closes around Jungkook’s forearm, and he begins walking, pulling the younger agent along with him. 

Jungkook releases a sigh himself, this one loud and theatrical, a clear broadcast of his own displeasure with the mandated silence.

Your hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening under the pressure. 

The sensation is odd—muscle tension at 87% of maximum capacity, a physical manifestation of something you can’t quite name. 

Anger? Frustration? Both? 

You’re a walking processor, a system built for logic and analysis, not this messy, bubbling surge that threatens to override your control. 

But it’s there, undeniable, pushing against the edges of your restraint—you want to slam your fist into the nearest wall, propriety be damned. 

Instead, you plant your feet, the soles of your boots gripping the floor with a stubborn finality.

“I require answers.” The statement is flat, cold, and absolute. “If you refuse to provide the necessary information, I will acquire it through alternative, and likely less cooperative, means.”

That does it.

Taehyung and Jungkook freeze mid-stride. Min stops a few paces ahead, his back still to you, but the tension in his shoulders makes him seem taller, more dangerous.

Your eyes, those traitors, find the mint strands of his hair—a soft, pale contrast to the harsh black of his tactical vest and jacket. 

The color is striking, almost unfairly pretty, like a glitch in an otherwise monochromatic design. It distracts you for exactly 0.7 seconds before you force your focus back to his face, to those golden eyes that always seem to see too much.

“Min.”

He turns slowly, the movement measured and deliberate.

“Noma,” he begins, his voice low and grating, “you are not in an adequate headspace for a tactical debriefing.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

“No.” He takes a step toward you. “I am.”

A humorless laugh escapes you, a puff of air. “By what authority? My operational parameters are my own.”

“Not when they intersect with mine.”

“And why,” you challenge, taking a step to meet him, closing the distance, “would you have any say in what I need, or what I don’t?”

His breath hitches, a ragged, sharp intake of air that speaks of immense pressure barely contained. 

It sounds like he’s holding back a scream, or venom, or wrestling with something volatile. Anger, maybe. Or something darker. You don’t know, and that lack of knowing is driving you up the wall.

He stalks toward you, his gait fluid despite the injury. Taehyung and Jungkook melt away, retreating to the periphery as if clearing the stage for a collision they know is inevitable.

He doesn’t stop until he’s so close you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Inches away. 

You can feel the heat radiating from him, and this time

it’s not just the ozone—but spearmint, that sharpens in the air around you. His eyes are no longer just tinged with gold; they are molten, blazing down at you.

“Because it became my choice,” he grits out, each word a shard of gravel torn from his throat. 

Your own defiance rises to meet it. “I don’t recall giving you a choice.”

His jaw ticks, a violent spasm of muscle. “It became my choice the moment I had to watch you die sixteen times.”

The air vacates your lungs in a single, silent rush. 

Sixteen times.

You died sixteen times.

Revival technology, temporal manipulation, parallel timelines—none of the models align with the raw certainty in his voice.

How is that possible? You’re alive. You’re here, breathing, thinking, processing data. There’s no evidence of revival technology in your medical records. No gaps in your memory that would suggest temporal manipulation. No—

If revival is possible, if you’ve died and returned multiple times, what does that mean for the fundamental laws of physics? For the nature of consciousness? For the reality you’ve been operating under?

What timeline are you even in? Or better, worse—how many have you lived through that you don’t remember? 

“And I’m not letting you become a seventeen.”

He spits the last word out like poison, a final, damning verdict. 

Then he turns, the motion sharp and decisive, and walks away down the corridor without a backward glance, leaving you shattered in his wake.

Jungkook and Taehyung remain stationary.

You note Taehyung’s grip on Jungkook’s arm—pressure increasing by approximately 12 newtons. Restraint behavior. But Jungkook’s eyes find yours anyway.

Then—

Something shifts inside your skull.

Not pain. Not memory. Something else entirely.

A voice that isn’t yours, speaking words that arrive without traveling through your auditory processing centers.

«Yes. It was your abilities. You control the spatial dimension.»

The transmission carries Jungkook’s vocal patterns but bypasses standard sensory input entirely—direct neural interface.

Telepathy.

He’s using Taehyung’s ability without anyone else detecting the connection.

Your gaze remains locked with his for exactly 0.7 seconds before he allows Taehyung to guide him forward.

Spatial dimension.

The words echo through your consciousness, connecting to memory fragments of golden tendrils and impossible physics. Of matter phasing and reality bending and distances that compress at your unconscious command.

Sixteen deaths. Seventeen possible.

You control space itself.

And apparently, nobody trusts you enough to explain why that matters.

The dream always starts the same way—with your hands mapping his chest like you're solving an equation.

You're above him, thighs bracketing his hips, that familiar analytical tilt to your head as you study him. Your hair falls in loose strands across your forehead, catching the low light of whatever timeline this is. Your mouth is parted just slightly, breath coming in those careful, measured gasps that drive him fucking insane.

You move like you always do—deliberate, testing, like every roll of your hips is gathering data. Like his body is some complex system you need to decode. Your palms press flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, cataloging the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

"Fuck, Noma," he breathes, voice already wrecked, and you pause—just for a second—to process the sound. 

That little furrow appears between your brows, the one that means you're filing away his response for later analysis.

Then you sink down on him again, slow and torturous, taking him inch by inch like you're conducting some kind of experiment. His hands move to grip your waist, but golden tendrils—yours, not his—wrap around his wrists, pinning them to the mattress above his head.

The restraint makes him growl, a sound that rumbles up from his chest. Every instinct screams at him to flip you over, to pin you beneath him and fuck you until you stop thinking so goddamn much. 

But your tendrils hold firm, crystalline and unforgiving, and all he can do is lie there and take whatever pace you set.

"You're studying me," he pants, watching the way your eyes track every micro-expression that crosses his face.

"Always," you murmur, and the admission makes his cock twitch inside you. "Need to understand how you work."

You lean forward, changing the angle, and he sees stars. 

Your breath ghosts across his ear as you whisper, "What does this do to you?" and roll your hips in that specific way that makes him see fucking galaxies.

His answer is a broken moan, hips bucking up involuntarily. The tendrils tighten around his wrists, a gentle warning, and you make that soft sound of satisfaction—like you've just confirmed a hypothesis.

"And this?" You clench around him, internal muscles squeezing, and his vision whites out for a second.

"Christ, Noma," he gasps, straining against the golden bonds. "Let me touch you, please—"

But you just smile, that small, secret curve of your lips that means you’re exactly where you want to be. In control. Gathering data. Driving him out of his fucking mind with the slow, methodical way you take him apart.

You ride him like you have all the time in the world, like this is your favorite puzzle to solve. 

And maybe it is—maybe he’s your favorite system to understand, the one equation you never get tired of working through. The way you look at him, like he’s the most fascinating thing in any timeline, like every reaction is precious data you want to memorize.

He knows that look. It’s the same one you get when you’re completely absorbed in something you‘re obsessed with.

He’d let you study him forever if it meant keeping you here, keeping you safe, keeping you—

The orgasm builds slow and devastating, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as you work him closer to the edge with scientific rigor.

“Yoongi.”

His name in your voice, breathless and wanting, and he's gone—

He wakes with a sharp intake of breath, forearm thrown across his eyes, skin slick with sweat. His heart hammers against his ribs, the phantom sensation of your tendrils still wrapped around his wrists.

His room is dark, as usual, silent except for the climate control system. 

He turns his head lazily toward the nightstand, where the digital clock glows an offensive blue: 3:47 AM.

He fucking hates that thing. Analog clocks don't mock you with their precision. They just tick, steady and reliable, marking time without judgment.

But digital clocks? They count down to the exact second when everything falls apart.

Again.

He keeps the forearm pressed against his eyes for a few more seconds, chest rising and falling in measured intervals. 

In, out. Steady. 

He wills his heart rate to slow, tries to sink back into sleep, back into dreams where you're safe and whole and—

His forearm jerks away from his face.

Something's wrong.

The feeling hits him like ice water in his veins, sharp and immediate. 

He checks his Chrono-Sync Watch with frantic urgency, heart hammering against his ribs so hard it might crack them. The numbers blur—he doesn't give a shit about the time.

It's you. He feels it in his head, in his soul, in his fucking heart. 

Something's wrong with you.

The sheets tangle around his legs as he throws himself out of bed, stumbling forward with too much momentum. His knee hits the floor hard, pain shooting up his thigh, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. His chest is caving in on itself, lungs refusing to work properly as he runs.

Your door is already open when he rounds the corner.

Taehyung and Jungkook stand in the doorway like sentries, their faces pale in the hallway light. He darts past them without a word, shoulders clipping the doorframe.

The scene inside makes his stomach lurch.

Namjoon is on the floor, cradling your limp form against his chest. Jin kneels beside him, one hand tilting your head back, the other checking your pulse clinically. 

There's blood—so much fucking blood—pooling on the concrete floor beneath you.

Your nose. It's your nose, dripping steady and relentless, painting your lips and chin crimson.

You're motionless. Completely still except for the shallow rise and fall of your chest.

His hands shake as he forces himself to breathe slowly, eyes darting around the room, cataloging details. 

Your nose. Non-stop bleeding. 

The telltale signal of cognitive temporal overload—too much information, too fast, your brain trying to process data it’s not ready for.

"Who told her."

His voice comes out low, barely above a whisper, but there's enough venom in it to make everyone in the room tense. Everyone except Jin, who's too absorbed in monitoring your vitals to care about the threat in Yoongi's tone.

"Who. Told. Her."

He rounds on Jungkook, whose eyes immediately dart away, guilt written across every line of his face. The kid can't even look at him.

Yoongi strides forward, rage building in his chest like a wildfire, but Taehyung steps between them.

"Yoongi."

"Move."

"Yoongi, listen—"

"Move!"

His eyes flick up to meet Taehyung's, and whatever Tae sees there makes him take a half-step back.

"He's just a kid," Taehyung says, voice steady but careful. "He's the youngest. Has only been active since timeline 715."

The bile rises in Yoongi's throat. 

He's not violent—never has been. Doesn't lose his temper like this, doesn't let emotion override logic. 

But if you're dead, if you fucking died for the seventeenth time because some kid couldn't keep his mouth shut—

He delivers a blow to Taehyung’s stomach. Hard. The impact sends pain shooting up his arm, and he hisses, shaking his hand.

Taehyung doesn’t even flinch.

They both know he wouldn’t. Former enforcer, body modified to withstand worse than anything Yoongi could dish out. 

That’s exactly why he hit him instead of Jungkook—because Taehyung can take it, and because the kid doesn’t deserve his rage.

But someone needs to feel it. Someone needs to understand that this isn’t a fucking game.

“Feel better?” Taehyung asks quietly, not moving from his protective stance in front of Jungkook.

Yoongi’s breathing is ragged, chest heaving. “She’s bleeding out on the floor, Tae.”

“She’s not bleeding out. Jin’s got her.” Taehyung’s voice carries that enforcer-calm that always makes situations feel more controlled than they are. “And this isn’t anyone’s fault. She made a choice to push her abilities—”

“Choice?” Yoongi’s voice cracks with disbelief. “You think this was a fucking choice?”

Behind Taehyung, Jungkook’s face crumples. 

“I just told her what she was doing,” he whispers. “She asked why I could grab her abilities, and I said—I said she controls spatial dimensions. That’s it. That’s all I said.”

“All you said.” Yoongi repeats the words like they taste bitter. “Do you have any idea what that means? What controlling space actually entails?”

Jungkook looks genuinely confused, eyes growing glassy. “She was already using it. When I mimicked her signature, I could feel how powerful it was, so I thought—”

“You thought what? That because you can copy abilities without consequences, everyone can handle that knowledge?”

“I don’t understand,” Jungkook says, voice breaking. “She manifested spatial manipulation during the rescue. I was just explaining what she’d already done.”

Taehyung’s jaw tightens. “He was trying to help her understand her own abilities. That’s not reckless—”

“Not reckless?” Yoongi rounds on him, eyes blazing gold. “Do you know what spatial dimension control means, Tae? Do you have any fucking clue?”

“I know it means she pushed too hard—”

“She didn’t push anything!” Yoongi explodes. “It’s called cognitive temporal dissonance, you absolute dimwit! It’s a fucking medical condition!”

Taehyung blinks, doubt creeping in his enforcer certainty for once. “What?”

“Jin?” Yoongi whips around, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Help me out here.”

Jin doesn’t look up from where he’s monitoring your pulse, voice dry as sandpaper. “Bit busy keeping her stable. Ask Joon.”

“Joon,” Yoongi turns to Namjoon, who’s still cradling your limp form. “Tell them. Tell them what cognitive temporal dissonance actually is.”

Namjoon shifts carefully, making sure your head stays supported. His voice slips into that analytical tone he uses for briefings. 

“Cognitive temporal dissonance occurs when an Outlier’s consciousness is exposed to information that exceeds their current neural adaptation threshold.”

“Incongruent. She has better neural adaptation than any of us here. She should be able to process minimal information like that with ease, especially when she’s faced—”

“Jesus Christ.” Yoongi drags his hands through his hair. “It’s not minimal information Tae, it’s an entire fucking dimension of reality. When you tell someone they control space itself—not just ‘spatial manipulation,’ but the actual fabric of dimensional reality—their brain tries to comprehend the scope of that.”

Taehyung simply blinks, eyebrows furrowing. Yoongi sighs out loud, gestures wildly at your unconscious form. 

“She doesn’t get headaches because she’s analyzing equations. She gets them because her human brain is trying to process the concept of controlling something infinite. Something fundamental to existence itself.”

Jungkook’s face goes white. “I… I didn’t know it was that big. When I copy abilities, they just feel like… like tools. I can use them without thinking about what they actually are.”

“Because your mimicry protects you from the full cognitive load,” Namjoon interjects softly, never taking his eyes off your vitals. “You experience abilities in ‘safe mode’—all the function, none of the existential weight.”

“But she was already using them,” Taehyung insists, clearly still struggling to categorize information as a physical threat. ���How is knowing what you’re doing more dangerous than actually doing it?”

“Because doing it unconsciously is instinct. Understanding it consciously means your brain tries to map the parameters. And when the parameter is ‘I control one of the fundamental forces that governs reality’…” Yoongi gestures at the blood on your face. “This happens.”

Jungkook is sobbing now. “I thought I was being helpful. She seemed frustrated not knowing, and I just—”

“Your brain can barely fucking handle copying my temporal manipulation for seven minutes, Jungkook,” Yoongi cuts him off. “Could you handle knowing you control time itself? That every second that passes is subject to your will? That causality bends around your existence?”

The kid’s face crumples completely. “No. No, I couldn’t.”

“She’s been Outlier-aware for three days. Three fucking days. Her neural pathways are still forming the connections needed to process basic temporal awareness, and you just told her she controls space.” Yoongi’s voice breaks. “That’s like… that’s like telling someone who just learned to walk that they’re actually capable of flight. The concept is too big for a brain that’s still learning how to exist outside normal time.”

Taehyung is quiet for a long moment, his expression cycling through several configurations as his modified brain processes this new categorization of information-as-threat.

“But she’s strong,” Jungkook says desperately. “She handled manifesting the abilities—”

“Unconscious manifestation is completely different from conscious comprehension,” Namjoon explains gently. “When abilities manifest naturally, they’re filtered through instinct and necessity. When someone consciously understands the scope of what they control, their analytical mind tries to map it, test it, understand its limits.”

“And Y/N’s mind…” Yoongi’s voice is barely a whisper. “Y/N’s mind doesn’t half-ass anything. When she learns something, she learns everything about it. Every variable, every possibility, every potential application. Tell her she controls space, and her brain immediately starts trying to comprehend infinity.”

The room falls silent except for the sound of your steady breathing and Jin’s quiet monitoring.

Taehyung stares at you for a long moment in what Yoongi knows is enforcer processing—that mechanical way his brain reorganizes information when it encounters something that doesn’t fit his neural framework.

“I didn’t know,” Taehyung says finally, voice flat in that way that means his modifications are struggling with the concept. “Information overload isn’t… my brain doesn’t process it as a threat.”

Jungkook looks up at him, confusion mixing with his guilt. “What do you mean?”

“Enforcers were designed to absorb massive amounts of tactical data without psychological impact,” Taehyung explains, still staring at your unconscious form. “When you told her about spatial control, and you looked to me to see if it was dangerous…I literally couldn’t register it as harmful. To me, it’s just information. Like learning the time of day.”

“Yeah, that’s why you thought she was being reckless instead of recognizing she was having a medical emergency.” Jin sighs loudly. 

Taehyung nods slowly, that mechanical processing still evident in his movements. “I thought she chose to push herself with new abilities. My programming doesn’t… it doesn’t understand how knowing something can hurt you.”

“Because it can’t hurt you,” Namjoon adds quietly. “Your modifications make you immune to information-based trauma. You could learn you control reality-warping abilities the same way you’d process a weather report.”

Jungkook makes a broken sound. “It’s my fault. When Tae didn’t react like it was dangerous, I thought it meant it wasn’t.”

“No, it’s my fault.” Taehyung runs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through calm. “I keep thinking there should have been warning signs. Behavioral indicators. But information processing doesn’t trigger my threat assessment protocols. I should have deferred to Yoongi, should’ve known better than to let Jungkook make that call.”

“We all should have known better,” Jin speaks up without looking away from your vitals. “But beating ourselves up won’t fix her brain chemistry.”

Yoongi kneels beside you, careful not to disturb Jin’s positioning. 

Your face is pale, dried blood still crusted around your nose, but your breathing is steady.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “any questions about abilities, about the past, about anything—you come to me first. Both of you. No matter how harmless it seems.”

“Understood,” Taehyung says, slipping into that formal tone his enforcer training defaults to during protocol establishment.

Jungkook just nods, still crying softly.

Yoongi reaches out toward your face, then stops himself, hand hovering in the air between you.

Even like this—unconscious, vulnerable, bleeding from cognitive overload—he can’t quite bring himself to touch you.

Not when you don’t remember choosing to let him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Particles of light drift together like puzzle pieces finding their home.

The ceiling materializes above you—unfamiliar angles, different shadows. Not your assigned quarters. Not even the sterile white of Jin's lab space. 

This ceiling has character, personality. Warm lighting fixtures instead of clinical panels. Personal touches that speak of actual habitation rather than temporary assignment.

Your processing centers catalog the discrepancies while your vision sharpens from static to clarity. 

The bed beneath you is softer than regulation standard, sheets that smell like fabric softener instead of industrial detergent. 

Someone's personal space, then. 

But whose?

Voices carry from somewhere beyond your field of vision, muffled by distance and what sounds like architectural features—columns, maybe, or room dividers.

"—absolutely ridiculous, Hoseok. She's not our responsibility."

"Where else is she supposed to go? Her room's a biohazard zone.”

A scoff. “So we’re the charity case now? It’s not fair to us, Fuyu. Why not just stick her in Jin’s lab?”

“Because Jin’s not a doctor, Jimin. He’s a memory tech. He doesn’t want her in there while he’s running diagnostics. She needs rest, not a front-row seat to his data streams.”

A pause. The sound of someone pacing, footsteps sharp against what must be concrete flooring.

"Yoongi's room, then. He's the one who—"

A sigh from Hoseok. “You know the protocol he set for this cycle, Jimin. Minimum proximity. No unnecessary contact. He’s trying a different variable; we have to respect that.”

“Respect it? He’s miserable. And right now his misery is sleeping in our bed.” There’s a sound of restless pacing. “I don’t want her here. It’s bad enough we have to watch him self-destruct from a distance, I don’t need a front-row seat to the cause of it.”

“She’s not the cause, Jimin. She’s the… focus. And you know as well as I do she can’t be in his space. Even without the distance protocols, she just went through a neural fissure. The least she needs right now is more cognitive strain.”

Your head turns slightly, seeking the source of the conversation, though the movement sends a dull ache through your skull—not the sharp, stabbing pain of cognitive overload, but the lingering throb of neural exhaustion.

"She could trigger memory fragments just by being in his space," the first voice continues, petulant. "Fine. But that doesn't mean she has to be in ours."

"It's temporary, Mochi. A few days at most."

"A few days of what? Pretending we're running a halfway house for temporally displaced analysts?"

Footsteps approach, and a figure emerges from behind what you now see is indeed a decorative column. Orange hair catches the warm lighting, and Jung Hoseok's face comes into view. His expression shifts from mild exasperation to something softer when he notices your open eyes.

"Oh. You're awake."

You manage a nod, the motion careful and measured. Your vocal cords feel scratchy, unused.

"Well," he says, hands finding his hips, "you really know how to put on a show, huh?" 

A scoff of laughter accompanies the words, but there's genuine concern in his eyes. He sighs, the sound carrying relief and residual worry in equal measure.

He walks toward the bed, movements easy and unhurried. "How are you feeling? Scale of one to ten, with ten being 'ready to manipulate dimensional reality' and one being 'please keep the lights dim.'"

"Somewhere around a four," you manage, voice rougher than expected. "Maybe a three-point-seven."

"Specific. I like that." He settles into a chair beside the bed, leaning forward slightly. "Any nausea? Dizziness when you move your head?"

"Minimal. Cognitive processing feels... sluggish. Like running diagnostics through damaged circuits."

"That's normal after what you went through. Jin says your neural pathways are basically reorganizing themselves. Building new connections to handle the information load."

You process this, filing it away with the growing collection of data about your condition. 

"Why am I here? In your room?"

"Because everywhere else was either contaminated, occupied, or specifically off-limits." 

Pink hair like cotton candy ambushes your vision next, familiar, snappy voice joining the conversation. Jimin appears from behind the same column, arms crossed. 

"Lucky you." Jimin’s tone carries enough sarcasm to power a small generator.

"Your room's got blood all over the floor," Hoseok explains, shooting Jimin a warning look. "Jin's lab isn't set up for overnight stays. And Yoongi..." He trails off, diplomatic.

"Yoongi's being a dramatic bitch," Jimin finishes, not bothering with diplomacy. "So you get to camp out here. In our space. With our things."

"Jimin."

"What? She should know what she's signing up for." Jimin's gaze finds yours, walking until he’s next to Hoseok. "This is the biggest room, so we've got a spare bed set up in the back area. But don't expect us to tiptoe around your delicate temporal sensibilities."

You blink, processing the implications. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Jimin continues, deadpan, "if you hear sounds at night, you can suck it up. I'm not putting my sex life on hold just because we have a houseguest."

"We can be considerate for a few days," Hoseok sighs. 

"Absolutely not." Jimin's response is immediate and firm. "What if two days become three? Become five? You know how Yoongi gets.”

His fingers trail down the front of Hoseok’s shirt, a deliberate, slow movement that draws attention to the motion. His eyes flick from his own hand to Hoseok's face, intentionally loaded.

“And you know how I get.”

Hoseok's hand moves to catch Jimin's wrist, stopping the downward trajectory. He licks his lips, head tilting in what looks like a silent plea.

Jimin's eyebrows furrow in response, and you realize you're witnessing an entire conversation conducted through micro-expressions and body language. 

A communication system developed through intimacy and time, that you somehow, suddenly, crave. 

You clear your throat. "I can handle background noise. My auditory processing filters are quite efficient."

Jimin jerks his hand away from Hoseok’s grip, snapping back to full irritation mode.

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” he says, rolling his eyes as he starts walking away.

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder with an expression that clearly expects you to follow.

Hoseok offers his hand, palm up—steady, warm. You take it, more out of protocol than necessity. 

Your legs hold, but the world still lags half a step behind your movements. 

He keeps pace beside you, easy and patient, while Jimin moves ahead with the attitude of someone eager to put distance between himself and the problem.

“Thanks,” you say, voice low. 

It’s the kind of word that feels strange in your mouth, like you’re borrowing someone else’s language for a moment.

Hoseok glances down at you, one eyebrow raised. “For what?”

You keep your gaze ahead, watching Jimin’s back.

“Allowing me a place to stay. Even when your partner is clearly… less than enthusiastic about it.”

He snorts, the sound soft but genuine. “I’m not gonna insult your intelligence by pretending Jimin’s thrilled. You’d see right through it anyway. And I’d be lying.”

You nod, cataloguing the honesty. 

Hoseok’s direct, but not unkind. 

“He understands the need, though. Even if he hates the idea.”

You allow the silence to settle. Two seconds pass—long enough for discomfort to threaten, short enough to feel intentional.

“I asked him last time if he dislikes me.”

Hoseok’s lips twitch. “And?”

“He said yes.”

He laughs again, louder this time, shaking his head. “That’s Jimin for you. He doesn’t sugarcoat.”

You blink, parsing the statement. “Is that… typical?”

“Very.” He grins, then sobers a little. “He’s honest to a fault. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll tell you. If he does, you’ll know. There’s no in-between with him.”

You blink, trying to process the humor. “Why does he hate me?”

Hoseok’s gaze drops to the floor, mouth curving into a half-smile. 

“It’s not hate. It’s… frustration. This whole mess has been rough on everyone, but Jimin—he takes things personally. Holds onto them. It’s just how he is.”

You nod, not sure you understand, but the explanation feels sufficient. 

Maybe you don’t need to understand all the variables to accept the outcome.

The corridor opens up into a space that could pass for a boutique if not for the utilitarian racks and rows of tactical gear. 

Jimin is already there, hand braced on the edge of a table, posture radiating impatience.

“Welcome to heaven,” he says, deadpan, not bothering to look back as he starts sorting through hangers with practiced flicks of his wrist.

“What is he doing?” you ask Hoseok.

Hoseok moves to a nearby section, fingers trailing through what appears to be a collection of coats. The fabric makes soft sounds under his touch—silk, wool, materials your tactile processors can identify even from a distance.

“Prepping you for your next mission.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I was not informed there was a mission.”

Jimin doesn’t look up from the rack he’s browsing. “Right. Because you were unconscious. Bleeding from your face. Kind of hard to deliver briefings in that condition.”

“That would imply poor timing on your part,” you say dryly. “Or an urgent operation being executed under suboptimal readiness conditions.”

Hoseok exhales—an audible, weighty thing. “It’s not ideal, but it’s happening. And you’re the only one who can do it.”

Your gaze drifts to the gown Jimin is holding, then back to Hoseok. “You’re sending someone who just experienced cognitive collapse into a mission requiring social infiltration?”

Jimin finally lifts his eyes, voice clipped. “Welcome to the resistance. We don’t have backups. We have probabilities.”

“That is not an explanation,” you counter. “It’s a deflection. Explain the mission parameters and the rationale behind assigning me.”

“Okay, before you go all ‘I demand answers’ on us, let me remind you—you just had a huge temporal dissonance episode. We will not be giving you new, life-altering info like Jungkook did.” Jimin snaps back. “Accept that first or there will be no answers.”

You narrow your eyes at him. 

Curiosity demands answers.

Jimin demands accepting uncertainty.

Not accepting will result in no answers at all.

Plausible compromise.

“I accept.”

Hoseok rubs the back of his neck. “There’s a gala. High-level CHRONOS operatives. Important enough to warrant surveillance. We need eyes inside. Preferably someone who won’t trip alarms just by walking in.”

Your mind catches on the phrasing. “Yoongi.”

Jimin snorts under his breath.

You glance at him. “This is about Agent Min.”

“Of course it’s about Agent Min,” Jimin mutters. “He’s the only one who can get in without being flagged. You know that.”

“Because he disrupts CHRONOS’s detection systems,” you recall. “He reflects causality. Appears unindexed. A statistical blindspot.”

Hoseok nods. “Exactly. But using his ability too long causes fluctuations. Even Yoongi’s signature starts to spike.”

You blink. “So you need a stabilizer.”

“You,” Jimin says flatly.

You frown. “I stabilize his temporal signature?”

“You synchronize with it,” Hoseok corrects. “Your presence keeps both of you from triggering scans.”

Like on the rooftop. 

Jimin crosses his arms. “And with CHRONOS agents watching everything? Even a small spike gets flagged.”

You nod once, calculation already forming behind your eyes. “So I’m the stabilizer. Redundancy protocol.”

“More like failsafe,” Hoseok mutters. “You’re the only one who keeps him from unraveling.”

“And vice versa,” Jimin adds. “You two stabilize each other.”

You don’t remember practicing synchronization. You don’t remember learning how to do it. But your body does.

You remember Yoongi’s presence—how time slows when he’s near, but never quite slips. You remember the way the air holds still when he stands too close. 

And how your temporal signatures synchronized to 0% on that rooftop.

“I see,” you say. But you don’t see, not really, because— “Why not assign Jungkook as the stabilizer? Have him mimic Min’s ability to stabilize himself.”

A beat of silence.

“Should I…?” Hoseok prompts, looking for Jimin’s eyes.

“It’s basic info. She already knows Jungkook’s mimicry and some scope of what Yoongi can do.” He replies. Looks at you again. “It doesn’t work like that, Yoongi’s stabilization doesn’t work on himself. He anchors other people, sure, but he can’t anchor himself.”

You frown. “But why? If his ability can neutralize temporal spikes, why doesn’t it neutralize his own?”

Jimin’s jaw tics. “Because it simply doesn’t, okay? We’ve seen it. Firsthand. When he spikes, he spirals. No one can pull him back unless you’re—”

He cuts himself off, lips tightening.

You wait. He doesn’t finish.

Hoseok clears his throat gently. “His ability reflects outward. It doesn’t fold inward. He’s a buffer for others, not for himself. And if the pressure’s high enough… he unravels.”

“And Jungkook can’t hold his ability long enough anyway,” Jimin adds, apparently returning to safe grounds. “Mimicking heavy abilities drains him fast. Which is why he wouldn’t be able to mimic yours for long either—and you’d have to be present anyway. So.”

Your brain ticks through the logic—matching memory to data to anomaly.

And then it clicks.

“The travel spot,” you murmur. “When I lost stability. Jungkook—he was mimicking Min’s ability when he stabilized me.”

Hoseok nods once. 

Jimin scoffs. “Look at her, she can actually process info slowly and make her own answers through assumptions. Who would have thought?”

Hoseok ignores his partner’s commentary. “Jungkook was able to do it for a few seconds. Long enough to suppress the spike and get you through.”

“He seemed fine afterward.”

“He was,” Jimin says. “It was under a minute. Well within what he can handle. But he still can’t sustain it for long periods of time.”

“That’s… inefficient,” you murmur. “Reliant on replication. He’s not a constant.”

“Exactly,” Hoseok says, voice quiet. “But you are.”

You process the implications.

Yoongi: a walking temporal singularity with no internal stabilization.

You: the only Outlier whose temporal signature resonates with his to perfection.

Together, you cancel out the spikes.

Together, you are balanced.

A paradox in perfect sync.

It seems deliberate. 

Jimin breaks the silence. “Look, I don’t care if you’re barely recovered. You’re his anchor. That’s why it’s you.”

You look down at the dress again. “And if something goes wrong?”

Hoseok shrugs. “Then you sync with him.”

Jimin huffs. “Better keep the ticking bombs contained.”

You nod once, the weight of the truth settling over your shoulders like armor.

“Understood,” you say. “I’ll be ready.”

Jimin eyes you, skeptical. “Physically, maybe. Emotionally? I’d bet against it.”

“Emotions are statistically irrelevant to mission success,” you reply.

Jimin just snorts. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

You watch Jimin aggressively pull out another hanger. 

Your mind immediately drifts back to resource allocation within this resistance base. 

“May I ask how does this organization acquire such resources? This collection suggests significant financial investment or alternative acquisition methods.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s safe info. Shouldn’t trigger any significant memory bleeds. The problem is usually with information you are not consciously aware of.” 

Hoseok chuckles, pulling a velvet jacket off a rack. “Let’s just say my network of ‘friends’ in unregulated territories have eclectic taste. We trade in information and temporal contraband—unregulated timepieces, pre-war historical records, that sort of thing. They help us, we help them stay off CHRONOS’s radar.” 

“And sometimes,” Jimin adds with a smirk, not looking up from a silk blouse, “CHRONOS just conveniently ‘loses’ a shipment of luxury goods. Taehyung has a knack for manipulating their inventory logs.” 

“So formal wear is necessary for this gala.”

Hoseok chuckles. “It’s a social infiltration. High-security event, lots of important people, very specific dress code.”

“Define ‘very specific.’”

“Black tie,” Jimin says, returning his attention to the dress in his hands. He holds it up, studying the cut with professional interest. “Which means floor-length gowns, designer labels, and the kind of jewelry that costs more than most people’s annual salary.”

“I don’t own formal wear.”

“Obviously.” Jimin’s tone suggests this is the most ridiculous statement he’s ever heard. “That’s why you’re here instead of standing around looking helpless.”

“Jimin’s got an eye for this stuff,” Hoseok adds, moving to examine a section of what appears to be evening wear. “Fashion, style, making people look like they belong in places they definitely don’t belong.”

“Mhm,” Jimin hums, pulling another dress from its hanger. This one is milky white, with beading that catches the light. “The right outfit can make you invisible, or it can make you the center of attention. Depends on what the mission requires.”

“And what does this mission require?”

Jimin pauses, dress still in his hands, and looks at you directly for the first time since you entered the space. 

“That depends on whether you can handle being someone you’re not for an entire evening.”

"I seem to follow that particular directive quite well," you observe, processing the implications. "Being someone I don't know I am appears to be my default operational state."

The words emerge as simple factual analysis, but Jimin's hands still on the fabric he's examining. He turns slowly, fixing you with a look that could strip circuits.

"I had just forgotten how analytically cunty you can be."

You blink, head tilting slightly as your processing centers attempt to parse the statement. 

"Define ‘cunty’."

"Girl." Jimin's voice drops into a register that tells you his patience has officially expired. "I've seen you and Yoongi's version of foreplay. Very semantic, very 'I'm such a genius and I'm gonna demonstrate my intellectual superiority through vocabulary precision and get you horny whilst doing it,' so don't even try me."

Your optical processors stutter for exactly 0.4 seconds. 

"I don't understand that reference."

"Of course you don't." Jimin returns to his clothing analysis with renewed vigor, pulling a cordovan dress from its hanger and holding it up to the light. "Because your brain conveniently resets every time you figure out that your analytical observations are sometimes intellectual dirty talk."

Hoseok makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. "Jimin."

"What? I'm stating facts." Jimin's tone carries that particular sharpness that means he's building momentum.”Yoongi’s already interrupted her twice when she starts with their whole intellectual play kink. She already knows she does this thing where she breaks down complex systems using precise technical language, and somehow makes equations sound like pillow talk. It's very specific. Very her."

"That sounds highly improbable," you say, though something in your neural pathways flickers—a ghost sensation, like muscle memory for conversations you've never had.

"Improbable." Jimin repeats the word with theatrical precision, mimicking your inflection. "See? There it is. Nobody says 'highly improbable' when they mean 'unlikely.' But you do, because your brain processes everything like it's conducting peer review on reality itself."

He moves to another section, pulling what appears to be an evening gown with a thigh cut. 

"And apparently, certain people find that incredibly attractive. Which says concerning things about their psychological profiles, but here we are."

Your arms cross in front of your chest. "I don't recall engaging in any behavior that could be classified as—"

"Intellectual seduction?" Jimin supplies helpfully. "No, you wouldn't. Because every time you remember how to weaponize your brain for romantic purposes, CHRONOS hits the reset button."

Hoseok steps closer, clearing his throat. "Maybe we should focus on the mission parameters."

"Oh, we are." Jimin’s scoff is loud. “Because watching her figure out how to be someone else while simultaneously being exactly herself is going to be the entertainment highlight of this entire operation."

You process this information for 2.3 seconds before responding. 

"Mission success probability increases when operatives maintain behavioral consistency within acceptable deviation parameters."

"There it is again." Jimin gestures at you with the dress still in his hands. "That sentence could have been 'I work better when I can still be myself,' but no. You chose the academic route. Every single time."

"Because precision in communication reduces misunderstanding and increases operational efficiency."

"And because you think being smart is sexy," Jimin adds, deadpan. "Which, according to my observations across multiple timelines, is apparently correct. At least for certain mint-haired individuals with concerning attachment issues."

Your mouth opens, then closes, processing algorithms struggling with the concept that analytical precision could be interpreted as flirtation.

Hoseok clears his throat. "Should we maybe start with sizing measurements?"

"Excellent suggestion," you say, grateful for the redirect to practical considerations. "Accurate dimensional data will ensure proper garment fit and reduce probability of mission compromise due to wardrobe malfunction."

Jimin stares at you for exactly three seconds, then turns to Hoseok.

"I rest my case."

“Could you provide specific examples of this alleged intellectual foreplay, though?” you ask, genuinely curious about the behavioral patterns being attributed to you. “I find the correlation between semantic precision and sexual arousal to be statistically unlikely.”

Jimin’s eyes close for exactly 2.7 seconds—a clear indicator of someone gathering patience. 

“I’m not doing this right now.”

Hoseok, however, releases a delighted cackle that echoes off the boutique walls. “Oh, this is perfect. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”

“Doing what, specifically?” You tilt your head, awaiting clarification.

“The way you two go at each other,” Hoseok grins, settling against a nearby rack like he’s preparing for storytime. “It’s not about complimenting each other’s intelligence. It’s the competition. The verbal sparring. Like in Timeline 289—you spent forty-seven minutes deconstructing his temporal cascade theory just to prove you could find a flaw in his logic.”

“That seems like standard peer review protocol,” you observe.

“Except it ended with him pinning you against a whiteboard while you tried to explain quantum entanglement with his tongue down your throat.”

You blink, processing this information. Your core temperature rises by 0.3 degrees.

“Or Reset 12,” Hoseok continues, clearly enjoying himself. “When you corrected his pronunciation of ‘dirigible’ during a mission briefing and somehow that turned into a three-hour debate about linguistic evolution that had the conference table creaking by the end.”

“Hoseok, please stop,” Jimin interjects, but his voice lacks real conviction.

“She asked for examples,” Hoseok defends, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Remember Timeline 467? The great coffee temperature optimization argument? They literally got into a screaming match about thermodynamics that ended with—”

“I get it,” you interrupt, though your analytical centers are spinning. “You’re suggesting that intellectual competition serves as our primary arousal mechanism.”

“Not just competition,” Hoseok clarifies. “It’s specifically when you try to out-genius each other. When you go all ‘actually, your calculation failed to account for these seventeen variables’ and he responds with some devastating counterpoint that makes you recalculate everything you thought you knew.”

You consider this data carefully. 

“That does align with certain observations. When Agent Min dismissed my temporal analysis with a condescending partial smile in the alley, I did experience a statistically significant increase in heart rate.”

“There it is,” Jimin mutters, pulling dresses with increasing aggression.

“It’s particularly pronounced when he does that slight smirk—0.3 millimeter lift of the right corner of his mouth—while explaining why my analysis is incomplete.” You pause, accessing the memory. “I find myself wanting to… dispute his conclusions. Though I attributed it to simple frustration at the time.”

“It’s never simple with you two,” Hoseok laughs. “It’s this elaborate dance where you’re both trying to prove you’re the smartest person in the room, and somehow that translates directly to—”

“Choose a dress,” Jimin interrupts loudly, shoving the navy blue gown in your direction. “This one. Backless. Navy. Will complement your features.”

You take the dress, examining the fabric. “This one is structurally sound. The open back allows for optimal movement and ventilation.”

Hoseok wiggles his eyebrows. “And easy access.”

“Hobi.” Jimin warns. 

“I doubt ‘easy access’ is needed. Agent Min has made it very clear that he refuses skin contact with me.”

Jimin straightens. “For the love of everything that’s holy—do not make skin contact.”

You nod, thoughtful. “Noted. Though with this cut, the probability of skin contact is high.”

“It’s not, because he will be wearing gloves like he always is.” Jimin interjects. “So just behave and don’t think about his big sexy brain.”

“I do find his brain appealing.” 

Hoseok is practically vibrating with glee. “Oh, and that’s not even talking about the tongue thing.”

You freeze mid-examination of the dress. “What tongue thing?”

“HOSEOK.” Jimin makes a strangled sound.

“You haven’t noticed yet?” Hoseok looks genuinely shocked. “But you mention it every timeline! It’s like your sexual Achilles heel.”

“Define ‘tongue thing.’”

Jimin lunges for Hoseok. “Don’t you dare—”

“When he’s thinking really hard,” Hoseok dodges easily, still grinning, “he does this thing where he’ll bite it to the side. Or lick the corner of his lip. Sometimes he’ll just let it rest against his teeth while he’s processing something complex.”

Your memory banks immediately scroll through recent interactions, isolating relevant footage. 

The briefing room. The coffee shop. That moment when he’d been calculating trajectories, pink tongue darting out to wet his lower lip while his eyes went distant with thought.

Oh.

Oh.

“Fascinating,” you breathe, skin temperature rising 0.3 degrees. “I hadn’t consciously catalogued that behavior pattern, but reviewing my memory files… I need to pay closer attention to that.” 

“No, you don’t.” Jimin groans. “What you need to do is try on the dress. Think about fabric. Think about thread count. Think about anything except—”

“The way his jaw tightens when I successfully identify flaws in his logic?” you supply helpfully. “Or how his pupils dilate by approximately 32% when I use technical terminology to dismantle his arguments? Or the specific angle his tongue—”

“This isn’t funny,” Jimin snaps at Hoseok, who is now doubled over with laughter. “You know what happens when she gets like this. He’s going to feel it, and then—”

A sharp beep cuts through the air. Jimin’s Chrono-Sync Watch lights up with an incoming message. He glances down, face draining of color.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Hoseok leans over to look.

Jimin holds up his wrist, displaying the text in glowing blue letters:

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗.

“Feel what?” you ask, but Jimin is already shaking his head.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just—” He gestures wildly at the dress. “Try this on. Make sure it fits. Don’t think about intellectual superiority or competitive dynamics or anyone’s tongue doing anything whatsoever.”

“That seems like an unreasonable request given the neural pathways that have now been activated,” you observe. “I’ll likely spend the next 3-7 hours involuntarily cataloging Agent Min’s linguistic microexpressions.”

“Which is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” Jimin mutters, then louder: “Dressing room. Now. Before this gets worse.”

“How could it get worse?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

Jimin and Hoseok exchange a look—Jimin’s expression screaming ‘don’t you dare’ while Hoseok’s radiates pure mischievous delight.

“Well,” Hoseok starts, and Jimin immediately throws a shoe at him.

Another buzz. Another message.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝙴𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝟹𝟺𝟸%. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙.

“Fuck,” Jimin breathes. “He’s tracking percentages now.”

“He can quantify emotional resonance?”

“Of course that’s what you focus on,” Jimin mutters. “Yes, he can tell exactly how aroused you are, probably down to the fucking decimal point. Which means he knows you’re up here having revelations about wanting to fuck his brain out.”

“The phrase ‘fuck his brain out’ seems anatomically impossible—”

“Stop saying the word ‘fuck’, stop thinking about tongues, brains and how hot it makes you when Yoongi is being intelectually challenging to you.” 

“That’s paradoxical. Telling someone not to think about something guarantees—”

“I know how cognitive psychology works,” Jimin interrupts. “Just. Try. Please. Before he decides to come investigate why you’re suddenly thinking about his doctorate in temporal physics.”

“He has a doctorate?” Your interest sharpens immediately. “What was his dissertation on?”

A third buzz.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝟹𝟺𝟽%. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

“I’M NOT TELLING YOU,” Jimin practically screams. “THAT’S EXACTLY THE KIND OF THING THAT LEADS TO PROPERTY DAMAGE.”

Hoseok is now laughing so hard he’s crying, collapsed against the table. “She doesn’t even remember why she’s attracted to him but she’s already ready to throw down about academic credentials. This is AMAZING.”

You take the navy dress, mind already calculating the statistical probability of Agent Min doing that specific tongue movement they mentioned during the upcoming mission. 

The calculation suggests 87.3%.

Your core temperature rises another 0.4 degrees.

Behind you, Hoseok’s laughter echoes through the boutique while Jimin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “he’s going to fucking kill me.”

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[nightcourtnovels]

Pinned

Azriel x reader

Summary: Training session turns heated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clang of steel echoed through the training ring, sharp and relentless. You dodged Azriel’s strike at the last second, feeling the controlled power behind his blade as it sliced through the air where you’d just been standing. He was holding back. You could tell.

“You’re getting predictable,” he murmured, the barest hint of amusement in his voice.

Scowling, you feinted left before pivoting hard to the right, swinging low. He blocked with frustrating ease, his siphon glinting in the fading light.

“Predictable?” you shot back, blocking his next blow. “I nearly took your legs out.”

“Nearly,” he repeated, voice rich with challenge.

Your heart pounded as you pressed forward, striking again and again, but Azriel countered each move effortlessly. He was testing you, pushing you. And it only made you fight harder. Then, in a blur of movement, he caught your wrist mid-swing. A sharp twist, a sweep of his leg, and suddenly the world flipped. You landed hard against the training mats, the impact stealing the breath from your lungs.

Before you could react, Azriel was on you. His body caging yours beneath him, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other braced beside your face. His weight, the heat of him, pressed against you. Your breath hitched. His own was slightly uneven, dark brows drawn together as his gaze flickered over your face, down to your parted lips.

“You left yourself open,” he murmured, voice lower now, rougher.

Your skin burned where his fingers held you down. “I—” Your words caught when he shifted, the smallest movement making you suddenly hyperaware of how close he was.

Azriel tilted his head, a slow smirk ghosting over his lips. “Something wrong?”

You glared, though it lacked any real heat. “You’re awfully smug for someone who barely dodged my last strike.”

His thumb brushed over your wrist, a barely-there caress. “Barely?”

A shiver ran down your spine. The intensity in his gaze pinned you just as much as his body did, a slow-burning storm that made your pulse stutter.

“If you wanted me underneath you, Az, you could’ve just asked,” you murmured, voice teasing but breathless.

Azriel’s wings twitched, his pupils dilating ever so slightly. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then, with excruciating slowness, he leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours, close enough that you could feel his breath.

His voice was dark, nearly a growl. “If I wanted to make you beg, I wouldn’t need a sparring match to do it.”

Heat flared low in your stomach, your breath catching in your throat. The weight of his body, the rough grip on your wrists, the way his eyes burned into yours. It was overwhelming. And just when you thought he might close the distance, might actually kiss you, he smirked. Smirked.

Azriel released you in a single, fluid motion, standing with infuriating ease as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with one sentence. Offering a hand to help you up, he added, “But nice try, sweetheart.”

You took his hand on instinct, glaring as you rose, your legs a little unsteady. He was already turning away, reaching for a water, like he hadn’t just left you breathless on the mat, like your body wasn’t still humming with his touch.

Smug bastard.

And yet… your pulse hadn’t quite settled.

[freaktoru]

summary: choi jong-in x fem!reader - what happens when you mix business with pleasure? warnings: dirty talk, pnv, unprotected sex, fingering, dubcon kinda, praise kink, reader is oblivious. authors note: this man is criminally underrated. we need more of him. let this fic be a pivotal moment for us all. ty for reading, likes and reblogs always appreciated <3

choi jong-in was a very successful man.

everyone knew this. he was one of south korea's most powerful s-rank hunters, and the guild master of south korea's most powerful guild, the hunters guild. don't be mistaken though, being known as ‘the ultimate hunter’ was no easy task. choi jong-in was under contstant pressure of having to keep up his public appearances on behalf of his entire guild, and balance the enormous workload of being the top guild master in the country. there was no denying it—he was indeed successful but he was also very busy. so that's why he hired you. as his personal assistant, having you around was most helpful to him. within a few days of your hire, you managed to cut his own workload in half and thanks to you, he was able to take the smoke breaks he so desperately needed during his work day and he was finally able to get home at a reasonable hour of the night. it was safe to say that you were his salvation.

you stood in front of his office door, wearing your regular office uniform, holding a thick stack of papers. jong-in had given you a specific dress code to follow when he hired you—composed of a white blouse, black stiletto heels and a dark red pencil skirt. you weren't sure why he picked the colour red for you, but you thought better than to question it. he was paying you twice as much as any other personal assistant positions did so it was important you did everything in your power to keep it. the door finally swung open, revealing his tall frame. not only was he successful, but he was also very attractive, his aura alone was enough to turn heads anytime he stepped foot outside. you knew this well, having been on the receiving end of it many times. he was dressed in his usual red suit and rectangular glasses, his fingers covered in his signature gold rings. his lips were curled up in a crooked smirk and he was watching, no—studying you.

"m-mr. choi you wanted to see me?" you stuttered out the question nervously. you weren't sure why he wanted to see you, but whatever the reason, you had a bad feeling about it.

"ah yes. come in please" he replied, stepping aside to make room for you. you walked inside his office which you spent most of your time in, sorting and filing papers, cleaning his desk and doing work on your laptop from the sleek black couch that stood across the room, perpendicular to his desk.

"i-i also brought the reports you requested on sung jinwoo, i completed them early" you managed to say, trying to keep yourself calm and collected.

"mmm, ever so diligent. good girl" he hummed approvingly, the praise sending a positive rush of blood to your cheeks. you handed him the papers, his fingers ghosting over your skin ever so lightly as he took them from you. “please, take a seat” he said, his hand motioning towards the couch. you complied, placing your hands on your knees to stop your legs from bouncing nervously. he sat himself down in an armchair across from you, placing his elbows on his knees and leaning his chin into his folded hands.

"you look nervous" he chuckled lightly, his eyes still fixed on you. you blushed, averting your eyes from his piercing gaze. "i'm just worried that you're not satisfied with my work sir" you admitted, looking down at your hands. it was true—despite his occasional praises and wide smiles, he was a perfectionist, he liked things done a certain way and he certainly made sure his employees knew that.

"you know," he started, leaning back in his arm chair, crossing his ankle over his leg "i've never kept an assistant for longer than two months at a time" he finished, smiling. a few moments later he added, "do you know why that is?"

"i-i'm not sure. how come?" you replied slowly, unsure of what was coming for you next. he was full of surprises— never quite saying what he meant, often leaving you with more questions than answers.

"because if there's one thing i despise, it's people who work less efficiently than me" he replied casually, observing you, waiting to see how you'll react. there it was again—his puzzling demeanor that never failed to keep you on your toes.

"i-i'm sorry, i'll do my best to get things done faster and—"

"ah ah, i didn't say that about you did i?" he clicked his tongue, cutting off your restless rambling. you felt your mouth zip shut, resolving to let him finish before you made any further assumptions.

"as i was going to say, you're different" he stated simply. you waited for him to elaborate because this could have meant anything, good or bad. "you're so good you know? perfect really. in all your time here you've made maybe one or two mistakes, all within your first week of work" he continued, "and that's exactly what i like about you" he finished carefully. he held your gaze, watching you fidget nervously. his words sent a warm rush of pleasure through your body, which settled low in your core. a semblance of hope returned to you—maybe you were going to keep your job after all.

before you had a chance to thank him for his praise, he asked, "tell me y/n, do you like working for me?" shifting the conversation. your eyes widened at the question. choi jong-in was a very generous employer to say the least. not only did he pay you more than any other job you’ve had, but he frequently bought you lunches without even asking, brought you coffee in the morning, and praised you like you’ve never been praised before. yes, generous he was.

“of course, you’re very kind and i’m treated better here than any other job i've had in the past so, thank you" you replied softly, hoping that he intended to keep you employed. he stood up from his armchair abruptly, and plopped himself down right beside you on the couch. you shifted nervously, waiting for his next move.

“you’re a sweet girl aren’t you?” he asked, his velvety voice alone enough to have you pressing your thighs together. and what a sweet girl you were. always so attentive and eager to please. you had everything done on time if not early, always complying with all of his requests and doing your best to make yourself useful to him. you blamed it all on his commanding presence but deep down you knew that there was more to it. you craved his attention, wanting nothing more than to hear sweet praises dripping from his lips when you did something right.

“i try my best” you replied, your voice shallow and breathless. when did it get so hot in here?

“you know what i’d like to know?” he asked, but before he let you answer, he continued, “i'd like to know what sweet girls like you look like when they come undone” he whispered, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. the air was thick with tension and somehow his lips found themselves mere inches from yours—you hadn’t even noticed how close he was to you until now. you felt heat pool in your lower stomach which you quickly noticed took form in the slick that coated your panties.

"s-sir" you uttered, no longer worried about your employment, your thoughts now clouded with excitement and lust. you hadn't realized how badly you actually wanted him until now. all those stolen glances in his office, the praises, the lunches, it wasn't just because he was being nice.

and that's when you felt the tension snap. his lips quickly met yours, kissing you with a hunger you somehow knew only you could have cured. you eagerly kissed back, allowing his tongue to explore the inside of your mouth. how you'd go back to being boss and assistant after this? you didn't know. but in this moment nothing mattered but the feel of his soft, warm lips on yours. he tasted faintly of mint and cigarettes—as expected from a chainsmoker like himself.

jong-in broke the kiss momentarily. he stood, taking his blazer off and rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing his expensive golden watch. this man really did love luxury. the sight had you practically drooling. you unbuttoned a few buttons of your blouse in a pathetic attempt to escape the heat but you had a feeling this stifling heat would remain as long as a choi jong-in— a fire mage type hunter, was in your presence. you gasped when he lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his torso as if on instinct. he walked you over to his desk, placing you down rather gently so you were sat on display for him, instantly squeezing your thighs together at the realization of how you looked, embarrassed to be in such a position in front of your boss. "ah ah, don't shy away from me" he cooed, gently tapping your thigh with two fingers, making you open your legs reluctantly.

and before you knew it, his lips were back on yours, claiming your mouth as his. you felt his fingers travel up and down your thigh, eventually reaching your soaked panties. "oh? if i had known you were this much of a slut i would have done this a lot earlier" he teased, pushing your panties aside and coating his slender fingers in your slick. "s-sir—ah" you moaned right before he pushed two ringed fingers inside of you while continuing to rub your sensitive clit with the pad of his thumb. you whimpered at the feeling, throwing your head back in pleasure, letting him play with you however he pleased.

he was pushing you close to the edge. you felt the buildup in your core waiting, begging to be released. "please, sir—ah, i'm going to cum" you whined, relishing in the pleasure he was giving you with just two of his fingers. "mmm, no you won't. not like this" he practically purred, a smirk of satisfaction plastered on his face. he pulled his fingers out of you right before you could finish, leaving you high and dry. "why not?" you asked while exhaling shaky breaths. you couldn't believe that choi jong-in, your boss, had you all worked up from just his fingers. "you'll see" he replied simply, once again leaving you questioning his true intentions.

he put one hand on your waist and the other on your shoulder, slowly pushing your back down on the desk and leaning over you. that's when you understood exactly what he meant. you gasped as he started placing soft, wet kisses down your neck, and unbuttoning your blouse to reach your chest. you closed your eyes shut, letting out soft mewls of pleasure as he wrapped his lips around your left nipple, licking it, sucking it, and kissing the soft skin around it. you felt an overwhelming need for him, from the teasing and edging earlier to this. you were unable to contain it any longer. "please sir, i need more" you keened, hoping he understood what 'more' meant. "more what? use your words sweetness" he murmured against your skin. "i need you inside me, please sir" you managed to utter, your cheeks flushing pink.

he removed his mouth from your tits, lifting his head to look at you through half lidded eyes. he chuckled, and without another word, he wrapped his strong arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to him, where he stood at the edge of the desk. he lifted your skirt, bunching it up around your waist so he had better access. you propped yourself up on your elbows, wanting to admire him a little more. you felt another wave of pleasurable heat wash through you, settling in your already soaked panties at the mere sight of him unbuckling his belt. his eyes lingered on you, studying your reactions to his every move. he let the belt drop to the floor, moving to unbuckle his pants. your eyes widened at the sight of his hardened cock, wondering how all of that was going to fit.

"are you ready baby?" he asked softly, hovering over you and slowly prodding your dripping entrance with his cock. you whimpered, bucking your hips impatiently. "so impatient" he muttered, slowly sliding his cock into your hole, filling every inch of you. "nngh sir—" you moaned, arching your back off the desk, trying to adjust to his girth. but he didn't move, and he wouldn't move until he heard his name roll off your tongue. "sir is used for business. does this—" he thrusted into you once making you gasp with pleasure, "feel like business to you?" he asked, smiling coyly. "n-no" you stammered. "what's my name?" he demanded, standing still, his cock buried deep inside you while he waited for his answer. "mr. choi" you replied, hoping that was what he wanted to hear. spoiler alert, it wasn't. "wrong." he thrusted into you again, making you suck in a sharp breath. "jong-in" you mewled at the pleasurable sensation of his dick hitting your sweet spot.

and that was what made him snap. the swore that the sound of his name on your lips was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. he pulled out slightly before slamming into you, making you cry out. he began pounding into you, one hand gripped your waist so hard you felt bruises forming and the other closed around your neck, choking you lightly. the feeling of the cold metal of his rings was a divine contrast for your burning skin. "fuck sweetness— you feel so good" he rasped, quickening his pace. his hair was messy, and his glasses had slid down his nose— the sight was purely erotic. you felt a flame ignite between your thighs, feeling yourself approaching your climax yet again, hoping that he would let you finish this time. "jong-in" you moaned breathlessly, unable to formulate a full sentence. "i know baby—fuck i'm gonna cum" he groaned, feeling his dick twitching with need inside of you. "ah—" you cried out, body going still as you finally felt the sweet release you were waiting so patiently for. jong-in followed, eyes shut and head hanging low, breathing heavy breaths while he finished inside of you.

as you came down from your high, your mind had started to clear and it finally dawned on you. oh my god. you had just fucked your boss, who was also the guild master of the most well known guild in the country. oh fuck. jong-in finally pulled out, buckling himself back up. he looked over at you, admiring the sight of you laying on his desk all fucked out—a sight he’d been waiting too long to produce. you sat up, looking up at him. he lifted a hand to your cheek, brushing his thumb lightly over its soft flesh. “good girl, you did so well for me” he praised, his words enough to make you melt. you really did have a thing for praise. “thank you” you mumbled shyly, unsure of how things would be after this. nothing could be the same after sex this good. he tapped your cheek lightly before dropping his hand back to his side, walking across his office to his private bathroom. he spent a few minutes in there and stepped out, holding a wet, warm towel which he used to clean you up.

the stark contrast between how rough he’d been during the sex and how gently he was cleaning you up made your head spin. would he fire you now? was it good enough for him? was he going to do it again? “stop thinking so much” he muttered, pulling you back from your thoughts. “huh?” you asked, worried that you were speaking out loud the whole time. “you have that frown on your face. i’ve noticed you frown that way when you’re overthinking something” he explained. wow, he really was attentive. “sorry” you mumbled in response, still worried about your future at the guild and your future with him.

he finished cleaning you up and you slid off the desk, shocked to find that your heels had stayed on during this whole process. your feet hurt, so you opted to take them off, your height shortening by about 4 inches. he seemed even taller now. jong-in wrapped a hand around the back of your neck and leaned down. he kissed you softly, gently, reassuring you with just his lips. he pulled away, smiling, and said “now sweetness, tell me about those reports you brought in”. looks like you were keeping the job after all.

© @blessedmisery 2025.

[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader Ending -> Under Aegis, Under Love

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental stare or unable to handle darker themes.

The mirror towers over you—monolithic and unyielding, like a figure carved from judgement itself. Its polished surface gleams, reflecting nothing, yet daring you to move forward. It feels like standing at the edge of something monumental—like a test, a trial, a threshold you cannot cross without losing something you'll never get back.

mini warning: This is very long and features every character.

Your breath trembles as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to anchor yourself in the chaos of your thoughts. A futile gesture. The air hangs thick with anticipation, the silence ringing like a warning in your ears.

This is the moment. Now is the moment.

Your fingers drift to the ring—the one that once pulsed with heat and promise, always humming like a heart pressed against your own. But now... it sits cold against your skin. Silent. Still. Like it has already forfeit.

And yet...

You lift your eyes, scanning the crowd that's gathered like ghosts at the edge of a dream. Faces blur and blend, but you search desperately—until you see him.

He's pushing through them. Desperate. Determined. Shoving his way forward with all the urgency in the world written into the furrow of his brow. Then—there he is. Breathless, shoving himself onto the stage, eyes locked onto yours, hand outstretched toward you like a flower seeking sunlight.

He's not reaching out in pity. He's reaching with resolve.

Time bends around the gesture. Seconds stretch thin and fragile like glass as your eyes meet his. In the stage light, he's illuminated just barely—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and brimming with something fierce and quiet and raw.

You're leaving. He knows it.

And yet... he still reaches.

Maybe it's for one last embrace. Maybe it's a confession he thought he could keep buried, something he'd planned to carry to the grave. He tells himself you wouldn't want to go through there seeming so alone up there, that you'd need one more sliver of comfort before you go. But maybe it's not for your sake at all—maybe this outstretched hand is a plea. Not a demand, but a question. A hope.

Stay. Stay with me. Stay here. Please.

Then—your name. Soft, trembling, real.

And in that moment, the world sharpens. The pieces click. like a puzzle finally snapping together. You belong here. Not because someone told you to. Not because of a prophecy or fate or magic.

Because he says your name like it means something. Like you mean something.

Your foot pivots. Your bag hits the floor. You run.

The air stings your lungs, and the tears blur your sight, but you keep running. One step. Another. And then you're crashing into him—into arms that catch you like they were meant to. Like they've been waiting.

The warmth of his embrace isn't perfect—it's new. Like a home freshly moved into, walls echoing with possibilities, rooms waiting to be filled. There's uncertainty, yes. But it's the good kind. The kind that says: you'll grow into this. You'll make it yours.

And in his arms, for the first time, you believe it.

You don't know what's ahead—but you know what you've chosen.

You've chosen this. You've chosen him. You've chosen to stay.

Riddle

When Riddle first heard about the Blot—from Trey's steady voice and Ace's nervous, stumbling explanation—it felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted. Internally, he spiraled. The thought that you—someone who had helped him when he was at his worst, when he had nothing but rules to shield him from the world—were now under suspicion? It felt like betrayal from the universe itself. You'd been a rare constant, a soothing presence he came to seek when his certainty wavered. You challenged him kindly, helped him grow. He had come to rely on your quiet wisdom when his own rigid beliefs began to fray.

He let himself wallow—for a short time. He knew better than to indulge despair too long, especially when he'd once admired Ramshackle's persistence. So, like he'd seen you and the others do a hundred times, he picked himself up. He cracked open every book, every law journal, every dusty volume of magical regulation he could get his hands on. And with each page, the weight of it sank deeper into his chest: the rules he'd once lived and breathed, the very framework of order he had dedicated himself to... they didn't fit this situation. They didn't protect you. They labeled you.

An anomaly. A threat. A danger.

By those definitions, you should be contained—locked away for the safety of the world. But that wasn't right. Not for you. Not when the danger they feared wasn't the truth of who you were. Fortunately, the information hadn't yet spread to anyone outside a close circle, and even more luckily, the heir of STYX himself didn't want you caged either.

Still, the helplessness ate away at him. Riddle Rosehearts was not a boy who accepted powerlessness easily. He almost let it win this time—almost—until he saw you on that stage, on the verge of disappearing. And something snapped. The next thing he knew, he was breaking through the crowd, climbing onto the platform, reaching for you with a hand that demanded you stay—not from duty, but from something deeper, something human.

And you reached back.

That moment never quite left him.

After graduation, Riddle realized his prodigious memory and methodical mind weren't suited for a medical path like his mother envisioned. Instead, he went into law. The process wasn't quick or easy, but he flourished, carving a name for himself as a high-ranking legal figure. He made policy his battlefield, red tape his opponent. Every form, every clause, every outdated loophole—he conquered them. And all of it, all of it, was for one purpose: to make you official. To ensure that this world acknowledged your existence, your right to stay, your right to belong.

It became his proudest accomplishment.

You and Riddle stayed close, though never loudly. Your bond was quiet—built on mutual respect, long talks over tea, and the subtle, comforting kind of companionship that grows over time. The kind that doesn't need grand declarations to feel permanent.

And the world kept turning, this time without dragging you behind. Time slowed down just enough to let you breathe—to let you be.

Riddle found solace in simpler things. He started tending to a small greenhouse. Roses, naturally. You'd often join him in silence, handing him tools before he even asked. He would glance at you as if remembering something distant and dear, and then excuse himself with the same careful grace he always carried.

Today, though, he returns with a faint blush dusting his cheeks and a book tucked awkwardly in one hand. His gaze flickers everywhere but your face, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck—nervous, uncharacteristically so.

The book is familiar. The title is the same one you'd spoken about so often in passing—something from your world, a story you'd half-remembered and clung to like a comfort blanket. In your quieter moments, you'd shared it with him, filling in plot points and character arcs as best you could. Riddle had listened, soaking up every word.

Unbeknownst to you, he'd written to an author, relayed everything you'd told him, and commissioned the story to recreated from scratch—just for you.

"It... won't be the same," he says softly, almost apologetically. "But it's close. I hope you like it."

The way your face lights up is answer enough. He watches you with a calm that replaces his nerves, shoulder squaring just slightly in pride. He's grown taller now—his presence more grounded, more mature. It suits him.

"You've done so well," he says, voice gentle. "You've survived this world. Made a place for yourself in it. I hope..." He hesitated for just a moment, then forges ahead, "I hope you'll continue to let me be part of your life. Even now that your troubles are resolved. Even if you don't need me anymore."

But deep down, he hopes you want him there. Because he wants to stay.

Trey

Trey had been one of the first to find out. One of the first few unfortunate enough to witness the moment you crumpled under the crushing weight of the truth—like the world itself had pressed down too hard, and your bones might give way. He hadn't known what to say, hadn't had grand magic or a thousand solutions like others might. But he stayed. He held you up as best he could.

He knew his place. Not a genius, not a powerhouse, not the heir of anything legendary. Just Trey Clover—quiet, kind, steady.

But he promised himself—promised you—that he'd be your anchor. Your safe place. A post to lean on whenever you needed it.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, he'd already prepared your favorite breakfast. Everything cooked with intention, plated carefully, and carried to you with a silent kind of resilience. He didn't ask questions. Didn't offer empty platitudes. Just sat beside you, letting his presence speak.

There was a quiet sorrow behind Trey's eyes after that—something he never spoke aloud. Something he kept hidden so it wouldn't add to the weight already resting on your shoulders. Instead, he acted. Discreetly, delicately, he passed your story along to those who could help. Only to the trusted. Only to those who cared. He knew he couldn't save you himself—but maybe, just maybe, someone else could.

Then came the day of your farewell. The day you stood on that stage, prepared to leave. Your eyes scanned the crowd, searching—and they landed on him. That was all it took. Something inside him broke loose, something urgent and new. He pushed forward, cutting through the crowd with more fire than he'd ever shown. He didn't think. He reached.

And when you dropped everything—when you turned back and ran into his arms—it felt like winning something precious. Like holding onto a miracle.

That night, you were invited to Heartslabyul as an official member. Ramshackle was too empty now, too far from the people who mattered. Trey had made sure your room was nearby—close enough that if you ever needed him, he'd hear. He sat with you at the long dining table for hours, huddled under a warm-toned light, helping sketch out the logistics of a life in this world.

A student ID was the easiest part. The rest? Not so much. A legal identity, housing, a bank account. You were both still students, limited on what you could do. But Trey didn't falter. He opened a secondary bank account under his name for you and promised—without hesitation—that you'd always have a place with the Clover family. His family.

Seven years passed, and when it was finally time to secure your citizenship, Trey was there. With the help of more powerful friends, the process moved forward. He wasn't the one with the grand solutions. But he was the one who had never left. The one who gave you warmth, and safety, and something real to hold onto.

You moved into the second floor of the Patisserie Clover, living above the bustling bakery that had become your shared world. You insisted on working there—contributing your share, learning the rhythm of the kitchen, growing into the space as much as you'd grown into the life Trey helped you build.

Your bond with him settled into something like a hot drink held between cold hands—simple, comforting, deeply intimate in a quiet way. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you needed to. There was peace in the closeness, in knowing he'd always be there for a baking session, an unspoken conversation, or just a shared silence.

Whenever you called it a baking date, his younger siblings would giggle and squeal behind the counter, earning quick shushes from Trey as he herded them away, red-faced and muttering something about "manners."

He sends you handwritten recipes now—folded neatly and slid under your door or left by your workstation. His neat handwriting often breaks into loopy cursive where he scribbles suggestions in the margins:

"Try a pinch more cinnamon." "Less lemon, more parsley." "Bake 12 minutes longer—trust me."

It's more than instruction—it's care. His quiet way of making sure you're still eating. Still baking. Still holding onto something soft. Something safe.

On days off, when you drop by the Clover family home outside bakery hours, he answers the door with his signature crooked smile. Like he'd been waiting. He reaches for your hand without thinking, thumb brushing over your knuckles, warm and grounding.

And when his family peeks in and coos and teases—"Ooh, someone's in looove!"—Trey turns scarlet and clears his throat, gently steering you inside with an embarrassed cough.

But he never lets go of your hand.

Cater

Cater's reaction hit hard—but not in the way most would expect. He didn't cry, didn't get angry. Instead, he dialed himself up to eleven. Talked a little louder, laughed a little brighter, smiled a little wider. Like if he projected enough good vibes into the world he could shield you from the weight threatening to crush you.

Triple that energy, and you'd get close to how he acted when he found out what was happening to you.

He took you everywhere—cafes, shops, pop-ups, art exhibits. Dragged you from photo op to photo op, insisted on treating you every single time, and probably set fire to his savings in the process. To Cater, you weren't just on borrowed time. You were already gone. And knowing that—that he'd lost you before he'd ever had the chance to really know you—shattered something inside him.

You were one of his first friends here—his first real friend. Someone bothering to really know him. "Snack Buddies," remember? That was the time you first met—first really got to meet.

But when the news broke, and it hit him all at once: you never confided in him. Never told him. Never asked for help.

Why?

He didn't ask, but the question haunted him.

So, Cater did what he could. He made happy memories like he was racing a timer, crossing off an invisible checklist of moments he had to have with you before it was too late. Because whether the Blot consumed you or you found a way home—it would mean losing you.

And when the latter became real—when there was a chance you might leave—he fell apart all over again. You'd think he'd cling tighter, text more, demand more time. But instead, Cater pulled away completely. Cold turkey.

The day of your departure, he didn't even show his face. Not at first. He stood back, hidden by the crowd, heart pounding in his chest and shame thick in his throat. He thought he'd blown it. But when you hesitated, when your eyes flickered to search the crowd—he was already moving. Pushing forward, desperate and unfiltered.

And when you chose him—when you ran to him of all people—something in him healed. The way his face lit up, that pure, uncontainable joy, was the kind of thing people wrote poems about. He looked like he could live off that feeling forever.

After that, you stayed close... he disappeared.

The messages slowed. The calls stopped. You assumed he'd moved on, gotten busy, grown up. What you didn't know was that Cater wanted to reach out. He nearly did—countless times. But every time he picked up the phone, he froze. Because he couldn't bear to be the version of himself you didn't deserve.

He missed you like hell. But he was wrestling with something messy, something dark. And until he figured out how to manage it, he refused to drag you down with him. He already regretted not being there when it mattered most.

Still, he never stopped working behind the scenes.

Even before you were granted residency, Cater had started crafting a campaign for you—carefully disguised, of course. Through curated content, subtle storytelling, and aesthetic posts that humanized your experience, he made people care. He built connections, charmed influencers, schmoozed with political heirs and even flirted with the partners of people in power—all to tip the scales in your favor.

He made your story real. Something worth fighting for.

And somehow... It worked.

The years passed. The two of you drifted, save for the occasional text that barely scratched the surface—quick check-ins, never deep dives. Cater tried college, flitted between majors like outfits. None of them fit. In the end, he dropped out and doubled down on what he was good at.

He built a name as a wellness and lifestyle influencer—one of the biggest. His content was vibrant, authentic, magnetic. He started planning high-end events, known for their dreamy aesthetics and viral appeal. He'd found his groove—and finally, finally—when he felt steady enough to be in your orbit again, he showed up.

Bouquet in hand. Grin just a little too wide.

"Uh... are the flowers too much? Kinda tacky, right?" he laughed, hiding them behind his back like a teenager confessing a crush.

Then he apologized. For disappearing. For the silence. For not being there when it counted. And when you forgave him—when you told him it was okay—his smile lit up like the first day of spring.

And just like that, it was as if no time had passed.

He still flirted. Still pulled you into wild adventures like, "This escape room is trending so hard right now—we HAVE to try it!" But there was something different now. A deeper warmth behind his words. A gravity in his presence. He wasn't just performing anymore—he'd grown. Grounded himself. Found joy that was real.

It became obvious: you'd never left his heart.

His content reflected it, too. Guides for people starting over. Credit-building tips, community resources, affordable and good quality brands for lifestyle and personal style as well. Things you'd once said you wished you had. His videos were comforting, encouraging, and personal. As if he were still speaking to just you.

And maybe when he recorded them, he was.

He always found a way to include you in his world. If there was a party, you were the first invite. If he planned an event, your name was on the list.

And when the burnout hit him like a truck, he didn't pretend anymore, he showed up at your door with bags under his eyes and a crooked smile.

"I had a breakdown. Can I borrow your couch and emotional availability?" he asked, lighthearted as always—but the look in his eyes was raw, real. Something unfiltered and unborrowed.

You ended up curled together on the couch, watching some barely-relevant movie. Conversation flowed instead. About the past. The pain. The healing. And slowly, like puzzle pieces slipping into place, it felt like something was being mended.

On a shopping trip to the mall, he handed you cash and told you to grab a drink from the booth while he "ran off for something real quick."

You returned, drink in hand. He reappeared, overly dramatic, snatching it with a flourish of his hand. A ring gleamed on his finger. A chic, silver star. It suited him perfectly.

You arched a brow. "What's the sudden accessorizing?"

Cater grinned and gently took your own, lifting it beside his and your own ring—the Blot ring—caught the light, thrumming gently and operating as your heart.

"Now we match," he said, voice bright. "Yours has lore. Mine has vibes."

Then, a pause. A slow quirk of his lips. "Unless... you'd rather we get real matching rings? Y'know—like, a wedding set?"

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Then nodded, before your brain could catch up.

Cater beamed. Not his usual picture-perfect grin, but something softer. Almost disbelieving. The tips of his ears flushed scarlet and he immediately turned, tugging you toward the next shop.

Still grinning. Still buzzing.

And still holding your hand.

He never let go.

Ace

Ace was already moving the second he caught it—that flicker of hesitation, that silent don't make me go on your face. He shoved through the crowd with all of the subtlety of a brick to the window in the dead of night, determined and reckless in a way only he could pull off without getting arrested.

For all the times he'd dragged you into trouble, teased you until you swore vengeance, and laughed through the consequences, Ace had always, always had your back when it counted after the contract. Maybe he wasn't great with words, and maybe he'd never say it out loud, but he'd owned his mistakes in the only way he knew how—through stubborn loyalty and relentless action.

He was on stage before anyone could stop him, face flushed from the sprint, chest heaving with breath, and scarlet eyes wide with something raw. It wasn't you who ran to him—no. He decided. Decided that you weren't going anywhere. Not somewhere he couldn't follow and pester you like an annoying cat. Not when he'd finally figured out what you meant to him—late. He knows.

He grabbed your bag, yanking you back from the mirror along with it like it was about to swallow you whole, like it had teeth. His arms wrapped around you tight—too tight—and he buried his face in your shoulder like Floyd might, but with an edge of trembling desperation that betrayed just how scared he was.

"You're... not leaving," he mumbled, muffled into your shirt, like he could will it into reality. "You don't wanna. I saw it; that look. So don't. Just... stay. We'll hit up that diner we all like, I'll even pay." His voice cracked, rushed and anxious, like he'd lose his courage if he slowed down.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, the cocky front cracking as uncertainty leaked in. Maybe he'd read you wrong. Maybe he'd just made everything worse. But then—you crumpled against him like paper, a slow, small hum of agreement slipping out.

Relief hit Ace so hard he laughed—short, breathless like a dam breaking.

That night, he sat across from you at the diner, chewing his burger with a single-minded intensity like it personally offended him. He didn't say much. Just... plotted. Quietly. Eyes sharp, teeth grinding as he thought too hard for someone who claimed to avoid responsibility like the plague.

After that, he clung to you—not obviously, not in a way he'd ever admit—but subtly. Always there. Always dragging you into some dumb new scheme or surprise lunch plan or whatever excuse he could make to be around. At one point, he even suggested kicking out one of his roommates so you could move in with him and Deuce.

Riddle, of course, shot the idea down before Ace could even finish the sentence.

But Ace didn't stop there. He couldn't deal with paperwork, but he could scream at it. He hounded ethics professors, annoyed every bureaucrat who couldn't block the amount of numbers he had, bribed old alumni, and guilt-tripped anyone he could. He dug through every NRC connection he had, shaking people down for favors like a mob boss in red sneakers.

While others worked through the official channels, Ace worked in the shadows. He got you fake IDs, documents, licenses—things you definitely shouldn't have right now. And he never told you how. Never would. Just smirked when you asked and said, "You're welcome."

Years passed.

Seven of them, to be exact.

And Ace? Still Ace. Still a chaotic menace with a smart mouth and endless energy. But he never forgot how close he came to losing you. Not once. Not twice. And maybe that's why he showed up at your place so often—like it was his second home. Never official. But there was always something of his lying around: a hoodie slung over a chair, phone charger left on your couch, a pack of gum in his favorite flavor.

He always left a reason to come back.

You weren't sure what Ace actually did for a living. Sometimes he was in town. Other times, not. He'd pop up on TV out of nowhere, or facetime you from some iconic monument halfway across the world, acting like the time difference didn't exist.

He's a freelance agent of chaos. Sometimes you see him as a popular magician, sometimes he's up there for a random acting role he somehow got into, he'll be a chaperone for high-profile events, and other times he'll show up to locations and begin working until they eventually hire and pay him.

No one knows how exactly he makes money. He's never broke, though.

Some nights, you'd find him on your couch at 1AM, half-asleep with a pause game on the screen. He'd wave his phone lazily at you with a dopey smile. "I ordered food," he'd mumble.

When the food arrived, he'd sit across from you with his chin propped in his hands, batting his lashes like a brat expecting tribute. "Soooo~? What's the verdict? You miss me? Gimme a compliment. Tell me your day. C'mon, gimme the goods."

You'd roll your eyes. But you'd talk.

And as the night settled, the conversation turned quiet. His gaze would shift, eyes drawn to the ring on your finger. The ring. The one that kept you alive.

His teasing would fade, expression softening.

"Still won't come off, huh?" he'd murmur, gently brushing it with a fingertip. "Guess that means we're stuck with you."

Then—classic Ace—he'd flash a grin. "Hope you're listening when we hangout, Blotty-Boy. I'm the favorite. I win."

On one outing—a "Market Date," as he proudly dubbed it—Ace held your hand through the crowd. Too casual to be romantic. But he didn't let go until you were home. And his cheeks were definitely a little red.

As you gathered his things after he'd crashed at your place, he lingered in your doorway like a lost cat. He watched you with this lazy, unfocused gaze, then grinned, cocking his head.

"We're not a thing yet, right?" He said it casually, self assured and cocky as if the idea was gross.

You squinted. "Yet?"

Ace laughed, too loud, too quick. "Cool! Cool cool cool. Just checkin'. Y'know how it, uh... be."

It made absolutely no sense.

You were just about to call him out on it—maybe hit him with a pillow—when he turned too fast, stubbed his toe on your furniture, and limped dramatically into your kitchen like a man escaping his own feelings.

You couldn't help it.

You laughed.

Deuce

Deuce found out through Ace.

And he didn't think he'd ever forget the look on his best friend's face when he came back that day—shaken, hollow, eyes wide with the kind of pain Deuce hadn't seen on him since ever. All of Ace's usual snark had evaporated, replaced with stunned silence and a tightness in his jaw that made Deuce's stomach turn.

That was when he knew something was seriously wrong.

The moment Deuce learned the truth—what had really happened to you—it all came crashing down. Every dumb joke he'd ever made, every offhand comment, every time he'd laughed without knowing what you might've been carrying behind that tired smile.

Had I hurt you? Have you ever left feeling worse after hanging out with me? Did I ever really see you?

He wanted to see you right away. He needed to. But guilt froze him. So instead, he stewed in his own misery, locked in his room for a few days replayed every memory like a crime scene.

He called his mom. Asked for advice with a tight throat and told her everything. He spoke to upperclassmen, to teachers, to anyone he could ask without giving too much away—keeping your privacy close to his chest.

The night before he visited you, Deuce rehearsed what he wanted to say again and again, pacing in the dark and muttering under his breath until Ace hurled a pillow at him from across the room.

"Shut up and sleep, man. You sound like a broken record. It'll be... fine." Ace didn't sound too convinced either.

When Deuce finally got the nerve to reach out, the first thing he did was apologize. And he meant every word.

He apologized for every comment, every moment of ignorance, every time you might have walked away from him feeling a little more alone. He apologized for not noticing sooner, for not being someone you felt you could come to, for hesitating when he should've come running.

And when things settled down—when the world stopped spinning and the mirror wasn't looming over everything—Deuce did what he always swore he would.

He tried to be your hero.

He even said it, a little too proudly, puffing his chest out with a goofy grin.

Ace snorted in the background, pointing and laughing about how lame that was, which only made Deuce turn bright pink and swat him away.

After graduating, Deuce dove headfirst into his dream of joining the elite magical enforcement division. The training was brutal, but he worked harder than anyone, landing part-time gigs with local authorities during college. Math class? Forget it. But law enforcement? He was a natural.

Since holding a legal and well-paying job wasn't exactly possible for someone who didn't officially exist, his mom offered you a place in her home. She insisted it was nothing, that you'd be helping her more than she was helping you.

And while Deuce was climbing the ranks, he was also... quietly working on something else.

He never told you. Didn't want you feeling guilty. But in between classes and protocols, Deuce spent any free time at the registry office, the records bureau, making connections with people in the system who knew how to make the impossible possible.

He asked the right questions. Found the best agents, shortest wait times, safest routes. It took him four years ever since graduation from NRC. Four years of people telling him no.

But he did it.

One afternoon, Deuce came home with a stack of paper in hand and a grin so bright it almost hurt to look at. He held the binder like it was made of gold and gently passed it to you.

Inside: documents. IDs. Certificates. A name that matches yours. A history that said you belonged.

He didn't say how hard it had been. Didn't say how many nights he stayed up calling in favors or redoing paperwork because one date was wrong. He just smiled like it was nothing.

When you had enough to move out, he made sure your new place was in a safe neighborhood. Somewhere quiet. Monitored by himself or coworkers he trusted.

And still, Deuce didn't stray far.

He visited weekly. Brought groceries. Checked your locks. Fixed the squeaky cabinet door that you kept forgetting to mention. He taught himself random handyman skills just so you wouldn't need to spend money on things he could do himself.

If anything broke, Deuce was your first call. Always.

Every now and then, while you were at work, you'd come home to find a new vase of flowers on your counter. No note. No explanation. But you knew—remembered what Dilla always says:

"If you care about someone, you give them flowers. Everyone likes flowers.

Holidays at the Spade home became tradition. Dilla hosted with her usual warmth, but you noticed the way her eyes lingered when she watched you and Deuce. How she'd lean in to whisper to her friends with that little smirk of hers, clearly plotting.

She knew.

She knew from the first time Deuce called home to tell her all about his first week and his new friends, and it was solidified when he called crying, asking for advice, scared out of his mind because he thought he'd lose you. She knew then that you were someone irreplaceable to her son.

So there were always plenty games with opportunities for you two to get closer.

One evening, long after you'd move out, you heard footsteps outside your door. Familiar pacing. Muted mumbling—rehearsals. Then a knock.

When you opened the door, Deuce was there with a shy smile and an arm full of groceries—a familiar, soothing sight.

When your face lit up and you invited him in, the script he'd rehearsed was lost immediately.

He stood there for a second, watching you sort groceries away like he'd forgotten how to speak.

"I like this," he said softly. "This life—with you in it. Let's keep doing this. Forever."

It didn't take long before he realized how that sounded—way too much like a proposal—his eyes went wide and he panicked.

"I—uh—bathroom. Sorry—hold on—!"

He turned to escape, bumping into a chair and heading in the direction of your bathroom. But he wasn't thinking straight, instead locking himself in the closet.

Instead of exiting and facing you again, Deuce resigned himself into pretending the closet was certainly the bathroom and remained in there for two minutes.

Leona

Anger. That's all Leona felt when you finally told him—everything.

All the secrets, all the pain, all the betrayals you had carried in silence. It hit him like a punch to the gut. He wanted to yell, to demand why you hadn't told him sooner. Weren't you two close? He thought you were. He believed you were.

But then he saw your face.

The anger cracked and faltered. That look—defeated, hopeless, like your future barely extended beyond the next breath—it froze him. Words that had been bubbling up, heated and venomous, died before they could leave his tongue. He bit them back, knowing they weren't true. Knowing they'd only cause more damage.

And when the fury ebbed, guilt settled in like a riptide. Cold, unrelenting. It dragged him under the weight of forgotten moments—dismissive words, avoided emotions, a wall built to protect himself that might've been the thing that pushed you away.

Leona couldn't face it. Couldn't face you.

For a while, he pretended none of it had happened. That you didn't exist. That the crack in his carefully constructed world hadn't appeared.

He swung between silence and frustration, indifference and sudden closeness. His moods flipped so frequently you didn't know what version of him would walk through the door—a soft, quiet shadow of the Leona you knew, or the usual irritable beast barely holding himself together.

Just like everything else in his life—complicated, heavy, always out of reach.

He tried once. Just once. In his own quiet, cryptic way, he suggested that if things ever blew over—if you ever decided to stay—the Sunset Savanna would welcome you. He would welcome you.

But you hadn't answered right away.

Leona understood rationally, but emotionally it still stung. So he shut down again, folding himself back into his cold walls and endless naps. Sleeping more than ever, even though rest never came easy.

And when sleep did come, it was cruel.

His dreams were filled with scenes of you that felt painfully real—buying an extra snack, setting it aside for you and waiting like luring out a mouse. Waiting. Always waiting. But you never showed up. In those dreams, you were already gone.

Those had jolted him awake in a cold sweat.

And for once, he was grateful for the nightmare. Because it reminded him of the date. The time. You were leaving—today. In just thirty minutes.

Leona had never moved faster in his life.

He shoved through the crowd, all elegance and composure stripped away by desperation. Gone was the lazy prince. In his place: a man running out of time.

"Get down here!" he shouted, voice ragged, rough. He didn't care who heard. Didn't care how pathetic or needy he looked. For once, pride didn't matter—not it it meant losing you.

And this time—this time—it wasn't too late.

He'd been wrong to think it was another situation he couldn't fix. That this was just another thing predetermined to slip through his fingers.

But you weren't gone. You were right there. And when you crumpled into his arms, he caught you with the exhaustion of someone who hadn't truly slept in weeks.

"Don't ever do that again." he breathed, the words muffled against your neck.

Leona pulled strings afterwards.

Royal ones. Powerful ones.

The kind of favors that made officials fall silent the moment his name was spoken. Falena, stunned to see his brother clinging so tightly to anything—anyone—intervened, and whatever red tape existed was cleared overnight.

Time passed. The chaos dulled. But something lingered—something unspoken, fragile. Like walking barefoot on glass, or breathing air laced with hidden blades.

Leona never said it out loud. Never called it what it was. But he was yours. Entirely yours.

As he once hinted—half promise, half plea—the Sunset Savanna welcomed you with open arms. Your new home was suspiciously affordable and entirely issue-free. Too good to be true.

And then you learned why.

It had already been paid for, courtesy of one very bratty lion who refused to acknowledge it. You never got bills. No letters. Nothing.

You might've protested more if the man funding your lifestyle didn't already spend most of his time in your house.

"It's closer to work," he'd grumble.

It wasn't. His commute from his own home was a mere three minutes longer.

You grew close in that quiet, unspoken way. Words left unsaid, but already heard. He didn't admit how much your presence soothed him, but you could tell in the way he made space for you—space no one else had ever been invited to.

It wasn't a romance. Not exactly. But sometimes, it felt like one.

Mornings were shared silently—Leona already awake, running a hand through wild hair as he set out two breakfasts. You ate without fanfare, peaceful. You fixed his collar before he left, catching the way his ears drooped, the softened gleam in his eyes.

After graduation, Leona had become a royal advisor—a strategist and a diplomat. He hated politics, but he was good at it.

Knowing how intense his work had become, you tried to give him space. Tried not to hover, to let him breathe.

You didn't notice the tiny pout he wore every time you passed him in the royal halls with nothing but a nod. Or how his tail lashed behind him, smacking his poor assistant in irritation.

To counter this, said assistant had taken to buying an extra drink on coffee runs—one you liked—and placing it silently on his desk.

Leona would scoff. Grumble. Swat her away but thank her nonetheless.

But he didn't move the cup. He left it out like bait for a certain mouse he wanted to catch. Waiting. Hoping.

The game of cat and mouse grew exhausting and this cat hated waiting. Hated this distance between you two that was so small. But not small enough.

Leona had learned to go after what he wanted. And maybe—just maybe—you were something attainable as well.

One day, he followed you down the hallway in heavy silence. A full minute of nothing but soft footsteps. Then—he reached out. Tugged your sleeve gently, like a cat testing its luck. Leona's ears were pinned back, eyes narrowed with impatience.

"I'm tired of this," he muttered, almost a growl, but he wouldn't meet your eyes. "Come home tonight—my home. I... have something for you. Probably. Just—come over."

And before you could say anything, before the words could register—he spun on his heel and stormed off, fast enough to hide the flush blooming across his cheeks and back of the neck.

Ruggie

Ruggie knew the moment he saw it—the moment that thing spoke to you in the woods, and you snapped.

You attacked him. And still, he didn't leave.

Despite the pain, the fear in his bones, the shock of betrayal—he stayed. Like a loyal dog. Like someone trained, conditioned on your presence.

Because no one understood desperation better than Ruggie Bucchi. Not the kind that carves you hollow and turns your heart into a survival instinct.

He recognized the look in your eyes instantly: fear, heartbreak, guilt, and something far worse—desperation. It hit him like a punch, and it was the only reason he said nothing. He just got his wounds treated in silence. Quietly. Stoically.

Then he went to work.

He didn't think of himself as especially smart—his grades were average and his study habits were barely functional while juggling jobs. But when Ruggie wanted—needed—to learn something, he did. He'd scrape and claw until he knew every answer, every workaround. He became relentless.

The only problem was... there were no answers. No documented care of what had happened to you. No framework, no warning signs, nothing he could reference to make it make sense.

So he pivoted.

He focused on what he could control: the future.

So far, there was no news, no sign, no hope that you could return to your original world. Which meant one thing—you'd be staying. And Ruggie? Ruggie started planning around that.

When the truth came out—when the word spread what you were, what you had done—he wasn't surprised. By the time it reached his ears, he only offered a tired little smile and a nod.

Of course.

He'd seen that look before. In Leona's eyes. In every overblot victim he'd witnessed. That flicker of chaos right before everything fell apart. It was a solemn kind of acceptance. He couldn't fight the Blot. But he could help you rebuild from it.

When the dust settled, Ruggie threw himself into helping you find your footing again. He didn't know why he was so sure, but deep down, he believed you'd stay—even if a way home was found. He called it a hunch, but it felt more like a gut-deep certainty.

So, when the day of the decision came, he was there. In the crowd. Watching you with his heart pounding in his throat.

And when your eyes locked with his—when you moved toward him—he didn't wait to be sure. He ran. Even if he'd already convinced himself of your choice, he still ran. Just in case. Just to know.

You reached for him first.

There was a guilt in your voice when you spoke, a sorrow that clung to you like god. You apologized again and again for what happened. For attacking him when all he'd done was poke holes in your story. For unraveling you without realizing it.

He flinched at the little contact, old instincts flaring, but the fear didn't stick. Not when he looked at you and saw past it. Past the Blot. Past the trauma. To you—the real you. The one that had been alone and afraid in this world for far too long. The person he'd grown to care for in a dozen tiny, ordinary moments during long, exhausting shifts.

And then Ruggie did when Ruggie does best—he handled it.

He forged documents.

Because, let's be honest, legal bureaucracy is expensive and stupid and he did not have time or money for all that noise.

He learned some tricks. Picked up a few skills. Bent some rules so cleanly is was almost elegant. And suddenly—poof!—you were a legal citizen. Kinda. As long as nobody looked too closely.

He walked you through it like it was just another shady alley in a bad neighborhood. He knew which hands to shake, which landlords didn't ask questions, who to bribe and who to befriend.

He vouched for you. Put his own name on the line. Built an entire paper life for you before the real system caught up.

Ruggie wasn't a noble. He wasn't a high-tier mage. But he knew people. And more importantly, he knew you needed time to heal. That something like this didn't leave people stronger right away. Sometimes, it left them broken and brittle, and in need of someone who could carry the weight for a while.

So he did.

Years passed.

Careers were chosen. Dreams followed.

Ruggie could've chased big money is he wanted to—gods knew he dreamed of it. But something else tugged at him: his talent with kids, his way with the overlooked, the struggling.

He became a teacher.

An elementary school in the slums took him in. It was barely standing, underfunded, falling apart—but Ruggie didn't let it stay that way. He harassed Leona into helping, twisted the right arms, and used the legal finesse he'd gained from helping you to secure grants. A few years later, the school had a new building and shiny new resources.

He had a real paycheck. A real roof. And best of all, a sense of peace.

In seven years, what had happened between you faded into something like a joke. A painful one, sometimes—but one told with a fond smile.

Though you do occasionally catch him glaring at the Blot ring.

In the staff lounge, you're rinsing mugs. Yours and Ruggie's match—oddly shaped with messy lettering and hand-painted patterns that don't quite line up. It was made by one of the kids and he guards it like a treasure. You once joked he'd kill a man if it chipped. He didn't deny it.

Ruggie leans back in his chair, eyes shut.

"We should go camping again," he says suddenly. "Remember that weird leaf we ate?"

You groan. "Why was your first instinct to eat it instead of, I don't know, using your phone to identify it? I was sick all weekend. I ruined the trip."

The scrape of his chair was the only warning you got before he's behind you, arms draped lazily over your shoulders, chin resting atop your head.

"I think it was a great trip," he murmurs, voice quiet, warm. "You clung to me in the tent all night for warmth."

You swat him away, shoving the mug into his hand, rolling your eyes.

This is why the kids think you're dating. It's their favorite drama—watching their teacher and teacher's aide act like a romcom.

The way he fixes your collar without a word. The way you pluck stray glitter from his hair during craft time. The way your paper flower offerings and beaded friendship bracelets feel like something more.

One rainy afternoon, Ruggie walks you home. The sidewalk is slick and shining, streetlights haloed in mist.

He's carrying a tiny umbrella—barely wide enough for both of you. Drops run off the edges and soak his shoulder, but he doesn't mind.

He looks down at your hands, gaze catching on two rings. One is that cursed Blot ring—the symbol of everything you survived. The other is different.

It's a flower ring. Handmade. Crooked and childlike, gifted during recess by Ruggie himself with the pomp of a knight bestowing a crowd and a fleet of little girls gushing around you both.

And you're still wearing it. On your right ring finger.

His tail twitches, mouth lifting slightly. Maybe... maybe in due time it'll be real.

Jack

Finding out his friend had died last winter certainly wasn't on Jack's summer checklist. But grief never cared about timing, did it? While others distanced themselves to nurse wounds in silence, Jack didn't flinch. He stayed close—stubbornly loyal, solid as ever. Not one whisper of disrespect passed around you without his glare silencing it. Not a single look was cast without him standing between it and you like a guard dog with bristling fur.

You had earned his respect long ago in a way that no one else had. You didn't just endure it—you persisted. Wounded and changed, maybe, but never shattered. And in Jack's eyes, you had never looked stronger than you did in those moments when it would've made perfect sense to crumble, yet you stood your ground. That kind of resilience was rare. Sacred, even.

He never smothered. He was simply there—near enough that you could always find him, but never so close that you couldn't breathe. A presence, not a pressure.

Of course, Jack was grieving, too. Quietly, deeply. But it wasn't about him right now. He didn't know exactly what you were feeling—couldn't tell if it was fear, rage, sorrow. That uncertainty ate at him. Jack hated not understanding, not knowing how to help. That was the hardest part.

Still, when the offer came for you to return to your own world, He was... happy for you. Genuinely. It opened his eyes to how harsh this world had been for you and the others. Maybe leaving was the right thing. Maybe it was finally time. You deserved rest. You'd done so well already.

He watched everyone else depart, one after another. Tall and still, waving them off with a quiet pride. He told himself he'd do the same for you.

But when it was your turn, and you paused—scanning the crowd, eyes flicking like a compass searching for true north—Jack's tail betrayed him. A hopeful little wag. He hadn't expected that.

And when your eyes found him—when you actually sought him out—he stepped forward before he could think, a big, goofy grin on his face. You weren't alone. Not then. Not ever.

You stayed.

Jack couldn't make your paperwork disappear or navigate bureaucracy, but he could do the next best thing—stand beside you through all of it. He helped you build a home with his own hands, sourced furniture, knocked on doors, introduced you to people who mattered. He accompanied you to every inspection and official visit, never letting you face a room full of strangers alone.

You and Jack built a life not on grand declarations, but quiet consistency. His was a love spoken on footfalls—always at your side, always keeping pace. You went on walks when time allowed, and he always seemed to have a gap in his schedule that just so happened to match yours.

He never let you fall behind. Not on the path, not life.

You worried, once, that maybe you were slowing him down too. That your pace wasn't fast enough for someone like him. But Jack only shook his head, quiet and patient. "It's not slowing down," he'd said. "It's making sure we walk together."

And as soothing as his soft words were, you had a feeling that it didn't apply to occasional walks along a familiar path—but in life as well.

And when you told him you wanted to grow more independent—that you wanted to learn how to stand on your own—he respected that. He stepped back. But not too far. Never too far. He'd always be waiting nearby, just in case you stumbled. Just in case he needed to help you up and hold you.

You had a feeling he still felt guilty for never noticing before—like he was trying to pay you back in some way.

At local festivals in the Shaftlands, Jack positioned himself between you and the busy street, between you and a crowd of strangers. It was muscle memory now—part of how he existed. But when your hand gently closed around his, grounding him, reminding him to live in the moment and stop regretting the past, he'd pause. He'd smile. The tension would ease and Jack's tail would wag subtly.

"What should we do?" he's ask, dipping his head to hear you above the din, voice low and earnest.

The two of you were opposites, yet perfectly in sync—two halves of a rhythm that kept the other steady. A sense of calm always lingered between you two and you felt you belonged.

One day, he handed you a small wooden wolf. Carved with care. A little uneven, maybe, but unmistakably made with intention.

"For protection," Jack said, scratching the back of his neck. "Not like you'd need it. But still. Even lone wolves need their pack."

He knew you weren't weak. You never had been. But worry wasn't about weakness—it was about love.

And Jack? He had once overlooked you. You would never let that happen again.

(literally shaking. I had to write the wolf line. sobbing actually)

Azul

Azul had heard it from Jade. The calmer twin—at least in appearance—offered him a tight-lipped smiles that barely held together at the corners. His eyes, however, betrayed him, darting anywhere but toward Azul's. Whatever words were spoken next blurred into a haze. Azul couldn't recall them—couldn't even remember leaving that conversation. All he knew was that when his mind finally clawed its way back into focus, his face was already wet with tears.

Pain sharpened behind his eyes like needles, and his skull throbbed with each heartbeat.

The crash of waves against jagged stone startled him into awareness. The ocean. Of course.

He hadn't stepped into the surf—hadn't dared. He merely sat in the sand, just at the edge of its reach, shoes long discarded, trousers dampened. The night sky stretched out above him, ink-dark and choked with clouds, swallowing every star. No constellations to guide him. No wishes to whisper to the heavens. Only the rhythmic, indifferent roar of the tide.

Azul stared into the void, not searching for answers—he doubted there were any—but quietly, desperately, hoping the sea might shoulder the burden of his questions and carry them away.

This was beyond him.

Could he write a contract to contain the Blot? That much was plausible. He had bested worse in ink and clause. But you—you were the complication. The Blot sustained you now. It kept your warm smile, your pulse steady, your eyes alight with something he couldn't name. And the thought of crafting a deal that might unravel you in the process?

He refused to imagine it.

No negotiation, no clever clause, no legally binding trick could free you without cost. The laws he'd mastered faltered before a power still cloaked in mystery. And when he asked—softly, hopefully—if you could simply end the pact, your expression fractures. You hesitated. Something unspoken flickered in your eyes, some silent truth you were unwilling or unable to voice.

And Azul realized, with a sick twist in his gut, that maybe—maybe—in all their neglect and abuse, you'd grown attached. Found comfort in a creature born from despair. Let it wrap itself around your loneliness until it felt like home.

The thought hollowed him out.

He understood then, or thought he did. Of course you'd want to leave—of course you'd want to be rid of all this. Of him. What had he ever done for you, really, other than hurt you in the ways that counted?

And yet... you stayed.

Why?

Azul's first question was sharp and brittle, whispered into the wind: Why me? Why choose him—why remain by his side?

Was it vengeance? A long, slow plan to make him feel the way you once did?

And yet, even with that fear twisting through him, he still held you like you might dissolve into seafoam in his arms—fingers trembling, glasses askew, breath shuddering as if holding you together took everything he had.

He asked the question again and again, each time more uncertain, more raw. His gaze lingered on you, half-afraid to see the answer in your face. He was always a breath away from fleeing—from you, from himself. But instead, he clung, desperate and undignified.

Like an octopus, he thought grimly. How fitting.

For the first nights after your decision to stay, the twins kept an eye on you—discreet but constant. You slept in Azul's bed, tucked beneath crisp sheets while he took the floor with the tweels, pretending not to hear Floyd's complaints.

When you began to fret about life beyond graduation—where you would go, who you would become—Azul responded with vague platitudes and averted eyes.

"You're quite resourceful," he murmured, the words stiff on his tongue. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

But Azul was already working. Quietly, obsessively.

The moment he graduated from NRC, he made you his focus. While the world thought he was expanding the Mostro Lounge and climbing the business ladder, he was also building something invisible: you.

He forged a flawless identity for you—legal, untraceable, foolproof. Crafted through intricate contracts, bureaucratic slight-of-hand, and only a modest amount of moral compromise. You were now a citizen under a clause so obscure not even the authorities fully understood it. Neither did you.

Mostro Lounge became just another cog in a much larger machine. Azul's empire expanded rapidly, subtly. He invested, acquired, and monopolized until his name was threaded through industries beyond hospitality. He climbed to circles no one expected him to reach.

And in seven years time, he still flushed whenever your hand brushed his.

He flirted with deniability, wrapped his longing in professionalism and paperwork. He summoned you to meetings about nothing, claimed he "required your input" on decisions he already made. He wanted to see you. That was all.

You, in turn, baffled and impressed him. Your boldness, your ingenuity, your endless refusal to be impressed by him. It drew him in, over and over.

You had become his assistant, on paper. A transactional arrangement, he insisted. "Good business," he said with a straight face. "You're a long-term investment."

And then you'd hit him on the back of the head and call him out for skipping meals. You dragged him away from his desk when he forgot to sleep. You brought him fried chicken and threatened to force-feed him if he didn't eat.

One day, he called you to his office under the pretense of reviewing documents.

He looked every bit the businessman—sharp suit, confident smile, pen in hand as he passed you a crisp three-page document.

"Contract of Mutual Existence," you read flatly, eyes narrowing as you scanned it. You'd gotten food at catching hidden clauses and double meanings. Too good, he often joked. Half irritated.

Azul leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "No fine print this time."

You looked up slowly, raising the paper with a quirked brow. "Azul. This reads like a very elaborate, legally-sound marriage contract."

He smiled. His entire face on fire. "Does it? How peculiar," he said, voice a touch too high. It was the third one this month.

When Azul returned to the sea to inspect his underwater ventures, you stayed near your home along the shoreline. Each time he missed you, and business didn't anchor him too tightly, he sent bottles. Glass vessels sealed with wax, each holding a neatly penned letter in his distinct hand. Always unsigned. Always thoughtful.

On the surface, they were about schedules, logistics, occasional reminders.

But between the lines?

He missed you.

One day, you responded—not with the business points, but to the emotion laced beneath them. You answered with warmth, humor, vulnerability.

The next bottle came the following foggy morning.

It scolded you for "ignoring the primary intent" of his last message. But the writing was rushed—the loops in his letters too wide, his i's undotted. You knew he'd scribbled it in a fluster.

"If you truly wished to speak about such trivial things," he wrote at the end, "I suppose I'll indulge you."

An invitation. A plea. A hope he still wasn't ready to name.

Jade

Look at you—so stubborn, so resilient, refusing to wilt no matter the odds. It was something Jade found truly admirable, even if he'd never say so directly. You headstrong nature could amuse him endlessly, or at time, vex him just enough when you made it difficult for him to get what he wanted.

When you needed to vanish, Jade was the one who made it happen. And when the time came, he was also the one who helped you reemerge. With a few murmured words and a thousand carefully calculated steps, he blurred your records, filed false trials, and spun a whole new identity out of the air, all with that pleasant, unreadable smile. He knew exactly what officials to approach. He whispered your name in all the with ears, leaned in with that dangerous charm, and let people come to the conclusions he wanted without having to utter a single direct threat.

He had even offered—so casually—to forge an identity for you "purely for archival balance." You had declined. He made one anyway, tucking it away where only he could reach it, just in case.

You still don't know how he pulled it off, where all those slippery ties and unseen connections stemmed from. Every time you asked, Jade only offered his usual signature: a hand pressed lightly against his chest, a polite tilt of his head, and a slow, feline smile.

"I'm truly wounded that you underestimate my importance in this world," he'd purr, with all the fake hurt of cat caught stealing cream.

And you, as always, would retort without missing a beat: "You won't even tell me what your importance is."

You didn't know much about Jade. Not really. Even after seven years, he remained a mystery wrapped in silk and half-smiles. When you pressed for more, his teasing gleam softened into something almost tender—and then he would simply steer the conversation away.

The truth is, Jade would love to tell you everything. He truly would. But Jade leech is not the type to give his entire hand to anyone, not even you—not yet. Choosing someone, letting someone in deeply enough to hold real power over him—that was a rather frightening though. Even for him.

Maybe he couldn't have you at his side just yet. But he was preparing. Working, planning, weaving something intricate beneath the surface. He never asked for a promise, a confirmation that you could stay—because he already had it.

You had chosen when you crashed into him that day, your "final day," clinging to him with desperate hands like he might slip away if you let go.

And for once, Jade hadn't slipped free. No sly remarks, no deflections. Just the honest, bewildering joy of being chosen.

You never told him the truth—that all his whispered half-truths, his careful gestures, his subtle manipulations hadn't swayed you—not really. It was the simple fact that he had tried—the image of Jade Leech, one of the most composed students of NRC, looking genuinely stricken at the thought of losing you—that had cracked something open inside.

Jade remains a mystery even now, but his fondness has becomes familiar, a quiet undercurrent in your life. Each month, without fail, he checks in—with tea, with oddly specifics gifts, with little slices of wisdom tucked between the ordinary. He's become a constant, like the tides or the moon.

Jade exists somewhere between affection and curiosity, treating your presence as something sacred—and slightly dangerous. He remembered everything: how you take your tea, which flowers make you sneeze, which stories from your home leave you aching.

And despite all his smooth composure, there are cracks you've glimpsed.

When you saved up for months to buy him new shoes for his eighteenth birthday—after spilling soda on his old ones—you witnessed something rare. His face barely moved, just the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but his entire face flushed deep crimson.

He's never worn those shoes. Of course not.

You hadn't known then, but gifting shoes to a merfolk was no small gesture—it was a quiet plea, a proposal to leave the sea behind and stay. And though Jade would have gladly accepted, he is a calculating creature. If he was going to live on land with you, he would do it on his terms—with power, influence, luxury. He's still preparing, so he implores you to wait.

You don't get to see him often. Jade vanishes overseas, pursuing business ventures he refuses to explain. No matter how tightly you try to hold him, he always slips away.

But he never forgets you.

Polished envelopes arrive from around the world, each neatly penned with his sharp, deliberate handwriting. Inside are small polaroids of curious places, buttons collected from foreign markets, dried flowers pressed between color-coordinated paint swatches. Every letter is an art piece—so carefully crafted, so unmistakably Jade—and each one ends with something that reminded him of you.

No matter where he goes, Jade always finds his way back to your seaside home.

Usually during storms, you've noticed.

He arrives soaked with rain and salt spray, peeling off his damp coat without ceremony, wandering into your kitchen as if he's never left. He keeps his favorite things here—his rare teas, his terrariums, his little trinkets too precious to lose to the tides—and of course you. He walks the halls like a man belonging to the space as surely as the wind and the sea.

"This house," Jade says one night, voice soft and low, "feels like you."

While he showers in the room unofficially reserved for him, you find yourself putting away his belongings, moving through familiar motions. Among his things, you discover a dried flower poking out from a well-loved leather journal—the same kind you once offhandedly complimented—pressed neatly between the pages of his notes. It's dated the day you chose to stay.

There are more notes alongside it: meticulous recollections of your favorite things, plans for the future, some crossed out, some left gleaming and untouched, waiting to bloom.

Jade will never forget the hollow pit of fear he felt the summer of his second year, when he learned you died. When he saw the loneliness you tried so hard to hide.

The memory of your face that day—the way your mask cracked—is seared into him.

And Jade swore, with all the weight of his scheming heart, that he would never let you look that way again.

Floyd

You're cruel, smiling at him that way—charming and bright, like fireworks blooming behind his ribs—and it just makes Floyd all the more glad he climbed through the roof of the Mirror Chamber when he saw you hesitate, saw you scanning the crowd for him once, twice, even pausing to gesture helplessly at Jade.

He could never forget the feeling of it—sprinting forward, scooping you right off your feet, and just running—until the mirror was a distant memory and the only thing around was quiet grass and open sky. He only stopped when he was sure you were safe, setting you down so gently it hurt, then flopping backward into the grass with a breathless grunt.

Floyd laid there, silent for a long moment, staring up at the stars with a wide, slack grin—like he was thanking each and every one he'd ever wished on. Finally, he turned to you, lazy and loose, his downturned eyes gleaming almost too bright.

"You were gonna stay, yeah?" he asked, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

And when you nodded, he laughed—breathy, cracked—and dropped his arm over his eyes like he could hide the way his whole body shook with it. "Good. That's good..." His voice splintered halfway though, raw and genuine. "I'm so happy."

The day he got the news from Jade, something nasty and cold twisted inside him. His usual grin had slipped, just for a second—a flash of raw panic—before he pasted it back together with something jagged and mean.

Underneath it all, he was terrified that day.

Somewhere deep down, Floyd had decided it would be easier to shove you away before fate could rip you out of his hands. Because if you died... he wouldn't just cry—he'd shatter. He'd wreck everything he touched, sobbing and screaming until he puked, until he couldn't tell which way was up anymore. Part of him wanted to grab you right then and there, crush you against his chest and never let go. But another, meaner part whispered maybe it would be kinder to let you go first—before he had to to watch you disappear.

That night, Floyd clung to you like a barnacle, breathing frantic, half-laughing, half-sobbing apologies into the fabric of your shirt once all the adrenaline had faded. Promising you outings, stupid gifts, anything he could think of if it meant you'd really stay. His heart thundered against you like he thought you might evaporate if he loosened his grip even a little.

And as the years passed, Floyd stayed Floyd—only sharper. His boyish features grew leaner, more cunning. That devil-may-care smirk getting more dangerous with time.

You never found out exactly what Floyd said to the officials handling your case. But you caught the little things—the way he tucked a strand of teal and black behind his ear, the way his grin sharpened, the way his eyes, usually so lazy, narrowed in lethal amusement.

He whispered something sweetly, too sweet—and though the words floated like a joke, the promise beneath them was real. It wasn't a threat—it was a confession. A crime not committed yet, but promised all the same.

Whatever Floyd tangled himself up in after that, it paid. Well. Enough that he could buy you anything without blinking, still trying to make good on that desperate promise he made when he was younger: to keep you here, with him.

Sometimes, a call would come through—he'd answer it with a casual, sing-song, "Yo, what's up?" but you'd see how his whole body stiffened, how his gaze sharpened and darted to you. If you were close enough, he'd make sure the person on the other end knew: "Shrimpy's with me." His tone just dark enough to be a warning.

Whatever came next was in code you weren't meant to understand.

Then he'd be gone—sometimes days, sometimes longer.

You never pressed. Whatever Floyd's gotten himself into, he kept you shielded from it. He could play the fool all he wanted—but you weren't blind. Floyd was sharp. Too sharp.

Yet no matter how far he drifted, no matter how long he was gone, he always found his way back. melting into your arms the second you opened the door, whining about "boring meetings" and "stupid people" while you plopped a juice box in his hand and made him sit down.

Dangerous or not, Floyd still threw on that ridiculous pink frilly apron you got him as a joke, still danced around the kitchen beside you, tossing food into pots while you caught up like nothing had changed at all.

And sometimes—when he thought you weren't looking—he'd watch you. Like you hung every star in the sky just for him.

One night, lying on the roof of an abandoned building he'd found, Floyd pointed at the stars and named them lazily—Hubert, Spaghetti, Dum-dum. And then, softer, more serious, he'd tell you the real names and lore around the stars.

"That one's you," he said once, deadpan and refusing to elaborate.

Later that night, after he passed out on your couch—arms and legs draped across you like a lazy octopus—you searched it up, curious.

And sure enough, he'd bought you a star. Named it after you.

The description was simple: "The Way Home"

The brightest star available, always visible directly above the surface of the ocean by his house. If he swam up and followed it, it would lead him straight back to you.

Right back home.

Kalim

Kalim lay beside you in the small cabin that night, eyes burning, cheeks streaked with tears. His gaze was faraway, lost, staring quietly as you slept. You barely moved—your breathing so shallow it was almost impossible to hear—and your skin was cold where he gently grazed it. That scared him most of all.

He understood what had happened. He was smart enough to piece it together.

And that was the worst part.

Kalim understood. But he also didn't.

He couldn't understand how he, of all people, could've let you slip through the cracks. How he could have left you so neglected, so alone. Yet when he tried to recall certain memories of you from that winter... there was only a haze.

Without thinking, Kalim shifted closer—not too close, not in any way that could frighten or hurt you. Just enough to try and share his warmth, to lend you some of the fire inside him. He cradled you carefully, like a storm-torn flower he could somehow nurse back to life. In his heart, he made a quiet promise: he'd plant you somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere you could bloom again, untouched by harm.

All you had to do was say the word. Ask for help—and he'd give you everything he had.

You might've expected him to spiral. And he did, in a way. Kalim cried himself hoarse most nights, and what little sleep he caught was fitful and shallow. But whenever you were awake, whenever you were near, he smiled brighter than ever—like he could will his happiness into you, like his laughter could heal the pieces too broken to reach on his own.

The night you chose Kalim over returning home, he could hardly believe it. He asked again and again if you were sure—if you really wanted him. Even through the lens of his cheerfulness, Kalim had eyes. He had ears. He knew there were so many others better suited, steadier, stronger.

And still, you stayed.

When you insisted—when you smiled and said you'd rather stay here, with him—Kalim made it home and cried until he was sick. but they were tears of disbelief, of wonder. Because somehow, against all odds, you picked him.

That night, a deep, steady guilt sank into him. If you were staying because of him, then your future was his responsibility now too.

Much to Jamil's quiet astonishment, Kalim changed. The parties still came, but Kalim started slipping away from them early—or abstaining altogether. He buried himself in studies, preparing for the future he wanted to built. You weren't a pet. You weren't a trophy. You were a person. Someone he loved. Someone who trusted him.

When he finally came of age, Kalim moved fast. Through his family's endless wealth and influence, he arranged for your housing, your paperwork, even set aside funds for education if you wanted to pursue it. NRC graduation already glimmered on your new record like a star. He threw a few grand parties—not for himself, but for you—to settle you into his world, to make it clear that you were someone treasured. Not to be trifled with.

It was dangerous, he knew. Flaunting the things he loved most. but Kalim would rather face that danger head-on than let you slip into neglect again.

He grew up fast after that. Head of the Al-Asim family, he became a force in foreign affairs, trade, philanthropy. His name carried real weight now. But no matter how many lavish homes he owned, no matter where he went, Kalim's feet always led him back to you.

The night you gave him a spare key, he clutched it like it was spun sugar, not gold. "You can always hide here," you said. "Even if I'm not home." You welcomed him without expectation. Without conditions. That quiet acceptance made his heart soar in a way nothing else could.

And so he came. Tired, worn from travel, arms full of souvenirs or letters or rare fruits. Straight to your doorstep. Straight to you.

He never mentioned it aloud, but in the desert heat, your cooler body was the sweetest comfort. He'd just smile and pull you into a hug, drinking in your calmness.

He never stopped checking in. Never stopped texting—morning, night, tracking time zones like a second language just so he could reach you at the right moments. His letters, messy with stickers and doodles, stacked up neatly somewhere safe in your living room. He kept sending them, even if he'd leave a country before you could reply. It didn't matter. What mattered was that you knew he was thinking of you. Always.

Every year, on the anniversary of the night you chose to stay, Kalim threw a festival in your honor. Everything crafted to your tastes—the food, the colors, the music. Even as an adult, when you asked him if it was intentional, Kalim would look away, cheeks pink, and beam at you with that boyish, desperate kind of hope:

"Did I get it right? Do you like it?"

And when you told him it was perfect—how thoughtful it was—he'd shine so bright it hurt to look at him.

Later, when the crowds disappeared and the last of the music faded into memory, you would find yourselves dancing at twilight. No cameras, no guests. Just you, and Kalim. His hands hovered close to your waist but never touched. Not until you gave him explicit permission.

As open as Kalim was with his feelings, he'd wait. As long as it took. Until you chose him back, just as surely as you'd chosen to stay.

Jamil

Jamil resigned himself to being your anchor the night you chose to stay—when you flipped that invisible coin in your head and turned toward him instead.

He couldn't understand it. Couldn't rationalize it. And really, there wasn't a good reason.

He told you as much, voice clipped, heart hammering against his ribs like a bird desperate to fly free as he tried to push you back where you "belonged":

"No—you're just being anxious. Go home. You—you belong there. Where it's safe. Where you're happy."

You didn't belong here. Not in this world that had already bled you dry once before.

It stung to say it, but Jamil would never admit that. Would never confess how you felt like a lighthouse in the storm—how your calmness, your steady, gentle warmth, always seemed to guide him back when the fog closed in.

Jamil Viper, who carried the world on his shoulders like a single mother working three jobs, had found you in something he'd never known how to name: a kind of clarity. A reminder of parts of life he thought he'd buried years ago.

And even thinking that made him feel stupid.

Jamil hadn't been a king when you met him—he hadn't even offered the basic hospitality you deserved. Even when he did start to notice you, he was too much of a coward to treat you the way you deserved to be treated.

Jamil Viper was emotionally unavailable. No one knew that better than he did.

Reluctantly, he accepted your choice as fact. But not out of the love you might have hoped for. To him, it was another burden—another responsibility laid on his already breaking back. He didn't—couldn't—understand that you hadn't chosen him to carry you. You had chosen him to walk beside you.

But Jamil only knew how to carry. It was what he'd been trained for.

Years passed. He remained at Kalim's side, even as the boy grew into a more capable, more aware man. Still, he insisted on handling what he always had.

Just so you could have a place—any place—in this world, Kalim agreed to fold you into their work while your documents processed. An aide, like Jamil, but lighter. Less burdened.

Quietly, behind the scenes, Jamil carved paths for you. He taught you how to navigate the minefields of politics and power, coached you through delicate negotiations. Late nights spent bent over books and documents felt familiar—like those days back at NRC.

He stayed close. But careful. Always one step away. Never intruding. Never letting anyone else get too close. You'd seen it—how fiercely he defended you when people talked.

And yet, slowly, the distance between you grew, The quiet, domestic moments you used to share—the late-night chats, the casual mornings—faded away like smoke.

He wasn't blind. He caught every flicker of hurt that crossed your face when he pulled away.

You made him feel alive, yes. But he'd made a mistake. A devastating one he realized too late. He hadn't just made room for you in his life—he'd made you a part of the machinery he longed to escape.

You had become a tie to the Al-Asim household. And cutting that cord meant cutting you away too.

So he left. One day. Without a word.

He finally got permission, and he took it.

Jamil's room was left barren. His presence, which had once settled in the corners of your life like a quiet, comforting hum, was simply...gone.

No lingering scent of coffee and his shampoo or cologne.

No easy mornings, exchanging lazy conversation over sunbeams and sleepy smiles. No shared glances that caught the light and held it just a second too long.

It was like a street at night without drivers. All the lights still there, but no one left to see them.

The first night alone in his tiny new apartment, Jamil tried to savor it—the peace of solitude he'd craved for so long. And at first, it was soothing.

Until midnight came.

He wandered outside, some half-formed instinct steering him toward where you should have been—and when you weren't there, the absence hit him like a blow.

The loneliness he had fought for now felt hollow.

Jamil didn't sleep that night.

Instead, he remembered. Remembered the day he first saw you fall apart. How he had ignored the sharp pain in his chest. Pretended it wasn't real.

He hadn't been able to untangle you then. All he could do was try to smooth the edges of the knot. To make your days a little softer after all the ones that had broken you.

It wasn't duty. It wasn't obligation.

It was care.

It was a love, quiet and clumsy and too late to name.

Two days later, he broke. He didn't have to be at work for another three hours.

But he couldn't sit still. Couldn't endure one more morning without you.

The air was warm as he drove, windows down, heart pounding. And maybe—maybe—if he took the turns slow and missed the potholes, he'd catch a glimpse of you. A ghost still waiting in the passenger seat.

He found you, somehow. And before he could think better of it, the words were out:

"Those morning felt like a religion," he blurted. Voice raw, unguarded. His posture was slightly hunched, like he desperately wanted to curl into himself. "And I don't think you knew. But that's my fault for not telling you."

You stared at him, wide-eyed, trying to process this vulnerability never seen before.

Jamil swallowed hard. His voice, usually so measured, cracked slightly as he spoke again:

"I'm sorry—about a lot. For getting you tangled up in my old position. For leaving without a word."

Those storm-grey eyes, always so guarded, softened. Genuine. Regretful.

A look you thought you might never see from him.

"I need you," he said, low and hoarse. "Selfishly—but that's the man I am."

His hand curled into a fist at his side. "Don't let me walk out of your life again."

A ghost of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth, almost too sad to be called one.

"Hit me next time I try. Pull my hair if I try to walk out—because clearly I'm not thinking straight."

Vil

It had been shocking—almost incomprehensible—to learn that someone like you, someone who shone so effortlessly, could have ever gone unnoticed. You lit up the environment around in the smallest, most invisible ways: a faint warmth in a cold room, a softening of the air when you smiled, a kind of presence that smoothed the world around you without even trying.

And yet, you had died before he ever met you. Both in spirit—and once, horrifyingly, in body.

The thought of it stung more than Vil cared to admit. What had you been like before that? Back in your own world, before the weight of it all? Were you brighter then? Happier? Did you laugh more, shine more openly, without that delicate hesitation in your eyes?

He would never know. And maybe it didn't matter anyway.

You were here now—lovely still, even though you were damaged. Beautiful not in spite of your hurt, but because of them.

When you first explained the truth to him, voice shaking, eyes darting like a wounded animal expecting to be punished, Vil had remained cold, still as a marble statue. Not cold toward you, no—but he had retreated inward, retreading deep into his mind where he could turn over every memory, every subtle expression he'd seen on your face and missed the meaning of until now.

The idea that you had suffered alone—that you had broken quietly while the world looked away—was something he couldn't tolerate. Wouldn't tolerate.

The next morning, he came to wake you himself, gently brushing your hair from your face. You blinked blearily up at him, and the instant you noticed the dark marks under his eyes, guilt flared bright and ugly across your features, rearing its head and biting down hard.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his expression tightening with something closer to anger.

"No," Vil said firmly, the syllable slicing through the guilt before it could gnaw down to marrow. "We are not doing that. From this day forward, you're not going to live like you're waiting to break again. I don't care what the universe thinks it has in store."

His voice was stern—uncompromising—but there was a heat behind it, a furious kind of encouragement that only someone like Vil could offer.

It was clear in his tone: you had no choice. You are going to get better.

It was moments like these when Vil's tenacity blazed through, unrelenting and bright, like a floodlight tearing apart the fog. Not cruelty. Rescue.

When news eventually reached him that the Mirror had found a way back home for Ramshackle—and for you—Vil had paused. The thought of you leaving, returning to a life he'd never gotten the chance to see, made a low ache settle in his chest. He thought about the memories you had built here, the things he still wanted to show you, the futures he had half-imagined where you remained close by.

But Vil was not selfish. Or at least—he tried not to be.

So he smiled, and dressed you and the Yuus in their finest, styling every detail to perfection to send you back in a blaze of glory. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary when they brushed your cheek, and his violet eyes softened with a rare, unguarded tenderness.

"What do you think you'll do first when you get home?" he asks quietly, more curious than anything else. He realized belatedly, that he had never once asked about your world, about what it was like beyond the glimpses you had let slip. And now that he might lose you, he regretted it. Regretted all the things he hadn't thought to say, or ask, or do.

It was true what they said: You never truly appreciate what you have until it's about to be gone.

But when you threw yourself at him instead—launching yourself into his arms rather than the portal home—Vil's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, lips parting wordlessly as he tried to process what had just happened.

Then he laughed, the sound light, melodic, and disbelieving, pulling you closer into a tight embrace.

"I worked so hard on you," he teased, his voice breaking slightly with the intensity of the moment, "only for you to ruin my grand sendoff." He pulled back just enough to study you, really study you. "But you made the right choice. You're my responsibility now. And I won't let you regret it."

Of course, responsibility meant more than just affection. It meant practicalities: endless paperwork, infuriating bureaucracy, finding a legal way to anchor you to this world. It was tedious, but Vil's influence—and a considerable amount of money—swept aside most obstacles.

You had the best lawyers money could buy. The best support system anyone could dream of.

His home was always open to you. Always.

Meanwhile, Vil's acting career could only soar. Higher and higher, until sometimes you wondered if he had already disappeared into sky you would never be able to reach.

You were still the same nobody from another world. Someone who had once hidden behind an old, battered Ghost Camera.

But something fierce burned inside you—a refusal to be left behind. And it turned out, the Ghost Camera had been more valuable than you ever realized.

Your photographs, capturing the raw, breathtaking moments no one else could see, caught fire. And Vil, true to his word, promoted your work without hesitation, praising you where it mattered—where it would be seen. Not because you were his friend, but because he supports genuine quality.

You climbed steadily. Not as fast as him, maybe. But you were climbing. And that was enough.

Vil stayed close. not possessively, never with a chain—but intentionally, with a presence so steady it wrapped around you like sunlight. He let you shine or hide as you pleased, never once pushing or pulling.

And even years later, there was a softness to the way he said your name when no one was listening. A way he called you like your name was something rare and precious that he trusted to keep safe.

Second place didn't feel so terrible anymore. Not when you looked at him like he were the entire world.

The café was bustling that afternoon, light pouring in through tall windows, golden and clear as you finished your last picture of the day. You handed him the camera, letting him pick the shots he wanted to post to his socials.

"You've done well today," Vil said smoothly, a playful purr curling in his throat. "Eat your treat. I'll be paying, of course."

You smiled and focused on your food while Vil flipped expertly through the photos. His brows furrowed for a moment.

Not a single photo of yourself?

Really now, that wouldn't do.

His gaze flicked up, and without a word, he raised the camera, subtly, carefully. Someone like you deserved to be photographed too. Vil was no professional photographer, but he knew angles, light, and presence better than anyone.

The afternoon sun caught you just right, haloing you in a soft, dreamlike glow. In the frame, you looked distant and unreachable, like a star that had drifted just close enough to touch—but only for him.

He nearly preened at the sight. And you didn't even realize.

He selected his chosen photos, downloading them to his phone—including the candid shot he had taken of you without hesitation.

Vil's gaze flicked back to you, a small, private smile tugging at his lips. Gentle and fond.

"No wonder I adore you," he murmured, almost too low for you to hear.

You're perfect.

Rook

Rook understood the shape of your silence—the shame that curled around your throat like smoke, the fear that coiled in your gut each time your eyes met his and remembered that he knew. That others knew. Facing him like pushing a boulder uphill with trembling hands, only to have it roll back again and again, leaving the taste of bile and old blood in your mouth. A Sisyphean struggle.

So he came to you, wordless and calm, finding you when you were alone and unguarded, gently taking your hand and leading you into the woods. His smile was soft, certain, and unwavering—the kind that told you he had no intention of letting go. He said the trees listened, and though you didn't understand what he meant, you played along. You picked a tree that felt right beneath your fingertips, scrawled your heart onto a slip of paper, and tucked it into a crevice like a secret.

You forgot about it. Days passed.

Until a lonely walk brought you back, and there it was—a new note waiting.

You had expected florid prose, something dramatic and honeyed. But Rook, for all his flair, is a romantic—not a fool. He understands when silence is sacred, when pain should not be gilded. His words were precise, gentle. Not overwrought. Just enough. Just what you needed.

So began your quiet ritual. The tree became your confessional, your pen-pal, your anchor. You poured your heard into those folded messages—some raw and trembling, others dark enough to frighten yourself—and still, when you looked into Rook's eyes the next day, there was no sign of knowledge. No flicker of pity. Just him. The same warmth, the same light.

And that, more than anything, gave you the courage to keep going. his care didn't chase you. It waited—constant, open-armed, patient. And when the day came that you ran into him, truly ran to him, his expression cracked open with surprise, then melted into something reverent and unguarded. As if you were stardust falling into his palms and he couldn't quite believe he'd caught you.

He removed his gloves with trembling fingers, cupped your cheek like it was a petal, and simply breathed. You were real. You were here. There was something in his gaze that echoes the Blot's worship—something sacred, if mortal. Something that tethered you.

After graduation, Rook vanished like mist in the morning. You didn't know then how he worked behind the scenes—clearing the legal brush that tangled your life, speaking to shadows, acquired impossible approvals. You had your suspicions, of course. nothing about Rook was ordinary. And yet, you never questioned it too deeply.

Because even in his absence, he was present.

When your thoughts turned to static and your bones refused to move, a ball chimed, soft and familiar. A note would be waiting, always written in that elegant hand, always scented faintly like something you couldn't name but always recognized. A constant hum of care that said:

"You seem stressed, mon étoile. I've run you a bath. I'll be home soon. Do not miss me too much."

It was strange how seamlessly this had become normal. He always knew what you needed before you did. You still struggled, still stumbled through the world like it was too sharp in places, but somehow, Rook softened it.

He was always just beyond the corner of your eye—smiling, watching, waiting. Never possessive. Just present. You, the greatest mystery he never wished to solve. The muse he chose to love without condition. With you, he was both fox and flame—elegant, wild, profoundly gentle.

He didn't visit so much as arrive—like a poem made flesh. With letters, with gifts, with whispers in the form of pressed flowers and wine-dark ink. He never once said mine. He didn't need to. Every gesture said: I see you. I choose you.

You once lingered over his words. "Home", he'd called this place. You hadn't thought about it much before—but yes. It had started to feel like home. Warmer when he was near—softer. The air itself seemed kinder.

You didn't know where he lived. You weren't sure anyone knew.

His skill was noticing things—finding people, truths, hidden threads—made him legendary in private investigation circles. A ghost with green eyes and a fox's grin. But he was always on the move. So perhaps... this was his home. With you.

And then, one day, he returned.

Arms open. As always. Bearing gifts and that smile that never lost its sincerity. He asked for nothing. Hoped for everything. And each moment with him felt like stepping into a world he wrote just for you.

You wandered the flittering chaos of a night carnival, stars flaring above—but he told you plainly: you outshone them all. He kissed your knuckled like they were spun from silk, eyes glinting with mischief, but also with a yearning he rarely gave voice to.

He'd never tasted cotton candy from your lips. But you could see he wanted to.

Still, he let you set the pace, accepted your subtleties with grace—even if it never quite suited him. The stack of love letters tucked in your drawer proved that well enough.

You laughed, softly, and it bloomed like a song in the dark. His pride shone in the curve of his smile, in the reverence in his gaze.

"Why exactly do you love me?" you asked.

A dangerous question. But not for Rook.

His eyes widened, lips parted. And for once, he didn't speak immediately. Didn't have a script. He breathed out your name like a prayer.

"Mon étoile..." he began, voice caught in his throat. Then smiled, defeated in the best way. "You are you. I can think of no finer reason. Though... ask me again in an hour, and I will give you poetry worthy of your name."

And that sincerity—unguarded and soft—was perhaps what you cherished most.

That night, Rook left quietly, but his hand lingered in yours, unwilling to part. And when you turned the pages of your book later, a letter slipped free, unsigned but unmistakably his.

You recognize the handwriting as surely as your own heartbeat. The same pen that once whispered back to you through a tree, when you could barely speak to anyone.

I dwell within your quiet heart— a haven cloaked in tender dark, where silence hums a lullaby and every beat becomes my spark.

This rhythm, soft as angel wings, resounds beneath my resting cheek. It sings me into gentle sleep— the only song I ever seek.

No morning sun, no moonlit skies, can find me where your pulse resides. But I don't mourn the world outside; I bloom beneath your touch, confined.

A worshipper behind the veil, who tastes your kindness through the bars— sweet offerings of sugar-spun devotion passed from hand to heart.

So ask me if I wish for light— when I have you, my sacred night.

Epel

Epel was about five seconds away from throwing hands with the Blot itself.

If he could've punched that cursed ring off your finger, he would've tried— consequences be damned.

Seeing Rook and Vil, two of the strongest he knew, return to the dorm looking pale and shaken told him everything he needed. Their posture was off. Their eyes didn't sparkle like they usually did. Vil's smile—always poised, sharp—faltered at the corners. And Rook? Rook couldn't properly meet his gaze.

Epel wasn't dumb. He wasn't blind. He'd seen the little tells in you—how your fingers would tremble slightly when you thought no one was watching, how your gaze lingered on the ring with something between longing and dread. He noticed it all. But this... this confirmed it.

And three days later... he was finally told the full truth.

That night, the dorm felt like a cage. Epel slipped out without a word, wandering aimlessly though the fog-drenched paths of NRC. Curfew didn't matter. Not when his chest was full of a rage that felt too loud to scream and too big for his body to contain.

It wasn't fair.

You weren't supposed to suffer like this. To be forced into silence, into survival. The thought of you leaving—choosing to leave—sent a sharp ache through his stomach. His nose scrunched up, expression twisted in pain.

Were you unhappy? No—of course you were. That was a dumb question.

Still, weren't you happy with him? With the rest of them?

So when you made your decision—when you chose to stay—Epel lit up like a firework display at a sledding festival. Politeness and composure went out the window in a flash. He ran to you, nearly tackled you in a hug that squeezed the air from your lungs. The warmth was overwhelming, and for a second you almost mistook him for Floyd.

"I knew you'd stay!" he cried, practically bouncing. "Yer tougher than damn Leona—easy!"

Vil didn't scold him. Not this time. That kind of joy deserved to live unbothered.

Classes resumed. Time moved forward. Things returned to almost normal at NRC—except now Epel stuck closer to your side, a little more protective, a little more vocal. Somehow even more attentive, if that was possible.

Graduation came faster than anyone expected, and with it came offers. Professors, alumni, and even some upperclassmen offered you places to go—options, safety nets. But Epel, with a smug little grin and too much confidence for his own good, would always nudge you and remind you:

"You ran straight to me the moment you decided to stay. So obviously... I'm your top pick."

It was cocky. It was so Epel.

And truthfully, you couldn't argue with it. Not when the idea of living anywhere else felt wrong in your chest.

Harveston welcomed you like spring after a long, bitter winter. No IDs or government paperwork were needed here. Epel's grandma and the rest of the town didn't ask any questions—they just smiled, nodded, and made sure your plate was full and you pulled your weight.

And Epel? He wasted no time getting you on your feet. He threw his whole heart into helping you build an entire life. He petitioned the village council, called in every favor he was owed, even stood up in meetings to vouch for you with a strong voice and defiant eyes.

He got you a job. A real one. And he made sure you did the rest. No pity. No whispered stories. Just small-town rhythms and the kind of grounding only hard work and community could offer.

You found yourself pulled into festivals and harvest parties, into baking competitions and long days of hauling crates and setting up stalls. Epel introduced you to everyone as "just another buddy." That mattered more than you realized. He never made you feel like a project or too much of a big deal. Just a person.

He helped by being normal.

Back in Harveston, Epel's proper posture and polished NRC habits fell away like snow in the sun. His accent thickened. His energy sharpened into something rowdier, freer. He was still charming, still thoughtful, still absurdly pretty—but now with mud on his boots and a mischief in his grin.

Still, he'd hold onto little gestures—gentle mannerisms he'd picked up from Pomefiore and held close as something useful—just to impress you. He'd never admit it, but the way he folded napkins or picked wildflowers and arranged them artfully when he thought no one saw said more than his stubborn mouth ever would.

One evening, the two of you leaned shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the town bustle beneath a sunset that stained the sky gold.

"Took guts to stay," Epel said softly, nudging you with a grin that had grown to feel like home these days. "Glad you did, tough-guy."

Seven years passed like a slow-drifting breeze.

You became thick as thieves. Partners in rural mischief and a quiet loyalty. He never asked you to change. Never needed you to be "better". You were enough—just as you were. And, to his absolute delight, Epel finally got that growth spurt he always wanted. The wiry boy you'd known filled out with the kind of sturdy muscle expected of a farmhand, yet somehow he still carried the delicate features of a pretty-boy idol. The contrast suited him in the oddest ways.

Harveston's pave was unhurried. It gave you space to grow without pressure, to heal without deadline.

Epel threw himself into potion work in his spare time. He was close—so close—to creating something that would bolster the strength of apple trees against cold snaps. His notes, written in neat but winding scrawl, were packed with half-jokes and long tangents. He mailed drafts often, addressed to Vil and Professor Crewel, and passed them to you for delivery. The envelopes always smelled like crushed grass, cinnamon, and drying herbs.

At your favorite local bar, you'd sit tucked away in the back booth, trading stories and lazy grins. You didn't need alcohol—just music and each other. But when someone whispered too loudly about your "strange" past or how you just appeared one day, Epel would always try—try—to keep calm.

Sometimes he succeeded.

Other times, well... he didn't.

Dragging him out by the collar had become a semi-regular occurrence. He always apologized—eventually—while fiddling with his hair and muttering colorful phrases that didn't exist outside of Harveston's backwoods vernacular.

Seasons changed. Festivals came and went. Apple treats became a staple of your life—sweet, tart, and always different and new. Pies, ciders, jams, sugared slices, meats. On the quietest nights, when the stars glimmered and the air was soft, Epel would sit beside you carving an apple with practiced hands, cutting each piece into a tiny heart before handing it to you without a word.

Then came the blueprints.

One evening, after helping out around the Felmier farm, Epel's grandma shoved him out the door with encouragement and a paper roll clutched in his hand. He trudged through the orchard toward you, dragging his feet and taking the long way around, muttering under his breath like the apples were eavesdropping.

His usual boldness was nowhere to be found when he finally reached you. Instead, he scratched his cheek, looking anywhere but your face.

"I, uh..." He thrust the papers at you awkwardly. "I asked a buddy to draw these up."

You unrolled them—blueprints. A small cottage. Cozy. Thoughtful.

"I was thinkin'... I'd start buildin'. A place for m'self." His voice dropped, eyes flickered to yours for only a moment before darting away. The accent was stronger, coupled with the quiet murmur and lack of enunciation. "You'd... you'd have a room. If y'want."

You could've teased him. You could've said something snarky. But looking at him—red-faced, fidgeting, heart to obviously in his throat—you just smiled.

The sun was setting behind him. The orchard glowed.

Home never looked so real.

Idia

Idia Shroud understood the impossibility of your situation better than anyone. He knew that twisted, self-sacrificing logic that chained you to this secret. This quiet pact of pain you carried like a second skin. The very knowledge people claimed he was blessed with—that brilliance, the foresight—was now a blade carving home open and stitching him back together, over and over again.

You were alive. But at what cost? And for how long?

Those questions seemed to haunt him. Worse, he already knew the answers—and they made him feel like he was complicit in your suffering. He hated it. Hated himself for it.

For weeks, he did nothing. Just spiraled.

He locked himself in his dorm, blinds drawn tight, lights dimmed, games unopened. He let despair wash over him like static—draining, numbing, constant. but eventually that despair twisted into something else. Sadness hardened into anger. Anger turned into resolve.

He gritted his teeth and contacted STYX.

The message went through with the press of a trembling finger—but then came the panic. His thumb hovered over the keyboard again and again before he sent a second message. This time directly to his parents:

Whatever happens from here on... I'm handling it. No one touches this but me.

And to his surprise, they agreed. Clearance was granted. Full authority. Every decision about you—from oversight to operations—was his.

It didn't feel like power. It felt like a countdown ticking too fast.

Idia's normally dull gaze grew sharp, conflicted, alive with a rare focus. The kind of look he only wore when a raid boss was almost down and his last few HP bars were flashing red.

He didn't let himself hope—not really—but he moved like someone who needed you to live.

The day of your escape came, and Idia didn't show his hand. No dramatic confrontations. No sweeping interventions. Just a short, awkward message pinged to your phone.

congrats ig. try not 2 trip on the way out lol

You stared at the screen, frowning. Was he... mad at you? Was this some kind of guilt trip?

You scanned the crowd more than once that day, hoping—maybe irrationally—to spot his wild blue flames, his guarded eyes. Nothing.

But he was there.

Hiding in plain sight. Hood drawn over his head, posture hunched. Face a ghost in the crowd. Only Ortho knew where to look.

He had plans inside plans. Reinforcements layered in encrypted code and ciphers. STYX agents disguised as students. Ortho monitoring vital signs and heat maps from the perimeter. Hidden failsafes stacked in sequence like dominoes. If something went wrong—when it went wrong—he was ready to respond.

Or so he thought.

The noise. The chaos. The too-bright lights and the electric buzz of the crowd—it all pressed in on him. His thoughts fractured, splintering into static. his fingers trembled in his sleeves. The air felt too thin. His skin, too tight.

The corners of his vision darkened, creeping inward like greedy vines. His heartbeat drummed in his ears, fast and frantic. His legs locked. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move.

Not now. Please. Not now—

And then—impact.

You slammed into him at full speed, and the two of you crashed to the ground. The world lurched. Wind knocked clean from both your lungs. It was messy, disorienting—too real.

Idia's eyes widened as his vision cleared, and there you were.

You.

His mind blanked.

All the blueprints, all the backup files, all the emotional scaffolding he'd built came crashing down at once. The only thing left standing was the image of you—panting, real, wide-eyed and stunned.

"Wh—why—" he gasped, voice thin and confused.

You were here. Right now. Right now.

And just like that, the panic slipped away. His heartbeat didn't slow, but it changed. No longer frantic with fear—now thundering with relief so raw it left him dizzy.

The following days, Idia vanished. Physically, at least. No one saw him around campus.

But he texted you. Daily. Sometimes more. Memes, links, dumb jokes, weird cat videos from ten years ago. The messages were his way of saying I'm here. Are you still here too?

Oddly, his status stayed offline. No game log-ins. No streams. no records of activity.

Suspicious.

And two days later,t he truth surfaced.

Idia had taken his final exams early and graduated. Quietly. Efficiently. He didn't make a big deal out of it—except when he stopped by Ramshackle.

He showed up at your door with a keycard in one hand and Ortho floating behind him with a cheerful wave.

"S-so... Ramshackle's, like... super old. Totally haunted. And, uh, my room has heating—and AC." His words stumbled over themselves, faster and faster. "A-and Ortho's here to keep you company. Y'know. In case. Not 'cause I think you're gonna, like, pass out or anything."

You tilted your head, raised an eyebrow.

Idia's eyes darted. His confidence cracked—just for a second—before he blurted, in a single breath:

"Iknowyou'llmissme—so I guess you can have Ortho and my old room. Hehe. Yeah."

Silence.

Your deadpan stare could've knocked down a wall.

"...Right. Bye!" he squeaked, spinning on his heel and slamming your front door on himself.

In the time between that chaotic day and your graduation, Ortho became something like your personal tutor. Not in schoolwork—but in preparation for STYX.

"You'll be going there after graduation," he said plainly, in that chipper robotic voice that somehow still managed to carry warmth, concern, and certainty all at once.

"Big Brother's working hard for you so you have to be ready too!"

And so began an intense, borderline bizarre curriculum: learning STYX protocol, containment procedures, theoretical Blot behavior modules, ethics review formats. He quizzed you on security phrases between bites of lunch, made you practice biometric door access like it was a game, even drilled you on how to politely but firmly argue policies. You weren't sure if it was love, duty, or some strange combination of both—but Ortho made sure you knew: Idia was building something big behind the scenes. And you were part of it.

By the time Idia settled into his high-clearance fancy adult job, he'd already done what no one else could:

He made you make sense.

In records. In science. In theory and paperwork and metaphysical law. You were classified, officially, as a Blot-linked Anomaly—Level O. Top-tier clearance. Highest level containment and observation, but with protections no prior entity like you had ever been granted.

Idia rewrote the rules for you.

You were granted legal personhood—under obscure arcane-metaphysical statutes. Governmental immunity—within STYX's jurisdiction. And—because he knew what the alternative would be—you were granted residential placement inside the STYX institute itself.

An anomaly with a keycard. A legal paradox with a bed and medical insurance.

You were, in every sense, an ethical nightmare. And Idia—grinning like a gremlin in a suit—made it work anyway.

He waltzed into hearing and mock-trials with that smug tone and too-fast speech, flicking holographic tabs as he essentially mansplained bureaucracy to the government, sounding like a tech-support rep possessed by a dungeon master.

And he won.

Your official role was complicated—half test subject, half guest researcher. You studied Blot phenomena from the inside. Gave insight that no textbook or simulation could replicate. You understood it—and the institute couldn't argue with results.

You can still remember the induction day vividly.

A sterile white room. High ceiling and the hums of electricity in the walls. The air too clean. A long table with thick binders, STYX officials seated like a tribunal. Your name wasn't called—it was announced. Like a warning.

You walked in, tense and unsure, shadowed by handlers. You expected cuffs. Isolation. Observation behind glass.

Instead, you saw him.

Idia stood at the head of the room. No tablet in hand. No hoodie or clunky headset to hide behind. His posture was straighter now, if still awkward. His hair, slightly longer. His expression, sharper. His aura, commanding.

You worried he'd changed.

"This," he said without hesitation, "is the Progenitor Blot Host. Level O. Under my division. Effective immediately."

The silence that followed felt seismic.

You didn't miss the way some of the officers stiffened. Nor the way Idia's voice didn't waver once.

It was the first time you realized—he couldn't afford to slack off here. Not where you were involved. Not when your safety, freedom, and continued existence balance on the strength of his authority.

He had to be better. Stronger. Faster. Smarter.

Idia's eyes flickered to you just once—barely a second—and yet you could read the entire message in the twitch of his brow and the faint upward pull at the corner of his mouth:

Do I look cool?

He knows your biometric data by heart now. He tracks your vitals during every high-risk scan, every trial, every exposure text. And even though he's technically not supposed to show favoritism, he always meets your gaze when the lights come back on, murmuring under his breath—

"...Still breathing? Cool."

The institute didn't exactly welcome your presence with open arms.

You weren't recruited. You weren't "normal." And to them, you were still a marionette—a vessel tainted by the Blot. A walking threat. Something to be monitored, not included.

They never said it outright. But it showed. In the small things. One afternoon, while trying to access the digital archives to cross-reference a phenomenon you'd encountered in a recent simulation, the system denied you.

[ACCESS REVOKED. GUESS PERMISSIONS INVALID.]

Strange. You had clearance yesterday.

You didn't even have time to message Idia.

Thirty-eight minutes later, the lab doors hissed open and he strode in—expression dark, eyes narrowed. No greeting. No preamble. He moved straight tot he console, leaned over your shoulder, and typed with rapid precision.

"Override protocol," he muttered, his keystrokes laced with irritation. "Guest-Class E00-Prime. Reactivate."

A chime sounded.

[ACCESS RESTORED.]

Idia didn't look at you—just glared at the screen, muttering under his breath, "If they're gonna treat you like a lab rat, you might as well be a clever one." You didn't take the jab personally. It wasn't really aimed at you anyway.

You watched him walk out, coat swishing, muttering obscenities too clinically online for a translator to parse.

It happened during a routine trial—a recalibration of your resistance threshold under Blot saturation. You were halfway through putting your gloves back on when one of the technicians muttered to his colleague:

"That Blot puppet's biometrics are unusually unstable today."

As if you weren't standing there. As if you weren't a person at all. Just another specimen in a cage.

You froze for half a beat, fingers twitching. Then, too quickly you tugged the gloves on, trying to conceal what the man had noticed: The inky traces that danced over your thumb from that one injury years back and that ring that won't come off. A reminder. A curse. Or maybe just proof.

The room didn't explode. No shouting followed.

But it did go quiet.

Idia was still seated at the monitoring terminal, stylus in hand. He paused, exhaled slowly through his nose, and ran a hand through his hair—more a frustrated rake of fingers than any attempt to smooth it down. His expression soured into something drained and sharp. Jaw clenched. Eyes flat and furious.

"That 'puppet'," he said, in a voice low and calm—too calm, "has already rewritten half of your department's outdated, incomplete containment methods."

There was no room for rebuttal. No space for apology.

Then, just as simply, he turned back to his work, leaving the silence behind like a closed door.

Later that evening, there was a knock to grab your attention while you worked—barely audible. When you peered up, Idia was already halfway turned to leave. He handed you a stack of updated documents and a single sticky note attached to the top.

You expected a memo. Instructions. Maybe a passive-aggressive bullet point about test protocol.

Instead, you found a doodle.

Two cats, unmistakably drawn in his familiar style—one drawn with a mop of wild blue flaming fur, the other looked just like you. Both in STYX uniforms. Both holding hands.

You snorted softly, heart catching in your throat. The paper joined the growing collection pinned to your board—quiet testaments to moments only you got to see from him.

These days, Idia didn't look scared anymore—not in the way he used to. The haunted, awkward flinches had been replaced with a different kind of heaviness: exhaustion carved into his shoulder, irritation etched into the tight line of his lips.

He was an important man now. A prodigy in a system that neither wanted nor understood someone like him. His methods were too fast, too efficient, too different. He streamlined procedures they thought sacred. Challenged traditions written before he was born. And worst of all, he had you—not just as a specimen, but as a researcher.

They hated that.

But he didn't back down. Not once. Especially not when it came to you.

Idia always found time for you.

You were one of the few people who had ever cracked through the wall of silence and sarcasm he wore like armor. You hadn't waited for permission. You'd barged into his orbit and stayed until he adjusted to your gravitational pull.

One afternoon, after a long and particularly grating workday, you returned to your workspace to find a neatly packed container waiting for you.

Inside: pomegranate seeds. Clean, pristine. Like a container with tiny, glistening rubies. No note. But there didn't need to be one.

Your gaze drifted to where he stood—across the lab, scanning something on his tablet, posture a little too stiff to be casual. His gloves hung from his pocket. And even from a distance, you could see the faint red tint staining the tips of his fingers.

He'd peeled them himself. Cleaned them. Prepared them.

For you.

That night, you returned the favor.

Not in the same way—he wasn't much for raw fruit. But sweets? That was a different story. So you wrestled with recipe after recipe until you finally got it right: pomegranate gummies. Shaped like little cubes and dusted in sour sugar, something you're sure he would like.

At nearly midnight, your tablet buzzed.

Idia: rec room. 15 minutes. prepare to get destroyed loser

When you arrived, he was already there—lounging on the couch, console flickering in front of him. The sharp-edged leader of STYX had vanished, replaced by the man you knew. Hoodie slouched. Hair down. Eyes darting from you, to the gift, then immediately back down to the screen as if it's suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.

His hair blushes a deep pink red the moment you sit with him and he wishes he could rip it all out to avoid detection of his feelings.

"...Thanks," he mumbles, just loud enough to hear.

You don't say anything. Don't have to.

STYX is sterile. Cold. Precise. Unforgiving.

But Idia isn't. Not with you.

He watches your tests from behind the observation window. Always. Every time.

When it's over, he taps the glass once with too fingers. A signal. Not protocol. Not habit.

Just him.

Still here? Still real?

You tap back.

Still me.

And that's all you need.

Malleus

Malleus had never felt powerless—not truly. Not until you.

He had magic vast enough to summon tempests, wisdom steeped in years beyond you, and bloodline ties to ancient, unknowable power. Yet none of it could undo what was happening to you. He exhausted every archive, every relic, every whisper of long-forgotten magic in search of something—anything—that might save you. Fix you. Keep you.

And what terrified him most wasn't the pain. Nor the heartbreak. Not even the guilt over your shared loneliness that, somehow, he had failed to notice sooner.

It was the love.

A love that burned through him like molten metal, unrelenting and cruel in its beauty. It stripped away his reason, fanned the storms inside his chest, and left him wrecked and raging beneath the calm exterior of a prince. If sorrow were a sea, Malleus had sunk to its deepest trench. If longing were a storm, he was its eye.

And when the sky opened up that night, raining knives and screaming thunder, the world mirrored the grief he could no longer contain.

He nearly missed your sendoff.

No one had told him the exact date. Or perhaps they had, and he simply refused to believe it could come so soon. But the moment he realized, he arrived in a fury, tearing through the crowd with a desperation unbecoming of a future king. On stage, his eyes found you instantly, like a flower might seek the sun, and he reached for you without shame.

You had become too important. Too beloved. it was irresponsible to leave now.

When you stumbled into his arms, he clutched you as if you might disappear with the next breath. His fingers trembled, but his hold never faltered. You were sugar glass, his most treasured thing, and he cradled you with all the reverence of an old god holding a dying star.

"I would give you every scale on my body," he whispered into your shoulder, voice thick, "if it meant you could stay—even just a few days longer."

And Malleus meant it.

In the years that followed, he moved swiftly. He offered you sanctuary in Briar Valley—not merely a place to hide, but a protected status backed by law and rite. He stood before the Council not with a request, but a declaration: you were not a denizen of Briar Valley, protected under ancient pact and fae magic.

You became both marked and protected, woven into the very wards of the kingdom. No officials dared challenge it.

On the day your name was officially inscribed into Briar Valley's record, Malleus arrived bearing a gift: a black obsidian lantern, its enchanted flame flickering but never faltering. He placed it on your table with quiet care before sitting beside you, hands folded, nearly vibrating with unspoken affection.

His smile was soft, reverent. There was no ambiguity in his love—it bled into everything he did. His words were poetry laced with old magic, and his gaze held the depth of centuries. You were his heart's anchor, and though he never asked for your love in return, he offered his own endlessly, unconditionally, whenever you needed it.

But Malleus knew time was cruel.

Your lifespan was a flicker compared to his eternity. And that awareness haunted him. Every moment he had with you was faintly shadowed by the truth that he would one day wake to a world without you.

So he made your time here radiant.

He was a king—a busy one. Yet he still found ways to slip from endless meetings just to see you. Just to breathe in the same space you shared and simply gaze upon you in early morning light.

One evening, you were summoned to the palace. The night air was cool and the moonlight kissed Malleus's features in silver and shadow. He offered you his hand without a word, and when you took it, he stood taller, prouder.

He guided you through the royal gardens—transformed entirely. Every flower, every stem, every vine had been carefully curated to reflect your favorites. The entire garden had bent to your presence.

"The flowers bloom longer now," Malleus said, voice gentle. "The garden is happy."

The garden was happy, yes. But so was the man gazing at you like you were a divine gift.

At the center of the garden stood a singular tree, regal and solitary, adorned with faerie-crafted jewelry. Bracelets spiraled around its limbs, enchanted to expand as the tree grew. Its crown glittered with delicate charms holding precious stones, catching the moonlight in bursts of color.

At its base, a plaque bore your name.

Beneath it, in Malleus' own hand, read:

"Preserved beyond time. Indelible."

He asked you to dance. There was no music, but the stars sand and the wind swayed gently, as if the universe itself honored your steps. His hand never left yours.

"Even eternity," he spoke lowly, "would feel brief with you beside me, child of man."

His romantic declarations no longer startled you, but they still stirred something deep in your chest. Green eyes softened, lips parted—he seemed on the cusp of saying something more, but hesitated. That, in itself, was unusual.

Malleus never hesitated.

That night, you found a gift on your windowsill. Scales—small, iridescent, humming softly with magic. They shimmered in hues of violet and emerald under the moonlight.

A sacred offering. A silent confession.

You didn't respond right away. Not because you didn't feel—but because the enormity of it left you breathless. How does one answer a dragon's heart?

Malleus noticed your silence and it clung to him like a shadow.

He showed up at your door a few weeks later, soaked through the rain, his cloak clinging to him like wilted wings. He looked utterly undone—drenched, tired, and heart-wrecked.

You barely had time to question him before he collapsed onto your couch—onto you. Head bowed, and shoulders trembling from something far deeper than weather.

"If I were to offer you my name—my truest name—would you carry it?" he asked quietly, voice cracking beneath the weight of what he couldn't bear to speak aloud. For an all-powerful king, he had never felt more uneasy. "Even knowing it would bind me to you? Do you feel unwelcome here? Do you not feel the same?"

His words were soft. Not with accusation, but aching uncertainty.

"Do you fear, my child of man, that they do not want you here? I want you here. And I have never wanted lightly. Had you gone that day... the stars themselves might have mourned and I would have died."

And you understood. He was no just offering his love. He was offering everything His name. His kingdom. His future.

His eternity.

Silver

Silver didn't say much. Not at first. And certainly not about what had happened.

He never spoke of your pain directly, never commented on your desperation, never dared to label what had taken root inside you. His agony was quieter, than yours—muted and distant, like thunder on the horizon. But it was there. You could see it in his eyes, shadowed and heavy, in the way his jaw would tighten before softening again, in the way he stood just a little too still when you weren't looking.

What was loud in Silver's presence—so loud it rand like a bell—was his support.

"Surviving is the more important thing," he told you one night, gently but firmly, as if reciting a truth he'd clung to himself. "And look at you; you're alive. Isn't that all that matters?"

There was no judgement in his voice, no distance in his tone. He didn't flinch from the truth of what you'd done or what you'd become. He knew, in the quiet, accepting way that only someone who has suffered understands, that certain things happen not because you choose them, but because they are inevitable.

His only offering was himself. His presence. Steady and unwavering.

There wasn't much else he could give. Fight the Blot? No—he wasn't that powerful. But he could hold you when your hands trembled. He could stand beside you when your voice broke. He could catch you when the world became too much.

And in that moment—when you found yourself collapsing into his arms, tired down to your bones—that was all you ever needed.

When the possibility of returning home first surfaced—then gradually solidified into certainty—Silver stayed close. He helped you pack without hesitation. Every item you chose was folded with care, placed precisely, handled as if it were made of delicate glass. The silence between you two was stretched thin with things left unsaid, woven with unspoken fears and lingering regrets.

He was close. So painfully close.

And yet... he felt distant, like hew as already grieving your absence.

And yet the day you stumbled into him—unprompted—he held you with quiet strength, a gentle hand patting your back. He assumed it was goodbye. Assumed you just needed one final embrace, one last anchor before you set off.

His smile was warm. Resigned. Steady. "Don't keep them waiting," he whispered.

But you didn't let go.

You melted into him, held on tighter, and something shifted in the way his arms wrapped around you. Slower. Firmer. Silver understood then—perhaps not in words, but in feeling—that he had become your home. Not a destination. Not a temporary harbor. But the place you chose to return to.

In that moment, Silver made a silent vow; he would always be near, He would never stray far enough that you could be hurt without him there to catch you.

He never made a spectacle of his care. When the process of legitimizing your existence in this world began, he walked every step with you, uncomplaining. Malleus may have done most of the work—pulling strings, drafting rites—but Silver was the one by your side during the mundane, tender moments. The ones that mattered.

He sat beside you as you struggled to read unfamiliar words of Briar Valley, tracing the text in the golden pool of lamplight with a gloved finger. His voice low, patient. Repeating phrases slowly until they made sense. He never rushed you. Never sighed. Never made you feel small for needing help.

He made you feel safe. He became your constant.

Silver never asked for more. Never pushed you to define what was growing quietly between you. But he never stepped away, either. He remained—a still, gentle force. Loyal. Steadfast. His love lived in the spaces between your words, in the pauses between breaths.

You're not sure when the closeness became intimacy. When the shared silence turned into shared peace. When his casual gestured became something you looked forward to. Longed for.

He's still not a man of many words. But he doesn't need them.

Every week, a fresh bouquet appeared on your doorstep. Morning dew still clung to the petals like tiny jewels, as if the flowers had just been picked. You never saw who left them, but you knew. You always knew.

Your suspicions were confirmed one afternoon when Silver walked with you between his shifts. As you passed a small flower shop, a fae woman called out playfully, "Is this the one you keep buying bouquets for, boy?"

He didn't respond. Pretended he hadn't heard but the way the back of his neck and the tips of his ears flushed deep red was more than enough answer.

On the nights when he didn't make it all the way home—when duty drained him and he wandered, half-asleep, to your doorstep—you sighed affectionately and dragged him inside without complaint. The neighbors didn't think twice. They'd seen it before, and to them, it had become a charming routine.

When he stirred in your arms, halfway through being hauled onto the couch, your name slipped from his lips in a voice so quiet it might've been a dream.

Murmured like a vow. Like a secret only the stars were meant to hear.

Your birthday—a day you had chosen, separate from the old world and its heavy memories—was a small affair. Quiet. Warm. You caught him watching you more than once that night, his eyes lingering, curious and uncertain. He didn't give you his gift until after the celebration, when the crickets sang and the fireflies blinked like stars.

It was a worn leather journal. Soft at the edges. Clearly cherished.

Inside, the pages were filled—front to back—with entries from the past seven years. Dreams—many including you. He'd begun writing in this journal the night he first heard your nightmare. The night he heard you whisper an apology in your sleep for things that were never your fault.

"You've had too many bad dreams," Silver said, handing the journal to you like it was something sacred. "I wanted to... give you my good ones."

And it was then you realized: he had loved you, quietly, but deeply, for a long time.

Silver spent his rare free moments teaching you the stars. On evenings when you waited by his post just to walk home together, he could point out constellations—explaining which moved, which were still, and which had already died long ago.

"That one," he said once, pointing to a lone, resolute star shining proud, "is the one I wished on when I hoped you'd stay."

His voice grew quiet.

"And you did. Maybe I owe it now."

You two existed like a pair of lanterns in a vast, moonlight field—close but not touching, illuminating each other with warmth and presence. His guard post was always stations where you spent your time. He always found an excuse to walk you home when it rained, never commenting on how he always happened to be nearby.

One morning, as you walked together, he brushed a stray petal from your hair. His hand lingered, fingertips brushing your temple.

"You look warmer," he murmured, soft as breath. "These days... you glow. So bright."

He leaned in, just slightly—drawn without realizing it. The air between you sparked with a hush. But the moment shattered when he blinked, stumbled, back, and muttered something about "suspicious movement" in a nearby alleyway.

You watched him go, flustered and stiff, as birds chirped a teasing song above—one he pointedly ignored.

As if making his mind while trying to cool off, he said, without meeting your gaze:

"I... I don't need anything back. Just let me keep walking beside you. I'll walk with you for as long as you'll let me. Until you're ready to stop."

Sebek

Sebek had the loudest reaction to your news—louder than anyone else by far. His disbelief came crashing down like thunder, his voice rising in sharp denial, as if sheer volume could undo what happened. But the real noise—the most piercing grief—wasn't in his voice.

It was in the silence that followed.

His guilt didn't howl or scream. It lingered in the haunted look he gave you when you weren't watching, in how he stood too stiffly beside you like he was guarding a grave. He carried his shame in the awkward shuffle of his boots, in the way he reached out but never touched, in how his proud shoulders hunched ever so slightly when you turned away.

And yet—Sebek had also been your loudest support.

At first, he disguised it behind duty. "Lord Malleus must be protected at all costs," he'd declare, voice clipped, "and your condition may pose a risk. Thus, I shall observe you... closely. At all times."

That "risk" became his excuse to accompany you everywhere—whether it was to the market, the edge of the woods, or even just across the courtyard. He trailed behind like a knight on silent vigil, casting glares at wayward squirrels and pedestrians alike. And when you crossed the street, Sebek would seize your hand in his own, rigid with purpose, ready to throw himself between you and traffic like the cars were enemies to be slain.

He even developed a personal vendetta against mosquitoes. Mosquitoes. The first time one attempted to land on your arm, he swatted it midair with such force you nearly yelped. "How dare this insect attempt to drain the life from my ward?!" he'd shouted, whipping his head back and forth searching for any others.

You blinked. My ward?

He froze—then went scarlet. The words had tumbled out too fast, too honest. Still, he didn't take them back.

It became something of a pattern after that.

When you both graduated and Malleus, in his benevolence, granted you full citizenship, Sebek stood a step behind you—straight-backed, proud, silent—and you felt him tremble slightly. Loud as ever, brash as always, Sebek had never been the easiest person to befriend. But his gentleness with you, the devotion that softened his edges without dulling his fire, made it clear you were necessary in his life.

Time softened him in other ways, too. He remained booming, dramatic, occasionally unbearable—but his loudness took on a different tone. Where once it had been frantic, desperate to prove himself, now it carried reverence. His voice no longer echoed with insecurity—it rang with sincerity.

He still blushed furiously when praised. Still stumbled over his own feet in emotional moments. But he showed up. Every holiday. Every errand. Every moment when you didn't know you needed someone—but he did. He always did.

His loyalty had transformed from a burning flame to a hearthfire: constant, warm, dependable. He spoke of you the way he once spoke of Malleus—awestruck, fiercely protective, and with a respect that went bone-deep. If anyone dared speak ill of you, they were swiftly silenced, not by fury, but by conviction. And when you were quiet, unsure, aching from things you didn't have words for—Sebek was already there. You never needed to ask.

The day you chose to stay in Briar Valley, to remain in this world, to remain with him—Sebek took it personally. Like an oath fulfilled. Like you had knighted him. He raged on your behalf when others questioned your place here, as if your mere existence wasn't enough proof of your right to belong. And then, without ceremony or fanfare, he simply started teaching you everything NRC hadn't.

He became your guide to fae etiquette, to customs and laws and subtle rules that could mean the difference between safety and insult. He scribbled notes in the language you understood painstakingly, often with a few dramatic flourishes in the margins. And over shared dinners—recipes he'd learned from Lilia and, somehow, improved upon greatly—he quizzed you gently. When you studied on the couch, he'd lean over your shoulder to track your progress, unaware of his posture slouched slightly when he relaxed beside you.

You teased him for it, and somehow, the teasing turned into posture lessons, then dancing. "Faerie cultural education!" he insisted, face burning. But his hands were gentle on your waist, his movements careful, and the moment lingered like perfume longer than either of you meant it to.

His affections were not subtle—Sebek never could be subtle—but they were real. His sword, the one he trained with daily, bore your name etched into the hilt in small, reverent letters. Beneath it, a single word: Oath.

In winter—your least favorite season, the one that had once taken your life—he arrives wrapped in snow and worry, cloaking you in his own furs before walking you home. Even if you insisted you were fine, he never let you go alone. The fear of history repeating kept his jaw tight and steps sharp.

In spring and summer, the guilt changed forms. Your garden is mysteriously weeded. Your tools repaired. Orchids show up on your doorstep with no signature.

He is your guardian in every way but name.

One night, Sebek arrives outside your door with breathless urgency, hair mussed, eyes bright with something like panic. "I had a dream—" he starts, then falters. Instead of finishing the sentence, he draws his blade with a shaky hand and holds it out—not in threat, but offering.

"I—I..." he starts again, then stiffens his spine, meeting your gaze with something proud and tremulous all at once. "I will protect you... until my last breath. If—if you'll allow me."

In his voice is a tremor of fear, of hope. In his stance is a vow. And in your heart, you already know the answer.

You've always felt his promise. In every small act. Every loud reaction. Every silent service he renders without thanks.

But now, he says it.

And you don't need to say anything back.

Because, for once, Sebek has finally said enough.

Blot

Is this truly how it ends? With me loving your shadow—faithfully, hopelessly— while knowing the sun would set long before it could ever rise for me. What was I thinking? That perhaps—just perhaps—you might turn your gaze to me one day and say I love you too?

How foolish of me. How impossibly naïve.

Now I dwell here where I belong—in the shadows, in this cavernous ache of silence and sin— and I watch you. My sun. My star. Spinning in the arms of a man who adores you in the daylight, who calls you beloved with lips I envy, yet whose love could never—will never— equal even the faintest flicker of the fire I've burned for you.

And still... You chose him.

And though it cleaves through me like glass dragged slow across skin, though it churns my stomach and steals the breath from my lungs, I cannot hate you.

I will not.

Because your choices, your desires, your joys— they will always matter more than my own. This is my vow, quiet and aching: You first. Always.

Still, I writhe. I grieve. I seethe in this agony that never abates.

What good was a second chance, if it meant losing you all over again?

Yet I endure it, swallowing the pain as one might swallow a needle— deliberately, through salt and blood. Because maybe I never earned the love you once gave me. The same way I never earned this pain. The same way the clouds keep moving even when the wind has gone still. When no one feels it anymore.

Do you remember the wind?

Down by our oak, when the time moved slow and syrup-thick, like a music box winding down. When you still loved me. And the breeze carried the scent of promises we didn't know how to keep.

Does your heart ache now as mine does, when the air tastes sweet, like the memory of your love pressed into my skin?

I am no rising star, beloved. I never was. You may find—perhaps you already have—that I've never been remarkable at anything at all. Even if I stood in a crowd of mannequins with wings stretched wide and divine light pouring from my bones, you would now see me. Not really.

I see everything. And yet I've never been seen.

Not unless I create. Not unless I carve something unforgettable. A masterpiece. A ruin.

So I write tragedies. I stage them across kingdoms and courts, in places where gods might look down and pity me. Crafting disasters so vivid they cannot be ignored.

Screaming, without voice: I am here. Look at me please. I matter.

But masterpieces fade. The world forgets even beauty, given time.

Still... I like to think you were my best story. That we were. My finest chapter. You, with your mortal simplicity and your unburdened wisdom— you understood me more than I understood myself.

And in this second life, you understood the way a soul splinters when it has nowhere to turn. Not to life. Not to death.

Reality stretched thin around us, a mirror reflecting only distance, endlessly. And I saw you once, waking slowly— eyes clenched shut, clinging to the fading warmth of a dream you dared not believe in. Curling in on yourself. as if your own embrace might shield you from the cruelty of waking.

Now, I see you stir beneath morning light, his hand gently covering my ring. And you smile.

Gods, your smile.

It makes my heart stutter with joy... and twist in horror. Because I didn't cause it.

So I flee. Never far. Never gone. Just enough to quiet the scream in my chest.

I return to the broken places— to the temples long forgotten, where stone angles weep dust. And I wonder... if I'd done better, if I'd been better, would you have loved me then?

Someone once dreamt of building these sanctuaries. A craftsman who likely rushed home to tell his mother he was chosen to craft a house for the divine. He woke early, passed his hammer to his son when he grew weak. Did he know the temple would crumble?

Would it have stopped him?

So I ask: If I had known you'd never love me, would I still have tried so hard?

These days, I accept your silence like sacrament. Nights pass cold. You do not seek me. But I am not bitter. I can't be.

If it brings you happiness, I will hold it steady, even if it crushes me. I will carry your heart in my chest if that is what it takes. If ever you call. If ever you need what I still offer, I will come—bare, unguarded, unholy and reverent.

Because we are the sun and moon. I will give you all the light I have just so you can shine brighter. Even if your eyes are always on him. On the earth.

But hear me, if only once— if you can feel this trembling ache of mine: A thousand hands may lift you skyward, but only two will catch you when you fall.

Mine. Always mine.

And I will hold you. Piece you together again and again until you remember how to breathe.

You won't find me in the sunlight. Not beside the flowers he buys you. But sometimes, when the dishes are clean and a little note waits for you in his handwriting—

It will be in his hand. Forged by mine.

He loves you, truly. But never like I do.

And sometimes... that isn't enough to take his place.

I only ever wanted to prove that I belonged there. At your side. From the very start.

In your heart, there is a statue. The Faceless Lover. It is heavy—denser than gold, darker than grief. It holds your sorrows, your shame, your guilt, and your sins, so that you can remain pure.

But no matter how hard you try to look, its face remains hidden. Blurred. Frightened.

It fears being seen again. Fears being known. Fears being unloved.

But if—just once—you reached out, gently, like you used to, and traced its face with trembling fingers...

You'd find it smiling back at you. Still waiting. Still loving you.

Always.

[ENDING -> Reach For Him]

Play again?

Sure.

This ending was sort of actually a bonus because the main twst cast were background characters in this story but I did want to demonstrate to you all that I am capable of writing them all as well.

I hope I didn't get any of your favorites wrong and most of this is just my opinion guess on their lives in the future as well as their love languages.

I also wanted to prove I can write romance... I just like writing heartbreaking angsty yearning instead smh

Lilia and Ortho were not included because it felt off to write something for a while and an old man.

Some character's parts were longer than others simply because I wrote it the first few times and it didn't seem right so I took a break and brainstormed some ideas but when I wrote it out it was longer than usual. I apologize for that. There is no favoritism. Honestly I don't even like the twst guys. The Blot is my favorite and it isn't even a canon character :|

I hope parts don't seem too repetitive. I did use a format pre-written to keep me on track but I tried to make each character's route unique.

Idia's part is especially long because his character honestly fits the best for this story. Again, not a favorite, but with his close relation to blot, he's more fun to write in this.

[deepcreekvultures-writing]

"Stellar Collision"

Spencer Reid x F!Reader

Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+)

Word Count: 8.2k

Content Warning: Mild injury, Description of injury, Smut, Fingering (F receiving), Penetrative Sex, Using Astronomy as a Plot Device

A/N: Please ignore any inaccuracies with the scientific stuff and the smut- I'm just silly and Asexual. I picture this as late season 4 Spencer, but you can picture whatever Spencer you want bbg.

Summary: Everyone knows you and Spencer Reid work well together- actually, the entire team thinks you two are the most oblivious profilers to ever work for the FBI, but c'est la vie- they figure you'll crash into each other eventually.

=======

Shaking the hand of the lead detective you introduce yourself before gesturing to Spencer who hovers behind you, “... and this is Agent Weirdly Sticky, a.k.a. Dr. Spencer Reid.”

Spencer’s face scrunches in an odd fusion of disgust, confusion, and amusement. He fights off the laugh that bubbles up and just lifts his hand in an awkward wave. Pressing his lips into a thin line to avoid the smile threatening to break out on his face. JJ elbows you in the ribs, earning a small ‘oomph’ as she pushes you aside. 

It had become routine at this point, calling him weird names to break the tension between the team and locals. Spencer’s hands rest on your shoulders to steady you as JJ takes over the conversation. You chuckle, following an officer into the precinct conference room to get everything set up. Hotch doesn’t say anything about your antics for once, resigning to just accept that there was no stopping you. 

“You really need to stop doing that, they’re going to think you don’t take things seriously.” Spencer mutters to you quietly, his hip lightly bumping into yours as the two of you stick photos onto the provided whiteboard.

“Yeah, maybe, but their face is worth it. It’s like they think federal agents can’t joke, so at first they believe me.” You giggle, sliding your hand around his waist, unceremoniously picking him up and pivoting him around you. You swap places with him quickly to tack a few pieces of evidence to the board.

Spencer lets it happen, not offering any help as you move him. Not that you need it, you were more than strong enough. “But “Agent Weirdly Sticky”? They’re going to think I don’t shower or something.”

You laugh, “At least they won’t try and touch you.” Looking at the board, you tilt your head a little. “The handwriting in each of these is so similar but look-” You point at two series of numbers, “one writes their seven with a dash, and the other doesn’t.”

Spencer leans forward to look at it, his eyes squinting as his mouth drops open in focus. 

“I swear you need to start wearing your glasses again.” You snort, reaching out and placing your fingers under his chin to push his jaw closed. 

He bats your hand away, “Glasses obstruct my peripherals.”

“But you look cute with them.” You argue, sliding to stand behind him, “I miss them.” 

Flattening your hands, you place them on either side of his head, blocking his peripherals. He ignores you, trying to focus on the pages in front of him rather than the warmth radiating off of your palms. Only moving when his phone rings, you drop them on his shoulders, turning him a little so you could grab his phone from his front pocket. 

“Hey Garcia, what’s up?” You greet, “...yeah, it’s me, what do you have for us?”

The investigation continues like that, the two of you revolving around each other, splitting up only when necessary, bouncing profiles off of the other.

Everyone knew you worked well together. Spencer was comfortable around you, not as stiff and one track minded as he would be working alone. He turned to you for most things, and sometimes when working through things in his mind he would just stare at you- Managing to find most of his answers in the curve of your nose and the color of your lips. 

You mellowed out around Spencer, his ramblings filling empty spaces almost like a living white noise machine. It was hard for most people to believe how abrasive and short fused you could be working alone. Irritation ran rampant with local PD getting in the way, suspects being difficult, media running with half baked stories; whenever the tension in your jaw threatened to spring into a full on rage, Spencer was always there.  

“You’re telling me you released the profile to the press even though we specifically told you not to?” Your eyebrows raise, hands pushing your sleeves up to your elbows.

“The public needs to know what they’re dealing with.” The detective crosses his arms over his chest, lifting his chin in challenge.

“Yeah? Well now our Unsub knows exactly what to change to avoid us, this guy is smart and he is watching.” Your voice raises slightly, shoulders squaring as you step chest to chest with the man. “From this point on, you release nothing to the press without approval from our Liaison or SSA Hotchner.” 

The detective snorts, shaking his head, “Oh yeah? And who are you to tell me what to do?”

Spencer instinctively reaches out, hooking his finger around your belt loop. He tugs you backwards, putting space between you and the focal point of your mounting rage. You don’t relax, but you let him pull you back.

“I’m the woman who’s gonna punch a hole through your spinal cord.” Your tone is icy, and he can almost hear your jaw pop from how hard you’re clenching your teeth. Spencer keeps his finger hooked on your belt loop, cringing slightly at the threat. 

It’s not that he disagrees with you, it was out of line for them to release a statement to the public without the team’s permission; and it’s not that he thinks you can’t back up your statement, he is well aware that you can. Spencer just didn’t want you to get suspended for assaulting an officer. Again.

Hotch approaches, stepping between you and the detective, and- to your relief- backs you up.

“If you release anything more to the public you can consider that little boy as good as gone. If you want us to be able to catch the unsub before it’s too late, it’ll do you well to listen to my agents.” His sharp gaze lingers on the man’s face before he turns to you, “Go cool off, and stop threatening people.” 

You nod and turn to leave, missing the small tilt of Hotch’s head, gesturing for Spencer to go with. He obliges, quickly rushing after you. 

Pacing around in the conference room, you keep your arms folded, chewing on the nail of your thumb.

“Sit.” Spencer pulls out one of the chairs, and you follow his instruction. Having gone through this routine again and again, you move a few stacks of papers, opening up a space for him to sit on the table’s glossy surface.

“I was reading up on star systems, and typically stars will orbit around each other in small or large groups- but most are trinary with only three stars…” Spencer hops up onto the table, crossing his legs under himself. He settles into his position, leaning his arms on his legs as he watches your face. 

He can tell by the way your head tilts that you’re listening, unconsciously bringing your ear closer to him. Folding your arms across your chest again, you roll your jaw to relieve the tension from the joint. He pays attention to your demeanor, watching the pressure between your eyes melt away. Crossing your legs, you tilt your hips, turning your body to face him though your gaze stays cast to the floor. Spencer responds by unfolding his legs, stretching them out to rest his feet on the apex of your thigh. 

Hands finding their way to the laces of his converse, you untie and retie them as his melodic droning fills the room. You keep yourself from looking at him, wanting to hold onto your anger for just a little longer. Spencer knows that you would’ve stewed in your fury for hours alone- and it seemed that Hotch knew the same. 

“... but then you have star systems that are just two stars- a binary system. The Sirius star system is the most well known, but Sirius A is a lot bigger than Sirius B. Sirius B is a white dwarf- which has around the same mass as our sun but condensed into a star not much bigger than the earth.”

“Without the extra gravity from another star like in trinary systems… Do binary stars collide a lot?” You ask and Spencer beams, happy that you were finally relaxed enough to fully engage.

“Actually, it’s pretty rare for them to collide. They stay stable for the most part, but when they do collide it’s most likely due to their stability being thrown off by the exchange of mass or gravitational radiation.” Unlacing his left shoe fully, you replace them upside down, tying the bow at the toe of his converse. He expected you to do the same with the other shoe, but you leave it asymmetrical. 

Lifting your gaze from his shoes, your eyes settle on his face. Spencer chews on his bottom lip, looking for any underlying stress in your features. He finds none.

“So, when a stellar collision occurs, the way it reacts depends on what kind of stars were involved in the collision. Like, if it was a set of white dwarfs, the gravitational radiation would cause them to spiral inwards and-”

Spencer is cut off by JJ poking her head in the room, “Hey, the unsub responded to the statement they released.”

You sigh, “Come on, Gorgeous, you can tell me more later.” pushing Spencer’s feet off of you before standing. You lead the way out of the conference room. As he follows, he tries to ignore the way his face warms when you call him gorgeous. He knew it was stupid to focus on your little nicknames- you use them often enough that he should be used to it by now- but his heart flutters all the same.

Spencer stands at your side, his slender fingers finding their way back around your belt loop. He didn’t think you would do anything, but local cops could be unpredictable.

A few feet away, Emily leans over to Morgan, “So how long have they been dating?” She asks.

Morgan looks at her, quirking an eyebrow, “Who?”

“Reid and his attack dog, duh.” She points to the two agents attached at the hip next to JJ. Morgan snorts, covering his mouth with his hand.

“They’re not,” He shrugs, laughing when Emily’s head snaps to look at him, “I know- I know, we like to say they are, they just don’t know it yet.”

Emily looks back at the two of you, noting how you lean back into him. Your head tilts up and you whisper in his ear, motioning to whatever the unsub had sent loosely. “You’re kidding…”

“I wish I was,” Derek shakes his head, moving to place his hands on his hips, “you’re looking at a four year relationship between the two most oblivious profilers in the FBI.”

The entire team has thought the two of you were dating at some point- even Gideon before he left. In the beginning, Hotch came to the conclusion that the two of you lived together and got into the habit of only calling one on the assumption that you would arrive together. And you did. Always.

With the unsubs response, you and Spencer manage to put together a solid lead to who exactly you’re looking for. You hand the letter to Spencer, and break away to call Garcia- still with Spencer’s phone.

Garcia locates the unsub and the team hits the road. After securing your own bulletproof vest, you approach Spencer. Undoing the velcro on the sides of his vest to redo them. The velcro ripping apart is loud, drawing the attention of Rossi. He makes a face, looking over at Hotch and Derek who shrug in response. 

You make sure they’re snug, sliding your hands along the curve of his waist. Moving on to the straps over his shoulders, your face scrunches a little in focus. Your hands are warm, radiating their heat onto the skin of his neck. Spencer watches you, your lips parted slightly, the tip of your tongue fitted between your teeth. You shimmy the vest, eyes roving over his torso to make sure there were no loose points. 

Satisfied, you pat the FBI emblem on his chest, turning away without a word.

As the team approaches the house, you enter ahead of him. Moving methodically through the hallways, indicating clear rooms through your intercom. You enter the garage slowly, Spencer following closely behind you. 

“FBI, drop the gun and show me your hands!” You have your gun on the unsub, expression stone cold. The man huffs, sweat dripping from his nose and he switches between pointing the barrel of his hand gun at you or Spencer. He seems to settle on the latter and you step forward, rushing the unsub who in turn shoots. 

Spencer expects impact, but it doesn’t find him. Instead, coupled with the dull ringing in his ears from the shot, he can hear the crack of the man’s nose as the butt of your pistol slams into it. You gently push the little boy the unsub was holding towards Spencer, who cradles him to his chest. 

“We have the kid- garage.” He can hear you gasp into your intercom, the breath knocked from your lungs at the impact of the bullet. Slamming the unsub into the concrete and cuffing him, you attempt to take in air. The grimace on your face isn’t from rage, he can tell that much, the tension is sat in your throat rather than your jaw.

Once the man is cuffed beneath you, your knee holding his arms in place as he squirms, you huff. Long, drawn out, breaths are pulled into your lungs. Expanding them slowly as you feel the searing, white hot, tendrils of pain erupting from the base of your ribcage.

===  

“I’m fine,” You assure him for the fifth time since the team got back to the precinct. He goes to say something, but you hold up your hand, your finger pushing against his forehead, “Yes. I promise.”

“But-” He grabs your wrist, “but, even if you were shot in the “bulletproof” vest, the vest isn’t actually bulletproof. You could have bruised or cracked ribs, internal bleeding, even organ damage-”

Wiggling your arm out of his grip, you slap a hand over his mouth, “I got checked out by the paramedics, I’m fine.” He grumbles but nods, his eyes soft as he silently pouts. “Perfect, now go pack up your stuff.”

He slinks away, still pouting. Packing up the things in the conference room slowly, his worry plaguing his demeanor. You frown as you watch him. Making Spencer upset was the last thing you wanted to do.

Morgan slides up next to you, “Hey there rockstar, I know you’re just trying to reassure him. How is it really?”

Sighing, you rub a hand over your face, “He shot me at close range, the bullet pierced through and I’ve got the most wicked bruise and it hurts to breathe- but I’m definitely not telling him that.” 

Morgan laughs, his eyebrows raised in concern. “You know he just worries, let him take care of you.” He pats your shoulder in support, stalking away as Spencer comes back, bag slung over his shoulder. 

Landing back in Quantico, Spencer finds his way into your car- something he had taken a liking to. You were a good driver, and Spencer didn’t really like driving all that much. Having to focus on so many things means that he can’t talk as much as he wants to. But he sinks comfortably into the passenger seat of your car. His shoulders drooping as he leans his head back on the head rest. 

He tucks his duffel under his legs, relishing in the leg room your car offered. Since he was the only one who really rode with you he had the seat set how he liked.

“Are you gonna finish your rant about stellar collisions?” You ask, your voice soft as it carries over the sound of the car’s A/C. He turns his head, eyebrows furrowing slightly in confusion. You laugh, “You were explaining what would happen if two white dwarfs crashed into each other. Are you sure about that eidetic memory thing?” 

He rolls his eyes at your teasing, but he straightens up in his seat, taking a second to remember where he left off. 

“So, the two white dwarves would emit gravitational radiation, or waves, which would cause their orbit to become unstable- which would in turn cause the stars to spiral into each other,” He uses his hands as a model, “and once they collide, the force causes carbon fusion to ignite. White dwarfs are basically dead stars that no longer support fusions, but the fusion is re-ignited by the merge.”

You nod along, turning into the parking lot of your apartment building. Spencer is confused, usually you would drop him off first, but he decides to keep his question to himself, “And since the dwarfs are made up of that degenerate matter, the equilibrium needed to keep the merge stable is pretty much non-existent. So the thermal pressure combined with the unstable weight of them crashing into each other causes a full blown supernova.”

“Supernova, huh? That’s pretty cool.” You grin, putting the car in park. You turn your head to look at him, and he stays silent. A soft smile rests on his face, and he takes the time to memorize the way the warm lighting of the street lamp shines on your soft features.

You turn off the car, pocketing your keys as you open the car door, “I need your help with something really quick, then I’ll drop you off at home, okay?”

“Yeah, no, of course.” He gets out of the car, mindlessly grabbing his bag as he rushes to catch up with you. Unlocking your ground floor apartment, Spencer shuffles in after you. He kicks off his shoes, nudging them into a neat position with his foot before placing his bag next to them.

You shrug off your jacket, hissing lightly as you slowly stretch your arms over your head. Motioning with a small tilt of your head, you lead him further into your apartment, flicking on a few lights as you do. 

After all these years of knowing you, Spencer hadn’t been to your apartment much. He liked how homey it felt, dark wood furniture scattered around neatly, warm lighting, and a little clutter here and there. It was very you.

Opening the door to your bedroom, you usher him inside. Your hand was on his lower back to guide him, “Chill out, Pancake, I just need you to help me change my bandage.” You chuckle, pushing him a little firmer as he hesitates. You separate from him to grab the first aid kit from your bathroom, setting it down on the mattress when you return.

“I thought you said you were fine?” He asks, tilting his head and furrowing his eyebrows a little.

“I am, but I might’ve just told you that because I didn’t want you worrying.” Your confession frustrates him and he crosses his arms, “Don’t look at me like that you Grackle, just help me out, please?”

Spencer nods, dropping his hands at his sides, stuffing them into his pockets. He watches as you shuffle through the contents of your first aid kit. His hand mindlessly lifts to scratch at the inner part of his right elbow. Without looking away from your task, you reach one of your hands behind you. Gently hooking your fingers around his, you push his hand away.

“Okay, so, it definitely looks worse than it is.” You warn, turning to him. Before he can ask what you mean, you start unbuttoning your shirt. His head snaps to look away, the tense joint in his neck cracking at the force. 

His cheeks warm, his hands coming up to fiddle with his tie. Keeping his eyes averted, he wills himself to stop thinking all together. All trains of thought chug their way back to you, your face, your lips, your bare torso- he has to stop thinking. Blank. Blankness.

“Uh, if you’re gonna help me I kinda need you to look,” You chuckle awkwardly. He slowly turns his head, feeling like his head is sitting atop a stack of rusty gears. To both his relief and utter disappointment, you were wearing a tanktop. He doesn’t have time to decide if he should choose between the two, you shrug off the button up before quickly pulling the tank top over your head.

Spencer was afraid he wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from your chest, clad in a black bra, but his eyes were immediately drawn lower. At the base of your ribcage sits a large mass of purple and red splotchy skin spreading out from underneath a bloodied bandage. His mouth falls open when he sees it, his eyes flicking between your face and the bruising over and over. 

“Like I said,” you raise your hands, “It looks worse than it is. The bullet pierced through the vest a little and it hit skin.”

“What? Do you have any broken ribs, any organ damage, what if you’re bleeding internally?” He rushes, his hand cupping the curve of your ribs. His thumb grazes over the edge of the bandage.

Tensing at his touch, you respond swiftly, “I have a broken rib, a few fractures and a ton of bruising. The ribs took the brunt of the force, no organ damage.”

“That you know of-” 

You shush him, placing your hand over his. His fingers were warm against your bare skin. Making no move to remove his hand fully, you gently slide his hand lower to rest in the dip of your waist. He lets out a shuddering breath, briefly distracted by the softness of your side. 

Peeling back the bandage, you wince, swallowing the hiss bubbling at the back of your throat. The center of the impact was so red it looked black, the dark purple skin surrounding it giving the illusion of a black hole. Reminding himself of what exactly he was here for, Spencer sits on your bed, guiding you by your waist to stand between his legs.

He gets to work, gingerly removing his hand from your side to grab the contents of your kit. Working silently, he focuses on being as gentle as possible while also assessing the damage. His eyes squint softly, his jaw hanging open as he disinfects it. You watch him, your head tilted downwards, noting every small mole or freckle you can as you try to ignore the burning ache in your abdomen- both physically and metaphorically. 

Having him this close was supposed to be the norm, right? The two of you had been closer than anyone on the team for almost 5 years. But your heart pools into your stomach, settling itself in your wound. Just for the chance to be cared for by his hands. 

Spencer’s hands, warm and lightly calloused, slide along your ribs as softly as he can manage. His long, slender fingers, guiding a new bandage into place.

You had never considered that Dr. Spencer Reid would ever return your simmering feelings. Sure, he went along with your teasing, let you manhandle him, calmed you down, turned to you for everything, cried on your shoulder, comforted you. But that was just him, right? He was like that with everyone… Right?

No. Spencer was sweet, yes, but you knew. He was different around you, more open, more playful. Everyone on the team knows how you revolve, bound to each other via some inexplicable force. He knows how you like your tea, he knows what snacks you like, he knows the ins and outs of your past relationships. But he knows everything, from the probability of finding a four-leaf clover, to quantum physics. You weren’t special.

But once he’s done securing the bandage just beneath your sternum, he looks up at you. His eyes rounded and shining, their honey-like color looking richer than ever. 

And you feel like the only woman in the universe. 

It’s hard not to feel like you’re completely under his spell when the warm hazel color of his eyes bore into your own. The patterning on his irises were just as enchanting, throwing you into the labyrinth that has held your heart at its center for the past 4 years. 

“How often do you need to change it?” He whispers, suddenly finding himself closer to you, his warm breath wafting over the center of your chest. 

“Just once a day after this.” Is your breathy response. Your hands lift, gently pushing the front pieces of his hair behind his ears, “Your hair is getting long.”

“Should I cut it?” He asks, gaze unwavering. You shake your head no, brushing your fingers through his soft brown waves. The touch is attentive and gentle. The air grows thick with every passing moment, bathing every touch in an intimate nature. 

Spencer’s hands linger at your sides, fingers ghosting along your waist. He looks up at you, his eyes somehow softening further. You almost melt on the spot, your hands finding their place at the nape of his neck. Mindlessly, you press the pads of your thumbs into the space just below his skull. The pressure alleviates some of the tension in his neck, his eyes fluttering closed as you begin to move them in a circular motion.

“You really worry too much…” You murmur, face flushing as you watch his expression melt into contentment. 

“Hard not to when you’re rushing at a sociopath with a gun…” He mumbles in response, looking at you through his eyelashes. “Especially when this bullet was meant for me.” His thumb slides over the bandage, his bottom lip jutting out a little as his eyes round at the edges. 

That damn puppy dog look. You hated it. He used it in any situation where he wasn’t getting his way. He knew it worked on you, probably thinking that you just thought he was too cute to resist. Not quite, as much as you did think it was cute- it was just such a turn-on.

Scoffing, you push away the mounting arousal pooling in your stomach, “Neither of us died, so I call it a win…” his gaze doesn’t waver, clearly seeking to break you, “Stop looking at me like that.” You grumble, placing a hand over his eyes. 

Spencer laughs, reaching up to pull your hand away. His fingers curl around you, sliding against the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. “Like what?”

Rolling your eyes you sigh, “Come on, Handsome, don’t be coy. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

His fingers slide up your wrist, spreading out to flatten your palm. Spencer’s hands are large, enveloping yours easily as he intertwined his fingers with your own. You had spent the last 4 years perfecting the art of hiding the way you feel about Spencer. But it was impossible to hide what he was doing to you here and now.

After years in steady orbit of each other, you were finally spiraling inwards.

He keeps his right hand intertwined with yours, his other hand sliding up your torso slowly. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, watching the miniscule changes in your flushed expression. His fingers slide along the band of your bra. The texture of the lace rubs along the pads on his fingertips. He guides his hand up, breathing shakily as it ghosts over the apex of your chest. You bristle at the contact, your hand gripping his tightly in an attempt to keep your composure. 

The only thing breaking up the silence permeating the room is the uneven breathing shared between you. Spencer takes his time, tracing the outline of your collarbone. He follows the line of it, dipping his index and middle finger into the center crevice of your clavicle. Dragging his fingers up the center of your throat, his short, dull nails lightly scratching the sensitive skin. You let out a strained hum, his fingers feeling the vibration of your vocal chords. His inner thighs press against the outside of your own, reminding you of how exactly you ended up here.

Following the line of your jaw, his knuckles gently tilt your head down. He keeps his eyes locked on you, still giving you that dreaded doe eyed stare. Once his hand reaches your face, he tears his gaze from your eyes, following his fingers as he caresses the soft skin of your cheek.

Turning his hand, Spencer lets his slender fingers flatten against your jaw. His thumb runs along your bottom lip, tracing the warm skin and gently pressing into it. Watching as the color of your lips changes with the light pressure, he finally speaks.

“The reason your heart races, or you feel nervous when you’re in love… is because of the sudden release of hormones. Dopamine, Cortisol, and Norepinephrine spike, but the mood stabilizer, Serotonin, drops.” His thumb gently tugs on your bottom lip.

“Do I make you nervous, Dr. Reid?” You whisper, your lips gently pressing into the pad of his thumb. Reaching up your free hand, you gently slide it under the front of his cardigan. Pressing it into his chest you could feel his heart hammering behind his ribcage.

Spencer nods, his bottom lip fitting between his teeth as he looks up at you. His face is flushed, the heights of his cheekbones radiating heat from the blood pooling beneath his skin. Adjusting in his seat, he pulls his legs towards himself, fitting one of his knees between your legs to spread them apart.

You look at him in surprise, but he dips his gaze to watch what he was doing. He puts his knees together, placing them between your own. Spreading his legs, he hooks them around your calves, forcing you forward. Yelping, you try your hardest not to collapse into him. You manage to get one of your knees onto the mattress before he fully knocks you over. Ignoring the way his gaze lingers on your flushed face, you settle into his lap, knees on either side of his hips.

Spencer could feel the strap of your thigh holster pressing into his leg. He unclasps his hand from yours, sliding it up your knee. He finds the buckles on the two straps digging into the flesh of your thigh. Maintaining eye contact while he unclasps them, you lift yourself off of him so he can take it off easier. He discards it onto the other side of the bed before letting his hand fall back to rest on your thigh. Spencer was constantly searching your face for approval, touching you slow and simple- He always made it a priority to make you comfortable. Mirroring his other hand, the one holding your face slides down the side of your torso to cup your thigh.The pressure of his touch increases, kneading your muscles through your jeans.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, gripping them lightly as he touches you. Growing restless, you reach down to unbutton his cardigan, sliding it off of his shoulders. He assists in taking it off, throwing it haphazardly across the room. His hands return to their places, but he tilts his head a little, his lips parting as his eyes slide across your face. 

Rocking your hips forward pulls a soft moan from his lips, his fingers curling into your thighs. “I- I don’t… think we should do this…” He gasps, contradicting himself as his hands slide up to your hips, pulling you against him again. 

“We don’t have to…” You gasp in response, the stimulation only slightly dulled by the thick material of your jeans. 

“I want to- but, you’re injured.” He mumbles, leaning forward to press his lips against your collarbone.

You shake your head, sighing at the feeling of his warm lips, “You won’t hurt me.” Loosening his tie, you pull it over his head and toss it to the side.

“I could- not on purpose, but strenuous activity should be avoided during recovery.” Spencer argues, his voice weakened by the way your hips slide into his. His breath falls from his lips heavily, fanning your face as you lean in close.

Laughing, you turn your head to press a kiss to his temple, “It doesn’t feel like you want to stop.” You could feel him underneath you, already straining against his slacks. He swallows, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down. The hands on your hips tighten their grip, digging into your flesh. He keeps his eyes on you, leaning forward to press a small kiss to your sternum.

Spencer’s hands knew exactly what to do. Sliding over the apex of your hips, his thumbs pressing firmly into your soft skin. Traveling slowly up, the weight of his palms kneading your sides as the tips of his fingers find the band of your bra. The pressure of his touch lightens as he lifts his palms off of you. His fingers curl slightly, leaving just a few fingertips touching the lacy fabric. 

Reading you like a book, his hands circle around to your back. Finding the clasp, he makes quick work of undoing your bra. He makes no move to fully remove the garment, just flattening his hands against your exposed back. His fingers press into your spine, running along the outsides of it.

You slide the bra off, throwing it over your shoulder to join your shirt and his cardigan on the floor. His eyes leave yours, trailing along your skin, uninterrupted by fabric. One hand stays on your back, the other sliding around your side. The pressure of his touch lightens as he reaches your front, very careful to not disturb your injured ribs. 

His hand flattened on your torso scoops the underside of your breast, his thumb caressing the soft skin. Watching how your body molds to the shape of his hand, his lips part slightly, almost studying you. 

Spencer presses a few more kisses to your sternum, slowly making his way up to your collarbone. Your hips continue to slide against his, pulling soft breathy moans from the both of you. His noises are muffled by your neck as he presses his lips to the center of your throat. It almost hurts how badly you want him, your desire clouding over any possible pain stemming from your ribs.

Moving as quickly and as gently as possible, Spencer twists his body. He slowly lowers your back to the mattress, settling between your legs as he hovers over you. He continued to grind against you, the feeling of him through four layers of clothing was enough to drive you up the wall. 

It dawned on you then how easy this felt.

Just like everything with him, it all came to you like the most natural thing in the universe. The two of you had spent years memorizing everything about each other. You never thought it would translate so well into this situation. Then again, you never thought it was possible for you to end up in this position with him. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt, unfastening them quickly as his mouth finds your throat again. He takes his time exploring the warm skin of your neck, very gently nipping at your pulse. He takes in every noise he draws from you, filing them away in his mind with every roll of his hips. 

Just as easily as the dusk slides into the quiet of night, you turn to putty in his hands.

Trying to focus on getting his shirt off, you’re distracted by the intense way he kisses your neck. You hadn’t really expected Spencer to be so… possessive with his mouth, but in hindsight it made sense to you. 

He was possessive in other ways, always taking the seat next to you on the jet, calling dibs on partnering with you, not letting anyone else help you if he was nearby, getting pouty when your attention was drawn elsewhere. Listening to his heavy breathing as his warm, open mouthed, kisses press into your throat you’re suddenly aware of every way he’s laid his claim on you to the people around you.

To everyone else, you were his.

His hands hold your chest, squeezing and caressing the soft skin. Spencer’s teeth slowly drag along the side of your neck, biting you very gently, careful not to leave any marks where anyone would see. Your breathing comes out heavy and labored, your face scrunching slightly as you feel the strain of your ribs with each breath.

Spencer’s large palms slide down your torso after one last squeeze, finding the hem of your pants. He quickly gets your belt off, letting it clatter to the floor and unbuttoning your jeans. Pulling away from your neck. his eyes meet yours as he hooks his fingers over the hem of your underwear. He shimmies them down the length of your legs along with your pants, tossing them across the room carelessly. Pupils dilated wide, he drinks in the look of you like a starved man. His hand finds its way to your cheek, his eyebrows furrowing slightly at the pained look on your face. His thumb presses against the space between your brows, smoothing out the tension building there as your chest rises and falls heavily.

“Try to relax your breathing,” He whispers, pressing his lips to your cheek. His hand slips away from your face, the soft noise of his silver belt buckle unfastening filling your ears. Attentive kisses are pressed along the perimeter of your face, urging you to try and calm your racing heart. 

The air around you is cold, a stark contrast to the ever growing heat pooling between your legs. His warm chest presses against yours, one hand curling around your knee, the other sliding along your bare inner thigh. 

A soft moan falls from your lips, “You’re not exactly helping,” You whisper, feeling his lips press against your temple.

“It doesn’t feel like you want to stop,” He replies, throwing your words back at you as his fingers slide against your clit teasingly. You writhe underneath him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. Trying your hardest not to move too much as his fingers slowly circle the bundle of nerves. If you move too much and aggravate your ribs, you might have to stop. His slender fingers slide along you, dipping into your entrance briefly before continuing to tease. You whine, lifting your hips to meet his hand as best as you can. 

As much as Spencer wants to keep teasing, his need to please you overwhelms any other desire that may be festering. He pushes his middle finger into you, kissing the corner of your mouth as a guttural moan is pulled from your lips. 

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing soothing circles into it as his finger fucks into you. His face remains pressed into yours, kissing along your cheekbone lovingly. Adding his ring finger, he pushes it into you slowly and allows you to adjust to the difference in size. His long, slender,  fingers slide in and out of you, the ministrations deliberate and slow. 

Despite the slow pace of his hand, the length and size of his fingers provides overwhelming stimulation. You had always loved how large his hands were, spending nights wondering and fantasizing about how they would feel touching you like this. But this was way better than any piss poor scenario you could dream up. 

Your head falls back onto the pillow, mouth hanging open as deep, breathy moans fall from your lips. Hissing a bit, you try to calm your breathing.

“Don’t stop…” You sigh out, knowing he was noticing the way your breathing changes in kind to the pain spreading from your fractured bones. Spencer listens to your request, his fingers curling slightly. The sensation draws out a loud gasp as the tips of his fingers press into you. Your hands move down his neck, sliding along his back. 

Your head swims with intense pleasure, not bothering to care about how badly your ribs hurt with every breath you take. Spencer’s name falls from your mouth like a mantra, eyes closing as you focus on not writhing underneath him. Hands pressing into his shoulder blades you pull him flush against you, feeling his hard length against your inner thigh as he pushes you closer to the edge with his fingers. 

The way he presses into your inner thigh pulls a small noise from the back of his throat. He speeds up the way his fingers fuck into you, rutting against your thigh instinctually to keep the friction going. His thumb presses into your clit, the pressure firmer as he continues to circle around it. The feeling draws out a strained moan from your lips, your hips jerking involuntarily. 

Spencer can feel you starting to fall apart underneath him, his lips pressing firmly into your neck. His soft gasps and moans muffled by your warm skin as he uses your thigh. Tightening around his fingers, your legs shake, and you mumble his name over and over. Biting down on your lip, his free hand slides just under your breast, holding your torso down when he feels your back begin to lift from the bed. Your orgasm crashes over you and the room spins, tremors vibrating through your spine.

You gasp, panting to try and catch your breath. His lips find your face again, smothering your cheeks and nose with affection as you come down from your high slowly. His desperate grinding against your thigh pulls you back to reality and you gently push on his shoulder to get his attention.

“Spencer… I need you…” You whine, your hands cupping his face. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, he nods. There’s a soft twitch to his face when he pulls his hips away from your thigh, his eyes searching yours for final approval. You nod, adoring the amber color at the center of his irises.

Gripping himself in his hand, he takes a second to slide his tip through your folds, pulling a desperate moan from the both of you. The tenderness left from your last orgasm causes you to whine and throw your head back onto the pillow. 

“Wait…” He gasps, looking up at you, “I- do you have a condom?” 

You can’t help but laugh a little, shaking your head, “I’m on birth control, it’s fine… please.” Your fingers curl and play with the long hair at the nape of his neck. 

He hesitates, seemingly working through the probabilities and statistics of not using one, but he nods. Spencer looks back down, lining himself up with you. One hand on your hip, the other wrapped around himself. 

“Tell me to stop if you need to,” He says, voice shaking with his heavy breathing. You nod, eyes locked on his features. The shadows of his face as he hovers over you are dark, seeping into the dips and curves of his brow and cheek bones. He looked ethereal.

When his tip pushes into you slowly, you gasp. His mouth finds yours, kissing you needily as he works his way inside of you. 

Spencer breathes heavily into your mouth as his fingers dig into the flesh of your outer thighs, “I… I love you.” He declares, his lips moving against yours with fervor.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, his kisses not allowing you to verbally reciprocate. You loved him. There was no doubt about that. But when he’s fully inside of you, filling you completely, there is nothing you can do to stop the way you ignite underneath him.

Moaning into his mouth, your legs shake from your earlier orgasm. He gives you time to slowly adjust, shivers running up and down his spine as your muscles flutter around him. Spencer slows down his kisses, resorting to soft presses as he waits for your signal. 

After a moment you nod, whispering a soft “I love you” and kissing him in return. With your quiet permission, he pulls his hips back. Letting out a strained groan, his lips loosely against yours, he rolls his hips back into you.

The feeling of you wrapped around him completely, your hands in his hair, your mouth against his. There is nothing that can compare to this. Nothing.

Spencer rocks into you slowly, keeping your hips pressed against the mattress. The angle is perfect, and the least likely to aggravate your rib cage. He’s fully in tune with how you feel underneath him, his hands gently sliding over your hips in a soothing motion. Feeling no need to rush, he pulls back from your lips to watch the way he slides in and out of you.

“I… I would beg you to go faster if my ribs didn’t feel like they were on fire.” You hum, your hands brushing over the perimeters of his face. His face scrunches a little and he almost slows to a stop, but you shake your head, “Don’t- don’t stop, please, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” He whispers shakily, one of his hands sliding down to press circles into your overly sensitive clit.

A whine falls from your lips at the feeling, “Yes, yes… I’ve never felt so good…” Your muscles flutter around him, the added sensation pulling your thoughts from the deep ache ringing from your torso. His lips meet yours again, one of his palms cupping the back of your hand. Pressing your hand firmly into his cheek, his mouth moves against yours in slow, loving motions. The amount of tongue he used was a pleasant surprise, his kisses never seeming to still. 

Keeping up his languid pace, Spencer memorizes the way you feel- which isn’t hard with his memory, but he files away every moan, every flutter of your core, every lingering kiss. It was all so perfect. 

The remnants of your first orgasm buzzes in your core, your entire body felt like it was on fire. You could feel yourself reaching the edge, your kisses getting sloppier and his name falling from your lips in quick succession. His hips roll deep into you, making up for the slow pace with the thumb rubbing evenly over your clit. 

His shoulders tense, the kiss between you breaking into just a sequence of heavy breaths against your lips. Hips twitching, the feeling of you around him almost unbearable as the pleasure causes his head to swim. All of the facts and knowledge constantly swimming through his mind fall silent, replaced with your soft whines and the feeling of your soft skin under his palms. 

“Spencer… god, please- come for me…” You murmur against his lips, your hands moving into his hair and sliding down the back of his neck. Your nails lightly scrape along his sensitive skin, coaxing him over the edge. It’s all he can do to keep his slow pace, lifting his face away from yours to look down at you. Your eyes are slightly glassed over, looking up at him with a pleading gaze. The eye-contact is the final push he needed, his fingers circling around your clit quickly. 

You gasp at the change in pace- the feeling of him inside of you, the length of him brushing against your sweet spot, his sweet gaze on your face all cause your muscles to contract as your second orgasm crashes over you. Spencer follows quickly behind you, groaning loudly as his hips stutter and he pushes himself into you as deep as he can. His release coats your insides, the added sensation pushing you even farther. Mouth falling open, his moans spike to a slightly higher pitch as he slowly rides out his own orgasm. 

Heavy gasps fall from your lips as the two of you come down from your high. Spencer’s lips press against yours sloppily, his hands reaching up to hold your face firmly. He pulls out of you slowly, listening to the soft whine that falls from your lips.

Overly sensitive from the two back to back orgasms, your head swims. Spencer attempts to pull away from you more, but your hands loosely capture his wrists and pull him back. Lips meeting again in a lazy fashion, your mind is in a daze, “I love you…” is softly mumbled into his mouth, your hands holding his to your face. 

“I love you too… How do your ribs feel?” He asks, kissing up the bridge of your nose.

You sigh into his affection, your thumbs rubbing the outside of his hands, “I feel great… it’s like a forgotten bruise.” Your lips pull into a sloppy grin.

“That’s because pain can be reduced by orgasms,” Is his response, pulling a soft laugh from you, “Potent analgesics, which are basically pain killers, are released in the endorphins during sex.”

“Maybe we should do this until my ribs are healed,” You hum, pressing a few soft kisses to his cheek.

Spencer laughs a little, shaking his head, “Let me get you cleaned up.”

He attempts to pull away again but you keep his hands held in your grip. You were still exhausted, your hold loose. Spencer could easily wriggle away, but he humors you with a few more kisses.

“Stay… I want you to stay.” You whine, tilting your head and kissing the corners of his mouth. “Please?” 

Spencer nods, moving to settle next to you. Being mindful of your injury, he wraps an arm around your shoulders. Scooting closer and  pressing his chest against your arm, he kisses your temple sweetly. The gravity of your connection holds your cores together in the wake of your collision.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Hey :)

Ford was just finishing up some of his sketches when the phone rang. He looked over at the clock and grimaced at the time.

Still an hour to go. Hopefully it was just a wrong number, and not anymore attempts at birthday well wishing. With a groan he pushed himself away from his desk, then left the study and went towards the living room, where the phone was siting on a dresser.

"Hello? Stanford Pines speaking?"

There was a rush of static, then the dull sound of the phone disconnecting, beeping away in his ear. Irritation flooded him, and he set the phone back down. He'd forgotten about his ghostly prank caller, but he really shouldn't have.

They always called on his birthday after all, and it was almost over. Ford shook his head and turned to head back to his study. He'd finish up his diagram, then head to bed before-

The phone rang again when he'd made it halfway down the hallway. Ford let out a huff, then pivoted and turned back to go get it. It couldn't be the prankster, as they'd just called, so who else was calling him so late at night?

He picked up the phone, cautious, then spoke into the receiver.

"Hello, Stanford Pines speaking, Can I-"

The phone disconnecting cut through his words, and he groaned. Another prank call. Unfortunate, but there was always the possibility that this was a different prankster than the one who normally called. Or that they were all different people.

He put the phone down and rubbed his temples. The sound the phone made when disconnecting always grated on his nerves, and it was starting to get late. It might be better to-

The phone started ringing, and Ford scowled before snatching it from the cradle.

"Hello? Who is this? If this is a prank, then-" It isn't very funny Is what Ford would have said, if the caller hadn't already hung up. Ford slammed the phone back down with a growl. This couldn't be his normal prankster, this just confirmed it. He had no idea who was calling him so late into the night, but the moment he figured it out he was going to-

The phone rang again, and he snatched it, irritation twisting into anger.

"Enough! If this is-" the phone disconnected, and he shouted as he slammed the phone back down, fuming. One phone call this late at night was already pushing it, four in quick succession was driving him up the wall.

The phone rang again, and he glared at it, letting it go to voicemail. When it rang again, a minute later, Ford pivoted and stomped back to his study, letting it go and sitting down to get back to work. Even as it rang again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

After it rang again, thirty minutes later, and Ford had gotten nowhere with his work, he shoved himself to his feet, grabbed a mostly empty notebook, and stomped back to the phone. At this rate they were either a very determined prankster with poor taste, or an anomaly trying to get on his nerves. Either way he wasn't going to let them win.

He ran a few tests over his ever ringing phone, crossing out anything spectral or magic as a suspect, then spent a few more missed calls glaring at it.

The main issue was that, without hearing who or what was on the other end, it'd be harder to determine if it was an anomaly. So he had to either make the caller speak, or keep them on the line long enough to run more tests.

The next time the phone rang, Ford snatched it, line prepared and ready to get to the bottom of this. A normal greeting hadn't been enough to stop it from hanging up, so he'd have to get creative.

"This is Filbrick-" The phone disconnected, and he slammed it down, crossing that off the list. So it didn't want to speak to his father, understandable. Less than a minute later it rang again, and he snatched it, already ready with his next line.

"Gravity Falls Museum, how can I help you?" he said, pitching his voice higher. There was a beat, a puff of air, then the sound of the phone disconnecting. He crossed it off, then wrote a note about how long the caller had stayed on the line.

"Gravity Falls Oddologist, Stanford Pines, speaking." disconnect.

"Gravity Falls dental-" disconnect

"Gravity Falls, pharmacy, how can I-" disconnect.

"Corduroy lumber, can I-" disconnect.

"What do you get from this?" a pause, static, then disconnect.

Ford tried more answers, irritation bleeding into his voice the longer this went on, until he slammed the phone down, threw the notebook onto the dresser, and stomped upstairs, ignoring the ringing behind him.

Perhaps he just needed to ignore it for longer, let whoever was on the other end give up first. The clock read two a.m., meaning he'd already wasted three hours of his life trying to outsmart some teen with awful humor or an anomaly that fed off his irritation.

With grim determination he brushed his teeth, eye twitching as the phone downstairs kept ringing. He stomped into his room, grabbed a pair of pajamas, then was so consumed with rage at the phones continual ringing that he stomped downstairs and grabbed the phone again.

"WHAT!" something crashed on the other side, before the phone disconnected. Ford growled and slammed it down onto the cradle. He threw his pajamas onto the couch, then stood over the phone, glaring at it and using every ounce of his self control not to rip it out of the wall and chuck it across the room when it rang again.

Trying to goad them into talking hadn't worked, it was time to try something new.

"So help me if you don't-" disconnect.

Ford yelled, then grabbed his hair and started pacing around the room, phone ringing again a minute or so later. He shot a glare at it, then stomped back after it had gone to voice mail. As long as it was filling his house with noise he couldn't focus and couldn't sleep, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of winning.

The next time it rang he snatched it again, glaring at his notebook.

"I'm going to hunt you for sport." he growled into the receiver. Ford waited a moment to see if they'd hang up, then grinned and-

disconnect.

"Count you're blessings, because I'm about to-" disconnect.

"Are you ready for the pain I'm about to-" disconnect

"So help me I will-" disconnect.

More threats. More insults. Some pleading got the line to last longer, but not by much, until finally-

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH" it disconnected at some point, but Ford was too busy screaming to write down when.

He slammed the phone down again, the looked at the cord intently. It'd be so easy to cut it, or take the phone out of the cradle so nothing could connect, or rip the entire thing from the wall.

But that was defeat, and the slim chance that someone actually important would try calling him before he could get it fixed haunted him. Plus Fiddleford was supposed to arrive early... today, at some point, so they could get back to work.

Ford dragged his eyes to the nearest clock. It was already four a.m., any plans of sleeping at this point were useless. Fiddleford would be arriving in an hour or two, and Ford hadn't been able to finish up from the night before.

And the phone. Kept. Ringing.

How long were they planning on doing this for? All day? They'd already wasted his night with their antics, at this point he was ready to sleep on the lawn if it meant he'd get some kind of silence.

Ford groaned, then threw himself to the couch, crushing his pajamas and closing his eyes. He rubbed his temples, a headache pounding away with each ring, then shoved himself back up and stomped to the kitchen.

A quick glass of water and a sandwich later he was feeling slightly refreshed and ready to try again. Despite the continuous ringing he'd managed to center himself, and realized there was one thing he hadn't tried to get the caller to stay on the line.

Asking.

He'd simply ask them to stay, nice and calm, without any of the anger that seemed to scare them off faster. Wiping his hands on his coat, he stood next to the phone and grabbed it the moment it started to ring.

"Don't hang up," He said, voice low and barely hiding his rage, "Or I'll hunt you down and carve out your organs"

Well, that wasn't calm or nice, but he could try again the next time they-

next time they-

they didn't disconnect.

Triumph flashed through him, and he muttered to himself as he wrote the words down on the half destroyed notebook, before focusing back on the sound of the callers heavy breathing.

"That finally got you, huh? Listen here, I don't know who you are, but-"

Disconnect.

Ford slammed the phone down, then watched it like a hawk, one hand still gripping his pen and the other hovering, ready to pounce.

He didn't try to hide his anger this time when he picked it up and repeated his threat to hunt them down and carve their organs out. Just like before, the caller stayed on the line, confirming... something.

"I'll figure it out later," he muttered, before loudly saying "Ok, so that worked, now, who is this? Because this is-"

Disconnect.

That was... fine. The first phrase had worked to keep them on, so he just had to work his way out from there. No problem.

The clock was reaching five a.m. he just had to figure this out.

The phone rang again, and Ford snatched it, once again not bothering to hide his irritation as he told them not to hang up or he'd steal their organs. Just like the last two times, the caller stayed on the line, and Ford thought carefully before continuing.

They'd hung up when he'd asked who they were, so he'd do the opposite.

"I know exactly who you are." Ford said, puffing his chest out and pushing false confidence into the words.

No disconnect. A grin threatened to split his face in half. Before he could try to probe into the callers identity, someone coughed next to him, and he whipped around to see Fiddleford, bright eyed with one eyebrow raised.

"Stanford, what are you doing?" he asked, eyeing the torn notebook and the pajamas sitting crumpled on the couch.

"Trying to figure out the identity of a prank caller," Ford said, turning back to the phone, "now if you'll excuse me, I-"

Disconnect.

Ford groaned, then rubbed his temples, "They've been calling nonstop for the last... fiveish? hours now. Consistently. That's the longest I've been able to keep them on."

The phone rang again, and he glared at it, tired and done with the whole experience.

"Why don't you try calling them?" Fiddleford asked, tossing his bag onto the couch, "Just gotta-"

Fiddleford picked up the phone when it stopped ringing and pressed a few buttons. Ford took the phone as it started ringing, pressing it to his ear and looking upon Fiddleford like the savior he was.

Then he scowled and pulled the phone away when the ringing cut out, replaced with an awful statiky, growling noise. Both men stared at it as it let out more strange noises, before Ford placed it back down. A moment later it rang, and they looked at each other.

"Anomaly" "Its an anomaly."

"That or somethings gotten into the phone again," Fiddleford muttered, twenty minutes later, phone ringing continuously as he fiddled with the wiring and hooked something up to it, "There, try again."

Whatever was causing the interference, it was nothing under the combined might of Fiddlefords mechanical genius and Fords magical scientific research, meaning the next time the phone stopped ringing he was ready. He grabbed it from the cradle and smashed the buttons.

It rang three times, but instead of a horrid growling and burbly sound, a clear and vaguely familiar voice answered with a confused "Hello?"

"HA!" Ford shouted, glee filling him, "It worked! Didn't think I'd call you first, did you!"

"No? I- what's happening here?" The voice on the other end was rough, confused, and tickled the back of Fords mind, but he shoved it aside, focusing on the victory of finally getting the person on the other end to speak.

"Whats happening is I finally got you this time!" Ford yelled into the phone, "Thought you'd get away without consequence, didn't you? That you could call non-stop for six hours straight and not face any kind of repercussions for depriving me of my sleep and ruining my night? Well listen here-"

"Wait, hold up," the man, and it was a man, interrupted, "You called me. I haven't called anyone yet. I just got here."

Ford stood there, suddenly hit with the realization that he might have yelled at a totally innocent stranger. He hung up before the man could question him further, then waved Fiddleford over so his friend could input the numbers that made the phone redial the previous caller.

It rang again, and a moment later the same voice answered with a still confused "Hello?"

"So it wasn't the wrong number." Ford growled, eye twitching, "I don't know.." Ford paused, hit suddenly with why the mans voice sounded so familiar, "Wait a second. Stanley?"

Disconnect.

That only confirmed it.

Rage burst through him as he slammed the phone down and picked it up again. What did his brother think he was doing, calling for- a quick look at the clock showed it was already past five. That meant it'd been going on for at least six hours.

He was going to tear into his knucklehead of a twin if it meant he'd have to call this number six hours straight until Stan picked up again.

The phone rang three times, and Stan picked up with a confused "Hello?" like Ford hadn't just called less than a minute ago and called him out on his actions.

"Stanley!" Ford yelled, ignoring the look FIddleford shot him, "What- No. I don't care about the reason. Stop calling me like this! I'm not sure what made you think calling me over and over would do anything but infuriate me, but it stops now!"

"What," Stan asked, confused and slightly panicked, "What are you talking about, I just got here? How did you know it was me?"

Fords fury was barely cooled by his confusion. Was this some kind of joke? Did Stan really think he could play this off as a 'whoops wrong number' prank? After six hours of non-stop calls?

He really was going to hunt him down and carve out his organs. Then shove them down his throat.

"What?" Ford ground out, "What are you talking about. You didn't just get here, we just talked, less than a minute ago."

"No we didn't?" Stan said, voice full of confusion, "This is the first- uh. I mean. Happy Birthday? Moses this got away from me. What even is this."

"… Happy Birthday?" Ford hissed, irritation making him tap the dresser and hunch over the phone "Stanley, our birthday ended five hours ago. Its June sixteenth now. That happens when you spend six hours calling someone over and over."

"No, that can't be right," Stan muttered, then went silent. Ford waited for whatever nonsense reason Stan was going to give that made him think it was still five hours ago, when nowhere on the planet was it their birthday anymore, before Stan continued, voice shaky and confused.

"No, its still the fifteenth," Stan said, and the fury boiling away in Ford chilled at his tone "I- I just got here? You called me before i could- uh. Call someone else. Not you."

Dread filled Ford. They'd just talked, and Stan had called nonstop for the last six hours. There was no way he wouldn't have noticed being there for that long, dialing over and over again.

Unless something was making it so he couldn't.

"FIddleford," he said, pulling away to look at where his friend was peering over his shoulder, "Go to my study and get the gray book with the pink lettering, the one you said was one shade away from being 'of the devil' or whatever you said."

Fiddleford nodded, then dashed away. Ford turned his attention back to the phone, listening to Stan's heavy breathing.

"Stanley," He said, dragging his notebook closer and rapidly moving to an mostly intact page, "How long have you been standing there."

"Uh.. I don't know," came Stan's still confused voice. "less than-"

Suddenly Stan's voice cut off, and another sound replaced it. Not the sound of the phone disconnecting, and not the gurgling sound from earlier. It was a new sound, one that made the dread in the pit of Fords stomach shoot to his chest and grip his heart.

Whispers. Breathing. Shadows danced on the edge of his vision, as whatever was on the other end of the phone chittered and murmured away, sending a chill down his spine.

"Stanley?" he whispered, then flinched as the thing on the other end got louder.

"Stanley?" he said again, louder. He gripped the phone hard, other hand gripping the pen so hard his knuckles turned white. If he strained, if he pushed, he could hear Stan's distant voice, calling out in confusion and drowned out by whatever was there with him.

"STANLEY!" Ford yelled, lurching to look at Fiddleford in a panic. His friend started back at him, wide eyed and confused from where he'd burst back into the room, book clutched to his chest. Ford screamed Stan's name, over and over again. He thought he could hear his brother, could hear him say something, if he just-

Disconnected.

Ford slammed the phone down, then quickly picked it up and redialed. He marked down the amount of times it rang, then realized with a jolt it was the same amount as the first two times he called.

Three.

And then Stan's voice, just as confused as it had been the previous times "Hello?"

"Stanley!" Ford slumped in relief, then refocused. He had a limited amount before the phone disconnected, regardless if Stan hung up, "Stanley listen, I need to know, how long have you been standing there?"

"Uh.." came Stan's voice, confused and not at all hurried, "I don't know, a minute? I just got here? How did-"

"OK, don't hang up! I need you to promise me you won't hang up!" Ford interrupted, rushing to get his words out. Every hang up potentially lessened the amount of time Stan had.

It had already been six hours, there was no telling how long they had left before whatever was there-

"Alright?" Stan said, jerking him out of his spiraling thoughts, "I promise? Whats-"

"Good, good. Now where are you."

There wasn't a lot of time, but if it was nearby then Fiddleford could-

"New Mexico. Why does-"

Ford cursed, crumbling the page with his attempted note to Fiddleford as his friend crowded around him. Ford snatched the book out of his hands, then rapidly started flipping through the pages, dismissing each creature one after the other as his thoughts scattered.

"Too far, that's too far. And I've just been- ARGH! Stanley! Stanley, I need you to tell me whats around you, what do you see."

If he could get a description, he might be able to narrow down the anomaly further. He already had a list of potential entities that it could be, and he didn't like any of its members.

All of them were in this book, and none of them tended to leave whoever encountered them intact.

"Nothing? Its the middle of the night, and kinda overcast? I can barely see my car."

Ford froze, then stared at Fiddlefords face in horror. He'd studied hundreds of creatures in his time here, and there were only a few that matched what was happening. A time loop, erasing or suppressing memories, alone, encroaching darkness.

Something eldritch and powerful, with no name a human could pronounce, preying on a lone human, having him get yelled at for six hours from repeated phone calls to a estranged relative. Regardless of which one it was, they'd all be doing the same thing in this scenario.

It was eating his brother.

"Stanley listen to me," Ford said, gesturing at Fiddleford to grab some of his nearby magical tomes, "I need you to run. Doesn't matter where, just pick a direction and go. This is important!"

If he could get out that way, then-

"Run? Why? Whats-"

"RUN!" Ford screamed, and he held his breath as he heard the phone drop and the sound of Stan's feet hitting the ground, growing distant and then-

Whispers. Filling the line and making him shudder. He didn't bother trying to listen, instead grabbing the tomes Fiddleford brought and flipping through them. He had a spell here from years ago, something he hadn't tested but-

The phone disconnected, and Ford slammed it down and quickly redialed. It rang three times, and Ford quickly whispered for Fiddleford to start making a clear space in the living room. He needed a large space to draw the circle, and there was no time to do it anywhere else.

"Hello?" Stan's voice was just as confused as ever, the same tone and cadence.

It sent a jolt of relief down Fords spine, even as he tensed and yelled, "Stanley! Stanley don't hang up! I'm- I'm going to figure this out, alright! Tell me what you see!"

There was no telling how much time they had before it became too late to do anything, and he wasn't close enough to pull Stan out himself, so he needed- he had to know-

"Ford?" Stan asked, and Ford's heart twisted at the terror bleeding through, and his brothers quick gasps, "Ford, whats- how did you know-"

"Focus!" Ford snapped, "What do you see?!"\

The other end went silent, except for Stan's heavy breathing. Ford gave Fiddleford a thumbs up when his friend gestured to he cleared living room, then slide over a list of ingredients to grab from his lab. Fiddleford scurried off, and Ford turned his attention back to the phone, and Stan's rapid breathing.

"Nothing." Stan whispered, and Ford went cold, "There- there's nothing here. Why's it so dark? And- and when did it get so hot?"

They were running out of time.

"Stanley listen," Ford said, mind racing as Fiddleford ran around behind him, dumping supplies on the floor before dashing out to grab more, "You've been eaten by an entity that feeds on high concentrations of negative energy. Its stuck you in a loop, and its too late to try and escape physically. I'm going to try and- I'm going to try something, just- just hang on, and- and you'll be OK."

He would be OK.

Ford dropped the phone the moment Stan choked out a confirmation, running to the pile of things Fiddleford had brought over and bringing the tome with him.

"We don't have a lot of time," Ford said, pulling out a jar of red crushed berries and star dust, "Stan's too far to reach by any normal means, and I wasted too much time- It doen't matter. Here."

Ford dumped the dust into the jar, shut the lid, then shock it before handing it back to Fiddleford and pointing at the circle in the book.

"Draw this as large as you can," Ford said, leaning down to grab his bag of candles. He'd made them himself, a year or two ago, and they were carved with several powerful runes and made of wax from the magical bees who lived in the Enchanted woods. Each one was a soft pink and sparkled in the light of the living room. Ford grapped a phonix claw to light them, then hurried behind Fiddleford as he used a enchanted brush to make a perfect circle.

Ford used the phoenix claw to prick his finger and light each candle, setting seven of them down equidistant from each other. When that was done he told Fiddleford to make another, smaller circle, and put down three more candles around that one.

Just as he finished placing the last one, the phone rang, and he jumped, whirling around to see-

The phone. Still off its cradle and ringing away regardless. Something grey was dripping out of the holes in the receiver, oozing onto the floor and making a small puddle. Ford tore his eyes away, focusing on the ritual they'd be doing instead.

"Stanford," Fiddleford asked, as the two of them began rapidly writing around the edges of the circle, "Stanford, whats- if this doesn't work-"

"It'll work," Ford snarled, flinching as the phone stopped ringing, "it has to work. I'm- Stanley will-will..."

Ford froze in the silence, then whipped around to stare at the phone.

It wasn't ringing.

Ford burst into action, quickly finishing the rest of the circle, then yelling at Fiddleford to place certain objects between candles. Feathers of mythical beasts, rare crystals, small figures full of power. Anything that could boost the spell past what it was intended to do.

Anything that would drag Stan here.

When the last rune was drawn and the last object placed Ford shot to his feet and jumped into the smaller circle. The spell should use his blood as a focus, and him being here should prevent it from locking onto him. Ford held the book open in front of him, took a deep breath, then stared into Fiddlefords wide eyes.

"You might want to hold onto something," he warned him, before locking his eyes on the center of the circle and reading the spell out at the top of his lungs.

The air around them stilled, then burst into a whirlwind around the circle. The candle's flames roared, each changing into a different color and adding a fiery rainbow that flickered and scorched the ceiling. The objects arrayed around it started shaking, then exploded, one by one, each adding more colors, more texture, until there was a giant, glowing portal on the ceiling, opened up into a glistening void full of light, blinding and pitch black, a space between spaces.

He might have overdone it. Ah well.

If it saved Stanley, then it was worth every destroyed, priceless artifact.

Conituing his chant, Ford raised his hand, and a astral hand shot forwards into the vortex. He could feel the stars and particles of the void rubbing against his arm, but he pushed through, focusing on the object this spell was made to summon.

Stanley.

He felt something touch his hand and he curled his fingers and pulled.

Something was in his hand, and he could feel the spell pulling it through the vortex. His chanting got louder, grin splitting his face when-

It stopped. Something was pulling back, was trying to yank Stanly out of the spells grip, back to whatever pocket dimension it had stolen his brother away to. Fords stuttered, and he felt the spell weaken with it.

Then he could feel Stan reaching out, grabbing onto the spell, tightening its hold on him.

Reaching out to Ford.

With renewed energy, Ford started changing louder, pulling his arm down and back, more and more until-

Something slammed out of the vortex, and the entire thing imploded with a pop, whizz, and a shower of glittering confetti that disappeared before it reached the floor. Ford blinked a few times to readjust his eyes to the dimmer light, then zeroed in on the man groaning on the floor in front of him.

"Stanley!" Ford shouted, tossing the book aside and rushing over to his brother's fallen form. A grin stretched across his face as Stan blinked up at him, looking terrible and confused, but alive.

He was alive.

"Ford?" Stan muttered, voice wheezy and strained, "What- what happened?"

"Stanley." Ford said, instead of answering. Answers could wait, right now he crashed to the floor and pulled his brother into his arms, listened to his soft breaths, felt the hand patting him on the back, gripped him tightly and felt his weight in Fords arms.

Alive.

"Stanford, let go of your brother," Fiddleford said from behind them, "We need to take a look at him, and who knows what all… that. Is."

"Right, right, of course." Ford said, smile still stuck on his face as he pulled away and looked at Stan's face. Then down at his shirt, which was covered in a strange gray substance. He blinked, then realized Stan was covered in it, making his skin and clothes look washed out and near colorless.

"Interesting," Ford muttered, sticking a hand in his pocket to fish out his emergency sample collecting vials. The area the goo was touching on his chest was starting to tingle, and he scooped some up and sealed it for later study.

Then he used the other vial to get a sample from Stan's face, for comparison. There was no telling how whatever it was reacted to living tissue after all.

"Hey," Stan grumbled, waving a hand at him with a scowl, "stop that. What is this, what- didn't I- huh?"

Ford stood up and started shedding his contaminated layers and shoving them into a bag Fiddleford had brought in, while his friend started tending to Stan's legs. The pants and his shoes were shredded to pieces, and small scratches ran up and down his legs, blood mixing with the grey goo and losing its color (he'd have to run tests later, make sure there weren't any negative side effects). The bottoms of Stan's feet were red and raw, and his chest tightened when he realized it had already started digesting Stan when they'd ripped his brother out of its clutches.

"Didn't I call you?" Stan muttered, pulling Ford out of his fury, "Its our birthday."

"No, it isn't." Ford said, shoving his shirt into the bag. The tingling stopped once it was off, so hopefully Stan would recover quickly once they cleaned him up, "Our birthday ended five hours ago."

Stan blinked at him, and his heart twisted at the confused, lost expression on his face. He looked as terrible as Ford felt, deep bags under his eyes and skin far paler than it should be (though it was hard to see how pale under the gray goo).

"Hot Belgian Waffles," Stan whispered, just as Ford finished taking off his clothes and bagging them up for later decontamination, along with the phone (which he finally, finally, pulled off the wall) "Something tried to eat me."

"Ah, but it didn't!" Ford said, giddy and full of vindication at the thought of the hopefully starving entity , "Our DNA is close enough to use as a focus for a summoning spell, and we managed to pull you straight out of its pocket dimensional stomach! Its probably furious!"

Ford threw the bag into his lab, then went over to the kitchen to fill a tub with bubbly water. He moved back to the living room to grab his discarded pajamas to see Stan staring blankly at Fiddleford while his friend cut the legs off his pants.

"My car." Stan said, when Ford had finished getting dressed and went back to retrieve the tub, get his gloves, and grab another bag "Its still in there."

"No, I don't think so!" Ford called out, "The small area you found yourself was most likely a constructed replica of the area. Creatures like that don't have the ability to pull full sections of our dimension away. More than likely your car is right where you left it."

He'd have to strengthen the wards around the house to make sure it wouldn't try to snatch Stan again, at least until they determined which entity, specifically, had tried to eat him and made sure it wasn't the kind to lock onto a specific prey. Until then they couldn't leave Stan by himself, or let him wander too far away from the house.

Stan muttered something as Ford sat down next to him, setting the bag down close to Fiddleford so they could gather all the contaminated materials for later disposal or cleaning. Ford left Fiddleford to take care of Stan's legs, instead focusing on getting the goo off his face as quickly as possible.

Stan's eyes, now that he was closer, were dilated, and his breathing was soft and lacked the panic he'd heard over the phone. Ford grimaced, and his hands itched to write everything down, to catalogue his brothers symptoms.

Later.

For now Ford grabbed a wet washcloth and wiped some of the goo off of Stan's cheek. His twin flinched at the touch, then slowly turned to look at him in confusion.

"Sorry Stanley," Ford said softly, going back to wiping Stan's face, "But we need to get this off as quickly as possible. I don't know if its digestive fluids, a numbing agent, or something to amplify your negative mood. Best to be cautious and study it later."

Stan nodded slowly, then stared off into the distance as Ford continued to wipe his face. His skin was a concerning shade underneath, pale and clammy, and Ford scowled as he wiped more and more away. He was just about to grab Stan's face and try to clear out his eyes, when Stan let out a deep breath, making him pause.

"Happy Birthday," he muttered, then closed his eyes and flopped backwards. He didn't react when his skull cracked on the floor, just laid there, breathing heavily.

"Stanley?" Ford shouted, scooching closer and patting his brother's face, "Stanley, are you alright? Are you-"

Stan grumbled, then let out another deep breath. A moment later he started wheezing softly, a pale imitation of his normal snores, and his brow furrowed.

Ford frowned at him, but Fiddleford stopped him before he could try slapping Stan back awake.

"Let him rest Stanford," His friend said softly, and Ford turned to see Stan's legs free of pants below his thighs and the scraps of what remained of his shoes gone, "he almost got eaten. Poor feller's probably exhausted out of his mind."

Ford humphed, but didn't otherwise object. Stan wasn't in immediate danger, he could let him rest his eyes for as long as it took them to get most of the goo off. He'd need to get up so they could drag him into the decontamination shower in the lab, get a quick check up, and run a few cognitive tests, but after that Ford would make sure Stan slept somewhere nearby.

Like in his arms, where no entity could pry him loose and try to eat him again.

Again.

Ford stared down at Stan's dozing, grey tinted form.

Six hours.

Maybe seven.

Stuck in a pocket dimension that doubled as the stomach for a creature that existed just outside their plane of existence.

Calling Ford, over and over and over again, forgetting the moment the call ended.

Ford had yelled at him so many times. Had screamed and threatened him and- and-

And if he'd been a lesser man, hand cut the line or destroyed the phone, then he'd never know- would never have-

Ford went back to cleaning Stan's face, washing away any trace of the entity and revealing his brother's pale, sickly skin underneath.

Never again. He wouldn't let Stan out of his sight until he knew he was safe, then he was wrapping him in every ward and protective charm he knew.

Maybe tattoo some as well. Anything it took, to keep him safe.

Six hours.

Next time (there'd never be a next time) he'd make sure Stan said something right away.

Ford added a mental note to yell at Stan later for calling and not saying a word, then got back to work, watching Stan breath, listening to him snore, feeling his pulse beat, slow and steady.

Alive.

Stanley was alive.

[onlyangel4]

soft spot. damian priest.

damian priest x single mother!reader

synopsis: when you, a single mom join the smackdown roster, you are ready to fight both for your career and your child. damian priest isn’t known for his warmth, but the moment your kid starts following him around backstage, something in him shifts. he didn’t mean to care. he didn’t mean to fall.

but some families find you when you least expect it.

faceclaim: jenna dewan

wrestlingupdates

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 45,682 others

wrestlingupdates: y'all already know that i'm so excited. y/n y/ln has been drafted to smackdown and i can't wait to see what my favourite girl gets up to on the main roster.

view all 4,586 comments

user1: i am so excited for content of cleo causing chaos behind the scenes

user2: i have been a fan of y/n since she started in tna, twenty years later she is finally getting the recognition she deserves

user3: that's my girl

user4: OMG IT IS FINALLY happening

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you’d gotten used to new locker rooms.

ring lights changed, logos swapped out, but the feeling always stayed the same, a twist low in your stomach, like your body hadn’t caught up with your brain. you’d stood under banners that read impact, aew, nxt, and now, finally, the unmistakable blue and white of smackdown.

your daughter cleo clutched your hand tighter than usual, her fingers curled into your palm. she was six, impossibly curious and maddeningly fearless, until it came to loud arenas and unfamiliar faces. you knelt beside her in the hallway, brushing a curl away from her cheek.

"remember what we said?", you asked softly.

she nodded, eyes wide. "no running. no yelling. no getting suplexed."

you smiled despite the nerves. "good girl."

there were wrestlers moving past you, some familiar from nxt call-ups, others legends you'd only brushed shoulders with at cross-promotional events. a few gave you polite nods. a couple of the women smiled at cleo. no one stopped.

a pa pointed you toward your locker room. it was smaller than you expected but clean. functional. you dropped your duffel bag and helped cleo settle onto the little folding chair beside your things, handing her a snack and her tablet.

"stay here, okay? i’m going to go check the board and find my producer."

she pouted. "can’t i come?"

you hesitated. the hallway would be full of people. "five minutes. don’t move."

you didn’t like leaving her, but you didn’t have a choice. you didn't want to overwhelm her, or yourself

the rundown board wasn’t far. you scanned the paper tacked to the cork, finding your name buried in the second hour, promo segment. no match yet. safe start.

you turned back.

cleo was gone.

your heart slammed into your ribs.

you pivoted fast, eyes darting down the hallway, nothing. the crowd around the gorilla position blurred as your adrenaline surged. you took a step forward.

then froze.

there she was, about thirty feet down the corridor, standing in front of someone tall, imposing, and completely draped in black.

damian priest.

you recognized him instantly, taller in person, every inch the brooding solo act he’d become post the judgment day. hair slicked back, leather jacket gleaming under the fluorescents. he looked down at cleo, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

cleo pointed at his boots. "you look like a vampire."

for a split second, you thought he’d ignore her.

then his mouth twitched. just barely. "maybe i am."

you moved quickly, heart still pounding. "cleo", you said, a bit more sharply than you meant to. she turned, grinning.

"mom! he’s huge."

"i see that", you breathed, placing a hand on her shoulder. you looked up at damian. "sorry. she tends to wander when i blink."

he looked at you then. something passed through his expression. not judgment. not even amusement.

recognition.

"it’s fine", he said simply. his voice was low, calm. "she’s not bothering me."

you blinked. "still, i should’ve... thank you."

he nodded once, then walked past you both, disappearing down the hall without another word.

cleo tugged at your hand. "he’s cool."

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "yeah", you murmured. "he really is."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

y/ninsta posted a story

written: if anyone is wondering why i showed up last night wearing a dress it was because miss cleo needed us to match

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the second week felt less like walking into a storm and more like stepping into a tide you were starting to understand.

no one looked twice when you passed catering this time. a few nodded. bayley threw you a quick wink. you didn’t stop. you had your gear bag slung over one shoulder and just enough caffeine in your system to fake confidence if needed.

cleo was safe. that mattered most.

she’d cried a little when you dropped her off with the wwe childcare team, new toys, kind staff, still too many strangers. but she was in good hands. better than last week, where she’d nearly walked into the lions den.

speaking of…

you rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into him.

he caught the strap of your bag before it could slide off your shoulder, steadying it like it was nothing. like you were nothing to worry about either.

"hey", he said.

you blinked up at him. "hi. sorry. i didn’t see you."

he let go of the strap and leaned back against the wall, arms folded. Same as last week. dark clothes, focused expression. less intimidating now, but only just.

"no cleo today?" he asked.

you raised an eyebrow. "you remembered her name."

he shrugged. "she made an impression."

you gave a short laugh. "yeah, she tends to do that. She’s with childcare this week. probably convincing someone to let her run a match or eat five granola bars in a row."

a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. it was quick. almost shy.

"you okay with that?" he asked.

the question caught you off guard. not how’s your kid, but how are you handling this?

you hesitated. "i guess i have to be."

he nodded, not pressing. just listening.

you sighed. "she’s great. adjusting fast, better than me half the time. but i still feel like i’ve got one foot in the ring and the other one stuck in a daycare cubby. not exactly the image you want when you're trying to prove yourself."

he tilted his head. "image doesn’t win matches. hunger does."

you looked at him. he said it like he’d lived it. like he still was.

"you always talk like that?", you asked, half a tease.

he smirked. "only when i mean it."

you paused, then leaned next to him against the wall. not touching. just closer.

"you’ve been on top of this brand for months", you said. "so what are you still hungry for?"

for a moment, you weren’t sure he was going to answer. his gaze drifted to a production cart nearby, like something just offstage had taken root in his head.

"quiet", he said finally. "something real."

you turned to him, brows furrowed.

"wrestling’s loud", he added. "noise. hype. people cheering for who they think you are. i like when someone sees through that."

you weren’t sure what to say. but the silence between you didn’t feel awkward.

it felt safe.

you watched as he pushed off the wall, giving you one last look before heading down the corridor.

"tell cleo i said hi", he said, voice quieter now.

you nodded. "i will."

and for the first time since your call-up, you didn’t feel like you were walking into the spotlight alone.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hotel room was small, but clean. two beds, dim lamplight, the low hum of some animated show playing on the tablet.

cleo sat cross-legged on the comforter, still wearing the glittery blue hoodie you’d packed for her in case she got cold. she had a juice box in one hand and was absently brushing her doll’s hair with the other.

you sat at the edge of the opposite bed, unlacing your boots one slow loop at a time. your body ached in all the familiar ways, tight knees, stiff shoulders but your heart that was quieter tonight.

cleo looked up suddenly. "mommy?"

"hmm?"

"did you see my friend at work today?"

you froze.

you didn’t need to ask who she meant. there was only one person she’d fixated on enough to give that title to. not rey mysterio, not liv, not even charlotte. damian.

you swallowed a smile. "i did, yeah."

her eyes lit up. "what was he doing?"

"standing around looking serious. you know. like always"

she giggled. "he’s so big. but he doesn’t scare me."

"i noticed."

you crossed the room and knelt next to her bed, brushing the juice-sticky hair back from her forehead. she yawned, blinked slowly.

"he asked about you", you said softly.

her whole face lit up. "he did?!"

"hhm. said to tell you hi."

She tucked her doll under the blanket like it was the most important thing in the world, then looked up at you with sleepy seriousness. "he’s nice. he seems a little sad though"

you paused.

"yeah", you murmured. "he kind of does."

"maybe he needs a hug."

your throat tightened unexpectedly.

you kissed her forehead. "you’re something else, kiddo."

she grinned, proud.

a few minutes later, she was asleep, small limbs curled, hair sticking out in every direction. you turned off the lamp, sat in the dark for a long time, scrolling through match footage on your phone.

but your mind wasn’t on wristlocks or crowd reactions.

it was on a man with shadows behind his smile, and the way your daughter had looked at him like she already knew he was safe.

you weren’t sure what was happening yet.

but it was starting to feel like more than just coincidence.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

damian wasn’t sure what made him do it.

one second he was walking past the crew hallway, the next he was crouched in front of a wide-eyed little girl in sparkly sneakers and a ponytail, whispering: "want to see your mom’s match?"

cleo didn’t hesitate. she just grinned and nodded like it was the best idea anyone had ever had.

it probably wasn’t.

he knew talent weren’t supposed to pull kids from daycare mid-show. knew security would ask questions if they spotted him dragging a six-year-old through the maze of cables and crates near gorilla. but when cleo slipped her small hand into his without a second thought, it was already done.

now she sat beside him in a folding chair behind the curtain, her legs swinging, her eyes locked on the monitor.

"is this where she comes out?" she whispered.

he nodded. "any second now."

cleo squirmed with excitement, holding a small bag of dinosaur-shaped gummies, he'd grabbed them from his own stash. he told himself it was just a kindness. something small. nothing more.

but then your music hit.

and cleo lit up like the fourth of july.

"there she is!" she squealed, pointing at the screen. "that’s my mommy!"

damian smiled, small, private. he watched as you stepped into the light for the first time under that enormous main roster stage.

no nerves on your face. just fire.

and something else. something determined.

he didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until cleo tugged his sleeve. "she’s gonna win, right?"

he nodded. "i’d bet on it."

and when your match started, he didn’t look away once.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t have time to be nervous. this week was your first real match on smackdown, it was even more daunting considering seasoned pro naomi was your competition.

your music was already queued. your wrists were taped. the production team was shouting cues and pushing talent past you toward Gorilla.

it wasn’t your first match, not by a long shot. you’d bled under different banners, fought in cages, flipped off balconies. but this one felt heavier. brighter. more visible. it was the first time under the big lights with wwe’s main roster eyes all on you.

your heart pounded like a drumline in your chest. not from fear.

just pressure.

you glanced toward the tunnel, looking for someone, anyone familiar but the spot was crowded. and cleo she was supposed to be far from here, in childcare on the other side of the building.

at least she was safe. that was all that mattered.

you rolled your shoulders, focused forward.

then the match producer tapped you. "you’re up. good luck."

you exhaled and stepped into the curtain.

and the crowd roared.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t hear everything after that.

the match moved in flashes. you remembered the pop when your name was announced. the sound of boots on canvas. the thud of your finisher landing clean. the heat from the lights. the way you breathed harder than usual, not from cardio, but from emotion that had no place in the ring but showed up anyway.

and then, three slaps on the mat.

your theme hit.

you’d won.

just like that.

you stood in the centre of the ring, arm raised, chest heaving, and scanned the crowd almost by instinct. you didn’t know what you were looking for

until you saw them.

tucked behind the timekeeper’s area, down low by the barricade where the cameras wouldn’t catch them unless they looked hard

cleo.

perched on someone’s lap, wearing her sparkly hoodie, waving both hands in the air like she was trying to call down lightning.

and behind her?

damian.

hat pulled low, hoodie up, clearly trying not to draw attention. but his eyes were unmistakable. focused entirely on you.

he gave you a slow, subtle nod.

not for the cameras. not for the roster.

for you.

you almost missed your cue to leave the ring.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

later, when the show wrapped and the adrenaline faded, you found them both in the hallway near your locker room. cleo ran toward you the second she spotted you, arms outstretched.

"you did it!" she yelled. "you beat her so fast! and you flipped! and he let me sit in the chair with the headphones but i didn’t touch anything!"

you caught her in your arms, burying your face in her hair. "wait, what?"

cleo turned and pointed dramatically at damian. "he broke me out! like a ninja!"

you stared at him.

he looked almost guilty. almost.

"before you get mad", he said, hands up in mock surrender, "she asked nicely."

you just looked at him, speechless for a beat. "you snuck her out."

"she missed you", he said softly. "and i thought she’d want to see you win."

your heart stuttered.

and then melted.

You looked down at cleo. "did you have fun?"

"best day ever."

you looked back up at him. "you know this means she’s going to ask for this every week, right?"

he smirked. "guess i'll have to start showing up early."

you didn’t say anything else. you couldn’t, really, not with your throat tightening the way it was. so instead, you smiled.

a real one.

and somewhere inside you, something warm and dangerous started to settle in.

because this? this was starting to feel like something you might not want to walk away from.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hotel room was dark, save for the faint blue glow of the tv. some mindless rerun played without sound, but he wasn’t watching.

damian sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees, still half in his gear. he hadn’t bothered to take off his boots. Just the hoodie. the adrenaline had worn off hours ago, but something else hadn’t.

he could still hear her laugh. the kid.

cleo.

she’d sat on his lap like it was nothing. like she’d known him forever. no hesitation. no fear. she’d asked him how he got his hair so shiny and whether or not he’d ever wrestled a dinosaur. she’d called the match like a pint-sized commentator, whisper-shouting into the headset when her mom hit the finisher.

and when the match ended, she’d clapped so hard he thought she might break her hands.

damian hadn’t smiled like that in a long time.

he’d told himself it was just a gesture. something nice. a favor. maybe a small rebellion against the usual rules.

but that wasn’t true.

the truth was he wanted to see you win.

not just the match.

he wanted to see you find your place here. to be seen, the way you deserved to be, not just as "new call-up" or "former AEW star" or "the one with the kid." he’d watched the roster underestimate you for weeks. he knew the look. he’d lived it himself when he started.

but tonight, they couldn’t deny you.

not after that pop.

not after that finish.

and watching you walk up the ramp, shoulders squared, chin high, eyes scanning the crowd he’d felt something settle low in his chest. not nerves. not pride.

something quieter.

more dangerous.

damian sighed and leaned back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

this wasn’t just about admiration anymore.

it was becoming personal.

and that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you didn’t sleep deeply that night.

cleo curled into your side, one small foot lodged beneath your ribs. the hotel ac rattled faintly, and your back still ached from the match. But that wasn’t what kept you up.

it was him.

damian.

you kept replaying the moment you saw them down by the barricade. the way he’d looked at you, silent but so present. no big gesture. no smirk. just solid. like someone you could fall into and not hit the ground.

it was a ridiculous thought.

this business didn’t allow softness. or time. or relationships that lasted longer than the next tour loop.

but then there was cleo, asleep beside you, mumbling his name in her dreams.

you weren’t sure what was happening.

but it felt like the kind of thing that didn’t stop easily once it started.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

wwe posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: y/n has arrived ahead of her first ple, the elimination chamber where she has a tag match with tiffany stratton against nia jax and candace larae

wwe posted a story tagging archerofinfamy and rhearipley_wwe

written: the terror twins have been reunited for the first time since damian priest left raw during the transfer window

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

finally being back with damian rhea felt like she had missed a whole season of damian's life.

she noticed it before she even made it to catering.

damian, leaning against a stack of production crates, arms crossed, pretending to scroll his phone.

you, sitting cross-legged on the floor with cleo in front of you, helping her colour a foam championship belt from the merch table like it was the most serious thing in the world.

cleo asked something. you smiled, laughed, pushed her curls out of her face.

and damian?

that man didn’t so much as blink, but everything in his posture said, locked in.

rhea smirked.

she detoured straight toward him.

"let me guess", she said, stopping beside him. "you're just coincidentally standing here. middle of traffic. next to this specific hallway."

damian didn’t look up. "it’s not like that."

"right", rhea drawled. "it’s not like anything. you just ‘happened’ to wander near the girl you’ve been brooding over for the last three shows while her kid paints glitter on a fake belt."

he glanced over. "you done?"

"nope." she leaned on the crate beside him, arms folded. "she’s cool. you like her. cleo loves you. you’re literally the only person on this brand that kid listens to. this whole soft-parent-energy thing is actually very cute. so what’s the holdup?"

damian exhaled, jaw flexing. "it’s not that simple."

rhea tilted her head. "why not?"

"because she’s new. and talented. and already has enough to prove without everyone whispering that she’s sleeping her way up the roster. because she’s got a kid and i’m..."

he stopped. didn’t finish.

rhea watched him for a moment, the edge softening slightly in her expression. "because you’re scared."

he didn’t deny it.

"look", she said, voice quieter, "i'm not saying get down on one knee and propose tomorrow. but you’re already halfway in. the kid adores you. she clearly feels something. you showing up? that means something."

he shook his head slightly. "i don’t want to mess it up."

"then don’t." she nudged his shoulder. "tell her. before someone else does."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

later that evening, following the elimination chamber cleo had passed out on a row of production cases, mouth slightly open, marker still clutched in her fist.

you were half-watching the monitor rewatching your match, the rest of your brain stuck in that foggy space between exhaustion and gratitude.

and then damian sat down next to you.

quiet. no preamble. close enough to feel the warmth of him but not enough to press.

"hey", you said.

"hey."

you both watched the screen for a beat.

then, without looking at you, he asked, voice low "if i said i wanted to take you out sometime what would you say?"

you blinked. looked at him, really looked.

"i’d say" you paused, smiling softly, "it’s about time."

and for the first time since you’d met him

he smiled back.

fully.

openly.

like something had finally been decided.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

one week into dating damian

cleo had a habit of crawling out of bed before you and wandering straight into whatever hotel room was across the hall, usually damian’s.

one morning you woke to an empty bed, slipped on your hoodie, and crossed the hall barefoot, fully ready to scold her.

but when you pushed open his door, you froze.

there she was, knees tucked under her, balancing on the edge of his bed with a tablet in hand, while damian sat beside her cross-legged, head tilted, listening intently.

"okay", cleo said, very seriously, "this one’s a therizinosaurus" , her pronunciation of the word was terribly wrong but utterly adorable. "it had really long claws and was a herbivore, but also terrifying."

damian nodded. "that’s actually a great name for a finisher."

you blinked. "are you guys naming moves after dinosaurs?"

he looked up. "only the deadliest ones."

cleo grinned. "we already picked one that is yours momma. wanna know what it’s called?"

you couldn’t say no.

and you didn’t want to.

archerofinfamy posted a story

written: tired on pretending dinosaurs aren't cool as hell

wwe posted a story tagging archerofinfamy

written: damian priest just debuted a terrifying new move that is calling the spinosaurus ddt

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

three weeks into dating damian

you had a big match, one you wanted cleo to watch.

damian had been eager to be the one to watch her.

he sat at gorilla, watching you from behind the curtain. not in a possessive way. just proud. like watching the moment before lightning struck.

cleo stood beside him with a headset way too big for her head, shovelling gummy sweets into her mouth, free hand holding his wrist tape like it was treasure.

"do you think she’s nervous?" she whispered.

"no", he said, eyes still forward. "she’s ready."

he meant it. but he also meant: you always are. that’s who you are.

cleo giggled and held up the tape. "can i wear it?"

"only if you promise to cheer loud."

she nodded like it was a blood oath.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

a month into dating damian

cleo was sick.

nothing major, just a fever and exhaustion, but it hit hard after travel day, and she clung to you like gravity. you were supposed to wrestle that night, a solid match with a new push behind it.

but cleo had her arms locked around your neck, flushed and sweaty, and you’d already texted the producer your regrets.

then damian appeared in the doorway.

you started to tell him it was fine. that you had it under control. that you’d ordered Pedialyte and she’d be okay by morning.

he didn’t say anything.

just walked over, sat on the floor beside the bed, and held cleo’s tiny, fever-warm hand until she fell asleep.

later, after everything calmed down, you whispered, "thank you."

he shook his head. "you don’t have to do all of this alone."

and somehow, for the first time in years

you believed it.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

eight weeks into dating damian

you weren’t exactly hiding anymore.

people talked. rumors swirled. a few fans had caught on via glances, hallway sightings, or the time cleo accidentally called him "d" in front of a camera crew.

but you kept it quiet. protected.

not for shame, but for peace.

still, moments slipped through. you brushing glitter off his shoulder. him sneaking you cleo’s favourite snacks in catering. cleo climbing into his lap during a production meeting, chewing on a lanyard, and declaring him her "most bestest backup daddy."

he didn’t correct her.

not even once.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

two months dating damian

you didn’t mean to say it that night.

not in the way people usually plan for those moments. there was no candlelight. no big romantic speech. no music playing in the background. just the hum of the a/c, cleo’s quiet breathing from the second bed, and the weight of his arm draped across your stomach.

damian was half asleep beside you, still in joggers and a thermal shirt. the room smelled like takeout and travel-sized lotion. it was one of those rare nights where you had nowhere to be. just here.

just with him.

you rolled to your side slowly, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead. He looked peaceful like this. less guarded. younger, even.

he stirred at your touch, blinking at you.

"you okay?" he asked, voice low and rough.

you nodded. "yeah. just thinking."

"about what?"

you hesitated, then exhaled.

"how lucky i am", you said quietly. "to have this. to have you. to not be alone in it all anymore."

damian didn’t say anything at first. just brushed your wrist with his thumb, soft and steady.

then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you whispered it, barely above the buzz of the a/c.

"i love you."

silence.

and then

his hand stopped moving.

your breath caught.

he sat up slightly, his eyes finding yours in the dim light.

"you do?", he asked, not teasing. just stunned.

you nodded, nerves bubbling under your skin. "i didn’t mean to say it like that. not all weird and sleepy and-"

"i love you too."

he said it before you could spiral further. no hesitation. just warm certainty.

"i’ve been trying not to say it for weeks", he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "didn’t want to freak you out. or mess this up."

you laughed, quiet and shaking. "you could never."

damian leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, both of you breathing the same small space.

"i love you", he said again. "both of you. it’s not even a question anymore."

across the room, cleo turned in her sleep, murmuring something about "dinosaurs and pancakes."

you smiled.

this wasn’t flashy. it wasn’t loud.

but it was real.

and for the first time in years, love didn’t feel like something you had to fight for.

it just was.

y/ninsta

liked by archerofinfamy, beckylynchwwe, biancabelairwwe and 489,322 others

tagged: archerofinfamy

y/ninsta: just us. some snacks. a few late nights. cooking classes. & a man who carries stickers in his gear bag "just in case."

view all 18,283 comments

archerofinfamy: my girls

beckylynchwwe: i knew it. didn’t even need the detective hat. congrats mama

rhearipley_wwe: i’ve been WAITING. cleo’s the real star here tho, sorry not sorry

user5: the soft launch era is OVER. we are FEEDING

user6: damian "i destroy men for fun and braid toddler hair" priest??? iconic

user7: you went from indie darling to smackdown star to mom of the year with a hot wrestling boyfriend. living the dream fr.