#so like was it just for name recognition...?

[bitters-n-sweets]

Hey!! Love all your Jack Abbot's fic!!! ❤️❤️❤️ Can I request something? You can decide if you want to do it or not. I'm fine with either. Jack Abbot x fem reader. Her childhood friend end up at ER after something happened to him. He wanted to surprise her by visiting her at work after travelling around the world but the worse happened. Jack didn't know who that man was and why he was talking to his girl. And he didn't like it (cue jealous Abbot🤭). And the whole ER just watched the night attending glaring (perhaps killing with his eyes). Just do whatever you want to. Suggestive, jealous, teasing, ER. Thanks!!! :))

hiiiii! thank you and yes of courseeeeee ❤️ i’m obsessed with the new superman atm so…human!clark kent cameo yay! also I probably made this a lot more complicated that it normally should be, but I couldn’t help myself 😅

pretty fucked — jack abbot x fem!reader Your childhood friend is wheeled into the ER, and Jack—unaware of who he is—isn’t too happy about all the Midwestern smiles and charm he’s throwing your way.

warnings: jealous trope(kinda), jealous!jack, reader is from Kansas for the plot, reader’s parents weren’t around in the past, slightly angsty—who am i without angst

You’re busy charting when EMTs wheel in another patient through the doors. You exhale—night shift is just as relentless as ever. You head toward the gurney—clearly too small, given that the man’s legs are hanging over the end—and glance at the EMT for the handoff.

“Male patient, late 20s or early 30s. Took a fall down about ten stairs outside a bakery. Hit his head—got a decent gash above the left eyebrow, but stayed conscious the whole time. Complains of dizziness, likely mild concussion. No signs of neck or spine injury. Vitals are stable,” she reports.

You nod and finally look at the patient—who’s got his eyes squeezed shut and is groaning quietly.

You freeze.

“What the hell?” you mutter, brow furrowing. You know that voice. That haircut. That stupid flannel.

The patient cracks one eye open. Recognition dawns—and then he grins, lopsided and blood-smeared.

“Oh, hey! Funny running into you here, Peach.”

He says it a little too loud—loud enough to turn heads at the nurses’ station behind you. Loud enough to draw Jack Abbot’s attention. He’s frowning now—watching the man on the gurney smile at you like you hung the moon. Like he’s known you forever.

“Clark Kent.” You say his name sternly, “What are you doing here in Pittsburgh??”

“Well it’s nice to see you too.”

“You know this guy?” The EMT asks, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “My idiot childhood friend. Thanks—I’ve got it from here.”

You help move him to the trauma bay, and as soon as the gurney’s parked, you pinch his arm.

“Ow!” he protests, wincing.

“What did you do this time?” Your browse raise, gloving up to examine him.

“Nothing!”

It seems like Clark is fine—his breathing is normal, pupils reactive, vital signs are normal, all you need to do is stitch up that wound on his forehead.

“Do you have any idea what your mom’s gonna say when she finds out I had to stitch you up??”

“She doesn’t have to find out,” Clark mutters, clearly hoping.

“You need, like, at least 4-5 stitches.”

“It’ll heal.”

“It might leave a scar.”

“I thought you’d be a good enough doctor to not leave a scar.”

You shoot him a look and pinch him again, a little harder this time. “First of all, it doesn’t work that way. And second of all, I might just give you a bigger scar myself!”

A good few feet away from you and Clark, Jack watches the entire interaction. How you held him with certainty, no hesitation—you’re so comfortable with this guy. Clearly, you two know each other. He’s just never seen you so touchy with another guy before.

And the guy—Clark, apparently—he’s smiling through a busted forehead like it’s a reunion, not an injury. He's looking at you like he’s the happiest guy on earth.

Jack’s jaw ticks.

He forces himself to look down at the tablet in his hand, re-scanning vitals that don’t need rechecking. He tells himself it’s nothing. That the guy’s just some old friend. A dumbass who fell down stairs and got lucky you happened to be working tonight.

But when he hears him call you Peach—in that fond, teasing voice, and without you flinching like it’s weird?—something shifts in his chest. Something uncomfortable.

Jack’s fingers curl slightly around the edge of the tablet.

He watches you tuck a piece of gauze under the wound with practiced care, brow furrowed in concentration, but your body language is relaxed. Like you’ve done this—caring for this Clark—a million times.

Jack doesn’t realize he’s still staring until one of the nurses brushes past him with a chart and he snaps out of it. He clears his throat, turns away like he’s just passing by on the way to somewhere else.

Like he’s not wondering who the hell this guy is. But he’s about to find out.

Clark hisses when you clean the area around the cut and your other hand has to hold his jaw to make sure he doesn’t move around.

“You know, some would say this is not standard care.” Clark says with squished cheeks.

“Oh shush and let me do my job.” You wave him off.

He smiles. “This is just like middle school,” he mutters, wincing. “Except you’re not using your sleeve this time.”

You snort. “Be grateful. My sleeves were never clean.”

“You still punched that kid in the mouth for me. That was heroic.” Clark recalls.

“The kid had it coming.” You shrug. “You, however, had a nosebleed and cried.”

“Did not cry.” Clark protests.

You lift your brows without looking up.

“Okay, I teared up. But only because blood was pouring out of my face.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you reach for the suture kit. It’s easy, slipping into this rhythm with Clark—like no time has passed. Like you're still two dumb kids on a playground with more grit than grace.

“Everything alright in here?”

You both glance up.

Jack’s pulled the curtains open, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His tone is neutral, but there’s something guarded behind his eyes. He takes in the scene: Clark lounging casually on the gurney, you gloved up and leaning in close. Too close for his liking.

“It’s superficial,” you reply, glancing at the wound. “I’ve got it.”

Clark perks up, all Midwestern friendliness. “Hey. You must be the famous Dr. Jack Abbot.”

You suck in your breath at Clark and he feigns innocence. “What?”

Jack’s eyebrows lift faintly. “Do I know you?”

“Nah,” Clark says cheerfully. “Just heard your name a few times.”

You roll your eyes. “Jack, meet Clark Kent. My childhood pain in the ass.”

Clark jerks his thumb toward you. “She used to beat up my bullies and steal my lunch snacks.”

“You gave me those snacks,” you correct.

“Under duress.” He mutters.

Jack doesn’t laugh, though he tries to look polite about it.

“Well. Glad you’re in good hands,” Jack says, and turns like he’s about to go.

But Clark speaks up again, casual and cheerful. “Hey, wait—are you the one who keeps giving her rides home when her car won’t start?”

You pause mid-suture. Jack hesitates at the doorframe.

“Sometimes,” Jack replies, strangely neutral.

“Man,” Clark grins, “some things never change. She’s always had junk cars. You remember that old Chevy you drove in high school? The one where the passenger door wouldn’t open unless you kicked it?”

“Oh my God, don’t even bring that up.” You shake your head.

“How can I? You made me crawl through the backseat for two years.”

Jack watches your banter with him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You had a Chevy?”

“Yeah, and old one,” you say. “Baby blue. It was technically my uncle’s, but he never asked for it back.”

“She used to drive us to the river after school,” Clark adds. “We’d skip stones and talk about how we were gonna escape Smallville one day.”

You glance up at that. “That was your dream.”

“Yeah, well. You made it out first.”

You go quiet for a moment, hands still busy with the final stitch. A sad smile plasters on your face.

Jack, still standing just inside the trauma bay, shifts his weight. “Didn��t realize you grew up in Kansas,” he says.

“It doesn’t come up much,” you murmur.

Clark senses the tension bubbling and offers Jack a small, polite smile, like he's apologizing for making it awkward.

“What are you doing here anyway, Clark?” you add, tying off the last suture.

He takes a deep breath. “I wanted to surprise you. It’s been a while since you visited. Two years.”

You wince. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“It has,” he says simply. “Ma and Pa's been asking about you.”

You bite your lip. “You know why I don’t visit, Clark.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But… we all miss you, Peach.”

The nickname makes Jack’s gaze flick between you again. He doesn’t comment. He just stands there a beat longer than he needs to, then gives a stiff nod.

“I’ll let you two catch up.” And then he turns and walks off.

Clark watches him go, and sees your pained expression.

“So… he doesn’t like me.” Clark states.

You sigh. “No, it's not that. I should go talk to him.”

You toss your gloves in the bin, spray on some hand sanitizer, and step out before you can overthink it. Jack’s not moving fast, but he’s already halfway down the hall. You jog a few paces to catch up, calling out softly—

“Jack.”

He slows but doesn’t stop.

“Hey,” you try again, gentler this time.

“Everything okay with your friend?” he asks without looking at you.

You frown. “You mean Clark? Yeah. Just a few stitches. He’s fine.”

“Good.” His voice is clipped. He starts walking again.

“Jack,” you say, stopping. “Can you just—wait a second?”

He stops, finally turning to face you. His jaw’s tight, his hands in his pockets. He trying not to look at you, he’s trying not to say something he’ll regret.

“What?” he asks, quiet.

You shift your weight, suddenly unsure where to start.

“He’s just a friend,” you say. “Clark. He’s like a brother to me.”

“Didn’t say he wasn’t.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That hits him. Jack glances down the hall, like he’s buying himself a second before he speaks.

“I’m not jealous,” he finally says.

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You let out a slow breath, the tension between you sharp and awkward now. You want to smooth it out, but something about Jack’s posture makes you hesitate—he’s bracing for a hit.

“I don’t talk about Kansas because it’s not a part of me I… bring up often,” you say, voice softer now. “Clark showing up—he’s not here to stir things. He just missed me. That’s all.”

Jack nods once. It’s a little stiff, but not cold.

“He called you Peach.”

“He’s called me that since I was eight.”

“Why?”

“Because despite me fighting off his bullies like a champ, I still bruised like a peach. Still do.”

That gets the smallest twitch of a smile out of him.

“Charming,” he breathes, stepping closer to you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I just… it surprises me how much I still don’t know about you.”

“And I guess I am jealous,” he admits. “Not because I’m afraid he’ll whisk you away in his horse and cowboy hat—” that earns him a chuckle from you, “—but because he knows you. Really knows you.”

You nod, understanding his earnestness. “Look, I… I didn’t tell you everything about my life yet because well… I wasn’t ready for you realize I’m kind of fucked up.”

Jack frowns at that.

“My parents weren’t really around when I was a kid. And when they were… the house would reek of alcohol and weed. I didn’t have a perfect childhood. And I guess I was scared that it might not be what you signed up for.”

He exhales slowly, then gently nudges open the door to an empty consult room and guides you inside. Once the door clicks shut, he steps forward and wraps you into a hug, one that you very much need. You press your ear to his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart, letting yourself sink into it.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to see your face, “I have one leg, I went to war, and I’m well older than you. I think we’re both pretty fucked up.”

You laugh, hands still curled around his waist.

“So you’re okay with me probably having daddy issues and that being why I’m so into you?”

Jack shrugs, his lip twitching. “I kind of guessed that much.”

You smile, your eyes stinging a little.

His tone softens even more as he lifts a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“You don’t have to tell me everything right now,” Jack says. “But I want you to know that I’m here for you. And that I want you. Your past, your present…” He pauses, his gaze on you. “And certainly your future. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, leaning into his touch. “I won’t scare you away?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “You can’t even try.”

[modusponendoponens]

This is a thoughtful response that obviously comes from a place of hurt and displays strong desire for understanding and reconciliation. There's much in this with which I agree, particularly people "that i've seen ripping into transmascs for just saying that it's not actually easier for us, we're just struggling differently." (I replace transfems with people because I'm not quite as confident that it's only, specifically, transfems.) Individual circumstances will vary and any given trans woman may have a better or worse experience that any given trans man because the breadth of human experience is vast. Furthermore, there are differences in the ways in which oppression trans women and trans men manifests and it's important to have a language in which to discuss this, not least because a lack of such language impedes the recognition of oppression in the first place and the building of solidarity. However, "transandrophobia" as an analytical tool is not well founded and your argument that it exists in the first place is flawed. One essay-esque reply deserves another, I suppose. I have, likewise, placed mine under the cut. In short, transandrophobia doesn't exist and appeals to it are rooted in antifeminism.

The construction of "transandrophobia" is as follows:

(1) Trans people face oppression for being trans (transphobia).

(2) Men face oppression for being men (misandry).

(3) Therefore, people who are both trans and men are at the intersection of two axes of oppression (1, 2).

(4) People at the intersection of two axes of oppression are affected by oppression which is distinct from either axis on its own (intersectionality).

(5) Therefore, people who are trans and men (i.e., trans men) are affected by oppression which is distinct from transphobia and misandry on their own (3, 4). The name for this axis of oppression is "transandrophobia".

I think the ultimate point of contention here is (2). If misogyny is the structural gender-based oppression of women, then the same for men is misandry. To support belief in the existence of misandry, we would need to believe in oppression of men for their status as men.

So in what does misandry consist? You write that the big shift towards misandry is constituted by (6) "[not caring] about men's mental health, etc.," people saying (7) "men are all horrible, disgusting people," that (8) "trans men are exactly like the worst of cis men," (9) "gender traitors," (10) "misogynists," that trans men (11) "benefit from male privilege," and are (12) "predatory and angry and hateful."

(7), (10), and (12) do not constitute oppression, much less structural gender based oppression. These are words which can hurt to hear for a man who believes them not to apply to himself, but being offended on an interpersonal level does not oppression make. For comparison, when women are called misogynist slurs, that also does not, in itself, constitute (structural) misogyny; the structural misogyny is in the attendant threat of violence backed by society, the legal system, etc. Use of these terms toward men is not misandry because no analogous threat of societal, legal, etc. violence is implied by their use.

(8) implies that trans people are worse on average (in some domain) than their cis counterparts while (9) positions trans men as women. Neither really targets men qua men. Instead, trans men in these examples are being considered as distinct from men as a group, or equivalently, not "real men," which also applies to trans women vis-à-vis womanhood. The discrimination here is against transgender status, not specific gender. This is transphobia, not misandry.

(6) is a bit of “murder, arson, jaywalking” in context, but as a factual statement it may or may not be true. Men certainly are encouraged to be strong, emotionless, and to not seek mental health services. However, there are no structural barriers to men receiving these services and whether discussion on this topic is more controversial relative to previously is not provable and has no relation to the existence or nonexistence of those barriers. This is not misandry.

I leave (11) for last because this is the most interesting assertion with which to take issue, and I want to give it a bit more attention. In the first place, the assertion that trans men benefit from male privilege is not a misandrist one. That men benefit from male privilege is a constitutive premise of feminism. Arguing that “men are beneficiaries of male privilege” is a misandrist position requires the equation of feminism with misandry; one cannot, on pain of contradiction, make this argument while claiming to accept feminism as a sound analytical framework.

Putting this aside, the question remains, due to your parenthetical in this paragraph, “can trans men (ever) benefit from male privilege?” Cis-passing privilege is the name given to the relatively abnormal respect trans men and women receive when people mistake them for cisgender men and women, respectively. Both trans women and trans men can experience this. Suppose Andrew, a passing trans man, is in a room full of cis men and women who assume that only other cis people are in the room. Would Andrew benefit from male privilege? Yes. Obviously yes.

(13) The people in the room treat Andrew no differently from any other identically situated cis man (because they believe him to be a cisgender man).

(14) Cis men benefit from male privilege (feminism).

(15) Therefore, in this room, Andrew benefits from male privilege (13, 14).

It is false that trans men, factually, do not benefit from male privilege.

With all your putative instances of misandry shown not to be misandry after all, the core proposition (2) has no grounding in reality. Without proposition (2) the assertion that “transandrophobia, the specific, unique oppression faced by trans men, exists” fails. Men do not experience structural oppression for being men. Trans men, being men, do not experience structural oppression for being men. Trans people of all flavours experience structural oppression for being trans.

Of course, because this argument turns on the acceptance of feminism as a sound framework, one can reject it by rejecting feminism. This is the source of the accusations of antifeminism against people who believe in the existence of transandrophobia. One cannot be a feminist and believe in the reality of structural oppression of men on the basis of their being men, while maintaining logical consistency. Fortunately, there are ways to discuss the oppression trans men face without resorting to antifeminist language.

average "transandrophobia" poster before and after i ask him for a source on his claims. wow isn't that interesting

he also threatened to "rip [my] arms off" if i didn't censor his username whilst screenshotting him calling me a mentally ill ugly tranny who should kill herself, but unfortunately he blocked me before i could get screenshots 💔💔💔

[vxnillabxn]

Hey☆!! I am anon of the artist!reader. ♡I loved the story very much♡ .🤩🤗🤗 you are such an amazing writer. (Lots of virtual hugs)

If I can request another idea . How about lads boys getting jealous of their pets cuddling reader. (For example: sylus coming home and seeing melphie nuzzling reader and jealous of the attention reader gives it)lots of love♡♡

Also can I be 🦋 anon just for future recognition

𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluffy, fluuuff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚HI, YES, I LOVE YOUR BRAIN SO MUCH, PRETTY BUTTERFLY! ᡣ 𓈒⋅ ⩊ ⋅𓈒ྀིა thank you so much for that request, and for this one too! i tried my best to find the perfect pets to use for these hc's, so i hope you like this one just as much, if not more (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

caleb wanted a puppy.

he insisted and insisted until you gave in.

sure, you took care of the little pup while caleb was gone, and he took a liking to you quite quickly.

it was very cute at first…

until you were constantly doting on baby newton. every single day.

and yeah, “baby newton” was the pup's full government name.

—because of gravity, get it?—

you thought it was hilarious… he didn't.

anyway, newton was always demanding your attention, always jumping on your lap and licking your cheek while his fluffy tail wagged like crazy.

caleb found it endearing; he loved taking pictures to decorate the fridge later on.

but you barely paid attention to him anymore. you've been denying this, because obviously, you pay both your clingy boys the same amount of attention.

he digresses, and today? today he has full proof to support his argument.

he came back home, looked for you immediately and smiled upon seeing your curled up figure on his side of the bed.

he knew you were awake because of your soft giggles, and he figured you'd be watching something funny on your phone.

wrong.

you were playing with baby newton's belly, receiving lots of licks on your hands.

caleb thought it was adorable, until he called out for you.

once…

twice…

“okay pips, this isn't funny…”

then another time.

until he cleared his throat and you looked back, seemingly surprised by his presence.

“ah! hi lebbie! sorry, i didn't hear you.”

he looked at you, and then back at the puppy who was staring at him.

hmph.

he approached, and the puppy got up, wagging his tail and nuzzling against your neck.

almost on purpose.

you cooed, pulling baby newton closer.

“baby pips.”

caleb called out again, trying to get your attention… but he instead saw how the puppy demanded attention with his cute eyes and you squealed in adoration.

you weren't even listening to him.

“pipsqueak.”

nothing.

and he could've sworn the puppy locked eyes with his, defiantly so.

ah, so this is war.

caleb threw himself next to you and pulled you closer.

the pup got up, whined and pawed at your cheek in response.

your eyes were darting between baby newton and caleb.

both of them being whiny puppies fighting for your attention.

caleb peppered your cheek with soft kisses.

the pup started sniffing your other cheek before giving it some loving licks, too.

you were giggling, until it became too much.

it was overwhelmingly adorable.

and enough was enough, so you sat up abruptly, before leaving the room in a hurry, still laughing.

both caleb and the puppy tilted their heads to the side in confusion, before they followed in a rush.

or well, caleb ran behind you, and upon seeing how baby newton was scared of jumping off the bed, caleb carried him and gently placed him on the floor.

so now you heard soft pitter-pattering and heavy footsteps following you, alongside whines and lots of pleas for you to come back.

sigh.

having a needy puppy was cute.

but having two?

and without even asking for it?

good luck, soldier.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

it is not a pet, okay?

that's reddie, his buddy.

a fish…

but a friend, nonetheless.

you didn't really know how to interact with fish… aside from feeding them and making them follow you around.

rafayel kept him in a gorgeous fish tank that looked like an aquarium exhibition… almost too huge for just one fish.

but, hey! reddie was happy, raf was happy, so everything was fine.

recently, though, you started seeing videos of cute fishy moments.

you could play tic-tac-toe with them, you could make them jump through little hoops…

and you recently discovered reddie actually kind of liked you.

every time you approached the thick glass, he would get closer too, and make little bubbles, and he would follow your movements too.

you had a bright idea, and you went to wash your hands…

just to stick one hand inside the tank later on.

reddie automatically swam around your finger, making you smile.

he followed your finger around, and you felt little “kisses” of sorts as he clung to your fingertip.

this was so cute!

you spent quite literally all afternoon playing with reddie, just when rafayel came.

oh, how adorable!

he smiled. he thought it was amazing, though he was thinking of taking reddie back to the ocean eventually.

he kissed you and watched as you played with reddie, clearly amused.

the next few days, you spent your time teaching reddie lots of tricks.

however, rafayel was starting to get a bit lonely.

yeah, he was a bit busy, but like… could you pay attention to him?

while he stared from the sidelines, reddie and you got closer every day, and one day, rafayel and you went to the beach.

it was him, and you… and reddie.

and you took reddie to the clear, calm ocean so you could swim with him!

you were having the time of your life, feeling as if you had a puppy following you underwater.

oh, the betrayal.

the cruel, cruel irony of destiny.

rafayel finally had you by his side… only for another fish to take you away from him.

he was going to send reddie to one of the seven seas, randomly.

and he was already determined to catch reddie, when you went to the surface.

and he had to throw a tantrum first, then carry on with his evil plan.

“you know, if you don't love me anymore, you can just say so. there's no need for you to betray me like this…”

he crosses his arms, looking away with slightly pouted lips.

what on earth is he talking about?

“raf? i'm just… i'm just swimming around with reddie.”

he huffs and now his back faces you.

“right. reddie, out of all the fish in the sea…”

oh gosh.

“rafayel… do you want me to teach you some tricks, too?”

he doesn't answer, but he does look over his shoulder, slightly interested, but still frowning.

“...who's a good fishy?”

reddie is resting against your outstretched hand underwater, and rafayel finally turns around.

“isn't that obvious?”

he huffs, but he approaches, soon resting his chin over your head.

“raf.”

“hm?”

“don't you dare send reddie away.”

dang it.

he groans, but he knows better when he hears that tone.

he'll send him away, eventually… but for now, just for now, reddie has won fair and square.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

how could you not love mephisto?

sure, he wasn't really a bird, but he acted like one, he looked like one…

and he had cute feathers, too!

whenever you were by yourself, mephisto was always close.

always vigilant and still.

at first, you knew he was just following sylus' orders to keep you safe and sound.

but, over time, you thought mephs was really cute!

so, naturally, you had to befriend him one way or the other.

and he was quite docile, so it wasn't that hard.

you started scratching his head, he started bringing you shiny things —most of which were sylus' stuff, or money he… somehow got outside of the base. you didn't want to investigate further.

yeah, you two were best buds in no time.

sylus didn't mind, as long as mephisto didn't take your side and stop following his instructions.

and naturally, he let this whole ordeal happen.

one night though, sylus was away for the day, and you were playing with mephisto, making him fly around and talking back to him in funny “caws”.

you wanted to teach him some words, too, but that was a bit too advanced, so you learned his language instead.

it went on until you grew sleepy, and mephs, who was comfortably sitting on your shoulder, finally nuzzled against your neck.

a few quick pecks to his feathery head later, and you were both asleep.

when sylus came back, he cocked his head to the side, not expecting this.

his own companion, with his lover, on his couch.

all curled up, all cozy.

unbelievable.

he cleared his throat and gently caressed your cheek until you woke up, fluttering your eyes with confusion.

“i presume your nap was good?”

you smiled and nodded, before stretching.

he was smirking, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes.

at all.

mephisto fluttered his wings when he felt you were moving, and softly nuzzled his beak against your cheek soon after.

you could almost see sylus' eye twitching, though it was faint, instant.

“are you still tired, kitten?”

you blinked quietly before shaking your head.

“uh, not rea—”

“good.”

he took your hand and softly helped you stand up, not letting you finish your sentence.

“let's go for a nap.”

you tried to at least ask what's going on, but he was already taking you to your shared bedroom.

he laid down and pulled himself to your chest, soon nuzzling against your neck like mephisto did earlier.

“sylus…”

you whisper, but his nose was already tracing your cheek and your jawline.

almost as if wanting to take away any trace of mephs' beak rubbing against your skin.

this is beyond surreal to you.

was he jealous of… his bird?

him, the feared and most-wanted man of the N109-zone, feeling envious of such a tender moment between you and a mechanical crow?

you couldn't help but sigh and leave soft pecks over his head as you did with mephisto, before finally indulging in this forced nap of sorts.

sylus will have to re-train mephisto.

and also, he'll have to punish the twins too, because he already knew they were peeking through the door, muffling their laughter when seeing how jealous he was.

it was going to be a long night…

after he woke up, of course.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

okay, he can be a menace.

no, literally.

he found an unhatched and abandoned egg outside, and what was his response?

“i wanna boil it.”

and the way he treats poor bunbun?

yeah.

you don't get why he still attracts so many small animals; they should escape while they can.

however, that didn't stop you when you found a tiny bunny outside your building and wanted to bring it inside.

after all, you knew xavier wouldn't… actually try to hurt it, right?

he saw when you entered with a tiny, trembling little fuzzy ball in your hands, and he had to ask.

he approached and looked at it, then up at you.

“what's that?”

you gently pushed your hands towards him.

“i found a bunny and… its mama wasn't around. it's trembling, xav. we must help.”

ah, well, if you put it that way and look at him with those pleading eyes, he can't really refuse.

he's not a monster, either, so your cute journey begins.

the bunny grows up a little bit, and it starts to show more trust —how affectionate it actually is.

he hops around, licks your fingers, and follows you everywhere.

the bunny also throws tantrums, and you can't help but notice how similar xavier and he are.

even down to the fact that they can't stand each other.

when xavier comes near you, the bunny thumps the floor.

when the bunny jumps on your lap, xavier stomps his foot and walks away.

but your heart is big enough, you swear!

to avoid conflict, you have to nap with the bunny during the day and sleep with xavier at night.

sure, sleeping all day isn't ideal, but you have no other choice if you want to keep both bunnies happy and out of conflict.

in theory, everything was going smoothly —until you fell asleep a bit longer than anticipated.

it was xavier's turn to sleep with you, as it was already nighttime…

yet, he found you holding the bunny close, as it rested its head on your cheek.

hold his sword—

he stepped in and took the bunny away before plopping on top of you.

obviously, his weight took your breath away, and you woke up immediately.

you saw xavier looking down at the bunny with narrowed eyes…

and the bunny looking up at xavier while grunting softly, up on its back legs with its paws ready to fight.

like a boxer.

great.

“okay, okay! there's enough of me for all of you!”

you sat up, soon taking the bunny in one of your hands before using the other to cup xav's cheek.

they were both grunting now, but your shushing calmed them down.

eventually, they both knocked out with such ease, you thought they were related in some way.

xavier rested on your chest, and the bunny laid on your arm, being cradled like a baby.

this plan isn't working anymore.

so you either domesticate these two wild bunnies to start liking each other, or they'll have to sleep without your warmth.

and trust me, that's enough of a punishment for them to start tolerating each other.

though xavier will be ready for when you finally crave some bunny stew.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

he only asked you to bring some nuts on your way to the hospital.

he befriended the cutest squirrel, and even though the name wasn't exactly cute, the fluffy creature surely was.

clopidogrel loves hazelnuts and almonds more than peanuts.

they're classy, okay?

also, since they were one of the few creatures zayne managed to befriend, you wanted to see what made the squirrel so special.

when you entered his empty office, you sat by the window and looked down.

clopidogrel was sitting on a tree branch, and looked up when you tapped on the window.

with quick, agile jumps, the squirrel soon was standing by the window, looking up at you with both their paws held against their chest.

obviously, you soon opened the window and handed over some of the hazelnuts, seeing if clopidogrel would take them from the palm of your hand or if they'd rather eat them from the surface instead.

you were delighted when their paws touched your fingers as they started to munch on the nuts.

the risk of contracting rabies is low, and this squirrel seems friendly, so…

why not… pet them?

you carefully reached out and scratched their tiny head, and they seemed unfazed.

what you didn't know, though, was that you'd befriend clopidogrel sooner than you anticipated.

and now, they groom you.

yeah.

either that, or they'll climb on your shoulder and just chill around while zayne isn't around.

you knew zayne only fed them, and if he knew you were actually treating them as a domestic animal, he'd give you a full-on lecture about the dangers.

and you expected exactly that when he entered his office and saw the adorable display.

he stopped in his tracks upon seeing clopidogrel nuzzling against you and grooming your hair, while you were patting their head.

zayne looks at you.

you look at zayne.

silence.

“my love.”

he simply whispers, stepping closer.

you are about to explain everything before he speaks, but… his gaze isn't concerned, and it isn't stern either.

his eyes are slightly narrowed.

why is another creature nuzzling you?

first of all.

and second of all, why are you liking it?

“clopidogrel has their own partner.”

he quietly says, approaching slowly.

ah, right. you noticed clopidogrel usually hangs out with another squirrel. maybe their mate?

“zaynie, we're talking about a squirrel…”

he fixes his glasses and softly urges the squirrel to move away from your shoulder, which they do quickly.

“that is of minor importance,” he whispers as he nuzzles against you instead. “why must you be so kind to everyone?”

you tilt your head softly, before smiling at him.

“are you jealous, dr. zayne?”

he looks into your eyes before averting his gaze.

he doesn't answer, but he really doesn't need to.

when he closes the window once clopidogrel leaves, kneels between your legs and rests his head on your lap, you giggle.

you start patting his head too, just as you did with clopidogrel.

if he keeps this up, you might as well buy some hazelnut muffins for him once you two leave —since he wants to replace clopidogrel so badly.

and he wants you to be this kind only to him.

[gentlelovingsiscon]

from there, the pattern establishes itself. you spend the night more or less alone, get harrassed by Lacy or Moss at breakfast, spend the day working, then come home and curl up with your sister. she is, invariably, sleeping or otherwise in bed when you get home, no matter how late. there is a part of you that's still concerned, of course.

there's also a part of you that, every time you want to talk to her about how you're feeling, shuts you right up. the glee of being allowed to get so close to your sister gradually giving way to a dread that grips your heart. by the end of the week, you've started to pull away thoughtlessly. less sex, more distance while cuddling, spending more time with your other housemates. your heart hurts in a genuinely physical way, but once that gap has started to grow you think to yourself good. nobody can find out like this.

Lena, though, isn't happy. she doesn't care much when you don't have sex on Wednesday, that's fine. she's tired anyway. but she does get quietly upset when you don't cuddle as close to her as you were before. then on Friday you don't go see her right after you shower, because you're pent up, and all you really want is your sister, but you're back to the way that you were before. afraid.

you slump into your room after your shower, hand already on your dick as you close the door behind you, towel discarded without hesitation. you crawl onto your bed and grab your phone, navigating to your porn stash with clumsy, angry fingers. you avoid the massive folder labelled ‘sisters’ in favor of scrolling through other folders until you find something that clicks.

at a certain point, you're just scrolling mindlessly with your dick in your hand slowly stroking yourself, not even trying to get off anymore. the porn passes your eyes without much recognition, your mind too lost in thoughts of your big sister. you groan, “fuck it,” and abandon your phone, instead groping around on your bed, looking for-

there it is. you grab a fistful of fabric and bring it to your face, the faded scent of weed and sex mixing with the scent of your big sister. your hand gets more frantic, all friction and heat as it starts to build. “fuck, big sis, please…” your whining is muffled by the hoodie pressed to your nose. you take a deep breath, the faint scent of your sister making your head hazy.

you float in your bed, a cloud of warmth and scent and comfort, your hand moving faster and faster. faintly you're aware of drool pooling on the patch of hoodie beneath your mouth. frantic breaths, oxygen and Lena in equal measure keeping you from passing out. you bite down on the hoodie to muffle your moan as you tip over the edge, arching off of the bed, unable to think enough to stop your hoodie from getting covered.

you collapse on the bed, covered in cum and sweat, panting your sister's name, “Lena, Lena, Lena…”

i'm satisfied, you tell yourself, that was good. i got it out of my system.

liar, the version of Sarah in your head says.

you whine, knowing that devious bitch is right; even as you roll over to toss your hoodie into the hamper and grab some tissues to clean up your stomach, you're already getting hard again. you're not actually sure if you ever got soft.

that's how your big sister finds you when she barges into your room an hour and a half after you got home, angry eyebrows in full effect. you scramble to wipe off the last bits of cum and cover yourself by some idiotic instinct. “sorry, sorry!” you rush, trying to get some pants on while your sister waits by the door. you're barely paying attention to her, adrenaline and shame clawing at your throat. “i just- sorry.”

“wha- why are you sorry?” she asks, bewildered and bemused.

“i-” the words die in your throat. how can you even explain it? so you shut up, just like before, drawing away and averting your gaze. it's a few long seconds before either of you move or speak.

your big sister, used to this from when you were younger and still living at home together with mom and dad, scoffs. you can't meet her eyes, so you don't know what expression she wears, but you're almost certain, deep and primal, that she's angry with you. her words only reinforce that. “nevermind. i recognize that look. whatever. i'll talk to you later,” she grits out bitterly, turning to leave.

no! you rush out of the bed and snag her by the wrist, “wait, wait, Lena nonono please don't leave me!” you beg, near hysterical, through sudden tears, the sudden overwhelming fear of your big sister leaving far more potent than you expected. it blindsides you as you fall to the ground on your knees, holding her hand and pressing it to your forehead, “fuck please-please don't leave! i'm sorry!” she turns, and her hand leaves your grip. you lurch forward, sobbing and begging her to just “please stay!”

“oh fuck baby,” she whispers, falling to her knees in front of you and taking you in her arms. “nonono, i'm sorry, i didn't- fuck, babygirl, i thought you wanted me to leave! i-”

“no! no, Lena no, i'm sorry, please, i- i'm- please…" you wheeze through a sob.

“it's okay, it's okay, i'm here! i'm not going anywhere, little sister, i'm right here."

her reassurances are what ground you. you keep crying into her for a while, pleading with her not to leave you, a partner to her promises to stay. the thought of being without your sister again after over four years more or less apart is like standing on the edge of an infinite abyss, off balance and scared of what you might see on the way to the bottom.

your big sister's voice, telling you “i'm here to stay,” is the hand balled in your shirt keeping you from tipping over.

your big sister's voice, telling you “i love you,” is like being pulled back from edge with force.

your big sister's voice, telling you “you're never ever getting rid of me,” is the warm embrace after the cold fear.

you curl further into her arms, crying until you're spent. at last, once the panic has gone, there's a sense of peace. your fear still lingers at the edge of your senses, claws on your throat and a fog in your brain. “sorry…” you mutter, your voice somewhat dull.

“it's okay. do you wanna talk about it?” your big sister asks.

a part of you that earlier had been armor melts like ice, and you start talking, doing your best to voice your feelings but unsure of precisely the right words, getting more and more confident as you speak.

“i thought… i mean, i got it in my head somehow that- that this was too dangerous,” she scoffs, but you continue, “and i- i didn't mean to pull away, at first, but i had all that time away from you at work this week to think and all that does is make my anxiety worse, and i made up this fucking version of you in my head to argue with, and- and then mom and dad were involved in this conversation -” “fake conversation?” “- this fake conversation, and i spent all day today imagining what will happen when they find out, what they'll say, how they'll separate us for good, and-”

your big sister hums, then with gentle fingers takes your chin and lifts your face, looking you dead in the eyes. “that will never happen," she growls, “i don't give a shit what mom and dad would think. i'd choose you over them every. single. time.”

the sense of relief is so powerful that you immediately start crying again. your big sister swoops in, kissing your tears away, murmuring “mine. my sister. my lover. my family. my girl. my girl. my sister, mine.” punctuating each item on the list with another kiss.

your hands come up to caress her face, drawing her back to kiss her fully, then letting her overpower you, pushing you back until your back hits your bed and she can pin you against it. unlike when you were younger, now you know you can overpower her easily. you go willingly, letting her nuzzle into your neck and breathe you in. you shiver.

“say it,” she growls. “say you're mine, baby.”

she threads her fingers through your short red hair and you shiver again, whimpering quietly. “i- i'm… i'm yours…”

“good girl,” she whispers, pressing an open mouthed kiss against your neck, “again.”

“i'm yours,” you moan.

your big sister nips at your neck, “again.”

“yours!” you yelp, “yours, i'm yours i'm yours i'm yours!”

“mine,” she growls, and your hips buck, your dick straining against your sweatpants.

“i'm yours, i love you, please don't leave me, please, i'm your little sister, i love you i love you i love you,” you cry as your big sister's fingers start to tug at the hem of your sweatpants. “i love you, big sis, please please please touch me!”

"as you wish, lil sis,” she murmurs, and gives you what you want. her hand finally slips past your waistband and wraps around your cock oh so gently. you're almost too big to fit in her hand; her fingertips touching, but barely. she strokes you gently, not enough to get you off, never enough like this, and you thrust into her hand, arching nearly off the ground, away from the bed.

she grins into your neck, nipping at you gently, then latching on and sucking, biting, licking, until you're sure you're going to be covered in hickies, marked as hers, as your sister's. “yours,” you pant, “wanna be yours, please Lena, please let me be yours!”

a wet sound like a sloppy kiss as she pulls away, nipping at your neck once more before whispering into your ear, “you're mine, Penny.”

“want- want them to know…” you admit with a groan. you thrust harder up into your sister's hand, desperate for more.

“who, babygirl?”

“i-” you cut yourself off with a whine.

when it becomes obvious you're not going to say anything your sister's hand retreats, forming a bigger circle around your cock and staying just far enough away that you can't get any friction. you whine, ready to beg again, when she silences you with a deep kiss, sticking her tongue in your mouth. after a moment, she pulls away, a string of drool keeping you attached for a second until your big sister closes her mouth to swallow and the string snaps, falling onto your chin and chest.

“tell me who, and i'll do more than just touch you with my hand.”

“Sarah!" you admit without hesitation, "I want her to know, Lena, please, I want Sarah to know so she can- so she can be my big sister too and- fuck- so you can both fuck me!” you cry out.

Lena pauses for a second, and you're afraid she's going to pull away, but then she says “oh…” and without another word lets go of your cock to sling her leg over your lap and start straddling you.

your big sister starts grinding on you, rolling her hips against your cock, now trapped between you. your head falls back, pressing into the bed. you moan, wrapping your arms around your sister. she dives back in to your neck, kissing and sucking at the pressure point to drive you crazy. you writhe, bucking against her, desperate to fuck her.

“mmf, fuck!”

you can't help yourself anymore, surging upwards and picking up your big sister to pin her to the bed in one smooth move. you strip her pants off, taking a detour long enough to press a kiss to her panties before you pull those off too. she laughs delightedly, “good girl!”

“i need to fuck you,” you groan, grimacing, your cock straining, almost itching to be buried inside your big sister. “please, let me fuck you?”

“go ahead, babygirl,” she says. you start to reach down to prep her with your fingers, but she stops you, “no no, don't worry. i'm ready for you.”

you make a happy noise, moving up to kiss your sister. she brings a hand up and threads her fingers through your hair, tugging lightly yet pulling you closer to her. instinct guides you more than anything, the head of your cock sliding along your big sister's cunt, brushing against her clit, nuzzling through her folds, until finally you find her entrance. just as she promised, she's stretched and ready for you.

your sister clenches around you as you enter and whimpers, so you take it slow, pushing in millimeter by millimeter, centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch, until finally, with a groan, you find yourself all the way to the base inside your sister.

“fuck… oh, fuck."

slowly, you pull out and thrust back in, a noise made by your hips against her legs, quiet at first until you start to pick up speed, then louder, a distinct plap plap plap as you fuck into her.

“please, Lena, please, i wanna- nnfuck!- i wanna cum inside you, please! i- schlick schlick plap- please let me cum inside, i love you - mmf! - i wanna make you mine!”

she's gone quiet, panting and moaning your name over and over. eventually, she stutters between thrusts, “Penny… wan' you to… cummmm… in me… fuck!”

“iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” you pant over and over, collapsing on top of her and burying yourself as deep into her as you can, the satisfaction you'd been denied the last two days finally yours, hot, sticky cum filling your sister to the brim. “iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” you keep moving through your orgasm, lazily sliding in and out, riding out the pleasure and prolonging it as much as you can through the feeling of your cum leaking out around your cock and onto the bed. “iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou”

“fuck, babygirl,” she groans. she hesitates for a moment, then, “do you… do you feel better?”

you huff into her neck, still rocking your hips gently, half laughing as you inform her “i might need to be reminded every now and then, but… yeah. you… as long as i'm yours.”

“as long as you're mine. always and forever.”

“always and forever.”

you nuzzle into her neck again, still scared, but distantly. it's far away and hazy, dulled by your sister's arms around you and her lips pressed tenderly against the side of your head.

you know this won't be the last time. these fears bubbling up will be part of the pattern, too, but you'll keep trying to get better. for yourself, and for your sister.

[syrecjh]

GIRLL U ALWAYS EAT SO HARD WITH THESE I think a meet cute with Bakugo in a bar would be romantic af where the reader catches his attention while she’s just doing her thing but is kinda surprised when she sees his face cuz he’s the dynamight so pls try something about that 🙏

── .✦ 🍸!! You're Not Subtle at all, Bakugo

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

The bar was warm with low light and high ceilings, amber-soaked and humming with the quiet swell of jazz and city men trying too hard. It wasn’t a place for stumbling drunks — no neon signs, no shot glass pyramids — it was a place for old money, the kind of place where business deals ended and quiet loneliness began.

And then she walked in.

She wasn’t wearing red, like most women who wanted to be noticed. No. Her dress was a shade of ink—sleek, sleeveless, high-necked and low-voiced. Power tailored down to her heels. The air seemed to hold its breath. She moved like time was her servant, like she was born with a boarding pass for the first-class lounge of existence. Every step was measured, deliberate, a soft click of dominance. Hair pinned up with just enough mess to remind you she chose elegance over effort. Her lipstick was not flirtatious. It was regal.

People turned. Not out of courtesy. But instinct. A woman like that doesn’t enter a room. She commands it.

And for Katsuki Bakugo, she became the noise-canceling silence he never knew he was searching for.

He'd been dragged here by Kaminari, cornered by Sero, and bribed by Kirishima. “One drink,” he growled at the start of the night. One drink turned into a second, third and turned into watching the elegant stranger like a man possessed. She hadn’t spared him a glance when she entered, but he hadn’t stopped looking since. It was to the point that Kaminari snorted into his whiskey and elbowed him. “You’re not subtle at all, Bakugo. Might as well get her name inked on your forehead.”

Bakugo didn’t say a word. He hadn’t looked away since she stepped through the doors. Not once. And it wasn’t just that she was beautiful — it was the way she sat down at the far end of the bar with no one beside her, ordered something expensive with a single gesture, and pulled out a book like the world didn’t deserve her time. No phone. No distraction. Just a glass of top-shelf bourbon and a hardbound volume she read.

And then it happened. The moment that shifted everything.

A man — stockbroker, probably — swaggered over to her with the kind of confidence that came from inherited money and zero self-awareness. He leaned too close. She gave him a polite smile at first. Shook her head. Went back to her book. But he leaned in again, voice louder this time, arm brushing hers. And without even glancing up, she slowly lifted her hand.

Middle finger raised. Calm. Deadpan. Like she was adjusting her earring.

The man sputtered, muttered something about “not being that pretty anyway,” and stalked off.

Katsuki huffed a laugh, teeth bare like a wolf sighting prey. “I like her already.”

And then — her eyes lifted.

She looked straight at him.

Their gazes collided like flint and stone, and the spark didn’t just light—it burned. Her expression didn’t change much. Just a slight arch of the brow, the faintest purse of her lips. But he saw it. The recognition.

Dynamight. What the hell are you doing here?

And Bakugo — dressed in black, hair tousled from a recent patrol, gauntlets off but tension still in his shoulders — rose from his seat.

“Don’t,” Kirishima warned, half-laughing. “She eats men like you for breakfast.”

“Then I’ll make dinner,” Bakugo muttered, already walking.

She didn’t flinch as he approached. Didn’t tuck her hair behind her ear or cross her legs or even close the book. Just looked at him like she’d seen better, but maybe — just maybe — tonight she was in the mood for something interesting.

“Book good?” he asked, nodding toward it, voice gravel-dipped and low.

“It was,” she replied, not looking away. “Then someone kept staring.”

He smirked. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ruin the story.”

She hummed. “You didn’t. You just became part of it.”

His hand slipped into his pocket. “You usually flip off strangers for sport?”

She smiled at that. “Only the ones who can’t take no for an answer.”

“Well, I can take no,” Bakugo said, tilting his head, eyes sharp but warm. “I just don’t give up until I hear it in full sentences.”

That made her laugh — a real one. Sharp, elegant, amused.

“Sit,” she said, motioning to the seat beside her. “But if you bore me, I’m flipping you off too.”

Bakugo grinned and dropped into the chair like it had been waiting for him his whole life.

He wasn’t here to impress her. He was here to know her.

And by the way her eyes lingered just a little longer this time, maybe — just maybe — she was here for the same reason.

The conversation unfolded like fine whiskey — slow, warm, with a burn that settled deep and lingered long after.

They talked.

God, they talked.

Not about hero work or real estate, not about awards or skyscrapers or broken villains in the news — but about books. Favorite cities. The sound of rain against hotel windows. How silence is different when you're alone versus when you're lonely. How people mistake confidence for coldness, and how both of them had mastered the art of holding eye contact without giving themselves away.

“You’re not like I imagined,” she murmured at one point, sipping her bourbon.

Bakugo raised a brow. “You imagined me?”

She didn’t flinch. “You’re hard to ignore.”

He grinned at that — a real one. Crooked and a little smug.

“You’re softer than they say,” he told her, voice low, “but sharper than you let on.”

Her lips curled. “You’re bolder than you look, but smarter than you act.”

And just like that, the air between them tightened — not in tension, but in tethering.

She didn’t reach for her phone. He didn’t either.

It wasn’t about numbers yet.

The clock ticked past midnight, and her glass was nearly empty. The bar hummed around them — quieter now, dimmer, the world folding inward like it knew something important was happening.

She closed her book softly. “I should go.”

Bakugo stood when she did. “You live nearby?”

She gave him a look. “Don’t go hero on me now, Dynamight.”

He smirked. “Nah. I just don’t wanna end the night yet.”

That paused her. Not the words — the way he said them. Honest. Not calculated or desperate. Just plain spoken and real.

So she reached for a pen from her clutch — black, matte, probably worth more than the bar’s register — and scribbled something on the inside flap of the book she’d been reading.

Not her business card. Not her phone number.

Her favorite poem.

Signed with a single initial.

She held it out to him. “If you really want to see me again, find the rest of this poem. Then maybe I’ll let you finish our story."

Bakugo took it with reverence, like it held more than words — like it held her.

He looked up, heart pounding louder than he’d admit. “And if I don’t find it?”

She smiled, already turning. “Then I guess we were just a good chapter, Katsuki.”

And then she was gone — just like she arrived.

Elegant.

Unbothered.

Unforgettable.

[minyoongisnewthing]

Han river lullaby Epilogue| myg

Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, exs to lovers, eventual smut, idol!au, co parents, second chance romance

Chapter warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), mature themes, mild language, emotional content, brief discussion of body image

Word count: 6.3k roughly

Authors notes: I can’t believe were here the epilogue and final of Han river lullaby this fic idea has lived rent in my head for a long time and I want to thank you all for your beyond kind words, encouragement and love you’ve shown this little family. As always please feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments or my ask box!

The first few weeks of living with Yoongi wasn’t without its growing pains, so to speak. Adjusting to new rhythms was a delicate dance—Han settling into a slightly different preschool routine, you and Yoongi rediscovering each other’s quirks in shared spaces, finding ways to balance his chaotic idol schedule with the quieter, grounding moments of domestic life.

It took time. Patience. The kind that was earned, not assumed.

One of the biggest adjustments, for you at least, was giving Yoongi the creative space he needed. You’d re-learned quickly that inspiration didn’t follow a clock—it struck like lightning at odd hours, sometimes mid-lunch, sometimes just as you were falling asleep beside him. You made a conscious effort not to interrupt when he disappeared into his studio, headphones on, hands moving fast over his keyboard, jaw set in that trance-like focus that meant a song was forming.

But much to Han’s absolute delight, Yoongi didn’t always shut himself away like he used to. There were moments—beautiful ones—where he’d emerge barefoot and sleepy-eyed from the studio just to sit cross-legged on the living room floor and help build train tracks, or play piano with Han balanced in his lap, giggling each time Yoongi hit a high note with dramatic flair.

For Yoongi, the transition came in different shades. He was learning that your job wasn’t just a job—it was a piece of your identity. Your independence mattered. The hours you’d poured into your studies, the grueling shifts, the pride you took in every diagnosis and every patient—he saw it. He respected it.

But that didn’t stop him from suggesting one morning, rather tentatively, over breakfast and the sound of cartoons in the background, “You know… you could stay home with Han. If you wanted. Just for a while.”

You didn’t even look up from buttering toast. “Come again?”

Yoongi blinked, suddenly very interested in the coffee mug in his hands. “I mean—only if you wanted. I wasn’t trying to say you should—just that you could. I can take care of us, that’s all I meant.”

You looked up then, slowly, and gave him a stare that could level entire cities.

His eyes widened a little. “Okay. Noted.”

“No, I know you didn’t mean it to come off the way it did,” you said evenly, sliding the plate toward Han before folding your arms. “But it still did, Mr. big house, big car, big rings.”

The flash of recognition in his eyes was immediate. “Okay, wow my own lyrics back at me, ouch,” he murmured with a low chuckle.

“Yoongi,” you said, softer now but no less firm, “you earned those things. Every one of them, and I’m proud of you for that. But my stethoscope, my prescription pad, those two little letters in front of my name? I bled for those. I’m proud of them. I’m not about to hang up my coat and become a houseplant just because your black card could cover it and has more commas than a legal document.”

He stepped closer to you then, gently taking your hand. His thumb stroked over your knuckles. “I didn’t mean it like that. I promise. I just… I’ve been thinking about how much I’ve missed with Han. How much I used to miss with you. And now that we’re together again, I guess I got a little greedy.”

Your features softened at that. “I get it. I really do. But being a mum doesn’t cancel out being a doctor. Just like being an idol doesn’t cancel out being a dad.”

Yoongi nodded, pulling you into his arms with a deep exhale. His voice rumbled against your ear. “Okay. I hear you. Loud and clear, Doc.”

You smiled into his shoulder. “Good. Because the next time you suggest I quit my job, so help me I will write you a fake prescription for a foot in your ass.”

He chuckled, warm and unbothered, one hand cradling the back of your head. “That’s my girl.”

Both of you broke into laughter, and the tension cracked—just like that.

Growing pains, yes.

But you were growing together.

One late afternoon, you returned home from your shift to the soft thud of feet racing across the floor.

“Eomma!!” Han shouted before you even had your bag set down.

You barely had time to turn before he crashed into your legs, arms wrapping around your knees, his face flushed with excitement. His energy practically sparked off him like static.

“Whoa, slow down, munchkin,” you laughed, crouching to his level and brushing a damp curl from his forehead. “What’s got you so wired?”

“Appa let me sit on his knee while he was making music!” Han announced breathlessly, words tumbling over each other in their urgency. “I pressed the buttons! And I got to wear the big headphones—they were huge, Eomma, they covered my whole head! Like a helmet!”

His whole face lit up with the memory, eyes shining with the kind of joy only a three-year-old could express at full volume.

You looked past him, over his shoulder, and found Yoongi leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed loosely, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. There was a faint smudge of something—probably Han’s snack—on his black t-shirt, and his hair was pushed back like he’d been running his fingers through it while working.

Dinner was already halfway set out, a pleasant surprise you’d come to appreciate more and more. But what caught your attention most was the way Yoongi was watching Han—like every sound out of your son’s mouth was music in its own right.

At the table, Han could barely sit still long enough to eat. He kicked his legs under the chair, animatedly spooning rice into his mouth between bursts of retelling. “He let me tap the little pads! And I made them go boop bang! And Appa said I have a good ear!” He puffed his chest out, beaming.

You reached across with a napkin to wipe the sticky grain of rice stuck to his cheek, smiling softly. You laughed, eyes flicking to Yoongi. “Oh? Did he now?”

Yoongi took a sip from his water, barely hiding the smirk that curved at his mouth. “He kept nodding in time with the beat. Even caught the off-beat accents. Kid’s got rhythm.”

“Maybe he gets it from me,” you teased, nudging Yoongi lightly under the table with your foot.

He raised an eyebrow, all mock challenge. “You? I’ll let you believe that babe”

You shot him a glare, biting back a smile. 

Han giggled at your bickering, clearly pleased with himself for being the center of attention.

Later that evening, after Han was bathed and tucked into bed—his little voice still humming some made-up melody Yoongi must’ve taught him—you padded into the living room and found Yoongi sitting on the couch, scrolling through something on his phone.

“Hey,” you said softly, settling beside him.

“Hey,” he echoed, setting the phone down.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. “Thank you for today. For letting him into that part of your world, like that.”

Yoongi shrugged one shoulder, casual, but his voice was thick with emotion when he answered. “It didn’t feel like letting him in. He just… fit. Like he was always meant to be there.”

You looked up at him then, chest aching in the best way. “You’re a good dad, Yoongi.”

He blinked, throat working. “I’m trying.”

“You’re doing more than that,” you whispered. “And he knows it. You saw his face tonight.”

Yoongi exhaled, long and quiet, before resting his forehead against yours.

The road hadn’t been smooth. There had been late nights, hard conversations, moments where doubt whispered cruel things in the dark.

But here, in this moment—with Han humming softly in the next room and Yoongi’s arms wrapped around you every growing pain, every adjustment, every stubborn argument or tear shed in frustration, was worth it.

Because you were building something real. Together.

Another aspect of this new dynamic you and Yoongi had to navigate was finding time for yourselves as a couple—outside of just being Han’s parents. That’s why tonight, you had enlisted the help of Namjoon as a babysitter while you and Yoongi went on a long-overdue date.

“Now, his bedtime—” you started, putting in a pair of earrings as you ran Namjoon through Han’s schedule for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I know, 8 p.m. sharp,” Namjoon interrupted with a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. “Y/N, I got this. You both go have a great night. I promise, Han will be asleep by the time you get back.”

You sighed, slipping on your heels and straightening your deep green cocktail dress. “I know, I know. I just—God, I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

Namjoon scooped Han up, resting him on his hip. “You have nothing to be nervous about, Y/N.”

“Ready, babe?” Yoongi’s voice interrupted from the doorway.

You turned, breath catching the second you laid eyes on him. He had the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, the fabric tucked neatly into a pair of distressed black jeans that did sinful things to his waistline. His hair was styled just the way you liked, and the way he was looking at you—one eyebrow raised, a knowing smirk playing on his lips—made your stomach flip.

“Yeah,” you managed, forcing yourself to look away before you got lost in him completely. You both kissed Han goodbye, making him pinky-promise you both that he’d be good for Uncle Joonie.

But Yoongi, this man, continued toying with your emotions and arousal without even trying. The moment he threw his arm around your seat to reverse out of the parking space, one hand effortlessly on the wheel, his gaze focused behind him, your thighs clenched involuntarily.

Of course, he noticed. He always noticed.

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Really, Y/N? Me reversing the car?”

“Oh, as if you don’t know how annoyingly hot you are when you do shit like that,” you scoffed.

His laughter grew, and before you knew it, he was grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “So my baby mama tells me,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips.

The restaurant he took you to was beautiful—secluded, candlelit, the kind of place where soft music thrummed low in the background and the world outside seemed to disappear. Conversation flowed like wine, effortless and warm, laughter spilling easily between bites of food so delicious it almost felt sinful. Yoongi served you generous portions, his thumb brushing your knuckles as he passed your plate, each touch sending a pleasant shiver up your spine. When your glass neared empty, he was already refilling it, his eyes crinkling with that boyish grin that never failed to make your heart flutter.

“We should do this more often,” you said, and Yoongi just hummed in agreement, his gaze lingering on you in a way that promised the night was far from over.

After dinner, the two of you strolled lazily along the Han River, hand in hand. The lights from the city danced across the dark water, casting an ethereal glow around you. His thumb brushed over yours idly, a silent, tender gesture that made your chest ache with love for him. You lost track of time, lost in conversation, lost in each other, until Yoongi glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath.

“Shit, it’s already past ten. We should head back before Han starts a rebellion, I wonder if he went down okay for joon” he mused, tugging you gently toward the car.

By the time you got home, you were drunk on more than wine. The warmth of good food, the lingering press of Yoongi’s hand on the small of your back, and the way he looked at you like you were something sacred had you floating. After thanking Namjoon for watching Han and giving him a sleepy hug goodbye, you turned to close the door—only to be pinned gently against it by Yoongi’s lips.

The kiss was searing. Not rushed, but urgent. Years of buried longing compressed into every swipe of his tongue and press of his body. His hands were everywhere—spanning your waist, splaying wide across your back, curling possessively around your hips as he guided you backward without breaking the kiss.

You gasped when the backs of your knees hit the bed. He followed, looming over you with a hunger in his eyes that made your breath catch. His chest rose and fell like he’d just finished running, but the only thing chasing him was you.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice rough with restraint, his hands hovering just above your thighs. He wasn’t just asking for permission—he was handing you the power.

You nodded, breathless, tugging at his shirt. “Wait,” you whispered suddenly, nerves fluttering up your spine.

Yoongi stopped immediately, his eyes scanning your face. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, already reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“It’s stupid,” you murmured, eyes falling to the space between you. “It’s just… since Han, my body’s changed. And I—”

“Y/N,” he breathed, shaking his head, forehead resting lightly against yours. “This is the body that gave me my son. Our boy. If you think there’s a single part of you I wouldn’t worship, you’re wrong.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but before they could fall, he kissed them away with the gentlest press of his lips, reverent as a prayer.

“If you’re ready,” he murmured into the curve of your neck, his voice a rasp of devotion, “I’d love to re-learn every inch of you. Every taste. Every sound I can pull from those lips.”

A shiver ran through you, desire flaring hot and bright. You pulled him into another kiss—this one deeper, fuller—wrapping your arms around him like you could anchor yourself to his heartbeat.

Clothes were shed between stolen kisses and greedy touches. Yoongi’s fingers moved with practiced reverence, pushing your dress up and over your head. You tugged his shirt off with impatient hands, sighing when his bare skin pressed to yours. Every inch of him was warm and familiar and overwhelming.

He took his time, kissing along the slope of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, down your stomach. “God, I missed this,” he muttered against your skin. “Missed you.”

When you were finally bare, he paused, eyes drinking you in like he hadn’t eaten in days. “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, almost to himself.

His mouth found your breasts, his tongue swirling around one tight peak, lips closing around it in a slow, aching suck that had you gasping. His hand slid down your belly, fingers teasing their way between your thighs, drawing soft, helpless whimpers from you.

“You’re soaked,” he growled, fingers slipping easily through your folds. “Is this all for me?”

You nodded, too far gone for words. He kissed down your stomach, settling between your thighs like he belonged there.

“Y/N,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours, “you sure?”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please.”

The first drag of his tongue against you made your spine arch off the bed. He groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your core. He licked and sucked with a hunger that bordered on worship, every stroke of his tongue perfectly unrelenting. Your fingers threaded into his hair, hips lifting into his mouth, your cries filling the room.

“Yoongi—fuck—don’t stop,” you gasped.

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down, one hand gripping your thigh while the other slipped a finger inside you, curling just right. “Gonna make you fall apart on my tongue, baby,” he said between licks. “Need to taste every part of you.”

You shattered a moment later, your climax crashing over you like a wave, your whole body trembling, his name a broken mantra on your lips.

He kissed his way back up, slow and deliberate, mouth slick with your release. His dark eyes were molten as he hovered over you, the thick weight of him pressing against your thigh.

“You ready for me?” he asked, voice strained.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him close. “Please, Yoongi. Need to feel you.”

With a quiet groan, he pressed into you—slowly, deeply, inch by aching inch—until he was fully seated inside you. He stilled, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours.

“Jesus, you still feel like fucking heaven,” he whispered.

You clung to him, your body adjusting, your breath catching at the stretch. He began to move, a slow rhythm that filled you completely, grounding you even as it unraveled you.

Every stroke, every grind of his hips was precise—like he knew your body better than anyone ever had. He whispered against your skin, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he’d missed this, missed you.

“Missed feeling you wrapped around me. Missed the way you sound when I make you cum.”

Your breath stuttered, the heat coiling again in your core. “Yoongi—I’m close.”

“Then let go, baby,” he growled, hips picking up speed. “Cum for me.”

You did, with a choked moan, your body tensing, then breaking apart around him. Your walls fluttered, pulsing around his cock, and he gasped, his own climax close.

“Fuck, baby—where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you moaned, clinging to him. “Please, inside.”

With a final thrust and a guttural groan, he came, hips stuttering as he spilled into you, his warmth flooding you as he kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips.

Afterward, he collapsed onto you, still buried deep, his body heavy and warm and perfect. He pressed lazy kisses to your shoulder, his fingers trailing aimless patterns on your side.

You toyed with his damp hair, your heart full to bursting. “I love—” you started, but the words caught as he moved again, too full, too raw.

Yoongi lifted his head, smiling softly like he already knew what you were going to say.

But then—

“EOMMA! APPA!”

Han’s terrified cry echoed from down the hallway.

Yoongi was up in an instant, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. “I got him,” he said, voice warm. “You go clean up, beautiful.”

And just like that, the heat of the night melted into the soft, steady rhythm of your new life—love, family, and a forever you never thought you’d get, wrapped in Yoongi’s arms.

You watched him tug on some sweatpants quickly and disappear down the hall, heart full and aching, feeling more in love with him than ever.

By the time you returned to the bedroom, the apartment had slipped into a hush, the kind that only came in those fragile hours before morning fully bloomed. Yoongi was sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, Han curled in his arms like he belonged there—because he did. Fast asleep, your son’s small body was tucked into the curve of Yoongi’s chest, his cheek resting over Yoongi’s heart.

Yoongi was murmuring softly into his phone’s notes app, his voice low and rhythmic, almost like a lullaby. You couldn’t make out the words, but the way his fingers moved in tandem with his whispered cadence told you he was drafting lyrics. There was a soft, dreamy smile playing at the corners of his lips, the kind that only ever appeared when he was holding Han or working on music that meant something.

“What’re you working on?” you asked gently, your voice a whisper against the quiet.

He looked up, caught in the moment, and then gave you that shy, almost boyish smile that still made your chest flutter. “You’ll see when it’s done,” he said, a little blush creeping into his cheeks, like he was protecting something sacred.

You hummed, the curiosity buzzing in your chest, but you didn’t push. You never did—not when it came to his music. Instead, you climbed onto the bed, nestling in beside him and letting your head rest against his shoulder. The warmth of his body seeped into yours instantly, grounding you.

“Can’t wait,” you murmured, your voice already laced with sleep.

He shifted to pull the blankets up, covering you both. Han stirred slightly, sighing in his sleep, but settled again between you, one tiny hand brushing your side. You felt Yoongi press a gentle kiss to your forehead as your eyes slipped shut. The last thing you heard before sleep took you was the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.

The next morning, you woke to a different kind of quiet.

Yoongi’s side of the bed was cold. You reached out instinctively, frowning at the absence of warmth. Han was still curled up beside you, small fingers tangled in the fabric of your shirt, his breathing soft and even. You smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of his messy curls before carefully easing out of bed, tucking the covers around him like a cocoon.

The apartment was still and bathed in early morning light, the soft hum of city traffic muted by the thick glass windows. As you padded toward the kitchen, you noticed a faint glow spilling from underneath the studio door—and the unmistakable thrum of low music playing from inside.

You sighed. Of course. If Yoongi had been up at 2 a.m. again, there was a high chance he hadn’t gone back to sleep at all.

A part of you debated whether to knock or leave him alone. When inspiration struck Yoongi, it possessed him. Time dissolved, and so did his appetite, sense of self-preservation, and any awareness of his physical limits. But you also knew how drained he could get after a night like this—wired from the high of creating, but crashing hard afterward.

So you brewed a cup of coffee, just the way he liked it—dark roast, splash of milk, one sugar—and grabbed a plate to stack with quick snacks: a few cheese slices, crackers, apple wedges, and a handful of almonds. Quietly, you made your way to the studio, balancing the offerings like you were approaching a very sleep-deprived deity.

You knocked softly. No answer.

You cracked the door open and peered inside.

Yoongi sat hunched at his desk in nothing but a black t-shirt and boxer shorts, legs tangled underneath him. His hair was a wild mess, sticking out in multiple directions, and the dark smudges under his eyes betrayed the hours he’d spent in front of the screen. He didn’t even hear you—he was lost in it, muttering under his breath as his fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dropped in a frustrated flurry.

“Yoon,” you said softly.

He startled slightly, blinking up at you like he was surfacing from underwater. His gaze took a second to focus, but when it landed on the coffee in your hands, his whole body seemed to sag with relief.

“God,” he groaned, making grabby hands toward the mug like a toddler. “You’re a literal angel.”

You laughed quietly. “Jesus, you and Han really are the same person.”

He took the mug and cradled it like it was holy, taking a slow sip and closing his eyes as the caffeine hit his system. “Mmm. Salvation.”

You perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed as you surveyed the state of him. “What time did you sneak in here?”

He glanced vaguely at the screen, then rubbed a hand over his face. “Uh… Han kicked me in the stomach at, like, two? I couldn’t fall back asleep so I came in here.”

You blinked. “Yoongi—it’s eight. That’s six hours.”

He shrugged, unapologetic, already reaching for a cracker. “I was on a roll. Can’t waste it.”

You sighed, hand brushing his arm. “You need to rest too, you know. Coffee doesn’t count as a meal, no matter how much you wish it did.”

He gave you a flat look over the rim of his mug. “Says the doctor who thinks granola bars count as breakfast and considers intravenous caffeine a viable health plan.”

You smirked. “Touché Min, touché.”

He cracked a smile, but it softened when your hand slipped into his hair, fingers gently taming the mess. His shoulders eased at your touch, and he leaned slightly into your palm.

“I mean it though,” you said, voice gentler now. “Eat something. Sleep. I’ll take Han to creche before my shift today, and you can nap for a few hours without being body slammed by a three-year-old.”

Yoongi’s smirk faded into something more tender. He reached out and squeezed your wrist, his thumb brushing over your pulse. It wasn’t much—but with Yoongi, it never had to be. His gratitude, his affection, always spoke in the quiet.

“I’ll try,” he said finally.

You gave his cheek a gentle pat before sliding off the desk. “You better. Otherwise I’m bringing the full ERs supply of melatonin to spike your drinks with home and dragging your ass to bed.”

He chuckled under his breath, already turning back to the screen, but not before you caught the small smile tugging at his lips.

“Thanks, babe,” he murmured as you stepped out, voice warm, steady, and full of something so soft it settled deep in your chest.

You came home later that evening, the soft click of your keys echoing in the quiet hallway as you eased the door open with one hand and cradled Han in the other. His small body was warm against your chest, breathing slow and even, his head resting heavily on your shoulder in that familiar way that never failed to make your heart swell.

The moment you stepped inside, a wave of warmth hit you—not just from the coziness of home, but from the rich, savory scent that instantly greeted you. Garlic, gochugaru, and something earthy and comforting simmered in the air, wrapping around you like a hug and making your stomach let out a traitorous growl. Whatever Yoongi was cooking smelled incredible. You breathed it in, closing your eyes for a moment to soak in the peaceful domesticity you’d walked into.

You gently nudged Han awake with a soft pat on his back and a kiss to his temple. “Come on, bubba. Let’s get you to your playroom.”

He blinked blearily, then nodded with a small yawn, clutching his favorite toy car in one sleepy hand. You set him down, watching him wobble off, curls bouncing as he made his way to the room just down the hall. Once you heard the soft thump of him flopping onto his playmat, you turned toward the kitchen, already smiling.

What you saw nearly made you melt.

Yoongi stood at the counter, barefoot and comfy in just his worn boxer briefs and a loose black t-shirt that clung slightly to the soft lines of his back, if you're not mistaken the very outfit you'd left him in that morning. His hair was still adorably tousled from what you hoped had been a real nap, and perched on his nose were his glasses—slightly askew as he leaned over the cutting board in intense concentration. The sharp sound of his knife chopping vegetables in a practiced rhythm blended with the gentle bubbling from the pot on the stove.

You just watched for a moment, heart full. There was something magnetic about this version of Yoongi—quiet, domestic, utterly at ease. Not Min Yoongi the performer. Not the producer or the idol. Just the man you loved, in your home, making dinner with a little furrow between his brows.

You couldn’t help yourself.

Padding softly across the room, you slipped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to the space between his shoulder blades.

“What’s cooking, good-looking?” you murmured, your voice playful and low, smiling at the way his body instinctively leaned back into yours.

He let out a soft chuckle, tossing the last of the chopped zucchini into the pot. “Sundubu jjigae,” he replied. “You said you wanted comfort food.”

“I love you,” you said instantly, and you felt his shoulders shake with another small laugh.

“I know,” he teased, reaching for a wooden spoon.

You tilted your head to kiss the slope of his neck, your lips brushing the spot just beneath his ear. “Smells amazing,” you said sincerely, pulling in another breath of the spicy, savory steam wafting up from the pot.

Yoongi scoffed lightly, but the tiny upward curve of his lips told you how pleased he was. He stirred the bubbling stew carefully, taste-testing with a thoughtful hum. “Needs a little more salt,” he muttered to himself.

You watched him for a beat longer, the sight of him here—soft, focused, yours—pulling a warmth through your chest that was impossible to describe.

“Did you get some sleep?” you asked softly, lips still brushing his shoulder.

He exhaled through his nose, setting the spoon down. “Solid two hours,” he admitted.

You groaned dramatically. “Yoongi,” you said, voice dipping into mock-scolding as you tightened your arms around his waist.

He smirked, glancing back at you with a shrug. “Hey, I did sleep. That’s an improvement.”

“Yoon I swear,” you huffed, “you are so stubborn.”

“I’m productive,” he countered with a grin, “and I almost finished the track. Joon’s gonna lose his mind.”

You sighed in surrender, knowing better than to argue when he was in this mood. You stepped back—almost—until your hand trailed along the curve of his hip and, with a quick flick of mischief, you gave his ass a firm, playful smack.

He froze.

Then let out a surprised laugh, turning his head to eye you with delighted suspicion. “Oh?”

“What?” you asked innocently, biting back your own grin.

Yoongi raised a single eyebrow, far too composed. “Nothing. Just…” he paused dramatically, returning his attention to the pot, “don’t start something we don’t have time to finish.”

You choked on your own breath. “Yoongi!”

He turned fully now, leaning against the counter, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he scanned you from head to toe. The glint in his eyes was dangerous—and entirely too smug.

“You’re the one who smacked my ass,” he said, voice low and teasing.

“I—it was playful!” you sputtered, cheeks heating.

“Oh, I know,” he drawled. “But next time, if you do want to grab something, you don’t need an excuse, baby. Just ask.”

You covered your face with both hands, letting out a mortified groan as he chuckled, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“I’m going to check on Han,” you muttered, spinning on your heel.

“Sure,” Yoongi called after you, his voice full of laughter. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

You could practically feel the smirk without even looking.

his voice turned sweet as you almost reached the doorway. “Oh and Y/N, I love you too”

Shaking your head, still smiling, you wandered down the hallway toward Han’s playroom. The door was cracked open just enough for you to peek in. There he was, sprawled out on his belly, cars lined up in a meticulous track formation, his little brows furrowed in deep concentration as he made exaggerated engine noises.

“Han,” you called softly, stepping just inside.

He barely looked up, too absorbed in his game. “Five minutes, please, eomma,” he murmured, his hand pushing the red car in a perfect loop around a stuffed dinosaur.

You chuckled quietly, crossing your arms. “Five more minutes, then it’s dinner, okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, not even glancing up.

You left him to it, heart impossibly full. A moment ago you’d been mortified. Now? Now all you could feel was warmth. This was the life you hadn’t dared to imagine a year ago—a home filled with laughter, mischief, teasing, love.

Stepping back into the kitchen, you grabbed a stack of bowls and chopsticks, beginning to set the table. Behind you, Yoongi moved with quiet efficiency, plating up side dishes and spooning hot jjigae into a large bowl for Han.

And somehow, in all the gentle chaos of domestic life, it hit you.

This was happiness.

Messy, noisy, imperfect—but completely yours.

The next morning, you woke with a slow, languid stretch, limbs unfurling beneath the soft covers as you reached out instinctively across the bed—only to find cool sheets and empty space where Yoongi should’ve been.

That wasn’t unusual.

But something felt… off.

There was no distant hum of a melody from his studio. No soft clatter of coffee mugs. No telltale signs of your son’s early-morning giggles echoing down the hallway. Just silence. A thick, still kind of quiet that clung to the walls.

You sat up, blinking against the morning light that seeped through the curtains in pale gold ribbons, and listened. Nothing.

Frowning, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and padded barefoot across the cool floors, the hush of the apartment settling around your shoulders like a blanket too heavy to ignore.

You checked Han’s room first.

The sight melted your worry—there he was, cocooned in his navy comforter, his little body curled protectively around his beloved stuffed bunny, its ears mashed against his cheek. His mouth was slightly open, lips parted in that deep, dreamless sleep that only toddlers could master. His tiny foot peeked from beneath the covers, twitching slightly as he let out a soft sigh.

Your heart gave a quiet, grateful thump.

One down.

You moved toward Yoongi’s studio next, half-expecting to find him hunched over the keyboard, earbuds in, oblivious to the world. But the door was slightly ajar. The lights were off. The chair empty. That alone was strange—he was meticulous about closing that door if he ducked out, even for a minute.

Your stomach twisted just a little.

Kitchen, maybe?

But when you stepped inside, there was no Yoongi. No mug left out. No half-eaten toast or phone charging on the bench. Just the subtle, familiar stillness of early morning domesticity.

And then—your eyes landed on it.

A small note stuck to the fridge with one of Han’s alphabet magnets. The bright green “H” held the corner down.

Sorry, baby. Last-minute change to the filming schedule. There’s a present on the counter. Love you.

A present?

Your gaze followed the edge of the counter until it landed on something small. Familiar. Personal.

Yoongi’s flash drive.

You froze.

He finished it.

The one he’d been hiding behind sheepish smiles and vague promises. The one he refused to let you hear until it was ready—perfect.

Your fingers trembled as you picked it up, cool and light in your hand. You turned it over once, twice, pulse beginning to rise.

He finished it. And he’s giving it to me.

With a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, you grabbed your laptop, the rest of the world falling away as you slid the drive into place.

The file loaded instantly.

Han River Lullaby.

Your heart stuttered.

The name alone hit like a punch to the chest—soft, devastating. Han. Your son. The center of your world. And the Han River. That bittersweet place where promises were broken and hearts cracked open beneath silver moonlight. The place you’d last stood with Yoongi, fingertips brushing, words catching in your throats, neither of you ready.

That title was no coincidence.

The room blurred for a moment, and you swallowed hard as you clicked play.

The first notes floated out—a delicate piano melody, aching and slow, each chord laced with emotion. It sounded like memory. Like nostalgia. Like a second chance bleeding through every measure.

Then Yoongi’s voice.

Low. Bare. Intimate. Like he was singing it from the foot of your bed with a hand on your chest. Like he’d bottled every unsent message and poured them into this song.

The lyrics unfolded like pages of a diary you’d both kept in silence. A love lost, not from the absence of feeling—but from timing, fear, sacrifice. A story of bruised hope and forgiveness, of the boy who became a man and the woman who came back. Of a river that held their secrets. Of a little boy who never knew he was the song all along.

Han.

Your chest tightened painfully.

Every word, every breath Yoongi took between lines, was soaked in love. For you. For Han. For everything he thought he might’ve lost for good.

The tears came quietly. You didn’t sob. You simply felt—too much, all at once.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to steady the way your heart ached and soared at the same time. His voice broke in the final chorus, and that did you in. You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth, letting the weight of it wash over you.

He had told you everything he didn’t know how to say out loud.

He had given you his heart again—this time in melody.

You were still blinking away tears when a small voice startled you.

“Eomma?”

You turned quickly, dragging your sleeve over your cheeks.

Han stood in the doorway, his cheeks still round and pink with sleep, his bunny dangling from one hand. His curls were sticking up on one side, and his eyes were wide with concern.

“Why’re you crying?” he asked softly, padding over to you in socked feet.

You scooped him into your arms the second he was close enough, pressing him tightly against you. His little arms wound around your neck, his body warm and sleepy and entirely trusting.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whispered into his hair, voice thick. “I’m just really, really happy.”

He pulled back slightly, studying you with the same furrowed expression you’d seen on Yoongi’s face a hundred times.

“You’re weird,” he decided, nuzzling into your shoulder again.

You laughed, breath catching on a sob you didn’t let fully escape, pressing kiss after kiss to his curls.

As the last note of the lullaby faded into silence, you held your son a little tighter, heart too full for words.

Because somehow, against all odds, you and Yoongi had rewritten your story.

And this time, neither of you were letting go.

Taglist: @busanbby-jjk @jajabro @kam9404 @yoongiiuu93 @julseka07 @tea4sykes @marihoneywk @maryhopemei @sanarin @misschelliejeon @boraluv @wobblewobble822 @amarawayne @hyuninslutbbgirl @Granataepfelchen @mar-lo-pap @enfppuff @senaqsstuff @vainkiss @rinkud @lanyia @alessioayla @watchingover-hypegirl @muchwita @elliott-calls @kiki-zb @annpeachy

[thepiinkpages]

Bob (Sentry/ The Void) x Soulmate!Reader Part 1

Note: Heyyy so I didn't think anyone would see my last fic.... i'm shocked yall liked it tbh. Anyway, I don't know if this is good but I hope it's at least decent? TBH im kind of hesitate about posting this because of its themes... so yeah but before we start a BIG BIG BIG:

WARNING: This fic has things like implied s*cide, depression and lots of angst and devastation.

Yet another note: So, the songs that got me through this is the greatest by Billie Eilish and I love you by Billie Eilish... yeah. I cried.

Readers POV:

The city outside Avengers Tower glimmered beneath a washed-out afternoon sun, its skyline a fractured halo of chrome and distant light. You stood still before the floor-to-ceiling window, forehead resting against the cool glass, watching the golden blur of him below. Wind danced in his cape as he descended into the crowd, swallowed in applause before his boots even touched pavement. Cameras flashed. Children screamed his name. Reporters craned to be closer, to inhale the divinity clinging to his shoulders like sunbeams. Sentry. Earth’s brightest. Their god in motion. The man who once looked at you like you hung stars in his heavens.

Your breath fogged the glass. It faded almost instantly.

He hadn’t looked up. Not even once.

He stood in the middle of the square like he belonged to everyone and no one, grinning for strangers, shaking hands, crouching so a boy no taller than his knees could pat the emblem on his chest. It was gold, polished, unmarred; untouched by the horror he’d carried, the monster he kept caged behind the smile. And still, somehow, you envied that boy. Just a little. Maybe more than a little. Not for his innocence, but because Bob had made room for him in that shining moment.

You wondered what that felt like, to be chosen. Even if just for a second.

Sometimes you liked to pretend you weren’t born tethered to someone else’s heartbeat. That you weren’t forged in the same starlight as a man who would go on to change the world, while you remained a bystander to your own destiny. You liked to think that if fate had been a little less cruel, a little more merciful, he might’ve reached for your hand the way he reached for the crowd’s now.

But fate hadn’t been merciful. And Bob never reached for you.

He smiled for the cameras instead.

You closed your eyes for a long breath, but even the darkness behind your lids was tinged with gold.

You had been the one to wake him.

That truth stayed buried in the quietest part of your soul, a place even you rarely touched anymore. A memory so sacred, so aching, that speaking it aloud would somehow cheapen it; make it unreal, or worse, remind you just how thoroughly it had been forgotten.

When you first met him, he had been lost in a fog of himself, half-asleep in the ruins of memory and identity, a god pulled into human skin by cosmic design. Others hadn’t known what he was. Some called him strange. Others sensed something beneath the surface; something ancient, coiled, watching. But you knew. You had felt it the way one feels a storm just before it arrives: deep in your marrow, in your lungs, in your blood. Your soul had trembled in recognition before your mind caught up.

The universe had laws for beings like Bob. Ancient ones. Unwritten, but absolute. Soulmates, and only soulmates, could awaken gods. And by accepting each other, Bob would grow in power and slowly gain control over emotions like sadness, compassion, and love.

And you had awaken him. With a voice he said reminded him of the ocean in winter. With a touch he called steadying. With a presence that calmed the raging, golden sea inside him long enough for him to remember who he was.

For a time, you were the only thing he trusted. The only voice he listened to. The one anchor he clung to when the Void howled like a storm behind his ribs.

Then came the headlines. The missions. The costumes. The speeches. The praise.

And eventually, you became just another member of the team.

He never said it, not directly, but you felt it in the way he stopped sitting beside you during meetings, in how your name was left off interviews, in the way his eyes passed over you like you were furniture instead of fate. He outgrew the need for you as quickly as he’d grown into his role. Not out of cruelty. That would have been easier, in a way. But with quiet dismissal. That uniquely polite neglect only gods could afford to give.

That was the part that hurt most. Not that he forgot. That he remembered, and still chose not to care.

Below, the cheers rose again. You opened your eyes, throat tight, vision blurring around the edges. Bob was laughing now, head tipped back, golden hair catching the light just so. Perfection in motion. Designed to be adored. A thousand eyes on him, none of them yours. Not really.

You pressed your fingers to the glass. Just the tips. They looked small against the city, against the sky, against the god you were never enough for. There had been a time you’d given him everything. Every version of your heart. Every vulnerable part of yourself you had never shared with another. You loved him without needing him to earn it, because that’s what soulmates did.

And he had taken that love and worn it like armor when it suited him, then discarded it without ever asking where it left you bleeding.

Now, you bled in silence.

In meetings, you smiled on cue. On missions, you saved lives like a machine programmed to keep going. In the eyes of the world, you were loyal and brave and lucky to be at the side of a god.

But at night, you stared at your ceiling and wondered if the universe had made a mistake. If maybe, just maybe, you were never meant to wake him. That some other woman, softer, stronger, brighter, might’ve been waiting in another life to be loved the way you never were.

Maybe he was never supposed to love you back.

Or worse. Maybe he did, in some buried, monstrous part of himself, and he was too afraid of becoming human to admit it.

You didn’t know which version of the truth would break you faster.

He hadn’t looked up once.

You stepped back from the window and let the curtain fall into place.

Let them cheer for him. Let them touch the hem of their golden god. Let them feel chosen.

You had stopped hoping for that a long time ago.

But the ache didn’t leave. It never did.

And you didn’t know how many more days you could take, loving someone who had once called you his light, only to pretend now that you were no one at all.

The first time you noticed he was avoiding you, it felt small. Almost accidental. A missed glance in the hall. A message left on read a little too long. You told yourself he was busy. He had responsibilities. He was saving the world. But then it happened again. And again. And again. And eventually, the absence became something louder than presence ever was.

He didn’t speak to you anymore, not unless it was necessary. Not unless someone else was in the room. And even then, his voice never settled on you the way it used to. He looked through you now, polite and distant, like a man shaking hands with a stranger he swore he’d met before.

You didn’t understand why.

There hadn’t been a fight. No words exchanged sharp enough to cut. No confessions. No mistakes you could point to and say there, that’s when I lost him. He had simply drifted, wordless, unreachable, until one day you realized you hadn’t heard him laugh in your direction in weeks.

But worse than the distance was the humiliation.

People noticed.

They were too tactful to say it outright, but you saw it in their expressions. In the way conversations shifted when you entered a room. In the way some of them, usually newer team members or support staff, talked about him in front of you like you weren’t still breaking open beneath your skin.

It happened again today.

You were in the rec lounge, pretending to read an outdated mission report while two junior agents near the kitchenette whispered too loudly for their own good. You didn’t know their names. They weren’t part of the core team. Just auxiliary support, floaters assigned between teams, always eager for gossip.

“Did you see the footage from yesterday?” one asked, chewing her thumbnail. “Sentry looked pissed the entire time. And he just flew off right after, didn’t say a word to anyone.”

The other scoffed. “He’s always like that lately. Everyone acts like he’s some enlightened being or whatever, but he’s rude as hell. You’d think being worshipped all the time would make someone nicer.”

A laugh. “Honestly? I bet he thinks he’s too important to waste time talking to us. Or anyone who’s not on his little worship list. What’s that one girl’s name? The one who always trails after him?”

You set the file down quietly.

“She’s got that weird smile. Always defending him even when he’s being cold as ice. Can’t tell if she’s obsessed with him or just delusional.”

The other one snorted into her coffee. “Both.”

You rose slowly, deliberately, and crossed the room to refill your mug. They stiffened when they saw you. One opened her mouth, but you didn’t give her the chance.

“If either of you ever spoke to him, you’d know he doesn’t waste time with people who only want proximity to power,” you said, voice even, eyes steady. “And if you spent half as much time doing your job as you do talking about people out of your league, maybe you’d be more than just benchwarmers with opinions.”

Their silence was satisfying. Briefly.

You left the room without finishing your coffee.

Loyalty wasn’t a choice. Not when it came to him.

It was carved into you, etched bone-deep, stitched into your soul with threads older than logic or dignity. Even now, even when he hadn’t said your name in weeks, you would still defend him. Still fight for him. Still bleed for him, if it came to that.

Because gods didn’t always know how to love. And you had long since accepted that loving him meant expecting nothing in return.

But you were tired.

You were so tired.

Back in your quarters, you shut the door and leaned against it, letting your bag slide from your shoulder to the floor. The room was dim, lit only by the gold-pink light of early evening pouring through your window. You didn’t move to turn on the lamp.

Instead, you sank slowly onto your bed, staring at the wall where the faintest outline of his shadow had once stretched in golden twilight. Back when he used to visit. Back when he used to knock.

Your fingers trembled as they traced the edge of your bedsheet, grounding yourself in the smallest movement. The silence around you felt cruel tonight, pressing in like an old bruise being poked just to see if it still hurt.

It did.

You hated yourself for how much it still did.

You didn’t understand what you had done wrong. And that unknowing, the aching vacuum of it, was beginning to unravel you in ways you couldn’t explain.

There were mornings now where getting up felt like pulling yourself from a grave. Nights where your chest burned with the need to cry, but your eyes remained dry out of sheer exhaustion. You were unraveling slowly, and he didn’t even seem to notice.

You didn’t want pity. You didn’t want to be rescued. But you did want, just once, for him to look at you the way he had when you first woke him. When he reached for your hand like it anchored him to this plane. When his voice cracked as he whispered, “You brought me back.”

You had. You remembered the feeling of his soul shaking awake under your fingertips, the heat of him rising like a tidal wave that only you could calm. The divine recognizing the divine. The bond, cosmic, ancient, absolute, had sparked alive in that moment. It had been real. It had to be.

So how could he forget?

Why would he choose to?

That question haunted you most of all. Because if he did feel it, and you were sure he had, once, then this silence wasn’t ignorance. It was rejection. It was avoidance with intent. A dismissal not of circumstance, but of you.

Your hands clenched in your lap, knuckles whitening. You didn’t want to cry, but your body was tired of holding it all in. Still, no tears came. You’d passed the point of tears days ago, maybe weeks. What was left behind now was something hollow and quiet, a silence that lived beneath your skin and whispered that it would always be like this. That even fate could be cruel.

You had nothing left to give him but your loyalty.

And still, you gave it.

You defended him when others called him cold, distant, arrogant. You silenced gossip in rooms where no one else did. You swallowed every sharp word spoken about him like it was your own guilt to carry.

Because love; true, soul-woven love, didn’t vanish just because it wasn’t returned.

But devotion like that had a cost. And you were starting to feel it in your bones. The weight of it. The aching dissonance of loving someone who no longer looked at you like you were part of his world.

Maybe he never would again.

That night, you stood in the shower for longer than you needed to, letting the water run down your face until you could pretend it was just steam fogging your vision. You dressed in silence, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling until the dark softened around the edges.

Outside, the city pulsed with distant life. Down the hallway, you imagined his door, still closed, still cold. Still too far.

You turned over, buried your face into the pillow, and whispered the same thing you had whispered for the last seven nights:

“Please just say something.”

But the room stayed quiet.

And he didn’t knock anymore.

The first meme was a harmless thing. Just a blurry photo of you trailing a few paces behind him after a press conference, eyes down, hair wind-swept across your cheek, and a caption that read:

when ur simping for the sun god but he doesn’t even know u exist

You saw it by accident. Someone tagged you, probably out of morbid curiosity. Maybe to be cruel. Maybe just because they didn’t think you’d actually see it.

You wished you hadn’t clicked it. Wished you hadn’t seen the comments.

“He left her on read in real life” “Can someone check if she’s ok??” “She’s like a cult member at this point.” “I’d kill myself if someone looked through me like that 💀”

You didn’t respond. Of course you didn’t. You closed the app. You breathed. You told yourself it would pass. Internet people moved on quickly. That’s what they were good at. But by the end of the week, there were more.

Someone made a compilation: Clips of Bob speaking at interviews, eyes scanning the crowd and never landing on you. Shots of you in the background of mission footage, always hovering just behind him, silent, waiting, hopeful. One video zoomed in on your face as he turned away from you mid-conversation, brushing past without a word. Someone added sad music over it. It went viral.

You stopped checking your phone. You stopped checking the news. It didn’t stop them.

In the training bay, an intern chuckled as you walked past. In the cafeteria, a tech whispered something you couldn’t hear, then fell silent when you looked up. Even the team… even they hesitated now. Spoke to you gently, like you were fragile glass etched with his initials, one breath away from breaking.

You didn’t defend yourself. Not once.

You couldn’t.

Because the worst part wasn’t that the world thought you were pitiful. The worst part was that they were right.

You still loved him.

You still loved him, and he still wouldn’t look at you.

You didn’t know what you had done to deserve this exile, this purgatory of half-existence, where your soulmate lived down the hall and still felt lightyears away. You clung to the memory of his voice in the beginning, rough and disoriented when he first opened his eyes, your name the first sound he spoke aloud. The way he held your wrist back then, thumb brushing your pulse, like he was trying to memorize the beat of the only thing grounding him to earth.

Where had that gone?

What had changed?

Was this your punishment for needing him too much? Or for believing that loving him meant he’d love you back?

The spiral came in small ways.

You stopped going to the mess hall. You skipped movie nights. You began staying in your room between assignments, pretending to be asleep when teammates knocked. You told yourself you were just tired. Just busy. Just focused. But you stopped brushing your hair some mornings. You started forgetting meals. Some days, you stared at the wall for hours and didn’t realize the sun had moved.

And he never came.

He never checked.

Not once.

It wasn’t until Wanda found you in the archives, sitting on the floor between storage shelves, knees tucked to your chest, eyes red from crying you hadn’t even noticed, that someone finally said something out loud.

“Why are you still here?” she asked, voice gentle, not unkind. “What are you holding onto?”

You didn’t know how to answer her. Not in a way that made sense. Not without sounding foolish. Not without sounding broken.

So you whispered the only truth you had left: “I think I was meant for him.”

Wanda crouched beside you and didn’t say anything for a long time.

Eventually, she said, “That doesn’t mean he was meant for you.”

You think that was the moment something cracked.

That night, a box arrived at your door.

Plain. Unmarked.

Inside: a scarf. Navy blue. Cashmere. Soft enough to make your breath catch. You lifted it slowly, fingers trembling, heart stuttering against your ribs.

There was no note. No explanation. But you knew who it was from.

You knew.

You held it to your chest. Closed your eyes. And let yourself believe, for just one aching second, that maybe this meant something.

That maybe he hadn’t forgotten. That maybe he’d seen you all along. That maybe—

You buried your face in the fabric. And for the first time in days, you wept.

The scarf lived on your desk for three days.

You couldn’t bring yourself to wear it, not yet, but you also couldn’t look away from it. It became an altar of sorts. A soft, quiet thing you kept returning to like prayer. It was the first thing he’d given you since everything fell apart, and it had arrived so suddenly, so gently, you’d convinced yourself it meant something. It had to.

There was no card. No explanation. No signature. But you knew it was from him.

The color was too specific. The fabric too fine. The scent of it—faint and clean and barely there, reminded you of the room he used to keep in the western wing. He always smelled like that. Like static. Like morning wind. Like the edges of a storm that never quite touched ground.

You had held it to your face the moment you opened the box and breathed him in like a drowning thing.

It was the closest you’d felt to him in weeks.

You imagined his hands folding it. Imagined him wrapping it carefully. Imagined him, alone in his room, feeling just enough guilt to send you something warm. You told yourself it meant something. Not everything. Not yet. But a beginning. An apology, maybe. An unspoken truth.

You had spent so long being nothing to him. It felt unbearable to receive anything at all.

On the fourth day, you wore it.

Just around the Tower. Just softly tucked under your coat. You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t post. You didn’t smile, not really. But you walked differently. A little taller. A little less like you were bracing for the floor to fall away again.

You passed him in the hallway. He looked up. Briefly.

Your eyes met.

For one slow second, you thought he might say something. Your heart climbed up your throat. You waited.

He looked away. Said nothing. Kept walking.

You stood there long after he’d gone. Frozen. Stupidly cold despite the fabric wrapped around your neck.

You waited all day for a follow-up.

A message. A knock. A reason. A hint of what the scarf had meant.

It never came.

Not that night. Not the next morning. Not ever.

By the end of the week, you’d convinced yourself it was a pity gift. A silent offering from a man too burdened by your presence to speak aloud the one truth you were now certain of:

He didn’t love you. He never had.

Not when you woke him. Not when he called you his constant. Not when he swore, once long ago, that he’d never leave you behind.

The scarf had been a kindness. A soft, wordless goodbye.

You should have known better than to think it was anything else.

The Tower became unbearable after that.

The rooms too wide. The halls too loud. Everyone moved like they were full of noise and light, and you had long since become a shadow at their edges. You started sleeping through briefings. Stopped returning texts. Took showers too hot and too long because they numbed the aching places inside you.

The jokes online kept coming. The clips. The comments.

People said you were delusional. That you had latched onto the first person who made you feel seen and mistook it for love. That Sentry had outgrown you and you hadn’t noticed. That he was too powerful, too godly, too good to be with someone like you.

Somewhere along the way, you started believing them.

You didn’t know when the sadness turned into something else. Something colder. Heavier. The quiet kind of despair that lives in the bones. The kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night without reason. The kind that makes food taste like nothing. Music feel like static. Time like a cruel trick.

It was worse because no one noticed. Not even him.

Especially not him.

You told yourself you were being dramatic. That you were just tired. That things would feel better eventually, even if you didn’t know how or when.

But then the thought came.

Not loud. Not sudden. Not with a scream.

It arrived soft. Lingering. Familiar.

What if I just stopped?

What if you stopped waiting. Stopped hoping. Stopped waking up to the same ache every day.

You didn’t want to die. Not really.

You just didn’t want to be like this anymore.

And sometimes, the difference felt too thin to matter.

That night, you took the scarf from your desk.

You held it for a long time. Sat on the edge of your bed. Thought about nothing and everything. The weight of a thousand tiny humiliations stacking in your chest like bricks.

You had loved him. Truly. Completely. Without condition.

And he hadn’t even said goodbye.

You wrapped the scarf around your fingers and wept into your hands like it was the first time.

You didn’t write a note.

You didn’t need to.

–––––––––––––––––––

Bobs POV:

Bob hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t looked her in the eye, hadn’t lingered long enough in a room to let her presence mean anything more than incidental. She had been around, always there in the periphery, doing her job, completing missions, sitting quietly at meetings while others bickered and postured. He never gave her more than a nod or an unreadable glance. He told himself she didn’t need more. Told himself she understood.

It was easier to believe that than admit he was avoiding her.

She was his soulmate. The pull between them had been undeniable from the moment she touched him, waking him from that long, cosmic sleep, a sleep only a soulmate could break. The others in the Tower never said anything, but they all knew. They must have. No one questioned why it had been her. Why it had been a girl with tired eyes and a kind smile who brought a god back to life.

He’d felt the shift immediately. The static in the air. The unnatural stillness of his powers coiling around her in silence, as if waiting for permission to soften.

He had resisted it.

Soulmates were dangerous. Not because of weakness, but because they made gods feel things they had no idea how to live with. Love brought consequence. Attachment created vulnerability. He was already powerful. He didn’t need her to complete him. That was a lie mortals told each other to endure their loneliness. He didn’t need to feel anything more than duty. Certainly not affection. Certainly not want.

So he kept her at arm’s length and never let her know how often he noticed the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

He didn’t hate her. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he did worse—he treated her like she didn’t matter.

The summit in Geneva had lasted three days.

Three days of cold rooms and overcooked speeches, of diplomats smiling too widely and photographers trying to capture divinity in flattering lighting. Reporters had asked about global crises and threats beyond Earth’s atmosphere. One had asked if he believed in fate.

He had said no.

No one asked about her. No one ever did. Not even the team. Not directly.

Everyone assumed it was his business and his alone. If a god didn’t want his soulmate, who were they to question it?

The Tower was silent when he returned.

Not just still. Silent. The kind of silence that suggested something had ended.

He entered through the lower deck, greeted only by a nod from one of the junior security agents. There were no comments about the press photos, no teasing from Alexei, no sarcastic welcome from Yelena. He assumed they were tired. Maybe offsite. Maybe something had happened while he was away.

He didn’t check the mission logs. He didn��t ask.

He dropped his bag in his quarters, changed into sweatpants, and wandered to the kitchen with the vague intention of eating something warm. His body ached, not from injury, but from the weight of too many hours pretending to be more human than he felt.

He found the good bread, your bread, tucked behind a stack of canned soup. The kind you used to protect like treasure. His fingers paused over it, thumb brushing the edge of the twist-tie before he looked away and grabbed it anyway. Two slices. Pickles. The sharp mustard you once said made your nose sting. He used too much and didn’t care.

The kitchen was cold. He didn’t realize until he sat on the couch, sandwich in hand, and pulled the pink blanket over his lap, the one you’d insisted on keeping in the common area, even when others mocked its color.

The television blinked to life, and your show was already queued up.

He didn’t change it. Just clicked play and settled back, chewing mechanically, watching characters smile and trip over themselves for love they thought they didn’t deserve. You used to laugh at those parts. You always said people like that were the worst, so scared of feeling anything that they ruined something beautiful before it could begin.

He hadn’t laughed then. He didn’t laugh now.

The elevator opened sometime after episode two.

He barely looked up.

He expected Yelena, maybe Sam, someone holding a takeout bag or complaining about sore shoulders. Instead, what he saw didn’t make sense at first.

Yelena stepped out first. Then Bucky. Then Alexei, Ghost and then Walker.

All dressed in black.

Not training uniforms. Not combat gear.

Formal black.

They looked like a line of gravestones; somber, upright, immovable. Their expressions were tight, their eyes rimmed red, their mouths set as though they’d all bitten into something bitter they couldn’t spit out.

Bob sat forward slowly. “Hey. Uh... did I miss something?”

No one answered.

He tried to lighten it. “Whose funeral is it?”

Yelena’s eyes welled instantly. Her mouth trembled, and she looked down.

Something sank inside him. “What—what’s going on?”

Walker opened his mouth, then closed it. Bucky turned away. Alexei’s jaw clenched.

Yelena stepped forward and said your name.

Just your name.

He blinked. “Where is she?”

“She’s gone,” Yelena whispered.

He stared at her, chest growing tight. “What do you mean gone?”

“She used the scarf.”

The words landed flat. He didn’t understand.

“The one you gave her,” she added, voice breaking.

His head shook automatically. “No. That’s not—she wore it the day I left. She smiled. I saw her.”

“She used it, Bob.”

The silence after that was deafening.

“She's. Gone. Bob.”

His knees buckled before the thought could fully take shape. He gripped the back of the couch and laughed once, dry, panicked. “No, she wouldn’t... she wouldn’t do that. Not her. She was stronger than that. She was strong.”

No one said otherwise.

No one blamed him.

No one needed to.

Because they all knew.

She had waited.

And he had turned his face from her, day after day, as if love was a weakness he couldn’t afford.

As if she hadn’t been made for him.

He didn’t say a word as he walked down the corridor to her room.

His steps felt mechanical, arms numb at his sides, breath coming in shallow bursts he couldn’t slow. Every door he passed felt unfamiliar. The Tower itself, which had always felt like his, like home, suddenly pressed in on him with a suffocating kind of silence. Like it knew something he didn’t. Like it had been holding its breath, waiting for him to finally arrive too late.

He opened her door without knocking. No one tried to stop him.

Her room was clean. Too clean.

The bed was made, corners tucked neatly like she always did when she was anxious. Her books were stacked beside her window seat, a half-burnt candle resting in a pool of hardened wax. Her shoes were lined up by the closet, perfectly straight. The stuffed rabbit Yelena had won her at a fair sat quietly on the pillow.

And there, at the end of the bed, was the scarf.

The same one he had sent her. Pale gray. Soft. Still holding its gentle folds like it had been carefully laid down by hands that didn’t want to disturb a single thread.

He stared at it, every nerve in his body twisting slowly inward.

Something low and cold began to bloom in his chest.

He had thought it was a kind gesture. He’d sent it without a note, without warning, after weeks of giving her nothing, no affection, no explanation, not even basic warmth. It had been a moment of guilt, maybe. A flicker of what he hadn’t been brave enough to name.

And she had worn it.

She had smiled.

She once had looked at him like that small gift meant the world.

He backed up a step. The air felt too thin. His eyes burned, but he didn’t blink. Didn’t dare.

His heart began to pound in his chest, not like fear. Not like adrenaline.

This was different. This was collapse.

The kind that wraps around your lungs and tightens until your own breath becomes a stranger.

He turned slowly and sank to the floor just outside her doorway. His back hit the wall. His palms pressed into his eyes. He kept seeing the scarf, over and over, like it had branded itself into his vision. His mouth opened, and for a moment, no sound came.

Then it did.

A broken, shuddering sound tore from his throat; raw, guttural, halfway between a sob and a scream.

He covered his face with his hands and leaned forward, his forehead nearly hitting his knees as the first real sob cracked him open from the inside. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. It was helpless. Ugly. Silent, then loud. Then silent again.

His chest felt like it was being crushed under the weight of a world he could never lift.

He had done this.

He had made her feel alone.

He had made her believe that even her soulmate, a being cosmically bound to love her, couldn’t bring himself to care.

And now she was gone.

She was gone, and the world hadn’t stopped spinning.

The sun hadn’t burned out.

The city lights still flickered through the windows, indifferent.

He clawed at his own scalp, as if digging through his skull could undo the memory. As if he could rip the silence from his brain and throw it somewhere else, anywhere else.

Because that silence had killed her.

His silence.

His refusal to feel.

His fear of being human.

The tears came in waves. Hot and endless. Not graceful. Not poetic. Just raw and real and full of everything he had never let himself say when she was still alive.

He had denied her because he believed he was already whole. Already powerful. Above mortal feelings. Above needing anything.

But now, it felt like he needed her more than oxygen. And he would never hear her voice again.

And she would never know.

The sun rose like it didn’t know what had happened.

Bob woke curled on her floor, wrapped in her hoodie, surrounded by the quiet hum of a room that no longer belonged to anyone. He had passed out at some point the night before, though he couldn’t remember when. His cheek was pressed to the edge of her bed frame, legs tangled in one of her blankets, the one that still smelled faintly like lavender and whatever soft, warm thing she always carried with her. His fingers were clenched around the scarf, the scarf, his knuckles white with the grip even in sleep.

It was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t just happen, it lingered. Heavy. Like the walls were holding their breath.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then it all came rushing back.

He sat up slowly, bones aching from the awkward angle, chest tight, heart thudding against the cage of his ribs. The weight hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had settled deeper, coiled low and cold in his stomach like lead. His head throbbed, his throat burned, and his mouth was dry in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.

She was gone.

She was gone, and the room hadn’t changed.

The candle had melted a little more. That was all.

Everything else was still as she had left it. The bed made. The closet half-open. The bunny plush still perched against the pillow with its little bent ear leaning sideways. Her presence was still everywhere, stitched into the fabric, clinging to the air, haunting the silence like an accusation he could never answer.

He didn’t know what he was doing when he moved toward her closet.

He wasn’t thinking. Thinking hurt.

His hand reached out. Brushed a jacket. Then a sweater. Then that stupid oversized hoodie she used to wear when she wanted to feel invisible. He took it. Folded it once. Clutched it to his chest like a child.

And then he started pulling more down; sweaters, shirts, anything soft. He moved slowly, deliberately, never looking away from the folds of fabric in his arms.

He set them down beside her bed. Made a small pile. Then another. Then he unfolded the pink blanket from her chair and pulled it on top. At some point, he moved to the dresser. Took the scarf. Held it like it could explain something.

He didn’t fold it.

He buried it in the center of the mess he had created and crawled after it.

It wasn’t a ritual. It wasn’t catharsis.

It was instinct. Pure, animal desperation.

He made a nest out of her. Out of what was left. He didn’t care how it looked. Didn’t care that the sleeves trailed across the floor or that her perfume had already started to fade. He just needed it. Needed to be in it. Needed to smell her and feel her, even if it was only cotton and static and the cruel echo of memory.

He sank into the center of the nest, pressing his face to one of her sweaters. Her scent hit him so hard he gasped.

She had been here.

Not long ago.

Walking, breathing, laughing. Always smiling at him, even when he didn’t deserve it.

The sob that tore out of him came without warning. It shook his whole frame. The hoodie muffled the first one, but not the second. Or the third. His ribs hurt from it. His fists twisted into the scarf and squeezed until the blood fled his knuckles.

She had worn it. The scarf. She had thought it meant something. She had hoped. And he hadn’t followed up. Hadn’t checked in. Hadn’t said a single word that might have reached her when it mattered.

Instead, she died thinking he didn’t care.

The guilt burned up his spine like acid.

He pressed his forehead to the floor and let the grief come. Not neatly. Not cleanly. Just in long, messy gasps that wracked through him like they were trying to undo everything inside his chest. His shoulders shook, and still he didn’t leave the floor. Didn’t uncurl himself from the warmth of the nest he had built out of the only thing left of her.

He deserved this.

All of it.

And no matter what power he had; how fast he could fly, how much light he could carry in his hands, none of it could reach her now.

Not where she was.

Not anymore.

His breathing had steadied, not from calm, but from exhaustion. The sobs had hollowed him out until only the silence remained, raw and echoing in his chest like a cavern too wide to be filled.

He curled tighter around the hoodie clutched to his chest, dragging the sleeves against his mouth to try and smother the broken noises still trembling out of him. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. The air still tasted like her. His hands still smelled like her. Her scent clung to everything, soft and innocent and so alive, it made his bones hurt.

Something crackled beneath the fabric.

He stilled.

Slowly, he sat up, pulling back the folds of the hoodie. A soft sound, paper, shifting, rose in the quiet. His hands fumbled for the source, fingers trembling as they brushed the inside of the kangaroo pocket.

There, hidden in the stitching of the worn cotton, was a folded piece of paper. Cream-colored. Fragile. Tucked away carefully, almost shyly. Like she hadn’t wanted anyone else to find it but knew someone eventually would.

His name was written on the front.

Just Bob.

His breath caught.

No one else ever called him that in writing. Not on paper. Not with that delicate, looping script. She hadn’t signed it with sarcasm. Hadn’t written Sentry. Hadn’t added a heart or a smiley or a farewell.

Just his name.

He sat still for a long time, staring at the way the ink had smudged slightly, like her hand had shaken.

Then, finally, he opened it.

The words were simple. No preamble. No bitterness. Only softness. Like she’d written them in the dark, whispering them through the paper, unsure whether she had the right to say them at all.

“I know you didn’t ask for this. I know you didn’t want someone like me for something so cosmic and important. But I loved you anyway. Quietly. The way you look at stars you’re not allowed to touch.”

His eyes burned.

“I tried not to hope. I really did. I tried to be patient. You never owed me anything. But I think we’re born needing certain things. And I was born needing you.”

His hands shook harder. The words were beginning to blur, lines swimming under his eyes, ink breaking apart.

“The scarf was beautiful. Thank you. For that. For all the things you didn’t say but maybe almost meant to. I wanted to believe you cared. Even if it was just a little. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to wait longer.”

Bob let out a quiet, broken gasp, like the wind had been knocked from him.

“This isn’t your fault. You were always going to choose the world. And I was always going to hope you’d choose me, too. I just ran out of time. I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t read the rest. He pressed the letter to his chest and folded over it, the hoodie clenched in his arms, her scent still clinging to his hair, his clothes, his mouth.

She had thanked him.

She had loved him.

And she had died thinking she wasn’t enough.

He didn't know how long he lay there.

The paper was still pressed against his chest like a wound he didn’t know how to stop bleeding from. The hoodie had lost its warmth, but he couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not ever. He’d buried his face in it again and again, searching for some lingering trace of her, something real, something alive, but the scent was already fading. Like everything else.

His mind kept playing tricks on him. He swore he heard her footsteps in the hall. Her soft laugh in the kitchen. The quiet way she’d breathe when she slept beside the wall, curled in on herself, trying not to take up space.

He used to think she was just shy.

Now he understood. She was trying not to burden him with her existence.

And he had let her.

The thought came suddenly, sharp and cold, She died thinking she wasn’t wanted.

His stomach turned violently. He shot up, stumbled to his feet, and barely made it to the bathroom before he was on his knees, retching until his ribs screamed. Nothing came up. Just bile and spit and sounds that weren’t human.

He slammed the door behind him, then punched the tile wall hard enough to crack it.

It wasn’t enough.

He hit it again. And again. And again. Bone split. Blood smeared. His knuckles broke, healed, broke again, over and over until he couldn’t even feel the pain, just wanted to feel it. Needed to. Something had to hurt as much as his chest did.

His reflection stared back at him from the fractured mirror. Wide eyes. Swollen. Red-rimmed. He looked like a man who’d clawed his way out of a grave, and in a way, he had. But what had come out wasn’t whole.

It wasn’t him anymore.

“I should’ve said something,” he whispered hoarsely, voice shaking. “I should’ve told her she mattered. That she—God, she—”

He sank to the floor, back sliding down the bathroom wall. His head hit the tile with a dull thud. His hands clenched in his hair.

“I thought I had time.”

Time to get used to the bond. Time to figure himself out. Time to learn how to care without destroying everything he touched.

He thought she’d wait forever.

But she hadn’t.

Because she wasn’t some celestial concept. She was human. And she had been hurting. And he had known—and done nothing.

That night, he tore apart his room looking for more. Another letter. A journal. A message. Anything.

There was nothing.

So he went back into hers.

He didn’t leave for days. Not that he cared to count.

He pulled the remaining sweaters off the hangers, her hoodies from the drawers. He built a pile of them in the corner of her room and curled into it like an animal, trying to disappear into the scent, the warmth, the memory.

He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. His healing factor kept him alive. But his mind wasn’t in his body anymore. It was stuck in every moment she smiled at him and he looked away. Every time her voice trembled and he didn’t ask why. Every time she stood just a little too long in the doorway, waiting for him to say stay, and he never did.

And through it all, the letter repeated in his head, over and over, like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

“I loved you anyway. Quietly.”

The guilt was eating him alive. Devouring him from the inside until all that remained was a black hole where his chest used to be. There wasn’t enough air in the tower. Not enough space in the universe.

And under the crushing weight of it all, something inside him shifted.

Something ancient. Something buried.

The Void, silent and watching, stirred.

It was a different feeling this time. It was as though his entire being was being torn apart by the pain. By the guilt. And that included The Void.

But it stayed where it was, for now—because it felt like The Void was also mourning a love he had lost.

And the next time he whispered her name, there was a tremor in the air, like reality itself flinched.

It was sometime past midnight when he saw her.

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city beyond the window. He hadn't moved from the nest of her clothes. His knees were drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them, hoodie sleeves pulled over trembling hands.

And then—quiet.

Utter stillness.

He felt it before he saw it. A shift in the air. A subtle pressure in the atmosphere, like the world had stopped breathing.

He looked up.

She was standing in the doorway.

Barefoot. Wearing that oversized sweater she always used to sleep in, the one with the frayed cuffs and worn collar. Her hair hung loose around her face, the strands catching the moonlight. Her eyes—God, her eyes—looked right at him. Soft. Knowing. Sad.

He stopped breathing.

His heart stuttered violently in his chest.

“…You’re not real,” he whispered.

But his voice cracked like he wasn’t sure.

She stepped forward.

Every movement was slow, careful—like she was afraid she’d frighten him. Or maybe like she wasn’t sure she had the right to be near him anymore. She didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just watched him, that same expression she always wore when he was trying to hold himself together, gentle, but never pitying.

He blinked and she was gone.

His breath hitched, rough and shallow. He scrambled to his knees, crawling toward the doorway like maybe she was just out of sight, like maybe if he looked fast enough—

“Please,” he choked out, tears spilling freely now, throat raw from hours of silence. “Please don’t go. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would break me.”

He slumped against the doorframe, clutching the wall like it could anchor him to something real.

But she wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t.

She had been nothing but a flicker. A projection. His grief molding itself into what he wanted most and feared most all at once.

His fingers slid down the wall. “You were right in front of me,” he whispered, “and I kept choosing to look away.”

He laughed bitterly, low and hollow. “I thought I had time. But time didn’t want me. Time wanted you.”

The floor beneath him felt cold. Too solid. Too now.

And then the hoodie she’d always worn was in his hands again. He held it to his face, breathing in what little scent remained, and curled in on himself.

He stayed there until dawn, half-asleep, half-hoping he'd see her again, but knowing if he did, it would only be the weight of everything he lost, dressed in her shape.

A week later, the rooftop was slick with rain, water pooling in silver veins between the concrete tiles. Bob stood alone, unmoving, a dark silhouette against the glimmering sprawl of the city. Storm clouds hung low and heavy above, as if mourning with him. The downpour soaked him to the bone, but he didn't care. He barely noticed.

The air was thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something that pulled at the edges of his memory like claws.

She used to love the rain.

He could still hear her; bright, foolish, irritatingly gentle.

“Bob, come outside,” she had chirped once, palms pressed to the glass like a kid. “Come feel it! It’s warm.”

He had scoffed without even turning his head. “You’re not five. Grow the fuck up.”

She’d flinched.

God, he remembered that now. The way her smile faltered before she masked it again. She always tried to pretend it didn’t bother her. Like she thought that if she just kept showing up, he’d eventually give in.

He never did. Not once. And he made sure she knew it.

He didn’t just ignore her, he resented her.

When she’d call him her soulmate, even just in passing, his tone would sharpen like broken glass. “I’m not yours,” he had said once, cold and flat. “You’re a mistake. A glitch.”

She had stared at him, blinking. “Bob, I—”

“You’re not mine, your nothing to me. Don’t say that again.”

She hadn’t.

Not after that.

He’d won that round. He’d pushed her far enough that she finally stopped trying to reach for him like he was worth something. And for a while, he thought he’d done the right thing. Soulmates were for humans. Weaklings. He was beyond that, wasn’t he?

But now...

Now, the silence screamed louder than anything.

He could feel her absence in his bones.

His fingers curled at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The storm battered against him, and he welcomed it, every drop like a lash against skin. A punishment. A prayer. A confession.

He could’ve been kind. Just once.

He could’ve answered the door when she left food for him on holidays.

He could’ve looked up when she passed him in the halls instead of pretending she was air.

He could’ve said thank you. Just once.

But instead—

“I told you I didn’t need you,” he whispered bitterly, jaw trembling. “I told you to stay away, and you did.”

His voice broke. So did something inside his chest.

He sank down, knees hitting the wet concrete with a thud. The rain poured harder, blurring the skyline into a smear of lights and shadows. He clutched at his chest like he could tear it open and crawl inside the hollow where she used to be.

“I didn’t mean it,” he gasped, voice raw. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t—I didn’t know—”

But he had meant it. Every word. Every cruel dismissal.

He had known what he was doing.

He just hadn’t thought it would matter.

Because gods don’t need anyone.

But he wasn’t a god right now. He was just a man on a roof in the rain, grieving the one person who had ever looked at him like he was something soft. Something safe. Something lovable.

He tilted his head back toward the sky, eyes burning.

“Come back,” he whispered. “Please. Come back and I’ll—I’ll say it. I’ll tell you I’m sorry.”

Thunder cracked across the heavens as he took off into the dark sky.

The sky cracked open, and the storm poured like judgment.

Bob flew through it like a man fleeing from the edge of the world, except there was no edge anymore. It had caved in behind him. The wind screamed in his ears, cold and punishing, but he didn’t slow down. Couldn’t. Grief dragged him like gravity toward the only place that still mattered.

Her grave.

He dropped from the sky like a stone. His knees hit the earth so hard they splashed mud, and he didn’t flinch. He didn’t notice the way his hands trembled as he crawled the last few feet. He didn’t care that he was soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his face, rain mixing with tears he hadn’t realized were falling.

He reached the headstone and collapsed against it, like a sinner at an altar, forehead pressed to cold granite.

“I didn’t want you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t want a soulmate. I didn’t want to need anything.”

The thunder rumbled.

“I told myself I was better off alone,” he choked, hands curling into fists. “I thought you were a weakness. I thought if I let you in, I’d lose control. That I would disappear.”

He drew in a trembling breath, and the pressure inside his chest built like a dam ready to break.

“But you were the only one who ever saw all of me. And I still pushed you away.”

The wind whipped around him.

Then something shifted.

It wasn’t rage this time.

It wasn’t power.

It was sorrow.

The Void had stirred.

Not in violence. Not in chaos.

But in pain.

For the first time since her death, Bob felt the Void—not as the monster he feared, but as the piece of himself he’d always denied. The part that had been watching. Listening. Loving.

And the pain hit like a tidal wave.

Because the Void had loved her in silence.

Had understood her loneliness.

Had seen her rejection mirrored in its own creation.

“You were kind,” a voice said—low, velvet-dark, from inside him. “You stayed... even when he ran.”

A shudder wracked Bob’s spine. The Sentry rose up inside him too—golden, broken, radiant—and fell to his knees beside him in that silent place where souls spoke.

They had never stood together before.

Not like this.

Not in grief.

Not in unity.

But now they did.

Bob. The Sentry. The Void.

Three names. One heart. Crushed under the weight of what they’d lost.

Together, they mourned her.

Together, they cried.

“I'm sorry,” Bob whispered, forehead still pressed to her name. “All of me. Every piece. We’re sorry.”

The lightning faded to a glow on the horizon, a pale echo of a god who no longer felt divine. The rain thinned to a gentle fall, soaking the wildflowers someone had left weeks ago.

“We should’ve told you.”

A long silence.

Then, for the first time, The Void wept.

And the three pieces of him—warrior, protector, shadow—merged into one man curled in the dirt before her grave, begging for a second chance no one could give.

But gods do not beg.

They undo.

And from the depths of that shared grief, a thought took root. Dangerous. Blasphemous.

What if this wasn’t the end?

What if time could bleed backward?

What if godhood meant something after all?

Bob’s eyes opened slowly, still wet with tears, still glowing faintly gold.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered. “Even if it kills me.”

The rain had dulled to a steady patter now, washing through the cracks in the pavement like a wound bleeding into the earth.

Bob knelt there for a long time, forehead still resting against her grave. Soaked. Frozen. Empty.

But not quiet.

His thoughts screamed.

Over and over and over again:

Bring her back.

Fix this.

Undo it.

His chest ached, but not just from grief anymore. A new ache bloomed beneath it—a sick hope.

He had heard Reed Richards talk once, in passing. A project they’d been working on. Time. Threads. Chrono-manipulation. “Theoretical,” Reed had said. “Still volatile. Still dangerous.”

Bob had barely listened.

Now it was the only thing in his mind.

A thought that seared through the static:

If I die trying... then I’ll get to see her.

He stood.

Not slowly. Not cautiously.

He stood like a man condemned with purpose.

The wind howled around him as he took flight, rain trailing off his body in a wake. His golden aura sparked once—then vanished. There was no heroism in this flight. No mission. Just desperation. Just longing.

The city below was a blur.

But she wasn’t.

She was everywhere.

Perched on rooftops.

Standing at the corners.

Wading through traffic.

Her ghost.

Her.

Looking at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Bob,” her voice whispered in his ear. “Don’t do this.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “You’re not real.”

“Please,” she said, floating beside him midair now, like light refracting through grief. “You can’t go back. You can’t fix it. You’ll die.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, voice hoarse with tears. “I can’t do this without you. I don’t want this, any of this, if you’re not in it.”

“Then live for me,” she whispered.

He squeezed his eyes shut. She was still there when he opened them.

Her ghost tilted her head. Sad. Soft.

“I am living for you,” he said, voice barely audible. “I’m going back. I’ll find a way. Even if it rips me apart. Even if it shatters time. Even if I never come back.”

The ghost touched his cheek. Her hand passed through him like smoke.

“I forgive you,” she said.

And that—that—broke him all over again.

“No,” he muttered, flying faster now, cutting through the storm. “Don’t say that. I don’t deserve that.”

The Baxter Building was coming into view now.

He wiped at his eyes, fury and heartbreak burning together in his chest like acid.

You haunted every cloud. Every glint of glass. Every heartbeat.

He didn’t want to move on.

He didn’t want to heal.

He just wanted you.

And if time was the only thing in the way, then god help time.

_______________

Readers POV

You woke with a sharp gasp, like the air was being pumped back into your lungs all at once. Your chest heaved, your skin clammy with sweat, and the sound of your own pulse thundered in your ears. For one horrifying moment, everything was just black. You couldn’t remember who you were or where you were. Just the overwhelming sense of falling, of being swallowed whole by something unrelenting and final.

Then warmth.

A flicker of something familiar. A scent. A feeling. A whisper of a presence that had been with you right at the end. You clung to it like a lifeline as you sat up, hands scrambling over the blankets. Blankets?

You looked around.

You were in a room.

An old, cramped apartment bedroom that felt hauntingly familiar. The fan above creaked with the same off-tempo groan it always had. The curtains you hadn’t seen in years, those awful faded yellow ones with tiny embroidered suns, swayed in the breeze. And then your eyes landed on the old alarm clock on the nightstand. The one you’d thrown across the room so many times out of frustration back when—

Your breath caught.

You leaned closer.

The date.

The year.

Your vision blurred.

Five years ago.

That wasn’t possible.

You pressed your trembling hands to your face, trying to breathe, trying to understand, but your chest just kept tightening. You remembered dying. You remembered the cold. The finality. The quiet after the scream.

You remembered... nothing after that.

Just grief. And peace. And then this.

You stumbled out of bed, still in your old hoodie, the one you used to wear when things got really bad, when you needed to feel like yourself. Your fingers found the seams and pockets instinctively, searching for something to anchor you. But the room around you didn’t change. Nothing flickered. Nothing shattered.

This wasn’t a dream.

This was real.

You were back.

Five years in the past.

And you had no idea why.

You didn’t go outside the first day.

Not after waking up gasping for breath, heart pounding, lungs burning like you’d clawed your way back from something unspeakable. You’d barely stood up before your knees gave out. You crawled to the window in a panic, pulled open the curtains with trembling hands—

And saw the date on the corner of a passing digital billboard.

Five years ago.

That was impossible. That wasn’t right.

You should have been; what? Dead? Gone? You remembered... darkness. Then warmth. Then waking up in your old apartment like nothing had ever happened.

But everything had happened. He had happened.

You paced the room like a hunted thing, muttering to yourself, checking clocks, rereading the same calendar. Tomorrow was the day you’d first met him. The day you’d been pulled into his orbit. The beginning of the end. You remembered how he looked at you then, like you were a parasite.

The bond meant nothing to him.

You tried to sleep. You couldn’t. Every time you closed your eyes, his voice echoed in your head:

“I don’t need anyone.”

You didn’t cry. Not yet. The anger kept your chest full. Kept you sharp.

You swore you’d stay hidden this time. No more chasing the future. No more looking for meaning in scraps. You wouldn’t be the fool again. Not for him.

But then you woke up, and it was Wednesday. Again.

The same dog barking outside. Same couple arguing over morning coffee in the building across the street. Same text from your phone carrier. Same everything.

The universe had reset.

You stared in numb silence as your alarm clock ticked to 7:00 AM. The same notification blinked on your screen: Wednesday, June 12.

You screamed. You trashed the apartment. You broke the mirror. You sobbed until your stomach cramped.

But when you opened your eyes again—it was Wednesday. Again. Again. Again.

Four identical Wednesdays. Four repeated mornings dragging you closer to the day he would re-enter your life. Not because you missed him. Not because he loved you. Because the universe was cruel.

Because destiny refused to let you slip away.

You stood barefoot by the window on the fourth Wednesday evening, watching the rain roll down glass, and whispered through clenched teeth:

“I’m not going to be her again. I’m not.”

But your voice trembled. And the silence that followed sounded too much like fate holding its breath.

You woke up before sunrise.

Same room. Same creaking radiator. Same dull light bleeding through the blinds like diluted milk. Your hand reached for your phone before your mind caught up. You already knew what it would say.

Wednesday, June 12.

For the fifth time.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, chest hollow, breath shallow. You weren’t scared anymore. You weren’t even angry. There was nothing left in you but a quiet, exhausted resolve. You couldn’t live through this loop again. You wouldn’t.

You were done.

The thought came to you with such finality that it didn’t even feel like a choice. It felt like survival.

You stood slowly, got dressed in the same hoodie and jeans, the same shoes you’d worn the last four Wednesdays. Every movement had the weight of ritual. But this time, you moved with purpose.

You remembered what you’d done five years ago.

The day before you woke him.

You remembered heading into the mountains, deep into the Appalachians, to that cold, desolate S.H.I.E.L.D. facility where they kept him locked away, sleeping like a forgotten god beneath the earth.

You hadn’t known then what he was. Not truly. You’d only known the tug in your soul that said he’s close. He’s yours. Back then, that had felt like something beautiful. Back then, you were still naïve.

Now, you were just tired.

You had one goal: wake him. And leave. You didn’t want a reunion. You didn’t want closure. You didn’t care what version of Bob was in that crypt; Sentry, Bob, Void. None of them had wanted you. Not when it counted.

You’d walk into that bunker, give fate what it demanded, and walk back out into the world. This time, it would keep spinning without him. Or you. Or love.

Because whatever love had once lived between you… he had buried it first.

The drive into the Appalachians was long and winding, each curve of the road wrapped in trees that whispered like ghosts through her cracked window. The scent of rain clung to the soil. Birds called out occasionally, but the deeper she went, the quieter everything became, like the whole forest knew what slept beneath it.

She didn’t bother blasting music. She’d tried that on the second Wednesday. It had only made the screaming in her chest worse.

She gripped the steering wheel harder as the S.H.I.E.L.D. checkpoint came into view. She didn't need to flash her badge; they knew her. Everyone here did. Most thought she was here on assignment. Some nodded in silent recognition, their eyes flicking to the security clearance on her badge and then away, as if refusing to meet her gaze could spare them from whatever strange, classified thing her presence meant.

Getting into the facility was easy.

It always had been.

The real problem lay underground.

She moved through the security scanners like a ghost, silent and unchallenged, her boots echoing off the sterile tile. The walls grew colder the deeper she went, steel replacing drywall, frost clinging to the corners of pipes that ran like veins through the building’s bones.

But it wasn’t the cold that had her struggling to breathe. It wasn’t the altitude or the claustrophobic corridors or the knowledge of where she was going.

It was him.

It was what he was.

And worse… what he wasn’t.

Her chest ached the closer she got to the vault. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she had to pause halfway down the final stairwell, hand gripping the railing, knuckles white.

“Get it together,” she whispered.

But her throat was tight. There was a knot behind her sternum that wouldn’t loosen no matter how many slow, steady inhales she took. Her legs trembled. She was shaking.

Why?

He’d never loved her. He’d made that perfectly clear. The last time they’d spoken, really spoken, his words had left scars deep enough that she still flinched in her sleep. She should hate him.

But her body didn't listen to logic. Her heart still thudded with the same ache it had five years ago.

And for what?

For someone who never looked back.

Her hand hovered above the biometric scanner. Just above the vault door that held him in stasis.

Her pulse fluttered in her neck like a trapped bird.

It wasn’t too late to turn back. To drive into the rain. To disappear.

But she already knew.

If she didn’t wake him, the day would reset.

And she couldn’t live through another Wednesday.

Not again.

So she pressed her hand to the scanner, watched the red light swirl green, and listened as the bolts unlatched with a hydraulic hiss that sounded too much like a sigh.

The door opened.

Inside was silence. A chamber bathed in pale, blue light. Wires. Machines. The air cold enough to fog her breath. And in the center—

There he was.

Floating in suspension.

Hair golden and wild, body curled faintly like he was dreaming. Peaceful. Unbothered. Untouched by the weight of the world he’d left behind.

Or the woman standing in front of him, heart in pieces, mentally five years older and infinitely more tired.

She stepped closer.

This was the last time she’d see him.

She would wake him. She would fulfill whatever cosmic rule the loop demanded. And then she would vanish.

Before he had the chance to reject her again.

Before he could ever see what he did to her.

She didn’t wake him. Not yet.

The soft hum of the chamber filled the room, the kind of mechanical white noise that faded into the background the longer you sat with it. She sank to the floor, slow and careful, her back against the cold wall beneath the glow of suspended light.

And she just… stared.

His face hadn’t changed. Not even a little. His features were still heartbreakingly beautiful, like something chiseled from light and tragedy. Long lashes. A soft jaw. Lips barely parted in stasis, like he was just about to breathe her name.

She used to trace the curve of that jaw in the dark. Used to press her forehead to his and whisper promises they were both too scared to believe in. She used to laugh into the crook of his neck when he mumbled awkward confessions, always shy, always unsure if he was allowed to want her back.

Before everything cracked.

Before that awful day. Before he looked at her like she was nothing. Before he left her outside that door with shaking hands and a voice hoarse from begging.

Her throat tightened at the memory. But she didn’t cry.

She was too tired for that now. The ache inside her chest was old and settled, the kind of pain that made a home out of your bones. There wasn’t room for tears, just the weight of remembering.

She drew her knees up to her chest, folding in on herself like she used to in the early days, before she learned how to smile in front of others again. Her boots squeaked slightly against the floor as she turned to face him fully, curled like something small and brittle beside a sun she could never touch again.

Her eyes traced his silhouette.

And all the memories came, slow and relentless. The way he held her wrist so gently, like even her pulse was precious. The way he said her name when he didn’t think she was listening. The way he refused to let himself want her — not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much.

Then came the others.

The cold words. The rejection. The way he shattered her with restraint, not cruelty — but it hadn’t mattered. It still broke her.

She buried her face in her knees.

And she whispered, “You bastard. I loved you.”

The room didn’t answer. Neither did he.

Eventually, her breathing evened out. Her limbs slackened, and her head tilted against the wall. Her thoughts grew foggy and slow, wrapped in warmth and memory and exhaustion.

She didn’t want to wake up on another Wednesday.

She didn’t want to keep hurting. Or hoping. Or remembering.

In her original past, she’d fallen asleep right here, in this room, just like this. And on that Thursday morning…

She had opened the chamber.

So tonight, she curled up in silence. And she let herself rest, for whatever tomorrow would bring.

Please, she begged to whatever god might listen. Let it finally be Thursday.

She woke with a start.

A gasp tore from her throat as her body jolted upright, heart racing, eyes wide and searching the dimly lit room. For a second, she couldn’t remember where she was. Her head spun. Her limbs ached from the cold floor.

Then she saw the chamber. Still sealed. Still glowing. Still holding him.

She scrambled for her watch with shaking fingers, the digital display flickering to life with a single line of text.

Thursday.

A breath punched from her lungs, a silent, disbelieving laugh caught in her throat. Her eyes burned. Her hand flew over her mouth to keep any sound from escaping, and she slumped back against the wall like the tension had been yanked from her muscles all at once.

It worked. It finally worked.

She sat there for a moment, trembling from the inside out, holding back the desperate little sob of relief rising in her chest. She’d made it through the loop. Four hellish Wednesdays of false starts, wrong choices, and that endless feeling of being watched by fate itself, and now, finally…

Today was new.

Today was real.

Her breath shuddered as she ran her hands over her face, scrubbing away the sweat and sleep with almost frantic force. There was no time to fall apart.

In her past, the chamber would begin Bob regained full power within the hour. That gave her just enough time to disappear.

And this time, this time, she would stay gone.

She wasn’t here for closure. She wasn’t here for one last look. She didn’t need to see him open his eyes or hear him say her name or feel that sharp, sick hope twist through her ribs again. She’d done that once. She’d lived through the heartbreak. The rejection. The silence. She knew how it ended.

She was done letting the universe set her up for tragedy.

This time, she’d leave before the story could start again.

She pushed herself to her feet, knees stiff from the cold. Her hands still trembled, but her jaw had set. Her movements were automatic, driven by survival, not bravery. She turned from him without a final glance.

Because if she looked at him now, serene in that suspended light, so achingly familiar, she wouldn’t leave.

And she had to leave.

Before the hour was up. Before destiny caught her by the throat. Before he opened his eyes.

She stood before the chamber, pulse pounding in her throat as the stasis console flickered to life. The pale blue lights inside the glass cocoon dimmed one by one, the soft hiss of decompression exhaling into the silence like a held breath finally released. Her hand hovered over her chest, steadying her resolve.

Steam rose in gentle curls from the seal. The glass retracted with a slow, mechanical groan, revealing him, exactly as she remembered, exactly as she wished she didn’t.

His lashes twitched. A soft sound rasped in his throat as his chest lifted with the first conscious breath he'd taken in years. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His muscles trembled under the weight of his own body, too long in suspended stillness. He turned his head an inch, sluggishly, pupils adjusting to light.

She didn’t move closer. Didn’t greet him. Didn’t ask if he was okay.

He blinked, gaze swimming until it found her in the doorway. Her outline was a ghost in his blurred vision, familiar and far away all at once. His dry lips parted, but nothing came. No sound. No name. Not even breath.

She hesitated just a moment, long enough to absorb the sight of him awake but helpless, a god brought low by the very time he once bent. Then she turned away.

She walked down the corridor with arms crossed over her chest, faster with each step, as though putting distance between them could quiet the ache in her ribs. Her boots echoed on the polished floors. She didn’t stop.

At the exit, she paused. Rain tapped against the high windows like a second ticking by. She glanced over her shoulder, not far enough to see him, just enough to whisper to the air between them.

“I hope you have a good life, Robert.”

Then she left.

Outside, the world was dim and gray. The clouds wept. She climbed into the car, hands trembling as she gripped the steering wheel.

No destination. No plan. Just escape.

She pulled away from the facility carved deep into the Appalachians, engine humming as the mountain road wound on like a lifeline fraying by the mile.

And inside the chamber, Bob lay still, eyes wide open, staring at the place where she had been. The name caught in his throat, unsaid. His body wouldn't move, wouldn't obey, but his mind screamed into the silence.

He was too late.

Again.

And the rain kept falling.

The wipers swayed rhythmically, squeaking faintly over the windshield. Light music, something piano-heavy and wordless, floated from the speakers, but it barely reached her ears.

She drove without thinking, headlights cutting through the misty woods, one hand slack on the wheel, the other curled uselessly in her lap. The rain was steady now. Not angry. Just persistent, like it didn’t know how to stop.

An hour passed before anything registered beyond the blur of grief and trees.

A shape.

Kneeling in the middle of the road.

She blinked, foot slamming the brake. The tires skidded slightly on the slick asphalt before the car eased to a stop. Her heart thumped once, hard. She grabbed the umbrella from the passenger seat and shoved the door open, the cold rain instantly latching to her skin.

Her boots splashed through puddles as she ran toward the figure.

“Hey—are you hurt?” she called, voice muffled by the downpour.

The figure didn’t move.

As she neared, her breath caught. Her pulse stuttered, as if her body understood before her mind did.

It was him.

Bob.

Soaked to the bone, golden hair plastered to his skin, shoulders trembling under the weight of something more than rain. His eyes lifted slowly; red-rimmed, distant and wide.

And when he saw her, something cracked.

Not a sound. Not a word. Just pure, open awe. Like he’d seen a goddess descend through the clouds. Like she wasn’t supposed to exist and he was terrified that if he blinked, she’d vanish.

She stared back, stunned and drenched, clutching the umbrella that did little to stop the sky from crying all around them.

“Bob?” she breathed, barely audible.

His lips trembled, and he reached out, not quite touching her, just hovering. Like he was afraid.

As if one wrong move would shatter everything.

As if he didn’t believe she was real.

And maybe, for a second, neither did she.

She didn’t move.

Not even an inch.

The rain poured between them like a curtain, yet she stared straight through it, lips pressed into a thin, unshaking line. Cold eyes. Not cruel, but cautious. Guarded. A far cry from the woman Bob remembered. No, not remembered. Still felt. Still bled for.

Her voice cut through the storm, low and even. “Why are you here?”

Bob blinked slowly, like he didn’t understand the question. His brow furrowed, mouth parting as if to speak, but no words came for a beat too long. Then, hoarsely, broken: “Why did you run?”

The thunder cracked above them.

Her jaw clenched. She stepped forward, not to close the distance emotionally, but practically. With measured ease, she lifted the umbrella and placed it above his head instead of hers.

Rain soaked into her hair immediately, plastering it to her temples and spine.

“I woke you up,” she said calmly, icily, “because my mission was finished. You should’ve waited for your soulmate at the building like a good boy.”

Bob’s body flinched.

Then he stood.

Abruptly. Almost violently.

His soaked clothes clung to his tall frame as he rose to his full height, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but disbelief. There was a flash of something in his face she’d never seen before. Raw. Twisted. Something unhinged just beneath the surface of his grief.

“I already have a soulmate.”

His voice cracked on the word have. Not had. Have.

She blinked, stunned for a second. Her stomach twisted.

Did… did he mean in this timeline? Did he already find someone else?

She shook her head and turned away before the thought could hollow her out. It wasn’t her place to ask. Not anymore.

“I’ll take you to a hotel,” she said quietly, walking back toward the car without looking at him. “Get you dry. Get you some sleep. I’ll take you to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters tomorrow.”

He didn’t move at first.

Didn’t say anything either.

Just stood there in the middle of the road, watching her as if she were a dream walking away again.

She didn’t look back.

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the car door.

Her fingers curled around the car handle, cold metal beneath clammy skin, but before she could pull it open, a shadow moved.

Bob was there.

Right there.

Boxing her in.

His arms caged her without touching her, one palm on the doorframe, the other braced against the roof of the car. His presence was sudden, hulking, and close enough that she could feel the rain sliding off his clothes, hear the ragged wheeze of his breath.

“Move,” she said lowly, trying to keep her composure.

But when she looked up—

She froze.

Her whole body stopped working.

His face…

She had never seen devastation like that on anyone. Not in loss. Not even when her world had burned down.

This was different. This was annihilation in a human face.

His golden eyes were rimmed in red, tears lost in the rain, mouth trembling as if even breathing hurt.

And the way he looked at her—

It wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t longing.

It was recognition.

She swayed on her feet. Something twisted in her gut like a knife. No… it couldn’t be…

But what if he was from the future too?

What if he remembered?

His lips parted. “Are you going to stay with me?”

Her mind scrambled. No words came. Her mouth opened, but nothing formed. Her chest tightened, her lungs forgotten. Her knees buckled.

Blackness crept in around the edges of her vision. Not from fear. Not even from exhaustion.

Just… the weight of it all.

Of love, and time, and pain that refused to heal.

She collapsed.

Bob caught her before she hit the ground, arms scooping her up with a strength that trembled under too much emotion.

“Don’t—don’t leave me,” he gasped, clutching her against his chest like something sacred. “Please. Don’t leave me again. Please.”

But her eyes didn’t open. Her head lolled. Her body, still breathing but unresponsive, laid limp in his arms.

That’s when it happened.

The scream ripped out of him.

A scream that wasn’t human. That wasn’t divine. That wasn’t anything the world could name.

It was the sound of a god mourning a galaxy.

A blood-curdling, soul-shattering cry that tore out of his throat like it had been locked behind centuries of silence. It echoed through the woods, sent crows flying from trees, shook the bones of the earth. A scream that said this is what it sounds like when everything I love dies in front of me again.

“No—no—NO!” he howled, voice cracking mid-bellow, clawing her closer to his chest as if holding her tightly could undo whatever cruel twist of fate was unraveling her. “Don’t leave me—don’t leave me again!”

The rain poured. Lightning cracked. But nothing was louder than his anguish.

He rocked her back and forth like something broken and sacred, forehead pressed to her temple.

“Please,” he choked, again. And again. “Please don’t leave me…”

But she was already gone.

Not dead. Not this time.

Just lost to the dark.

Note: Originally this was only suppose to be one part but I underestimated how much i needed to pack into this so I was forced to make another part. DO NOT FRET, its already in production. Also, sorry is this sucks buns... I tried.

[kentbot]

Novelty

Superman | Clark Kent x Reader

Chapter 3

a/n: reader is formally introduced FINALLY, and chapters are getting longer :}

word count: 2k

previous | next

It was only Tuesday, but Clark Kent was already having a shitty week.

The buzz and chatter of the Daily Planet only serve to worsen the growing headache that his work and “extracurricular” activities were providing him.

For the past two days, Clark had spent the better part of them trying to prevent villains from wrecking Metropolis. Every time he took a threat down, he felt like the next one popped up even stronger and harder to subdue.

In just the past three weeks, he’d already taken down more bad guys than he had in his year as Superman, yet public tension was still escalating regarding his “recklessness” with public property. Last night the Galaxy Broadcasting Station called him a “super-powered bowling ball”, and videos had already begun circulating Twitter of him getting knocked into a Metropolis skyscraper with the hashtag “superfail”. It wasn’t as bad as some of the other ones, but it still stung.

On top of all that, Clark needed to have an article submission by Perry’s desk by the end of the day, already behind because of the constant distractions outside of work.

He was so distracted by his work that he barely noticed the Chief rounding on the office, introducing the new journalist who wrote the article about Superman’s epic failures in public property protection.

“OK, Everyone, this is the new hire joining the journalism team. She’ll primarily be focusing on meta-human affairs with a specialization in private and government intervention.”

Tuning Perry out as he makes the final edits to his article, only acknowledging your presence when you step up to introduce yourself to his corner of the office.

Recognition sparks in his memory, watching as the beautiful sharp-tongued reporter from last week introduces herself as the newest addition to the Daily Planet's journalist roster. When Perry moves aside, you step up to say your first and last name, Clark subconsciously letting an accusatory “You!” fall from his lips.

His outburst catches your attention, your practiced gaze turning to him as you cock your head thoughtfully. “Have we met?” You ask, careful and calculating.

Clark's lips thin, trying his best to school his face into one of indifference. “You’re the one who wrote the Superman article that’s being published soon,” he states, no question in his tone.

Recognition alights in your memory then, blank face morphing into a cheshire smile as Clark waits for your answer. “Ah yes, you must be Clark Kent then, big blue’s fanboy at the Planet”.

At your comment, Lois snorts into her coffee, Jimmy’s mouth dropping to his chin, turning his chair to neglect the photospread he was working on.

“AHA”, Perry laughs at the dig, patting your back as he wipes a tear from his eye, “I like her already!”

Clark is not so amused, watching in quiet frustration as Perry assigns you a desk right across from Lois, and directly in his line of sight.

Chief uses his final moments with the staff to antagonize Clark more as he walks away. “I needed that article on my desk yesterday for review, Clark. Get on it.”

Coworkers begin to crowd you as you settle into your station, as Clark reluctantly returns to his work, the incessant chatter of the office now rising because of your arrival, made ten times worse by his superhuman hearing.

“Hello beautiful”, Jimmy leans on the corner of your desk in a way you could only faux-sav, grinning at you as you attempt to fix up your desk. “The name’s James Olsen, but all my friends call me Jimmy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, James ”, replying smoothly as you place your “Gotham Gazette” coffee mug on the desk

“Ouch,” Lois laughs, pushing past Jimmy to extend her hand for a formal greeting.

“Lois Lane, glad to have you on the team.”

You smile back at her, taking her hand in a firm handshake, “Lois, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m a big fan of your work.”

She beams at you, letting her hand drop as she finds a spot to settle near your desk.

Everyone takes turns introducing themselves, except one, Cat Grant almost bowling you over when she captures you in a tight hug.

“Clark, get over here and introduce yourself”, Jimmy calls, oblivious to the tension between the pair of you.

Clark’s shoulders hunch before he looks up from his work, content to have stayed out of the conversation.

Steeling himself in an attempt to establish some sort of civility in your professional relationship, Clark stands up to walk over to your desk.

“Lois was right about what she said earlier, we’re lucky to have you at the Daily Planet.” He gives a small smile before continuing, “I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

You watch him carefully with unrelenting eyes, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s being earnest with his words.

You return the smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes, “Thanks. I’m sure we’ll be working together a lot since we cover the same topics”.

“I’ll be looking forward to it”, Clark says, seeing the challenge in your eyes and refusing to back down.

So much for workplace civility.

─────────────────────

The next time Clark is late to work, it’s because he’s getting slammed by into the Zesty Cola skycraper by a large fire-breathing kaiju - the second one in two weeks.

God, Perry is going to kill him. At least he was on his lunch this time.

The previous kaiju attack had taken out half of Centennial Park and had taken him and the Justice Gang two hours to subdue. Now he was going to deal with the media reporting on the damage to the headquarters of one of the most beloved cola brands in Metropolis.

Thankfully, this kaiju only took him thirty minutes to handle, but he was sure the Centennial Park upheaval and fallen skyscraper would come up somehow in the article you’ll write this week.

He’d read some of the work you’d done at the Gotham Gazette, and while you were a damn good journalist, it’s clear you had some sort of agenda against superheroes. He’d cringed particularly hard at a fringe piece you’d written on a Batman-Joker skirmish that left a whole block of Arkham decimated, just toeing the line between a proper journal article and professional hate mail.

(He lowkey thought that bats deserved it, but he’d never admit that you)

Always at the scene of the crime, you show up with your notepad, pen, and recorder, always ready to criticize anything about his actions. 

He almost wanted to fly away after turning the Kaiju over to the MHCA, but you’d probably say something about that in your article, too.

The second his feet touch the ground, you’re already writing something on your notepad, watching him from a distance.

He takes the initiative this time and approaches you after making his rounds, saying your last name with a tight-lipped smile.

“I didn’t think you would know my name”, you say, giving him that same coy look he’d become familiar with over the weeks of your reporting on him.

Clark chuckles without humor, leveling you with a straight look. “No shot I wouldn’t know the name of the journalist at the Daily Planet that’s been dragging my name through the mud.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, cocky smile never leaving your face, “I didn’t think the Superman, savior of Metropolis, would be offended by honest reporting.”

He scoffs as you continue, “I don’t pull my punches, Superman, and I refuse to apologize for not coddling you like other reporters love to do.”

You don’t mention any names, but Clark still bristles at your insinuation of him coddling himself.

“This isn’t about journalism. It’s about adding fuel to the flames of an already dangerous fire”. Clark crosses his arms as he faces you, trying to get you to understand his point.

“Civilians have been apprehensive since this new wave of public safety attacks, and writing inflammatory articles about Superman, regardless of your intention, only makes the situation worse.”

You school your face to impassiveness, letting him continue. “I see your passion for journalism, and I respect your desire to keep heroes accountable, especially when they deserve it, but I can say with absolute certainty that now is not the time.”

You let the silence stretch taut between you both, caught a bit off guard by the turn of the conversation. You’d half-expected him to approach you with more defenses for his actions this week, but had been surprised by his earnestness regarding public hysteria about the constant danger plaguing Metropolis for the past two months.

“Ok, Superman, I’ll bite.” You state, turning your recorder on and pointing it at his face, ”Do you have any speculations as to what may be causing the rise in villain attacks all over the country? It seems that Metropolis is not the only city that’s been through the ringer these past few months.”

Now it’s his turn to be taken off guard, surprised by your line of questioning. Almost unbelieving that you hadn’t tried to get him in some verbal-trap or write in an angle that would most certainly make his week worse. He knew Arkham and Star City were also facing the same problems and had been in talks with Batman and the Flash about arranging a classified meeting.

He feels like a fish taking your bait when he answers, “I don’t have any solid leads yet, but I assure you that my colleagues and I at the Justice League are working our hardest to find answers for the sudden surge in attacks.”

“Do you think there’s any foul play involved, or are you hoping that these threats may just be one large coincidence?”

“I can’t say for sure, but it doesn’t seem that any of the attacks are coordinated, so for now we’re ruling out any connection between attacks on different cities. However, we’re still keeping our options open and investigating as thoroughly as possible.

You click your microphone off then, placing the device in your bag as you look up at him.

“Thanks Superman. That’s all I needed.” You give him a wry smile, repeating the phrase from your first encounter.

You can still see the skepticism on his face, the unwillingness to trust your proverbial token of goodwill.

Without any warning, you pull your notepad out of your bag, ripping off the most recent page and showing it to him before shredding it into pieces in front of him.

You grin at the shock on his face, extending out a hand for him to shake.

“It’s a show of good faith. I just ripped up all my previous notes, and I’ll only use the conversation I recorded for my next article. I promise”

He’s slow to take your outstretched hand, but when he does, his grip is firm, your hand dwarfed by his much larger one.

“How do I know you’re not gonna twist my words again?” He asks, your hand still warm in his.

You smile at him one more time, this one a little more honest than your previous ones.

“Guess you’ll have to read it when it comes out, " you say, pulling away from him as you start to walk away.

Despite himself, Clark finds himself smiling back, curious about what you’ll publish next week.

That smile is quickly wiped off his face, though when he realizes he’s going to be twenty minutes late for lunch again.

“Shit,” he muttered, checking his watch. Another lunch break ruined by a kaiju — and maybe, an even scarier reporter.

─────────────────────

a/n: as always, pls follow and comment to be added to taglist :], all comments and reblogs are appreciated!!

taglist: @diasnohibng, @secretkittydreamland, @insideoutjulie, @just-pure-trash, @or-was-it-just-a-dream,

[suestrellalunar]

how i “enter” the void

if you’ve been following me for a while, you’ll know a lot of people are asking me about the void, and i really want you all to “enter” the void as well and thought about sharing my experience in the easiest way possible. here’s what i did:

“i felt that pull inward.” that pull is me turning away from the mind. it’s the gravity of being, awareness recognizing itself and starting to dissolve the illusion of personhood. you don’t chase it. you notice it. it’s always been there.

“drank my hot milk like it was nothing and stared at my window.” that detachment from meaning, from doing, labeling, needing is a huge marker. i wasn’t trying to “manifest” or “get” something. i wasn’t trying at all. i just was. and that was enough.

“listened to the noise and was aware of the noise and my room, but didn’t pay too much attention.” this is awareness without fixation. the moment you stop trying to silence everything, you realize silence is already underneath everything. i let the rain, the ac, the construction sounds exist without labeling them as “distractions.” i wasn’t inside the sounds. they were inside me.

“i asked myself, ‘who is aware?’ i didn’t answer, but i knew. no identity.” this is non-conceptual recognition. no narrative came up. no mental voice said “me” or my name. and yet there was still knowing. a neutral knowing like something behind the eyes watching everything collapse into stillness. no thoughts, but full clarity.

“i am aware of this body.” everything went pitch black, and i felt like i was looking behind the identity. i didn’t black out. i didn’t float away. i was more here than ever. the pitch black wasn’t nothingness. it was the absence of illusion.

no thoughts. no visuals. no trying. just being. pure being. i wasn’t “almost” there. i was it. and so are you.

you don’t enter the void. you remember you are it.

[rosierin]

caught in the rain | osamu miya

synopsis; (y/n) is on her way back to the inarizaki dorms when she gets caught in the rain, and ends up stranded under a shed with one of the miya twins

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series!

back when they were still in high school 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

The downpour came out of nowhere.

That's the thing about April—the weather is always unpredictable. One minute the sky was an almost perfect blue, the sun shining with the promise of spring; the next, the sky had opened like a bucket tipped from the clouds. A fine mist clung to the ground where heavy sheets of rain crashed onto the tarmac, kicking up the scent of wet asphalt and earth. Even the temperature had taken a turn, dropping enough to raise goosebumps along her arms.

And of course, today of all days, (y/n) had forgotten to bring her umbrella.

Her shoes slapped against the wet pavement as she hurried for shelter. Her damp skirt brushed against her thighs, arms wrapped tightly around her schoolbag as she sprinted toward the nearest cover: a small, tin-roofed rest stop at the edge of the school’s walking trail. It was a ruddy old thing—just enough space to duck under and breathe—but it was better than being caught in a storm.

She burst beneath it, chest heaving, hair plastered to her face, and let out a startled gasp when she nearly collided with someone already standing there.

The boy blinked, just as startled. His silver hair was damp and messy, darkened at the ends where the water hadn't dried. Like (y/n), he was wearing an Inarizaki school uniform, the fabric a little wrinkled where water had soaked through.

I know him, she thought.

Well, not exactly. She’d seen him earlier during volleyball practice—one of Suna’s teammates. More specifically, one of the twins.

Luckily, not the blonde one.

His eyebrows lifted in recognition. "Oh. It’s you."

His voice wasn't hostile. Though it wasn't particularly warm, either. It was flat, maybe a little blunt. But at least, unlike his brother, he didn't look particularly displeased by her presence.

Imagine if I'd have bumped into the blonde one.

(Y/n) attempted to make herself more presentable as she fussed with her uniform. The fabric was soaked through, clinging in all the wrong places.

“You remember me?" she asked.

He nodded, tilting his head a little in recollection. “From earlier. Ya came to watch Suna, right?”

She hesitated, wiping water from her cheek with her sleeve. Remembering names and faces hadn’t always been her forte, but theirs had definitely stuck.

Hard to forget such loud presences.

Nodding, she offered a polite smile. “Mhmm. You're Miya, right?"

“Osamu.”

His response came out quick, but not sharp. More like... corrective. Like he was used to making that distinction.

(Y/n) paused, a little stunned by the first-name basis. At first she thought he was acting bold, but then she figured... yeah. If she had a twin, she’d probably want people to call her by her first name too. Probably easier for everyone.

She wondered absently if that’s also why they dyed their hair different colours.

“Sorry—Osamu," she tried to familiarise herself with the name. She'd be seeing him every day at school, then at practice, so she might as well. “Got it.”

Osamu hummed approvingly, then shifted to the side without a word, giving her more space beneath the overhang. She hadn’t even realized how narrow the shed was until the small gesture brought her just out of the edge of the rain.

Now they stood shoulder to shoulder, close but not quite touching. Close enough to hear the rustle of his uniform as he tucked his hands into his pockets.

“Some weather, huh,” he murmured.

“Some weather,” she echoed, exhaling softly.

Outside, the neighbourhood had turned an almost eerie shade of dark grey. Like dusk had crept in early, dragging the clouds with it.

The steady beat of rain drummed against the tin roof, accompanied by not much else.

Should I speak? (y/n) asked herself. She could talk about the weather—now would certainly be a good time—but Osamu had beat her to it.

So, now what? Standing in silence just felt so awkward. They were in the same class, and technically they had met before. Although they hadn't exactly spoke much—if at all. Still, the fact that they were acquaintances made her feel as though she needed to fill the silence.

"I take it you got caught in it too?" she offered at last, looking out at the downpour. She realised a second too late that that had been a stupid question.

"Nah. I love takin' walks in rainstorms."

(Y/n) pursed her lips, feeling dumb indeed. But Osamu didn't rub it in, just chuckled as she shook her head at her own social inaptitude.

"I'm not usually this awkward," she sighed. "I just couldn't think of anything better to say."

Osamu's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Yer fine," he said. "I was tryna think of somethin' to say, too."

(Y/n) relaxed at that, feeling relieved... and a little flattered, too. He was giving her the time of day—something she hadn’t really expected from him. Not because she thought he was a bad person, but because his twin had acted like he wanted nothing to do with her. She’d assumed he’d be the same. Only now did she realise maybe she’d been unfair to think that way. So, she let her guard down a little.

It was then that she noticed him rummaging through his duffle bag. She glanced sideways at him, curious, and blinked as he pulled out what looked to be a sports jersey. Burgundy, a little wrinkled, and—if (y/n)'s memory was correct—the same one he'd been wearing during practice.

"Here," he said, handing it to her. "Sorry if it's a little damp, I was usin' it to dry my hair."

(Y/n)’s lips parted in genuine disbelief. Kind—this boy was being so kind. Now she just felt worse for lumping him in with his ass of a brother. “Are you sure?”

Osamu offered a light shrug, then jerked his head at the outstretched jersey, hinting at her to take it. "Might as well. Yer pretty soaked."

(Y/n) gingerly took the jacket off him and began running it through her wet hair. Indeed, the fabric was cold and still a bit damp as it brushed against the back of her neck, and it smelled like a typical boy, too. Like deodorant and fresh laundry detergent. However there was a warmth to his scent she couldn’t quite place. A faint trace of food, like he’d left the jacket hanging in a kitchen while someone was cooking.

"Thanks for this," (y/n) smiled, squeezing the lengths of her locks. "Makes me feel icky when I have wet hair."

Osamu gave a soft hum, a dismissive little sound. “All good. Ya looked like ya needed it.”

They both laughed quietly at that. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Plus I'd be guilty if ya caught a cold, or somethin'."

"You would?" she asked, curious.

Osamu suddenly sounded playful. "Yeah. I mean who else would come n' watch Suna practice?"

(Y/n) bristled. Paused mid-wipe. And turned to look at him.

Osamu only offered a little smile, perhaps a coy one. Or maybe she was just being paranoid.

"He asked me to come, for the record," she defended mildly. Though it wasn’t a lie. Suna really had invited her to come and meet the team.

"Cute," was all Osamu replied. But when (y/n) narrowed her eyes at him, he gave a light chuckle and held his hands up placatingly.

"I wasn't bein' condescendin'," he clarified. "I meant it—you and Suna seem close. It was cute seein’ ya cheer him on.”

He sounded sincere, though maybe that was because anything sounded friendlier with a Kansai accent. It was charming, and perhaps (y/n) was feeling just a little bit charmed.

"We are," she smiled. "We've known each other since we were kids. Went to the same schools and everything. That’s why I came to Inarizaki, actually—because Rin—Suna—got scouted here."

She regretted saying the last part. But if Osamu picked up on her sudden bashfulness, he didn't let it show. He did, however, seem genuinely intrigued as he glanced down at her from the corner of his eyes.

"So are you two..."

He trailed off, but the implication was clear.

"No."

The word came out fast—too fast. And a little too blunt.

Osamu turned to look at her, eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“We’re just friends,” she amended, forcing her voice steady. She was thankful that the rosiness on her cheeks could be blamed on the chill in the air.

Osamu didn't press any further. Didn't comment on her little outburst. Instead, he just turned back to the rain with a thoughtful nod.

“Got it,” he said. “Just friends.”

He didn’t sound all that convinced, but (y/n) was thankful he didn’t pry. Thankful, too, for the jacket in her hands—something to keep her occupied, to stop her from thinking too hard about Suna or how flustered she might’ve looked.

She gave her hair a final pat-down, the strands likely frizzed beyond repair. But honestly? She couldn’t bring herself to care. Osamu didn’t seem like the type to notice, let alone judge.

He’d been… nice. Surprisingly nice.

Maybe that’s why she hesitated, then pulled the jacket a little closer. The wind had picked up again, sending chilly waves beneath the overhang, and before she could overthink it, she draped the jersey over her shoulders.

Something told her he wouldn’t mind.

“Sorry if my brother gave ya a bad first impression," Osamu said out of nowhere.

She glanced up at him, about to respond, but he cut in before she had the chance. "He's not always like that."

"He isn't?" (Y/n) couldn't quite believe that. His brother—Atsumu—seemed like the type of guy to always run his mouth. Your typical arrogant jock that ought to be put in his place.

"Well," Osamu continued, his voice a bit strained. He seemed to search for his words.

"Just most the time?" (y/n) tried to finish for him. She hoped that wouldn't offend him. They were still brothers, after all.

"Yeah," Osamu eventually conceded. "Most the time." And at that, his voice turned a tiny bit softer.

As for the rain, it seemed to soften a little too. The storm had turned into a manageable drizzle. Above, the dark clouds were beginning to disperse, thin rays of sunshine making the wet tarmac glisten prettily.

"Thanks for this, by the way." She shrugged her shoulders, bringing attention to the jacket draped over them.

Osamu looked down, only now noticing. He smiled the way she'd expected. "Suits ya."

The way he said it sounded a lot like, you don't have to give it back just yet, so she didn't.

She stepped out from under the shelter, careful not to slip on the wet concrete, and breathed in deep. The air was fresh and clean now, scented with petrichor and moss. The path ahead glistened under the faint glow of returning sun, raindrops clinging to tree branches like little silver ornaments.

She barely made it two steps before Osamu fell into pace beside her.

“Yer headin’ back to the dorms, right? I can walk ya,” he offered, looking at her for confirmation.

(Y/n) was taken aback by his gallantry. The walk wasn't far by any means, nor was it a dodgy area. She could easily make her way back on her own. But for some reason, she didn’t feel like protesting.

She’d actually enjoyed her little encounter with him. It’d be a shame to cut it short when he was offering to spend more time with her.

“You’re quite the gent compared to your twin, aren’t you?” she teased.

Osamu chuckled at that. “Someone’s gotta make up for his crappy attitude.”

(Y/n) gave a little laugh.

They walked in silence for a little while, their footsteps thudding against the damp trail. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, though. In fact, it felt surprisingly easy. Like neither of them felt the need to fill the quiet.

Osamu didn’t seem like the type to talk just for the sake of it, and (y/n) found she liked that about him. It reminded her of Suna.

Her eyes flicked sideways at him every so often, taking him in quietly. His posture was relaxed, hands tucked in his pockets again, eyes on the path ahead. There was something grounding about him. Something easy-going and kind without being performative.

A stark contrast to the other Miya, she thought.

It's funny how two people could look identical and yet feel completely different. Atsumu had been nothing but loud and cocky from the moment she’d met him. All sharp smiles and an even sharper tongue.

But Osamu? He didn’t seem like that at all.

At least, that’s what their short interactions had led her to think.

By the time they reached the dorm gates, the sky had cleared into a soft blue, streaked with the last remnants of grey clouds.

She stopped by the gate, turning to face him. “Thanks for walking me back, Osamu. And for your jacket.” Her smile was genuine as she handed it back. “It was nice seeing you again.”

“No worries,” he said, giving her a small nod. “We didn’t get to talk much earlier so ‘m glad I bumped into ya. Or ya bumped into me, rather.”

(Y/n) bit back a laugh at the recollection of her almost colliding into him at the shelter.

For a second, she thought he was going to leave it at that.

“I assume I’ll see ya at practice?” he asked, but the question was all mischief—the corner of his mouth quirking in that coy, knowing way.

He meant Suna’s practice. And after today, it was probably obvious she’d show up again.

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help her smile. She had to admit, his wit was a little amusing. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Osamu ducked his head, chuckling under his breath. The wet tarmac slapped beneath his heel as he hopped down the steps.

“See ya later, (y/n). Was nice meetin’ ya properly.”

He gave her one last wave, and just like that, he turned and headed off down the path.

(Y/n) lingered a moment longer, watching him go. Then, with a quiet smile tugging at her lips, she slipped into the dorms.

[mrs-delaney]

Orbit

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 9.3k-ish words

Request: Hi, can you write about Joe being the first man in the reader's life (first love always hurts) But he doesn't want anything serious, he's dating another influencer, and he won't commit to the reader who's deeply in love with him, so she puts up with it.(May it have a lot of angst, be a bit spicy, and finally have a happy ending? 🙏🏻)

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

Content Advisory: This story contains lies about birthday plans, astronomical amounts of pining, and one very expensive lesson in why you shouldn't date people who keep you a secret. Proceed with tissues and low expectations for male behavior.

Author’s Note: This one did not come easy, y’all. I’ve been chipping away at it for at least a month and honestly it feels like longer. I really wanted it to feel different from BTL and anything else I’ve written, and it was hard as hell to get there. Writing Joe in such a messy, kind of toxic way? Not really my usual vibe but this story just demanded it.

I hope it shows how much care I put into it. Huge thanks to my beta @crazytheoriststrawberry for helping.

Hope you love it. ✨

You'd coordinated events for athletes before, but The Joe Burrow Foundation's golf tournament felt different from the moment you walked into Top Golf Cincinnati. Maybe it was the way he'd insisted on reviewing every detail personally instead of sending an assistant, or how he'd actually listened when you explained why the silent auction would work better positioned near the bar. Most clients nodded along and trusted you to handle it. Joe asked questions that showed he was actually thinking about the answers.

"The sponsors want visibility," he'd said during your planning meeting three weeks ago, "but I don't want it to feel like a corporate showcase. How do we balance that?"

It wasn't something most people would think about. You'd suggested integrating sponsor recognition into the competition format itself—branded hole challenges, custom scorecards, a food truck, photo ops that felt natural rather than forced. The way his face had lit up told you everything about why this mattered to him.

Now, watching him move through the crowd of old college teammates, NFL colleagues, and Cincinnati business leaders, you felt that same flutter of professional pride mixed with something more. He wasn't just working the room—he was connecting. Laughing with teammates, asking questions about sponsors' businesses, making everyone feel like they were the most important person there.

"Ms. Y/L/N." His voice appeared at your shoulder as you checked your tablet, making sure the auction timing stayed on track. "How are we doing?"

You turned, finding him closer than expected, close enough to catch the expensive scent of his cologne. "Ahead of schedule, which in my world means perfectly on time. Silent auction's tracking twenty percent higher than what we initally expected."

"Good." His smile was easy, genuinely pleased. "And how are our guests doing?"

"Having the time of their lives. The sponsors are already asking about next year, and I think your guys are trying to outdo each other with their swing techniques.

Joe's laugh was genuine, the kind that reached his eyes. "Good. That's what we want." He glanced around the space, taking in the mix of people enjoying themselves, then looked back at you. "This is perfect. It's exactly what I asked for."

The compliment hit differently than the usual client praise. There was something personal in it, like he actually saw the thought you'd put into every detail.

"Thank you," you said, trying to keep your voice professional despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "It helps when the client knows what they want."

"I had ideas. You made them actually work."

Before you could respond, someone called his name from across the room. A sponsor, probably, based on the eager wave and the way they were already walking over with purpose. Joe's expression shifted slightly—not annoyed, but resigned.

"Will you stick around after? I owe you a drink."

It wasn't a professional invitation. The way his eyes lingered on yours when he said it made that clear.

"Of course," you heard yourself say. "I'll need to oversee cleanup anyway."

"Perfect." His smile was different now—less public, more personal. Then he was moving away, back into host mode, leaving you standing there with your tablet and the distinct feeling that something had just shifted.

The rest of the event passed in a blur of logistics and small victories. The auction exceeded projections, the food service went off without a hitch, and you managed to coordinate the group photos without anyone looking awkward. Professional success, the kind that left you satisfied and ready to move on to the next project.

But as the crowd began to thin and the staff started breaking down equipment, you found yourself hyperaware of where Joe was in the room, who he was talking to, how often his gaze found yours across the space.

By nine-thirty, Top Golf had mostly emptied out. The last of the sponsors had left with their gift bags and business cards, the guys had moved their reunion to whatever bar would tolerate their volume, and your cleanup crew was finishing the final breakdown of auction displays.

You were double-checking the donation receipts when Joe reappeared. He looked more relaxed than he had all evening.

"How'd we do?" he asked, settling into the chair across from your makeshift office setup.

"Better than we expected." You turned your laptop screen toward him, showing the final numbers. "Auction brought in four hundred and twenty thousand, entry fees another hundred and thirty. After expenses, you're looking at about five hundred and fifty thousand for the foundation."

He let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's really good."

"Your Bengals guys bid on everything. I think they were trying to one-up each other."

"Sounds about right." His smile was easy, genuine. "Those fuckers are competitive about everything."

You saved the spreadsheet and closed your laptop, suddenly aware that the space around you had gone quiet. The cleanup crew had finished and left without you noticing, and the Top Golf staff had dimmed most of the lights. It was just the two of you now.

"So," Joe said, leaning back in his chair. "That drink I owe you."

You glanced toward the bar area. A few staff members were still cleaning up, but the lights were on and you could see a bartender wiping down glasses.

"What do you drink?" he asked, already standing. "I'll grab us something."

"Bourbon's fine. Whatever they have that's decent."

He nodded and headed toward the bar, leaving you alone with your laptop and the realization that the professional part of your evening was officially over. Whatever came next was something else entirely.

When he returned a few minutes later with two glasses of amber liquid, he'd gotten them the good stuff.

"Buffalo Trace," he said, setting your glass down.

You took a sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest. "Good choice."

He just nodded and settled back into his chair, glass in hand. "So tell me something."

"What?"

"How'd you end up coordinating events? Doesn't seem like the kind of thing people stumble into."

It was a genuine question, not small talk. The way he asked it—direct, interested—made you want to give him a real answer.

"I started in college," you said. "With the student activities board. I was good at making things happen, keeping all the moving pieces organized. Turns out there's decent money in making rich people's parties look effortless."

Joe laughed. "Is that what tonight was? Making rich people look effortless?"

"Tonight was different," you admitted. "Most of my clients want to be seen being charitable. You actually care about the cause."

"How can you tell?"

"The way you talked about the kids in the program during planning. You knew their names, their stories. That doesn't come from a PR brief."

He was quiet for a moment, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "You planning on sticking around Cincinnati for a while?"

The question caught you off guard - direct, personal, nothing to do with foundation work or tonight's event.

"That depends," you said. "Why?"

"Because I'd like to see you again. Outside of work."

The words hung between you, and you felt your pulse quicken.

“I’d like that too,” you said.

“Good.” He finished his bourbon and set the glass down. “I know a place. Nothing fancy.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow? If you’re free.”

* * *

Eight Months Later

That dinner had led to another, and another, until Tuesday nights became yours and Joe’s standing date. Eight months of stolen moments between his schedule and yours, of late-night texts that had nothing to do with work, of learning that he liked his matcha and read physics articles to fall asleep.

Eight months of being his secret.

It hadn’t started that way. At first, the privacy felt intentional—getting to know each other away from the noise, building something real before letting the world in. You’d started sleeping together after the third date, and the chemistry had been undeniable from the first time he’d shown up at your apartment after a loss to the Chiefs, shoulders tight with frustration.

“Rough night?” you’d asked, letting him in.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

He dropped his keys on the table without looking, then reached for you like you were the only person in the world who could fix him. He kissed you hard, like breathing you was the only way to quiet the noise inside him.

Then he pulled back, not far, just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders like he was fighting something inside himself.

"I just needed to be here," he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual. "With you."

It wasn't an explanation or an apology. Just honesty, which was more than he usually gave you after bad games. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing against your hip bones through your shirt.

You didn't push for more. Just reached up to touch the back of his neck, feeling some of the tension ease out of him as he leaned into the contact.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, then pulled back just long enough to tug your shirt over your head. You did the same with his sweatshirt, both of you moving with the kind of urgent efficiency that came from wanting each other and not wanting to overthink it.

The rest happened fast—clothes hitting the floor, him pulling you down onto the couch, the familiar weight of him settling between your legs. He didn't say much, just breathed hard against your neck as he pushed into you, both of you finding that rhythm that worked.

You let him take what he needed, let him lose himself completely. Your fingers traced his back, catching the tremor in his muscles as he chased relief — not just physical but something deeper, something he didn’t know how to ask for out loud`

And when he finally came, it wasn’t with bravado or noise, but a rough, broken gasp against your neck, arms wrapped tight around you like he was trying to stay tethered.

After, he didn’t move far. Just gathered you into his chest, skin damp and heartbeat still racing. He kissed the top of your head — soft, almost absent — and held you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Wrapped around each other in the quiet, neither of you asked questions he wasn’t ready to answer, comfort given without condition.

He fell asleep with his head on your chest, and you traced patterns on his back until morning, thinking this was what real intimacy looked like.

But as weeks turned to months, the secrecy had calcified into something else entirely. You were the woman he called when he needed to talk through a bad game, the one who knew he got quiet when he was stressed, who understood that his confidence was as much armor as it was truth.

Maddie was the woman he was photographed with.

“She knows what this is,” he’d said the first time you’d seen them together in a gossip blog photo, her hand on his arm at some charity auction. “We’re just having fun. No pressure.”

You’d believed him because you wanted to, because you were twenty-six and he was your first everything that mattered. Your first love, your first heartbreak-in-waiting, your first lesson in how little you actually knew about what you deserved.

But tonight felt different. Tonight was his birthday, and you’d spent weeks planning something perfect.

* * *

The dinner was ready—his favorite pasta dish you’d learned to make after watching him devour it at that little Italian place you’d gone to in September. The bourbon was breathing on the counter, the good bottle you’d been saving. And tucked inside the card on your coffee table were two first-class tickets to Washington DC for February, along with confirmation details for a private after-hours tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

It had taken three weeks of phone calls, emails, and a significant chunk of your savings to arrange. But the thought of seeing his face when he realized you were giving him the stars—literally—made every bit of effort worth it. You’d even coordinated with his assistant to make sure the February date worked with his off-season schedule.

You checked your phone. 7:30 PM. He’d said he’d be over by eight, that he was looking forward to a quiet night in. Just the two of you, no cameras, no expectations. The kind of evening that had become your specialty.

That’s when the notification popped up on your screen.

TMZ: Joe Burrow & Maddie Thompson Celebrate His Birthday in Aspen!

Your heart stopped. The photo loaded, revealing Joe and Maddie laughing in the snow, both bundled in expensive ski gear, looking genuinely happy. Not posed, not staged—just two people enjoying themselves. The timestamp showed it was taken this afternoon.

Your hands shook as you read the caption: “The Bengals quarterback and lifestyle influencer are spending a romantic birthday getaway in Aspen, looking more loved-up than ever!”

Your phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the coffee table next to the card with the plane tickets.

He was in Aspen. On his birthday. During the team's bye week, when he'd told you he just wanted to stay in and relax. The birthday he'd said he wanted to spend quietly, just the two of you.

You stared at the photo until your eyes blurred. They looked happy. Like a couple who actually got to be a couple, instead of whatever the hell you'd been doing for eight months.

The pasta was getting cold on the stove. The bourbon sat untouched. The museum confirmation email was still open on your laptop, detailing the private tour you’d arranged for February—his off-season, when he’d said he wanted to travel somewhere meaningful.

Apparently, he’d already made those plans. With someone else.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Joe.

"Hey, something came up last minute. My parents wanted to take me out for my birthday. Can we raincheck tonight? I wish I was with you instead. Sorry."

The laugh that escaped your throat was bitter, almost hysterical. Wish he was with you instead? He could be with you. He was choosing not to be.

You picked up your phone with shaking hands and typed back:

“I know you’re in Aspen. I made your favorite dinner. Bought you bourbon. Had a gift waiting. I’m done.”

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately turned your phone face down on the table. You couldn’t look at it anymore.

The apartment felt suffocating suddenly. All this effort, all this hope, all these months of accepting less than you deserved because you thought—what? That eventually he’d choose you? That love would be enough?

You walked to the kitchen and turned off the burner, staring at the pasta you’d spent an hour perfecting. In the living room, the bourbon caught the light, amber and expensive and pointless. The plane tickets might as well have been confetti.

Eight months of being his secret. Eight months of believing his lies about Maddie. Eight months of thinking you were building toward something real.

Your phone buzzed again. Then again.

You didn’t look.

* * *

You woke up on your couch at 6 AM with mascara streaked down your cheeks and your phone battery dead. The bourbon bottle sat exactly where you'd left it, the pasta had congealed in the pot, and the card with the plane tickets lay open on the coffee table like evidence of your own stupidity.

Your phone had seventeen missed calls and twenty-three unread messages when you plugged it in. All from Joe.

You almost deleted them without reading, but morbid curiosity won.

11:47 PM: “What do you mean you’re done? Call me back.”

11:52 PM: “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

12:15 AM: "How did you know I was in Aspen?"

12:16 AM: "I lied about my parents. I'm sorry. I can explain."

12:45 AM: "Baby please call me back. This is crazy."

1:23 AM: “I’m sorry. I know you planned something. I’ll make it up to you.”

1:24 AM: “We can celebrate when I get back.”

2:18 AM: “Don’t do this. Don’t throw us away over a misunderstanding.”

3:01 AM: “I care about you. You know that.”

3:02 AM: “This is different and you know it.”

And on and on. Twenty-three messages that cycled between confusion, dismissal, and damage control. He apologized for lying, but not one message said he'd choose you.

Your fingers moved before your brain could stop them:

“I arranged a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum for February. Bought first-class tickets. Spent my savings so you could see the stars without cameras. While you were booking a trip to Aspen with your girlfriend.”

“Do NOT contact me again.”

You hit send, then immediately blocked his number.

Then you sat on your kitchen floor and cried until you had nothing left.

* * *

Joe spent the flight back to Cincinnati drafting and deleting messages he couldn’t send. Every approach felt inadequate. How do you apologize for eight months of lies? How do you explain that you didn’t realize what you had until you’d destroyed it?

He tried calling from different numbers. When she found out it was him she’d blocked those too.

He showed up at her apartment building on December 15th with flowers and an apology speech he’d rehearsed twenty times. The doorman—a guy Joe recognized from previous visits—took one look at him and shook his head.

“She left specific instructions, Mr. Burrow. You’re not on the list anymore.”

So he waited. Four hours in his car across the street until she came home from work, grocery bags in hand. When she saw him getting out of his car, her entire body went rigid.

“Don’t,” she said, not stopping her walk toward the building.

“Please. Just five minutes.”

“No.” She didn’t even look at him. “I meant what I said.”

“I ended things with Maddie.”

That made her stop. Turn around. For a moment, hope flared in his chest.

“Good for you,” she said, her voice flat. “That doesn’t change what you did to me.”

“I know. I know I fucked up—”

“You didn’t fuck up, Joe. You made choices. For eight months, you made the same choice over and over again.” She shifted the grocery bags, and he could see how tired she looked. How much weight she’d lost in just five days. “You chose her every time it mattered.”

“That’s not true—”

“Your birthday mattered. And you chose her.”

The simple statement hit like a physical blow. Because she was right.

“I was scared,” he said, the words coming out raw. “I was scared of what this was, what you meant to me—”

“I don’t care.” Her voice was steady, but he could see her hands shaking. “I don’t care why you did it. I only care that you did.”

She turned back toward the building.

“I love you,” he called after her.

She stopped again, but didn’t turn around.

“You love the idea of me,” she said quietly. “You love having someone who accepts scraps and calls it enough. But you don’t love me, Joe. If you did, you would have chosen me.”

* * *

February 14th - Valentine's Day

You stared at your phone screen, watching another Venmo notification light up. $2,999 from Joe Burrow. Memo: "I know it's Valentine's Day and this is pathetic but I miss you."

It had been two months since you’d blocked him. Two months of returned gifts, ignored letters, and apparently daily Venmo transfers that were slowly driving you insane. Your bank account was looking healthier than it ever had, but every notification felt like a fresh wound.

This had to stop.

You unblocked his number long enough to send one text:

“Stop sending me money. I’m serious. It’s not helping anything and it’s borderline harassment at this point.”

Your finger hovered over the block button again, but his response came faster than expected.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

That was it. No arguing, no desperate pleas, no “but can we talk.” Just acknowledgment and agreement.

You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting for the follow-up that didn’t come. Where was the Joe who had waited outside your building for four hours? Who had sent flowers to your office every day for a week? Who had somehow found your work email and sent you a twenty-paragraph explanation of his feelings?

“Thank you,” you typed back, then immediately blocked him again.

But something about his response sat differently than all his other attempts. For the first time in two months, he’d listened to what you asked for instead of trying to negotiate around it.

You checked your Venmo. No new notifications.

It was such a small thing—just stopping when you asked him to stop. But after months of him refusing to respect any of your boundaries, the basic act of compliance felt… surprising.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you were reading too much into a simple text exchange. But that night, for the first time since December, you didn’t fall asleep angry.

* * *

April 15th

The new Italian place in Over-the-Rhine was buzzing with Cincinnati’s elite—business leaders, local celebrities, and apparently half the Bengals roster. You’d been coordinating launch events long enough to read a room within minutes, and this one was going well. The chef was happy, the investors were mingling, and the servers were keeping up with the cocktail orders.

You were adjusting the lighting for the chef’s welcome speech when you saw him.

Joe stood near the bar, nursing what looked like a bourbon and listening to whatever story a local business owner was telling him. When the man finished speaking, Joe nodded and leaned in slightly, clearly engaged in the conversation.

Your breath caught. He’d come. To an event you were coordinating.

In eight months of dating, you’d probably coordinated a dozen events he’d been invited to. Gallery openings, charity auctions, restaurant launches—Cincinnati wasn’t that big, and athletes were always on VIP lists. But Joe had never shown up to a single one. “Not really my scene,” he’d always said, preferring quiet nights in to schmoozing with strangers.

Seeing him here now, in his least favorite type of environment, you knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

He looked different. Bigger, maybe, and there was something quieter about the way he carried himself. When someone tried to take a selfie with him, he politely declined and redirected the conversation back to the restaurant.

For the next two hours, you found yourself stealing glances while managing the event. Joe worked the room, engaging with guests throughout the night. When the local news crew asked for an interview, he kept it short and focused on the restaurant and community rather than himself.

You watched him nurse the same bourbon all night. In the eight months you'd dated, you'd learned he wasn't much of a drinker at events—too careful about his image, too controlled. But this felt different. Like he was actually trying to enjoy himself instead of just getting through it.

By ten PM, the crowd had thinned and you were overseeing the breakdown. Your staff was handling the heavy lifting, leaving you to do final checks and coordinate with the restaurant management. You were reviewing the evening’s photos with the owner when you sensed someone behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turned around, and there he was.

“Hi,” you said, professional instincts kicking in. “Did you enjoy the event?”

“I did.” He glanced around at your staff efficiently packing up equipment. “You did an incredible job. The whole thing felt… authentic. Not like a show.”

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence stretched between you. The owner had diplomatically moved away, giving you space.

“I know you’re working,” Joe said. “I just wanted to say—I stopped the Venmo thing. Like you asked.”

“I noticed.”

“And I wanted to apologize. Not for the relationship stuff, I know you don’t want to hear that. But for not respecting your boundaries. For making you ask me to stop instead of just… stopping and for…everything else.”

You studied his face, looking for the catch, the angle, the thing he wanted from you. But his expression was straightforward, almost resigned.

“Okay,” you said carefully.

“That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.” He took a small step back. “I hope you have a good rest of your evening.”

He started to turn away, and something in your chest twisted.

“Joe.”

He stopped, turned back.

“Are you…” You paused, unsure why you were asking. “Are you doing okay?”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe relief. “Yeah. Actually, I am. Finally.”

And then he was gone, leaving you standing in the middle of a half-dismantled event space, wondering why you felt like you’d just seen a ghost of someone you used to know.

* * *

April 20th - 11:47 PM

You’d had exactly one and a half glasses of wine. You weren't drunk, just… relaxed enough to make questionable decisions. Like unblocking Joe Burrow on Instagram at nearly midnight on a Friday.

It had been almost a week since the restaurant opening, and his words kept replaying in your head. 

You told yourself you were just curious. Just wanted to see if the changes you’d observed were real or if you’d been projecting. His Instagram had always been pretty standard athlete fare—workout posts, game highlights, the occasional brand partnership.

You scrolled through his recent posts. A photo from training camp. A story about some charity work. A picture of him reading a book (which was new—he’d never posted about reading before). You found yourself pausing on each one, looking for clues about who he was becoming.

Then you saw it.

Posted eight hours ago: Joe post-workout, shirtless, drinking a Body Armor. Clearly a sponsored post, but he looked good—really good. The caption was simple: "Friday grind complete. @bodyarmor"

Your thumb hovered over the image as you studied it. He looked good. Really good. Broader through the shoulders than you remembered, and there was something different about his expression. Less posed, more natural. Like he wasn’t trying to look perfect for the camera.

Before you could stop yourself, you double-tapped.

The little red heart appeared instantly, and your stomach dropped to your feet.

“No, no, no,” you whispered to your empty apartment, staring at the screen in horror. You’d just liked a shirtless thirst trap posted by your ex-situationship at 11:47 PM on a Friday night. After unblocking him. After months of radio silence.

You could unlike it, but he’d already get the notification. You could block him again, but that would look absolutely unhinged—unblock him just to like his shirtless photo and then immediately block him again?

Your phone was practically burning in your hand. You set it face-down on your coffee table and put your head in your hands.

This was worse than the Venmo situation. At least that had been his pathetic desperation. This was your pathetic desperation, immortalized in Instagram notifications.

Your phone buzzed against the table.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Against every instinct for self-preservation, you flipped it over.

Not a text. Just Instagram notifications.

Joeyb_9 liked your photo.

The photo was from three weeks ago—you at a client event, you looked good. He’d liked it approximately thirty seconds after you’d liked his shirtless post.

You stared at the notification, wine-fuzzy brain trying to decode the meaning. Was he letting you know he’d seen your like? Was he being petty? Or was this his equally awkward way of saying… what?

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

This one from a month ago. Then another. And another.

He was going through your recent posts and systematically liking them. Not in a rapid-fire, manic way. Just… methodically. Like he was taking his time, actually looking at them.

You sat there in your pajamas, wine glass forgotten, watching notifications pop up every few minutes as Joe Burrow liked his way through six weeks of your Instagram posts at midnight on a Friday.

When it stopped, you waited. For a text, a DM, a follow request. Something.

Nothing came.

Just the strange knowledge that somewhere across Cincinnati, Joe was awake and thinking about you enough to scroll through weeks of your life. And you were awake and thinking about him enough to have started this whole mortifying chain of events.

You set your phone aside and went to bed, but sleep was impossible. Because despite the embarrassment, despite everything that had happened between you, something warm had unfurled in your chest.

* * *

April 21st - 9:23 AM

You woke up with a wine headache and the immediate, mortifying memory of what you’d done the night before. The shirtless photo. The accidental like. Joe’s methodical response of liking six weeks worth of your posts.

You grabbed your phone, hoping maybe you’d dreamed the whole thing.

Nope. The evidence was right there in your notifications.

You scrolled back to his profile, telling yourself you were just checking to see if he’d posted anything new. He hadn’t. The shirtless photo still sat there with your little red heart under it, announcing to the world that you’d been thirsty on main at midnight.

But as you scrolled through his feed, you found yourself looking at the posts he’d liked on your page. The fundraiser event you’d coordinated where you looked proud and professional. The coffee shop photo where you were laughing at something off-camera. The sunset from your apartment balcony with the caption about grateful moments.

He’d skipped the selfies and the group shots. Only liked the ones where you looked genuinely happy or where you were talking about work you were proud of. Like he was seeing the real parts of your life and… appreciating them.

Before you could overthink it, you scrolled back through his recent posts and liked the one about the charity work. Then the book photo. Then one from two weeks ago of him at what looked like a coffee shop, no caption, just him looking thoughtful.

Your thumb hovered over a post from a month ago—him with some of his teammates at a community event, genuinely smiling. You liked it.

Then you kept going.

The post about finishing a difficult workout. Like.

A sunset photo from his backyard with a caption about finding peace in quiet moments. Like.

A picture of him reading (again—when had Joe become someone who posted about books?). Like.

You realized you were now three months deep in his Instagram, systematically liking posts the same way he’d done to you, and you couldn’t seem to stop yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a notification.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

The coffee shop photo from yesterday morning that you’d posted an hour ago. He was awake. He was seeing your likes in real time.

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

A different recent post.

You were now in some sort of bizarre Instagram standoff, both of you awake on a Saturday morning, liking each other’s posts like teenagers. It was absurd. It was embarrassing.

It was also the most you’d communicated in four months.

Your phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t a like notification.

Joeyb_9: “I’m unblocked. Is this okay?”

You stared at the DM. No pretending he hadn’t noticed. No casual small talk to test the waters. Just a direct question asking for consent to be in your digital space again.

The old Joe would have either not acknowledged it or used it as an opening to launch into some speech about missing you. This Joe was just… checking in. Making sure he wasn’t overstepping.

“It’s okay.”

“Thank you.”

That was it. No follow-up, no pushing for more. Just gratitude for the permission to exist in your notifications again.

You found yourself staring at the simple exchange, surprised by how much those two words meant to you. Thank you. Like your boundaries actually mattered to him now.

Fifteen minutes passed before he sent another message.

“For what it’s worth, I noticed you liked the workout photo at 11:47 PM on a Friday. Interesting timing.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. Of course he’d noticed the timestamp.

“Shut up.”

“I’m not judging. I liked six weeks of your posts at midnight. We’re both fucked up.”

Despite everything, you found yourself smiling at your phone.

“The worst part is it was the shirtless one.”

“I know. I was there when I posted it.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Little bit. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who makes questionable late-night social media decisions.”

You could practically hear the smile in his message, and something warm unfurled in your chest.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late. My ego has been fully restored by your thirst trap engagement.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He was right. You didn’t. 

* * *

April 25th

Joeyb_9: “Saw your story about the charity auction. That venue looks incredible.”

“Thanks. The client wanted something different from the usual hotel ballroom.”

“You delivered. That lighting setup must have taken forever.”

You stared at the message, surprised he’d noticed the technical details.

“6 hours. But worth it for the photos.”

“Definitely worth it.”

-----

April 30th

Joeyb_9: “Random question - do you still make that pasta dish? The one with the pancetta?”

“Why?”

“Been craving it for months. Tried to recreate it and failed miserably.”

“You burned the pancetta, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“Because you have no patience with cooking. I bet you turned the heat too high.”

“Guilty. Any chance you’d be willing to share the recipe?”

You hesitated before responding. It felt intimate, sharing something you’d made for him during your relationship.

“I’ll think about it.”

-----

May 3rd

“You were right about that book recommendation.”

Joeyb_9: “Which one?”

“The one about astrophysics you mentioned months ago. Finally picked it up.”

“And?”

“And I understand maybe 30% of it, but the parts I get are fascinating.”

“That’s 30% more than most people. What’s your favorite part so far?”

You found yourself genuinely excited to discuss it with him.

-----

May 8th

Joeyb_9: “Therapy was rough today.”

The message came out of nowhere at 3 PM on a Wednesday.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. Just wanted to tell someone who’d understand why I’m sitting in my car outside the stadium questioning everything.”

“That sounds normal for therapy.”

“Is it supposed to feel like emotional surgery without anesthesia?”

“Pretty much. But the healing part comes later.”

“When?”

“When you stop bleeding.”

“Great. Something to look forward to.”

“It gets easier. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re different than you were four months ago. Different than you were four weeks ago.”

There was a long pause before he responded.

“Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

-----

May 15th

“Okay, I’m sending you the pasta recipe. But you have to promise to actually follow it.”

Joeyb_9: “Yes ma’am.”

“Medium heat. Not medium-high. Not ‘close enough.’ MEDIUM.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t skip the wine step. The alcohol cooks off, but the flavor doesn’t.”

“I would never skip a wine step.”

“You better send me proof you didn’t burn it.”

“Deal.”

Three hours later, he sent a photo of a perfectly executed plate of pasta.

“I’m impressed.”

“I had a good teacher.”

-----

May 20th

Joeyb_9: “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think people can actually change? Like, fundamentally?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out if I’m actually becoming a better person or just learning to fake it better.”

The vulnerability in the message made your chest tight.

“I think the fact that you’re questioning it means you’re not faking it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the old you would have been sure you were right about everything.”

“Ouch. But fair.”

“Change is possible, Joe. But it has to be for you, not for anyone else.”

“What if it started for someone else but became for me?”

You stared at that message for a long time.

“Then I guess that’s still change.”

-----

May 28th

Joeyb_9: “I have something to ask you, and you can absolutely say no.”

“That’s ominous.”

“I arranged a private tour of the Cincinnati Museum Center. Next Saturday afternoon. Would you want to come with me?”

Your heart did something complicated.

“You arranged a private tour?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what you planned for my birthday. About the National Air and Space Museum. I can’t take that back, but I thought maybe… this could be a start.”

“When did you arrange this?”

“Two weeks ago. I wanted to ask you sooner, but I didn’t want you to think I was rushing things.”

“And you’re asking me because?”

“Because I want to see if we can spend time together without it ending in disaster. And because I think you’d actually enjoy it.”

You found yourself smiling at your phone.

“What time Saturday?”

* * *

You spotted Joe before he saw you, standing outside the Cincinnati Museum Center looking uncharacteristically nervous. He was early—something he’d never been during your relationship—and kept checking his phone like he was worried you’d changed your mind.

“Hey,” you said, walking up behind him.

He turned, and his face relaxed into a genuine smile. “Hey. You came.”

“I said I would.”

“I know, but…” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure until I saw you.”

The honesty was still jarring. The old Joe would have played it cool, acted like he’d never doubted you’d show up.

“So,” you said, gesturing toward the building. “Private tour?”

“Yeah. The curator is a friend of a friend. Apparently, they don’t usually do this, but I may have mentioned it was for someone who appreciates the educational value.” His smile turned slightly sheepish. “I also may have made a donation.”

“Of course you did.”

The curator met you inside, a enthusiastic woman in her fifties who clearly knew her stuff. “Mr. Burrow, Ms. Y/L/N, welcome! I understand you’re particularly interested in the space and natural history exhibits?”

Joe glanced at you. “That’s right.”

“Wonderful. We’ll start with the Neil Armstrong Space Exploration Gallery, then move through natural history, and finish in the planetarium if you’d like.”

As you walked through the first exhibit, you found yourself watching Joe more than the displays. He was different here than he’d been at public events during your relationship. More engaged, asking questions instead of just nodding politely. When the curator explained the mechanics of lunar landing, Joe leaned in, genuinely curious.

“I never understood how they calculated the fuel ratios,” he said. “With all the variables in space.”

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” the curator replied. “The precision required was extraordinary. One miscalculation and…”

“And you’re floating in space forever,” Joe finished. “The ultimate consequence for poor planning.”

You caught his eye and he smiled—a real smile, not the polished one he used to wear like armor.

In the natural history section, you found yourself relaxing. This felt like the conversations you’d had during your relationship, the late-night talks about curiosity and discovery. But better, because Joe wasn’t holding back parts of himself.

“I used to love this place as a kid,” you mentioned as you stood in front of a display about ocean exploration.

“Yeah?”

“My mom would bring me here on rainy Saturdays. I thought I was going to be a marine biologist for exactly three weeks when I was eight.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Realized I get seasick on boats.” You laughed. “Hard to study the ocean when you can’t get on it.”

“So you went into event planning instead.”

“Eventually. Turns out I like organizing chaos more than I like fish.”

Joe was quiet for a moment, studying your face. “I should have asked you more questions like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“About what you wanted to be as a kid. About your mom bringing you here. About… you.” He looked down at his hands. “I was so focused on not giving up too much about myself that I never learned enough about you.”

“Joe…”

“I know we’re not… I know this isn’t about getting back together,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know that I see that now. How selfish I was.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded and kept walking.

The planetarium was the last stop, and as the lights dimmed and the dome filled with stars, you felt something shift in the space between you. You were sitting close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, the same one he’d worn when you were together.

“This is what you were trying to give me,” he said quietly as constellations moved across the artificial sky. “Wasn’t it? Not just the museum, but… this. Wonder without performance.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I would have loved it.” His voice was rough. “I would have loved all of it.”

When the show ended and the lights came up, you both sat in the quiet for a moment.

“Thank you,” Joe said finally. “For coming today. For giving me the chance to do this right.”

“It was nice,” you admitted. “Seeing you actually excited about something instead of just going through the motions.”

“I’m trying to live more like that. Present instead of performing.”

You studied his face in the dim planetarium lighting. “How’s that working out?”

“It’s terrifying,” he said with a laugh. “But better. Everything feels more real.”

As you walked back toward the entrance, you found yourself not wanting the afternoon to end. For three hours, you’d forgotten about the hurt and the lies and the months of silence. You’d just enjoyed spending time with someone who was genuinely interested in the world around him.

“Can I ask you something?” you said as you reached the parking lot.

“Yeah.”

“Are you doing this—therapy, the museum, all of it—because you want me back? Or because you actually want to change?”

Joe stopped walking and turned to face you fully. “Six months ago, I would have said both and thought that was an acceptable answer.”

“And now?”

“Now I know that if I’m only changing to get you back, then I’m not really changing at all. I’m just learning new ways to manipulate the situation.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I started therapy because I lost you. But I kept going because I realized I didn’t like who I was even when I thought I was happy.”

The honesty was overwhelming. This was what you’d wanted from him for eight months—the truth.

“I want to keep seeing you,” he continued. “Talking, spending time together, whatever this is. But not because I’m trying to earn my way back into a relationship. Because I like who I am when I’m around you now. I like who you are. I like… this.”

He gestured between you, and you knew what he meant. The ease of conversation, the shared curiosity, the lack of pretense.

“I like this too,” you admitted.

“So maybe we can keep doing this? Museums, hanging out, terrible Instagram interactions?”

Despite everything, you laughed. “I can’t promise not to accidentally like more of your thirst traps.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said with a grin. “My ego needs the boost.”

As you walked toward your car, you felt something you hadn’t experienced in months: hope. Not for getting back together—that felt too big, too complicated still. But hope that maybe you could build something new. Something honest.

Something real.

* * *

June - August

It started slowly. Coffee dates that lasted three hours because you kept forgetting to leave. Texts that had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with wanting to share random thoughts. Joe sending you photos of books he was reading, you sending him behind-the-scenes shots from events you were coordinating.

The first time he kissed you was in July, outside a bookstore in Northside after you’d spent two hours arguing about whether sci-fi authors accurately portrayed space travel. It was soft, tentative, nothing like the confident way he used to kiss you. Like he was asking permission instead of taking what he wanted.

“Is this okay?” he asked afterward, foreheads touching.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

But you took things slow. Glacially slow. He didn’t push, didn’t ask why you needed space or time or whatever this careful rebuilding process was. He just followed your lead, showing up when you asked him to, giving you room when you needed it.

The first time you stayed over at his place again was a Tuesday in August. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because you’d fallen asleep on his couch during a movie and woken up with a blanket draped over you and Joe reading in the chair across the room.

“You could have woken me up,” you said, stretching.

“You looked peaceful.” He set his book aside.

It was so domestic, so normal, that it made your chest tight. This was what you’d wanted during your relationship—quiet evenings, comfortable silences, the feeling that you belonged in each other’s spaces.

“What are you reading?” you asked, settling next to him on the couch.

“That astrophysics book you recommended." He looked at you, something soft in his expression. “I like this. Us. Whatever we’re calling it.”

“What would you call it?”

“Hopeful,” he said simply.

-----

September

The first fight you had was about Maddie.

Not because Joe brought her up, but because you saw a photo of them together on social media—some mutual friend’s wedding where they’d apparently both been guests. They weren’t together in the photo, just happened to be in the same group shot, but seeing her face brought everything flooding back.

“Did you know she was going to be there?” you asked when Joe came over that night.

“Yeah.” He didn’t try to deflect or minimize it. “I almost didn’t go because of it.”

“But you did.”

“I did. Because I’m tired of letting awkward situations control my life.” He sat across from you, not trying to close the distance. “We talked for maybe five minutes. She asked how I was doing, I said I was good, she said she was glad. That was it.”

“How is she?”

“She seemed okay. Happy.” Joe was quiet for a moment. “I owed her an apology too, you know. For letting her think we were building toward something when I was never really present.”

“Did you apologize?”

“Not at the wedding. But I called her a few months ago. Had an actual conversation about how I handled things.”

You felt something ease in your chest. Not jealousy exactly, but the tight knot of unfinished business.

“How did that go?”

“Better than I expected. She said she’d figured out pretty quickly that my heart wasn’t in it, but she’d hoped if she just tried harder…” He shook his head. “Sound familiar?”

It did. The willingness to accept less than you deserved, hoping the other person would eventually see what was right in front of them.

“I’m glad you talked to her,” you said, and meant it.

“Are we okay?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. We’re okay.”

-----

October

The first time you said “I love you” again was anticlimactic and perfect.

You were at Joe's place, attempting to teach him how to make your grandmother's apple pie. He'd insisted he could handle the crust, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“It’s not supposed to look like that,” you said, watching him wrestle with dough that had clearly been overworked.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It looks like concrete.”

“Edible concrete.”

“That’s generous.”

Joe laughed, flour in his hair and on his shirt, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him. “Okay, fine. Show me what I did wrong.”

You moved behind him, covering his hands with yours to guide his movements. “Gentle,” you said. “You’re not trying to conquer it.”

“I’m not good at gentle.”

“You’re learning.”

As you worked together, fixing his mangled pie crust, you felt overwhelmed by how right this felt. How easy. How much you’d missed not just Joe, but this version of Joe—unguarded, willing to fail at something, content to let you take the lead.

“I love you,” you said without thinking.

Joe went still under your hands. “What?”

“I love you,” you repeated, realizing you meant it. Not the desperate, grasping love you’d felt during your relationship, but something steadier. More sure.

He turned in your arms, search your face. “I love you too. I never stopped.”

“I know.” You reached up to brush flour from his cheek. “But this feels different.”

He kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like apple and possibility.

-----

November

The first event you attended together as a couple was a charity gala you'd coordinated—your choice, your comfort zone, your rules. Joe wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo and stayed by your side the entire evening, introducing himself to your colleagues, asking thoughtful questions about your work, never once making the night about him.

When a photographer asked for a picture, Joe looked to you first.

"It's your call," he said quietly.

You thought about it—about being public for the first time, about what it would mean, about whether you were ready for that kind of exposure.

"Okay," you said. "But just one."

The photo that ran in the society pages the next day showed you laughing at something Joe had whispered in your ear, his hand on the small of your back, both of you looking genuinely happy.

It was the first time you'd ever been photographed together. The first time the world knew you existed in his life.

December 9th

The night before Joe's birthday, you found yourself nervous. Not because you thought he'd leave—you were past that fear now—but because this felt like a test of how far you'd both come.

"I have something for you," you said as you curled up next to him on his couch.

"My birthday's not until tomorrow."

"I know. But I wanted to give this to you tonight."

You handed him an envelope. Inside were two tickets to Washington DC and a confirmation for a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

"The same dates as before," you said. "I never canceled it, just kept pushing it back."

Joe stared at the tickets for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"What changed?"

You thought about it, about the months of rebuilding, about learning to trust again.

"I'm not trying to give you the stars anymore," you said. "I'm trying to share them with you."

Joe's smile was radiant. "That's even better."

He set the tickets carefully on the coffee table, then turned back toward you, his expression soft in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Thank you,” he said, and you knew he wasn’t just talking about the gift.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward, like he was holding something back. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize it. The way he was looking at you, like he was seeing something new. The quiet between you felt different now. Not empty, but full of everything you hadn't said yet.

He didn't rush. Joe hardly ever rushed. His hand moved from your cheek down to your neck, fingers trailing along your jaw. When he brushed the hollow of your throat, you found yourself leaning into the touch without thinking about it.

Neither of you spoke.

His other hand moved to your hip, drawing you closer. You were suddenly aware of how much clothing was between you.

You tilted your head slightly and he kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, like he'd been waiting for permission.

Joe kissed the way he did everything else focused, and sure of himself. He didn't hesitate, but he wasn't rushing either. Just confident in a way that always turned you on.

His mouth moved against yours, coaxing you to open for him. You melted into it immediately, into the heat of him.

His hand slid back into your hair, thumb brushing your jaw like he was holding you exactly where he wanted you. And you wanted to be held there.

When he pulled back, you could still feel the press of his mouth on yours.

He looked at you with that half-smile that always undid you completely.

"Come here," he said, guiding you into his lap.

You moved to straddle him, settling against him naturally. His sweatshirt was soft under your hands as you pressed them to his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

You didn't rush either.

Your fingers slipped under his sweatshirt, palms finding warm skin. You felt his breath catch, his hands tightening at your waist.

Joe's head dipped, lips brushing your jaw, then lower to that spot below your ear that always made you shiver. His mouth moved down your neck, breath warm against your skin.

You shifted slightly in his lap and felt him respond, his breath catching.

His hand moved to your thigh, fingers tracing along the edge of your dress. He took his time, just touching like he was memorizing you.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands in his hair, guiding him where you wanted him. When he made a quiet sound against your mouth, it felt like everything you'd both worked for had led to this moment.

His lips were at your ear, fingers pressing into your hip as he pulled you closer until there was nothing between you.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice rough.

You nodded, already breathless.

He kissed you again, and when you made a quiet sound against his mouth, his hands tightened at your waist.

You moved against him slowly, and he let you set the pace, his hands steady at your waist.

"Say you'll be mine," he whispered against your lips.

"Yes," you whispered back.

His hands slipped beneath your dress as he tugged you in closer. You could feel the heat of him, even through the last layers between you.

Your fingers slid under the hem of his sweatshirt again, pushing it up slowly. He helped without a word, peeling it over his head and tossing it aside. His skin was warm, and you traced your hands over his chest, down the line of his ribs.

His breath stuttered when you shifted against him again, grinding just enough to feel him fully, already hard and heavy beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, head tipping back slightly.

You leaned in, kissing along the edge of his jaw, your hands steady as they mapped familiar territory. His hands slid up your thighs, dragging the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your hips.

His fingers slipped under the edge of your underwear, pushing them aside.

“Jesus,” he murmured, thumb brushing over you again, steady this time. “You’re already…”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice catching.

His hand tightened at your hip as he kept touching you; slow, careful. Just reading every shift in your breathing, every quiet gasp, adjusting to it.

Your forehead pressed to his, your hips already moving instinctively into the rhythm of his hand.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling tight into his shoulders. He caught it right away, mouth brushing yours before he moved again.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on, baby.”

His voice sent you over the edge faster than you expected. You came quietly, breath stuttering against his lips, your whole body tightening around his hand.

He kissed you through it, his mouth soft but sure, catching every shaky breath.

And when you finally stilled, breath shallow and heartbeat loud in your ears, he was already reaching down, tugging at his sweatpants with one hand while the other stayed firm at your hip.

You shifted to help him, lifting just enough so he could free himself, and then he was there—pressed hot and heavy against you, one hand wrapped around himself, steadying, teasing, just brushing.

Then he guided you down onto him, slow, steady, his breath catching hard when he finally sank in deep.

You both stilled—just breathing, just feeling.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, one hand gripping your thigh as he held you there. “You feel… God.”

You didn’t answer—just curled your fingers around the back of his neck and started to move, slow at first. Testing. Learning this new version of each other.

His hands traced your waist, your hips, guiding you but letting you set the pace. When you ground down a little harder, a quiet groan slipped from his lips, and you felt it everywhere—his breath at your throat, his fingers flexing at your sides.

“Look at me,” he said, voice rougher now.

You did.

His gaze held yours as you moved together and when he finally lost a bit of that careful control—when his hips pushed up into yours a little harder, breath coming ragged—you welcomed it. Matched it. Took it.

He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing just under your lip, and kissed you hard as you came again—hard and fast, your body tightening around him.

He followed right after, muttering your name against your mouth, hips snapping up once, twice, before he stilled completely.

Neither of you moved for a while. Just breathing. His forehead pressed to yours, breath still uneven, his hand slipping back to your face, thumb dragging slow along your cheekbone.

When he did speak, his voice was quiet. Rough. Almost like he wasn’t sure if he was saying it at the right time, but he needed to anyway.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You froze, just for a second, but he kept going—like he’d been holding it in so long he couldn’t stop now.

“I’m sorry it took me so fucking long.”

Your throat felt tight. You didn't say anything at first, just let your fingers find the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

"I know," you whispered. "I know you do."

"I love you too."

He exhaled shakily, like he'd been holding his breath. His arms tightened around you, pulling you against him, forehead still pressed to yours.

You stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, hearts still racing. Everything felt different now. Better. Like you'd finally found your way back to where you were supposed to be.

[neowqing]

Being an outcast at school would mean that no one would remember you in the future, but Severus was unlucky once again. He graduated from Hogwarts, escaped from the deatheaters, not that he was recruited, but his name was once mentioned, returned to his home at Spinner's End, and had no contact with wizards. No matter how poor his street was, the town itself was alive, and he was lucky to find a job in a bookshop, a quiet place where he could hide among the bookshelves and devote his time to self-study. Severus practises potions, perhaps he could sell them, take orders, extra income is always needed, and forget about his past.

**

There are many things that are difficult to comprehend, perhaps due to the complexity of the information provided, the intellectual abilities of the recipient, or simply age, but there are things that Sirius cannot understand because they do not make sense.

"Why do we have to persuade him?" He whines, walking down the sidewalk. No one seems enthusiastic, not even Lily.

"Because he's smart," Remus repeats.

"There are plenty of smart people in the Order, we'll manage without Snivell somehow."

"That's true, but," Remus continues, "if the Death Eaters recruit him, it will be difficult for us."

Severus may be smart, but not so smart that his defection to the deatheaters would be a problem for them. Sirius is outraged by this strange situation, by the fact that everyone around him is holding their breath, not knowing whose side Snape is on. The Order members are watching, keeping an eye on those who have not chosen a side, because it is better to have more allies than enemies.

Through his old connections, Dumbledore sent Lily to settle the matter and send an invitation to Snape, but how could she go alone when James was tied to her leg? And with him were three others.

The bell above the door rings melodiously, announcing the arrival of new visitors. Severus has just finished arranging the new books, and the best ones this week, in a prominent place. He turns elegantly, graceful as always. His long eyelashes, framing his deep black eyes, flutter as he blinks, his eyes widening slightly in surprise and recognition. He looks exhausted, not like he does at school, but not rested enough either, thin pale skin, a large nose, pink lips, slender elegant limbs, a large cardigan hanging on him, everything seems so familiar, Sirius licks his lips, swallows saliva. It seems he can sense Severus without touching him, the worn fabric of his clothes, his smooth skin, he inhales, the familiar smell of herbs, is he still playing with potions?

"No animals allowed," Severus points to the sign, then to the four boys behind Lily.

What a bitch. Yes, it's Severus Snape himself.

**

Of course, he had to be a pain in the ass and refuse the offer to join them, they have to leave, leave someone to watch him and find out which side Severus has chosen, but now that he is here, Sirius cannot simply forget about the meeting and let it go, he turns to the Ministry, becoming the only one who is watching Snape. They don't need many people so as not to attract attention, and besides, Sirius is already familiar with Severus, so it would be nice to see a familiar face.

Except that Severus didn't want that. Reminders of the past, surveillance, the presence of strangers, especially Black. He is unable to sit still, like an active dog, he picks everything up, walks obsessively behind him, throws things to annoy Severus. Three times a day he is sent out into the street, and he returns with other visitors so that there are witnesses and he is not cursed on the spot. Later, Severus thinks that four days is the limit of Sirius's patience, and he will not appear again, but now Black just hangs around, walking down the street, going into other shops, especially liking to sit in the café opposite, looking at Severus through the glass, waving his hand when Snape looks up. And then in the evening he follows him, complaining about how boring Severus's job is, sometimes throwing small pebbles at Severus's back to get his attention, a thoroughly horrible person, blessed with luxurious looks, may he be damned.

Sirius likes to annoy people; he leaves cartoons on Snape's desk, no signatures, just a drawing of a smiling dog's face in the corner . There were drawings of a bat, a crow, a cat, a snake, a deer, a rabbit, a skeleton, portrait of Severus, but with an exaggerated nose and pointed elf ears. Severus sifts through a handful of new drawings, tossing them into a drawer. He pinched his nose, hearing Sirius' footsteps two cupboards away. How annoying, Severus thought, taking out a bottle of potion and examining the label.

"Do you have a licence to sell potions?" Sirius asked with a satisfied smile.

"Black..." Severus doesn't want to explain that it's his potion he's about to drink, because Sirius's presence gives him a headache, but otherwise Black will complain to everyone, spreading lies.

"Don't worry, it'll stay between us, sweetie," Sirius runs away laughing.

It all pays off when one evening, after almost two weeks of constant visits, a figure in a black robe with a hood over his head appears near Severus's house, secretly and stealthily.

Sirius doesn't need to hear to know what the conversation is about. He looks at Severus, his face grim, clearly dissatisfied with the meeting and the conversation. Sirius waits for a response, any gesture, ready to read his lips, perhaps Severus will make demands. "Not interested." Sirius clearly sees the words forming. It's a refusal. What a relief. The Death Eater doesn't give up so easily. The figure grabs Severus by the arm, perhaps telling him about the benefits or threatening him. It's not difficult for Severus to pull his arm out of the grip and get his wand, a means of defence and attack. The Death Eater reaches for his own, but doesn't have time to get it, falling dead at Snape's feet.

Without a word, with a light wave of his wand, which Sirius hides back in his sleeve, stepping into the light of the lantern, smiling, he kills the Dark Lord's supporter.

"It seems you can now consider the Order's proposal."

Severus looks first at the body, then at Sirius.

"Do the Aurors now intend to kill everyone without question?" He catches on. "Don't worry, it will stay between us, sweetie."

Sirius snorts.

"Get rid of it before anyone sees it. Tomorrow at 7а.m." Severus gives instructions, turning his back and continuing on his way home.

**

Severus agrees to join the Order, not because he wants to fight, but because he doesn't want to encounter deatheaters. He agrees to brew potions, hoping to stay away from the Gryffindors, in some basement, behind closed doors, away from everyone, and it worked, but of course, Sirius has to be different. He came with food, news, sharp comments, once he added lotus roots, causing an explosion and a series of curses from Severus, after which he did not return for a week, but Severus heard Black whining about how badly he was being treated, and he just wanted to help.

Black returns, this time smelling of blood, his features no longer playful, serious in his steps, studying the ingredients, perhaps to distract himself from something in his head.

"The attacks have increased," he says. "They're looking for you, dead or alive."

Severus nods, no matter how dirty he is, Lucius remembered him.

"Dead... You'd probably be happy, after everything you did, you once shouted about breaking me, my will." Severus thinks of this bastard who ruined his potion, obviously with evil intentions.

"Not now, everything has changed." Sirius moves closer.

"And what has changed?" Severus finally looks up from the cauldron.

"Everything. I no longer want to break you, I want to be the one who holds what little is left of you, keeping you from falling and breaking."

"How noble." Severus shakes his head with a smile. "You'd rather control the process and be the one to throw me away."

"Darling, in case you haven't noticed, I'm already in control." Sirius's hands find their way to Severus's waist, a little more and he can hook his fingers together, just a tiny bit. "I always have been."

[odetooddity-logs]

tabloids and tears (1) | jude bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x physiotherapist! reader, trent alexander arnold x physiotherapist! reader

word count: 6.7k

summary: when a professional duty forces you to work closely with jude bellingham, a man you've always known through charged glances and the quiet tension of intimately distant work interactions, the lines between professional and personal blur, hinting at a connection that will challenge everything you thought you knew.

genre: romance, drama, slow-burn, frustrating misunderstandings

a/n: yes im reposting this 😭 also pls wait for part 2

the rain isn’t falling. it’s sinking.

slow, heavy drops sliding down the back of your neck, slipping under your collar like they’ve got nowhere else to be.

your clipboard is damp. your fingers, colder than you thought. you shift the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder and keep walking, boots squelching across the edge of the training pitch.

you were supposed to be inside by now. supposed to have logged this session as low-risk, mild fatigue, routine tightness.

but someone had the bright idea to run full-intensity drills on half-soaked grass. and someone else didn’t stop them. so here you are, watching studs carve out patches in the earth like it’s a battlefield.

you clock the fall before the sound.

not loud. not dramatic. more of a folding. legs where they shouldn’t be. jersey twisted wrong.

there’s a beat, just one, where no one moves.

then a sharp exhale from the ground.

one player stops mid-sprint. another starts waving a hand. someone calls your name; tight and clipped.

you’re already moving.

mud sticks to your soles with each step. your bag thuds against your hip. the drizzle has turned your hair into static; damp strands clinging to your cheek, curling under your jaw. doesn’t matter. none of it does right now.

you kneel beside him. the grass gives, soft and slick. water seeps into your joggers at the knee.

his eyes are closed. his jaw’s locked, lashes wet. rain clings to the curve of his nose, trails down the dip above his lip. his hand is clamped tight around his ankle.

you don’t say his name but it echoes in your head. jude bellingham.

your voice is low when it comes. “where’s the pain?”

his eyes open, slow.

and there it is.

that second of flicker. confusion, recognition… then nothing. a wall going up.

“ankle,” he says, clipped. “landed weird.”

his other leg is bent. muscle flexed like he’s resisting the urge to move. or punch the ground.

your hands hover first then lower.

his sock’s already soaked. you press gently, fingers working under the tape, trying to gauge the swelling without making him flinch.

he flinches. barely. a twitch more than a jerk. but he doesn’t look away.

neither do you.

there’s heat under the skin. not fever-hot: friction-hot. like his body’s already trying to repair something it hasn’t diagnosed yet.

you shift your weight, both knees on the ground now, ignoring the squish. your gloves make it harder to feel texture, the soft give of swelling, the resistance of bruised tissue. you press in, testing. “on a scale of one to ten?”

his brow furrows. “what, like pain?”

“no, like attractiveness,” you mutter with a blank look, adjusting the angle of his foot. “yes, pain.”

he huffs through his nose. half a breath, almost a laugh. “seven. maybe eight if you keep poking it like that.”

you don’t smile. not really. but the corner of your mouth might twitch. your thumb circles just under the bone. his breathing changes… not loud. just shallow. sharper at the edges.

you glance up.

his gaze is already on you.

not in a look-at-me way. more like he hasn’t moved his eyes since you got here.

there’s mud on his temple. a blade of grass stuck behind his ear.

you don’t say anything about it.

you don’t say anything at all.

you tape him up with clean lines. snug, not too tight. your movements practiced, mechanical, until they’re not. until the part where your fingers graze his calf and pause just a second longer than they should.

you pull back.

stand.

wipe your gloves on your jacket. don’t look at him. not directly. “you’ll need treatment inside. now.”

you start walking before he replies. behind you: the sound of studs digging in. the soft curse under his breath as someone helps him up.

you don’t look back. you don’t have to. you feel it… the weight of his stare trailing behind you like steam in the cold.

and then soon one day; he’s already there when you walk in.

you don’t see him at first - just the soft thud of a ball against the wall, rhythmic and low. someone breathing in the corner. fluorescent lights humming above like they always do, too white, too loud.

you scan the room out of habit. no injuries logged for this hour. no sessions scheduled with you.

and yet. jude is leaning against the far wall, one leg outstretched, a resistance band looped around his foot. slow, controlled movements. left ankle, the same one. he’s not pushing it, but he’s not babying it either.

his head lifts when you walk in.

you stop by the storage shelf, pull out the clipboard even though there’s nothing new to check. it gives your hands something to do.

he doesn’t say anything. neither do you.

until he does.

“you always enter rooms like that?” he asks, not even looking up from the band, “like you’re walking into a crime scene.”

you don’t look over. “depends. you planning to commit one?”

“that depends.” a pause. then, “you still mad at me?”

you blink. once. turn.

he’s watching you now.

not cocky. not quite. just… waiting.

your arms cross. “should i be?”

he shrugs. “you walked out like i said something wrong.”

“you didn’t say anything.”

“exactly.” his jaw tightens. just a little. “but maybe i should’ve.”

your lips part, to say what, you don’t know. but nothing comes out. so you drop the clipboard on the table and cross the room instead.

he shifts his weight as you kneel beside him. same knee down. same angle. same distance.

this time, you notice the small things: the way his shoelaces are double-knotted too tight. the faint mark on his shin from an old boot stud. he smells like the gym: warm cotton, sweat, faint eucalyptus from the shared spray.

“any pain?” you ask, voice neutral.

“no.”

you glance up.

“swear.” his voice softens on that one word. like he’s trying to offer something.

you nod. press your fingers against his ankle, testing again.

there’s tension in the way he holds still. not physical. not entirely.

your thumbs trace down. slow. deliberate.

his breathing shifts. again.

you pause. “you’re doing fine,” you say.

simple. safe.

he swallows. looks away. “do you remember what you said that day?” he asks quietly.

your brows knit. “i said a lot of things.”

he doesn’t smile this time. just meets your gaze like he’s tired of pretending there wasn’t something there. something charged, unsaid, unfinished. “you said you weren’t flirting.”

your mouth goes dry.

he leans forward slightly. not enough to close the distance. just enough to be heard over the buzz of the lights and the low thud of your pulse in your ears. “what if i was?” he asks.

you don’t answer. your fingers are still on his ankle. you don’t move them.

his eyes don’t move. not even a flicker. like he’s daring you to look away first.

you don’t.

you should. you should absolutely pull back, say something clinical, something boring. you should ask about his training plan, his minutes this week, anything that puts this back into safe territory.

but your hand is still resting just above the tape line, fingers slack now. not checking. not fixing. just… there.

his skin is warm under your glove. familiar now, which is almost worse.

you finally shift your hand away. slow. measured. like moving too fast would make something spill.

his eyes drop to the space where your hand used to be.

and then he exhales. not dramatic, just quiet.

but it unspools something. “you don’t talk much, do you?” he asks, tone unreadable.

you lean back onto your heels. not far, but enough. enough to get air. “i talk when it matters.”

he hums. “guess that’s the problem. no idea what counts with you.”

you glance up at that. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he licks his bottom lip –fast– then looks straight at you again. “means you keep your face all calm and cool, and then you look at me like you’re already halfway gone. and i can’t tell if i imagined it.”

you blink. once. twice. “you didn’t imagine it.” your voice comes out steadier than you expected.

not a whisper. not a confession. just truth, placed on the table between you like a live wire.

his eyes darken. not anger; focus. like he’s tuning into a signal he’d been chasing since the first time you touched him on the field.

he shifts forward just slightly, knee brushing yours now. “so what now?” he asks.

your breath hitches. not from nerves, from the weight of what he’s asking.

not do you like me.

not was i right.

just: what happens next?

and honestly, you don’t know.

you glance down at his taped ankle: solid, healing, steady. you remember the rain. the way his gaze burned through it like heat through fog. the way he flinched, barely, but never pulled away.

you look back up.

he hasn’t moved. hasn’t blinked.

you swallow. shift your voice lower. even. “this is still a rehab session.”

he raises a brow. “feels like more.”

“maybe don’t push your luck.”

his smile is slow. crooked. “maybe i’m just pushing the right buttons.”

you don’t smile back. but your eyes betray you. just slightly. the kind of soft that only shows when no one’s supposed to be watching.

but he is.

he’s watching everything.

you stand. smooth your palms down your joggers. “ankle’s good,” you say. “rest it tomorrow. check-in next week.”

you move to leave.

and then:

his voice, low behind you. no smirk this time. “you always this careful?”

your hand freezes on the doorframe.

he doesn’t fill the silence. just lets it sit there. thick and impossible.

you glance back –just once– over your shoulder. “only with things that can break,” you say.

and you walk out. heart thudding. not from nerves.

from possibility.

it goes back to normal.

or close enough to it.

—

jude’s back in full training.

ankle holds. no tape. no twinge. he’s on the pitch again: scoring, passing, bantering like nothing ever happened. the physio room gets quieter. no more solo sessions. no more damp silence with your fingers pressed to his skin like you’re listening for a second heartbeat.

he still sees you.

but less.

you’re still at matches, tucked behind the bench with your clipboard and your unreadable face. still at training, walking the sidelines with that same calm in your stride. still handing out water bottles, updates, instructions; but it’s all business now.

always was, technically. but still.

he notices the difference before he admits it.

no more accidental eye contact. no more near-touch when you pass the resistance bands or take his vitals. no more pauses. no more anything.

you don’t ignore him. you just… don’t seek him out. maybe you never did. maybe he made that up. maybe he built an entire conversation from the way your fingers paused just one second too long. maybe he filled in the blanks with something he wanted.

he tells himself it’s fine. game after game. routine. recovery. team dinner. repeat. he’s busy.

too busy to notice how long it’s been since he heard your voice. and then he realizes…

he hasn’t seen you at all. not just less. not at all.

at first, it’s easy to brush off. maybe you’re busy with something else today. maybe you’re logging something in the office. maybe you’re avoiding someone else entirely. but by the third day, something pulls at the back of his ribs like a splinter he didn’t know was there.

no one’s said anything. no one’s acting weird. but you're just… gone. no footsteps, no clipped sarcasm, no hum of your voice behind the scenes. he walks into physio early on thursday, already mid-laugh at something trent said, and freezes when he sees someone else unpacking a fresh box of tape.

a new girl. slick back ponytail, bright eyes, fresh smile. she turns when she hears the door. “hey jude!”

he nods.

“i’m covering this week. if you need anything, just let me know.”

he blinks. “covering for who?”

her smile falters a little. “oh- uh. sorry. i thought someone told you. she’s on leave. emergency stuff. family, i think.”

his mouth opens. then shuts again.

leave? when? why?

why didn’t anyone- why didn’t you-

“you okay?” the girl asks, still polite.

“yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “yeah, no. just… didn’t know.” he walks out before she can say anything else.

and now it’s all he can think about. you’re not here. and you didn’t say anything. and he knows, he knows, he wasn’t entitled to that. he wasn’t entitled to anything. not your number, not your time, not being informed by you that you-

but still.

you could’ve.

he plays like usual that weekend. another assist. another win. but it feels off. like something’s missing from the locker room, something just out of view. like he’s waiting for someone to walk past the hallway window. waiting for a door to open. he doesn't tell anyone. he just keeps thinking about the last thing he said to you.

“you always this careful?”

“only with things that can break.”

and now you’re gone. just… gone. It’s as if you never existed to begin with.

it starts small. he lingers near the physio room longer than he should. doesn’t even mean to… just ends up there. stretching. adjusting his boots. re-tying laces that don’t need it.

he doesn’t ask about you. not out loud.

but his eyes flick to every unfamiliar face, waiting for one that isn’t new. one that knows how he takes his tape. one that doesn’t ask dumb questions about his hydration levels.

nothing. no you. he walks past the back office once. twice. loses count. he’s not looking for anything. he’s just… walking.

right.

he heads down to the gym and ends up in the rehab space instead. says it’s quieter there, which it is, technically, but no one buys it. not even him.

trent clocks it first. “you good?” not casual. not teasing.

“yeah.”

trent just looks at him. then back at the turf. “you’re not looking for someone, are you?”

“no.” he says it fast. too fast.

trent doesn’t push. he never does. but his expression doesn’t soften either.

and jude’s stomach twists for no reason he’ll acknowledge.

—

the days bleed into each other. training, matches, press, recovery. all clockwork. his body holds up. his game sharpens. stats improve. he’s doing well; no one can say he’s not. but his head feels... loud.

he doesn’t notice it until it’s matchday and he looks up after a warmup and expects to see you near the bench; clipboard, curls, no expression– and it just hits that he’s still doing it.

still looking.

still expecting. why?

you’re not his. you were never his. you patched him up, taped his ankle, touched his skin like it didn’t matter. then you left.

and he’s the one standing here like a dumbass, searching the crowd for a ghost.

it’s pathetic.

he goes out that night.

not with friends. not with teammates. with her.

an escort, apparently.

he doesn’t ask –not directly– but her name comes with a wink from the promoter and a subtle nudge from someone’s agent.

he’s not drunk, but he wants to be. he’s not smiling, but the cameras catch him like he is. his hand finds her waist because that’s what you do, right? when you’re trying to be seen. when you’re trying not to think about someone who isn’t there.

the girl is pretty. of course she is. she laughs at things he doesn’t say. touches him like she means it, even when he doesn’t move.

the flashes don’t stop all night. tabloids eat it up by morning.

“New Flame For Bellingham?”

“Jude Spotted Leaving A Club With Model-Turned-Socialite. Is It Love?”

“Real Madrid's Golden Boy Heating Up Off The Pitch Too.”

he scrolls through the headlines without reading them.

his eyes catch on the photos.

his own face looks like a stranger.

and it doesn’t fix anything.

the girl texts. a lot. he doesn’t answer.

she posts a picture from his kitchen. his jaw clenches. he hears someone at the training center mention her name; laughing, loud. he doesn’t say anything, just keeps taping his wrist like his skin is made of paper.

he’s tired. his game’s good. everything else is noise.

he showers later than usual one day, everyone else already gone. he sits on the bench with his phone in hand, screen dark.

no texts. no missed calls.

not from you.

he doesn’t even know your number.

god, that’s the worst part. he felt so understood by you. there was a connection, a mutual understanding, an overlooked intimacy there. he wonders if he’d ever have such moment of peace in silence with anyone else… ever again… it’s more than what meets the eyes of the rest.

all that time, all those glances, silences, that moment in the rehab room where your knees touched and his voice dropped; and he never asked.

because he thought he had time.

because he thought you’d still be there.

and now what?

you’re somewhere else, dealing with something real, and he’s here. scrolling through empty messages. lying to tabloids with a girl he doesn’t like. playing the best football of his career and feeling nothing when the whistle blows.

he misses you.he finally lets himself think it.

he misses you.

not just your voice. your presence.

the way you made everything quieter. clearer. like he was being seen in a way that wasn’t shiny or performative or loud. and now you’re gone. and he doesn’t even know why that matters so much. or maybe he does.

you’re a physio. you work with injured players. you did your job.

he’s not injured anymore.

so what does that make him now?

—

you don’t read tabloids.

but sometimes, they read you.

the headline shows up while you’re checking the weather. just a swipe left on your lock screen; no intention behind it.

“Jude Bellingham Spotted With Escort Again. Sources Say It’s Serious.”

you blink. the forecast still says 70% chance of rain.

you don’t click it. you don’t need to.

there are pictures, anyway. embedded in the preview.

his hand on her back. his head tilted close, like he’s saying something private. her laughing. him not.

you exhale through your nose. not bitter. not jealous. just… tired.

this, you think, is why i don’t.

don’t get close. don’t ask questions. don’t flirt back, even when the air is thick with it.

you’d seen it coming: the slow way his gaze shifted, how his interest had started to feel like a tug, like a thread you’d have to follow if you so much as looked too long.

you didn’t follow it. you walked away.

and still, it stung a little. not because he moved on. but because part of you thought he’d do that diligently. not with this… whatever. no point in mulling over spilled milk. which, in hindsight, is exactly why you needed the space.

they always move on.

footballers. artists. anyone used to being watched. they need attention like lungs need air. when you don’t give it, they find someone who will. you spent years learning how to keep your distance.

he’s not going to be the one to make you forget that.

—

returning is quiet. no drama. no announcement.

you’re just… there again.

clip your badge back onto your jacket. check the inventory. smile at the interns. pick up the schedule like you never left.

no one brings it up.

and that’s fine. better, even.

the first time you see jude, he’s walking out of the locker room, tugging his sleeve down over his wrist. you keep moving. he does too. your shoulders don’t brush. your eyes don’t meet.

you say nothing. he says nothing. and the weirdest part is; it’s fine.

he doesn’t seek you out. doesn’t ask about your family. doesn’t pull you aside like there’s something unresolved. he’s polite, distant, professional.

you match it. and maybe it should hurt, but it doesn’t. because this is the version of him you understand best.

star footballer. focused. unavailable.

you stay in your lane. handle your cases. keep your voice even. you do everything right.

and then… trent starts showing up.

it starts with a joke.

you’re rewrapping a knee and he passes by, mutters something under his breath; a joke about the new intern, about her labeling everything with her name like it’s a daycare center.

you don’t even look up. “maybe she’s just marking territory.”

he huffs. “sounds dangerous.”

you glance at him. “this place is dangerous. full of men with too much ego and too little sense.”

he grins. “good thing i’m humble.”

you raise a brow. “you? you can barely walk past a mirror without saluting it.”

“you watch me walk past mirrors?”

“i have to. you block the hall.”

he laughs. fully. loudly. the sound echoes.

you turn back to the knee you’re taping. don’t say anything else.

but trent lingers. leans on the table while you work. asks a few more questions. throws in a compliment about your technique. you side-eye him, and he grins wider, like he’s proud of himself for getting a reaction.

and here’s the thing… you don’t mind it. you don’t mind him.

he’s funny. soft-spoken when he wants to be. he listens more than he talks, which is rare in his world.

you’re not giving him anything. but you’re not shutting him down, either.

and that’s when you feel it.

someone watching.

you look up, not at trent, not at your patient.

across the room, jude is standing by the cold bath. towel over one shoulder, earbuds still in. staring.

not at the clock. not at the wall.

at you.

his expression is unreadable. not angry. not even surprised. just… locked.

you look away first. not because you’re flustered.

because you don’t owe him anything.

—

the rehab room smells like eucalyptus gel and overripe bananas.

trent makes a face the second he walks in.

"swear this place always smells like someone juiced a forest."

you don’t look up from the ankle you’re icing. “complain any louder and i’ll shove a compression sock down your throat.”

he smirks. kicks the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

you glance up at that. finally.

his damp shirt stuck to his chest. flushed from training, but still grinning like he’s just gotten away with something.

“i’m working,” you remind him, motioning to the player on the table.

trent shrugs. “i’m not stopping you.”

he walks over anyway. plants himself on the edge pf the treatment bench across from you. leans back on his hands like he’s got all the time in the world.

you roll your eyes. "if you're trying to get hurt just to spend more time in here, i’ll break your knee myself."

he grins. "what if i just like the company?"

"what if i just like peace and quiet?"

his laugh is soft, low. like it slips out before he can catch it.

the player you're working on raises an eyebrow but wisely says nothing. trent watches your hands move: steady, practiced, pressing the gel into skin with slow circles.

"serious question," trent says, biting into an energy bar he pulled from god knows where. "if someone were to, i don’t know, accidentally pull a hamstring doing the robot, would you still treat them?"

you don’t miss a beat. “i’d treat them like the idiot they are.”

“so… yes?”

"no."

he grins again. crumples the wrapper and lobs it into the trash from across the room.

misses.

you shake your head. “athleticism really peaking today, huh?”

he places a hand over his heart. “low blow.”

“deserved.”

the back-and-forth is easy. comfortable.

a current running under the surface, but not disruptive. just there.

your lips tug upward, the smallest smile. barely-there. but trent catches it. you see it in the way his eyes shift; soft at the edges now, teasing less, watching more.

“you smile like it’s illegal,” he says, quieter this time.

you pause, fingers still pressed to the ice pack. “maybe it is.”

“then arrest me. i wanna see it again.”

you blink. slow. not flustered… just… thrown for a second.

and that’s when jude walks in.

he’s not loud about it. just steps through the open door, towel in hand, shirt half-tucked. sweat dripping down his face and neck, jaw set.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t interrupt.

but he doesn’t leave either.

he walks past the table where you’re working, like he’s heading for the cabinets, but his eyes track the two of you the entire way. slow. unreadable.

your shoulders stiffen just slightly. you feel the air shift.

trent doesn’t turn. but he knows. you can tell by the way his tone flicks sharper.

“you good, mate?” he calls without looking.

“fine,” jude says. voice flat. measured. “didn’t realize this was your therapy session.”

you don’t say anything. you keep adjusting the ice.

trent smiles, still leaning back, still relaxed. “not mine, bro. just vibing.”

you finally glance up at jude.

his eyes meet yours. brief. fleeting. and then gone.

he grabs a roll of tape off the shelf. doesn’t need it. doesn’t even check the color. just something to hold.

“didn’t know you were into vibes now,” jude mutters. almost to himself.

trent’s smirk doesn’t falter. "evolving. character development."

you straighten up. your hands are cold from the ice. your fingertips numb. "if you two want to start a podcast, do it somewhere else," you say, voice dry.

trent stands, stretching. grins down at you.

“only if you’re our first guest.”

you ignore him. but your lips twitch again.

jude sees it.

of course he does.

sees how you don’t brush trent off the way you used to brush him off? not icy, not deflecting. just present. comfortable. maybe even open.

he clenches the roll of tape in his fist, too hard, like it’s the tape’s fault.

you turn back to your patient.

trent throws a mock salute and heads out, humming something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like the chorus to a bad 2000s r&b song.

jude lingers a few seconds longer.

you don’t look at him. you feel him watching you; jaw tight, eyes narrow. but you don’t give him anything.

eventually, he leaves.

no words. no glances back. just silence, echoing like the end of something he doesn’t know how to name.

and then… trent shows up early again. again.

you’re already in the physio room, cataloguing restock supplies, earbuds in but music off. just needed the noise.

he leans on the doorframe like he’s been there for a while.

you glance up. “you’re early.”

he smiles. “you say that like you’re not happy to see me.”

“maybe i’m not.”

he takes a step closer. “but maybe you are.”

you snort, not looking at him. “you always this cocky or is it just around me?”

“just you,” he says, without missing a beat.

you finally turn. he’s watching you — but not in the way most people do. not waiting to get something. just… watching.

you reach into the drawer for more tape, and he catches your wrist. not hard. not even sudden. just enough to make you pause.

“hey,” he says. softer. “you alright?”

you blink. “why wouldn’t i be?”

he tilts his head. “you’ve been acting like nothing gets to you. but you look tired. and not the good kind.”

you hesitate.

and then you say, “my family stuff isn’t fully sorted yet.”

he nods. “that why you disappeared?”

“mm.”

he doesn’t ask more. doesn’t push. he just squeezes your wrist –briefly– and lets go.

“thanks for not prying,” you say quietly.

“thanks for letting me in, a little.”

you look at him. really look at him. trent’s always been charming, sure; quick with a joke, easy with a smile. but lately, it’s quieter. more consistent. he shows up. he stays. you don’t know when that started mattering.

you sit down on the treatment bench, rubbing a knot out of your wrist. “you’re surprisingly decent, alexander arnold.”

he grins. “don’t let that get around.”

you raise a brow. “ruin the brand?”

“exactly.” and then, as he turns to leave, he says, almost like it’s nothing, “i’m glad you’re back.”

you say nothing.

but your smile follows him out.

—

jude sees it.

he sees everything. he’s standing by the water cooler, jaw set, breathing too slow for someone who didn’t just train. he watches trent walk out.

watches your head tilt in that way you do when someone catches you off guard. watches the faint curve of your mouth.

not big enough to be obvious, but too soft to be neutral. and something snaps.

you’re in the hallway when it happens.

he steps in front of you like he was waiting for this moment. “can we talk?”

you stare at him. “about?”

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“pretend you don’t know.”

you cross your arms. “jude, i’m working. unless you’ve torn something-”

“stop,” he says. sharp. almost low.

you go still. his eyes are dark. unreadable. voice tighter than you’ve ever heard it. “what’s going on with you and trent?”

your jaw tightens. “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

you tilt your head. “you’re asking about my personal life now?”

he steps closer. “i just think it’s funny.”

“what’s funny?”

“how quick you turned,” he spits. “how cold you were with me. how you acted like i was something to avoid- like I was messing with you- and now what? trent breathes near you and you melt.”

you feel it in your chest; that hot, rising flare of fury. not from the jealousy. from the entitlement.

you step forward.

"you do not get to talk to me like that."

his expression cracks. “i cared. i tried. and you looked at me like i was-”

“what?” you interrupt. “like you were one of a hundred footballers who think they’re owed something because they flirt with their physio?”

he flinches.

but you’re not done.

“you do have a girlfriend, jude. or did you forget that somewhere between nightclub appearances and private yacht photos?”

he opens his mouth. nothing comes out.

you shake your head. “this-” you motion vaguely between you, “-was never anything. and you’re acting like i betrayed you.”

he finally says, voice low, “because you never looked at me like that.”

you stop.

his eyes are tired now. raw. none of the ego left. just hurt, bruised and bleeding underneath.

you could lie. you could say nothing.

but you don’t.

“you scared me,” you say softly. “you made everything feel dangerous. like if i gave you an inch, you’d burn the whole thing down. and i couldn’t afford that.”

he looks at you. really looks. for once, no mask.

you finish, “trent makes me feel safe.”

his shoulders drop. like something leaves him.

"right,” he says. voice flat. “got it.”

you step back. create distance.

“jude,” you add, voice gentler, “you’re allowed to be upset. but this? whatever it was? it was never yours to be angry over.”

he nods. once. “you’re right.”

his voice is hollow. quiet.

he walks away.

and this time, you don’t watch him go.

—

it’s jude’s idea. he brings it up like it’s nothing:

a casual dinner. new place, soft lights, good food.

he invites trent first. then tosses the invite to you like an afterthought, voice too smooth, like he’s trying not to think about how it’ll land.

you pause for a beat too long. then say, “sure,” like it doesn’t matter.

trent grins. “we’ll come.”

we.

you ignore the way jude’s jaw ticks at that.

barely.

you show up with trent.

early, for once.

he opens the door for you without making a thing of it, hand resting at the small of your back just long enough to remind you he’s there.

you’re laughing when you walk in. something he said in the car. something about your music taste being “criminally chaotic.”

jude’s already at the table.

he stands when you arrive. polite, smiling, collected. his date, ailyn, sits beside him. model-perfect, aloof, bored already. she doesn’t look at you twice.

you slide into your seat across from jude.

trent takes the chair beside you. close, but not too close.

his knee brushes yours under the table. you don’t move.

the restaurant is warm. golden. brass fixtures. candlelight that flickers with every slow exhale.

trent reads the menu out loud with fake ‘posh’ accents. tries to guess what half the ingredients mean. gets it wrong, and owns it. makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink.

he leans in every time you speak. like he wants to catch every word before it hits the air.

you let him.

across from you, jude hasn’t said much. he’s sipping his drink too fast. nodding at things without reacting.

ailyn's talking, but his eyes are on you. not obviously. just… lingering. a beat too long, a breath too slow.

he watches the way you glance sideways at trent. the way your shoulder tilts slightly toward him. the way your eyes crinkle when trent mutters something only you can hear.

when trent reaches to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear –slow, gentle, uunshoy– jude’s smile flickers.

barely.

but you catch it.

his jaw clenches. his knuckles tighten around his fork.

you pretend not to see.

trent offers you the last bite of dessert without hesitation. he scrapes the chocolate onto the fork, holds it out, smirking. “you have to try this. promise.”

you part your lips just enough to take it. your eyes don’t leave his.

and jude’s foot starts bouncing under the table. not loud. not noticeable. unless you’re already listening for it.

you are.

ailyn nudges him. “you good?”

he nods without looking away. “yeah. tired.”

a bit later, you excuse yourself for a moment- bathroom, just to breathe.

when you come back, trent is standing. pulling your chair back for you. you smile at him without thinking. thank him with your eyes more than your voice.

he brushes your hand as you sit. keeps talking. keeps looking at you like you’ve got all his attention.

jude watches it all.

watches you fold into trent like it’s natural. watches your smile reach places it never reached when he was on the receiving end of it.

and for a moment, just one, jude looks like he might say something. his lips part. his fingers twitch like they’re reaching for something he doesn’t have anymore.

but then the check comes. and he doesn’t speak. he signs it too fast. like he needs the moment to end before it kills him.

outside, the air is cold.

trent slips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders before you can object. his fingers linger at your collar for a second longer than necessary.

“warm enough?”

you nod. your throat’s tight, suddenly. he’s too gentle for your own good.

jude is standing near the curb with ailyn, who’s still talking. still texting. still very much not looking at him.

his eyes, though?

locked on you.

he watches as trent walks you to his car. watches you laugh again, quietly this time, head down, eyes soft.

you don’t look back.

you don’t need to.

you can feel him watching you. still.

and you don’t flinch.

trent drives you home.

the windows are down. city air curling in around your wrists as you lean on the edge of the passenger side door.

he keeps glancing over, one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting on his thigh. he’s nervous. you can feel it before he says anything.

you’re quiet. not because you’re uncomfortable. just… full.

your skin still tingles where he touched you tonight. that soft moment when he handed you his jacket. the fork. the earring. the way his fingers skimmed your cheek like you were breakable.

he pulls up in front of your place, and for a second, neither of you moves.

you turn to thank him but he’s already looking at you.

“come here,” he murmurs.

you lean in without thinking.

his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb barely brushing your cheekbone. his breath smells like dessert and mint and something sweeter you can’t name.

you’re so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. your eyes flick to his mouth, then back to his eyes. his thumb pauses. your breathing slows. and just before your lips meet- “wait,” he says softly, barely a whisper, eyes not leaving yours.

you freeze.

“can I ask you something first?”

you nod. barely.

he pulls back just a little, hand still on your face. “what are we doing?”

you blink. your stomach dips.

“i mean…” he breathes out a short laugh. “i like you. you know that, yeah?”

you nod again, slower.

“and it’s not just… this. flirting. touching. the looks,” he says. “i want to call you mine.”

your heart stutters. a part of you wants to say yes before he finishes the sentence. but then-

“i want people to know,” he adds, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “i don’t wanna sneak around. i want to post you. take you out properly. make it real.”

and there it is. your chest tightens. you pull back a little, his hand dropping from your cheek. “trent…”

he watches your expression shift. confusion flashes across his face. “what?”

you hesitate. “i don’t… do that,” you murmur. “public stuff.”

he furrows his brow, soft at first. “what do you mean?”

“i can’t be in photos with you. or stories. or interviews. i can’t be-” you pause. “a public figure.”

he blinks. you see it hit.

“but… you work with us. you’re already in the spotlight.”

“not like that,” you say quickly. “i’ve spent years staying behind the scenes. i know what it’s like when things go public. they’ll pick me apart, trent. they’ll say things. they’ll twist everything. i’ve seen it happen.”

he’s quiet. not angry. just… confused.

“but i’d protect you,” he says. “you know i would.”

you nod. “i know.”

“and you’re beautiful,” he says. voice firmer now, frustrated. “so beautiful. why would you hide?”

you bite your lip. your hands twist in your lap. “it’s not about being pretty,” you whisper. “it’s about being safe. i've already got lots of personal issues going on, trent.”

that hits something. you see it in his eyes. he leans back in his seat. rubs a hand down his face. “so what,” he says slowly, “i can be with you… but only in private?”

you open your mouth. close it again.

“i have to sneak out the back, never post you, never talk about you?”

“trent-”

“what’s the point, then?” he cuts in. not harsh,but disappointed. hurt. “what’s the point of all this if i can’t show the world who you are to me?”

your throat tightens.

he’s not yelling. he’s not pushing. he’s just asking.

but you don’t have an answer that won’t break something. so you sit there. silent.

he exhales, turns away slightly, jaw tight.

the gap between you feels bigger than it did all week.

you reach for the door handle. pause. “i like you,” you say, voice shaking. “i really do.”

“then say yes,” he murmurs. “be mine.”

you hesitate. and that silence is louder than anything else.

you open the door. step out. before you close it, you whisper, “goodnight.”

he doesn’t say it back.

you hear him pull away a few seconds later. your chest doesn’t stop aching for hours.

[sanjity]

WHAT YOU NEED

synopsis: "he's what you want, i'm what you need." as a loyal retainer to sukuna, you would never betray your god. he had three simple rules, one of them being maintaining the virginity of his retainers. geto, however, views sukuna's ways to be absurd. the rival god intends to spit on his altar, with you as his tribute.

feat: god! suguru geto

w.c: 2.9k

c.w: pwp, religious kink!!, dubcon, corruption, anal fingering and penetration, spitting, public s, corruption, virginity loss

sukuna was a good god. you knew the towns people viewed his ways to be harsh and often cruel, but he just wanted what was best for his followers. he didn't ask for much, just tributes and respect.

he had three rules: no dead or half eaten tributes (after all, that was just disrespectful), placing the upmost faith in him, and the virginity of his retainers. these were simple rules, ones you didn't understand how anyone could break. restraint didn't take much effort, lust was unnecessary in one's life. it complicated things.

but above all, no one could ever mutter suguru geto's name around him. geto was a god of mischief, often coming around to torment sukuna. he tended to leave a trademark tiger skull on the altar, as a way of mocking him. it was an insult to your god, the way geto would lay such a graceful predator's skull on the table, cleaned of any blood and bones.

sukuna would never lie to you, and it was clear geto was bad luck. it didn't help that he didn't believe in the same ideals as sukuna. geto believed everything was a joke, life was an indulgence, and that people should take whatever they liked. there was no order, no restraint, no control.

since geto began lurking around the altar more, you offered to sukuna to stand by it, watching what people placed down. your reasoning was simply 'if people can't practice restraint and discipline, then we must be their guiding hand.' he told you that was fine, as long as he continued to get his tributes.

you stood there, watching the tributes placed down for sukuna. golds, the finest of silks, fresh fruit from people's acres. their respect for him was so nice to see, knowing that he had united a community of people.

but every day, the black haired man lurked. geto. he started by watching from a distance, his eyes trained on you as he scoped out the stone altar, decorated with portraits of the tiger-like god. he was waiting, trying to see when you'd give up post.

honestly, he knew he could overpower you in a moment. you were nothing but a meer mortal, a pawn to gods like him. instead, geto chose to toy with you. he had plans for you, big ones. tiger skulls and cat collars weren't enough to mock the god who started this useless feud.

lines needed to be crossed. a statement would be made.

the next week, geto began approaching you more. you chose not to make eye contact with him, knowing sukuna would be upset. you couldn't displease your lord, not when you'd been working so hard for his recognition, earning your spot as one of his head maidens.

"what's wrong, sweetheart? don't want to displease daddy?" he teases, a shit eating grin crossing his face. you don't indulge him in conversation, knowing it wound end up with him not shutting his mouth.

geto doesn't like that. he isn't one to be ignored, and he won't take your silence as an answer. "i said, what's wrong? you know he isn't going to strike you down for just opening those pretty lips. isn't he a nice god? that's what you maidens say, anyways." geto grabs an apple left on the altar, tossing it in his hand.

"put that down, it is a gift to the lord." you mutter between clenched teeth, not giving him the satisfaction of eye contact.

"so, you do speak. for a second i got scared your lord and savior stripped such a pretty doll of her voice..." geto grins, biting into the apple.

"why are you here?" you ask, looking in the other direction. geto snarls, taking another bite of the apple.

"obviously, i'm here to challenge your master." geto tosses the half eaten apple onto the altar, earning a sharp gasp from you.

"how dare you!" you hiss, grabbing the apple quickly. "not only did you steal his tribute, but you ate it, then had the audacity to throw it onto his altar? have you no respect?" you ask, removing a necklace from around your throat, placing in onto the cool stone. "i'm so sorry, sukuna. please, forgive this man for his blatant disrespect, he has no guiding light in his life." you whisper, unclasping your hands.

"oh, tell sukuna i fully meant that gesture. i have no respect for him, and unlike him, i do have a guiding light in my life." the rival god crosses his arms, amethyst eyes scanning your face.

"get lost." you huff out, pointing towards the exit of the cathedral. geto looks at the light shinning through the door, before shaking his head. "no." he simply replies.

"what?"

"i said no."

what his problem?? does he really have no idea of decency??

"you have no reason being here." you finally meet his eyes. oh. he was pretty, black hair framing his sharp face in a way that was ethereal. he was godlike. he had this look in his eyes, like a challenge. he wanted to defy sukuna, he did it willingly. there was no changing a man like him.

you look away quickly, mentally apologizing to sukuna for disgracing him by even giving geto the time of day. "leave."

"whatever." the god of mischief replies, smirking as he turns towards the cathedral doors. "i'll be back, young maiden. i think i like you the most."

you shiver, glad that he was finally gone. his words struck a chord within you though. he thought you were special. sukuna never told you that, he always treated you equally, even though you went above and beyond for him... no. this is wrong.

idolizing geto would only cause trouble for you. diving punishment was not in your cards for the future.

you would forget about him ever showing his face here, and hope he stayed away. it would be a shame for sukuna to have to get involved, the townspeople would be scared, seeing the man come down from his throne just to challenge another god.

it went on for two months. geto would wait, somewhere around the catherdral, before approaching you halfway through the day. he always brought some fucked up excuse for a tribute, whether it was half eaten food, a tiger skull, pet collars, or one day, a vial of poison.

each time he tried to place the items down, you quickly confiscated them, tossing them outside. such unholy items did not belong in a sacred place. defying sukuna was not a wise option. you didn't understand how geto didn't see that.

your days grew long, filled with the man's ceaseless rambling about how distasteful sukuna's beliefs were. virginity was not something to be proud of, closing yourself off from indulgence. devotion to one man and one man only is for the closed minded. geto claims he likes when his followers are individuals, choosing what to believe and what not to. "after all, rules are meant to be broken" was a phrase you heard often.

one day was different from the others. geto came up to your early, with nothing in his hand. you had gotten bolder, meeting his insults and prods with those of your own. "no tribute? seems we finally learned if you can't behave, not to bring it into sukuna's home."

"oh, no. i had a different tribute in mind." geto's grin is malicious, like he was planning something. a lump forms in your throat, nerves crawling. this was what sukuna warned you about. he's evil, his only purpose is tormenting him and his followers. sukuna was right, he was always right.

"whatever it is, i hope you remember sukuna's rules."

geto groans, rolling his eyes. "oh, all you do is praise that man. tell me, sweetheart, what has he really done for you? all he does is sit on his throne as you do his busy work, tending to this place like a maid. you're a servant, not a maiden. get it into your brain."

his words are venomous, and you lash out. "you don't know him, geto!! he keeps us in his best interest."

the god approached you. you never noticed how much taller he was than you, towering over you. he had you pinned to the altar, your back against the cold stone.

"really, does he? tell me, then, if i were to touch you, would he care? would he come down here and slap me? or would he watch. he never said men can't indulge in lust, only women."

you pause. was he right?

"you're wrong, you-"

"you're in denial, sweetheart." geto purrs, his lips by your ear. "it's okay though, i have ways around it."

what?

"tell me." you demand. this was wrong. you were actively denying sukuna's words, disrespecting him right in front of his altar. he knew what he would do to you?? but again, geto said he knew a way around the complication of virginity, right?? meaning that women could still indulge in pleasure without giving up their innocence.

"in sukuna's eyes, viriginty stems from reproduction. therefore, if i don't play with that sweet little pussy, then i'm not really taking your virginity, right, princess?"

you couldn't deny, geto's logic made sense, in the terms of sukuna's beliefs. but, pleasure was pleasure, and lust was lust. they fed into the innocence of a woman.

yet there was something so right about how geto's hands traced your body, hands on your hips through your robes. sukuna wouldn't mind, right? every maiden strays from their religion once in a while, he'd be glad to know i came back even after this.

geto senses your inner qualm, leaning down to offer advice. "i want to make a tribute to your god, through you. will you let me? think of it this way, i'm saving you. you need this. i'm forging you a closer bond with sukuna. he'll see you in a way that will surely make him happy."

when geto puts it like that, you can't deny. "okay." you whisper. "as long as it won't displease him."

the god smirks, turning you around so your back presses against his chest. "oh, i think your god will be very happy with this tribute." he discards your robes, leaving you bare and exposed. his eyes roam over the expanse of your body, taking in the state of you. "so pretty, untouched and willing to please." he coos in your ear, pressing his index and middle against your lips. "open up f' me, i need to get you prepared. i'm not a monster."

you oblige, parting your lips to take his two digits into your mouth. they were salty, the thick skin heavy on your tongue. you whimper around them, feeling their weight. a brick was forming in your stomach, not sure if you made the right choice. but geto had no purpose to lie, right? he was a god, just like sukuna, and therefore knew how a god would want his maidens to act.

drool pools down your chin as he slides his fingers out from between your lips, reaching behind to spread your cheeks. "fuck, she's a pretty one, ain't she?" the god purrs, admiring your pucker. he traces a saliva-coated finger over it, watching your hole clench in anticipation.

he grins, dipping one finger in. it felt foreign, like there wasn't supposed to be anything in your body. yet oddly, it felt right. you whimper, taking in the look of geto smirking down at your body, practically devouring you whole with his gaze.

"bet sukuna is enjoying his tribute, hm?" he coos, kissing your neck, poking and prodding with that thick finger of his. "think you can take another?" he ask, not really giving you time to answer. he knew you were ready, eager to please him and your god.

pushing in a second finger, you mewl louder. the intrusion was bigger this time, the feeling of two thick digits being too much to handle. you whimper, shivering as he spits more onto your clenching hole, an attempt to get the two fingers to slide in and out easily. "doin' so well" he pants out, glaring at the portrait of sukuna on the altar. "i bet you he's glad i came here today. i'm makin' up for all the shitty tributes, yea? spreading his sexy little maiden out, watching her fall apart from my fingers." he emphasizes each word with a harsh thrust. "betcha he's so proud of me, not breaking his rules. ya get to keep your virginity."

you nod, swallowing thickly. a tight knot builds in your stomach, your mind swimming with what it meant. where you anxious? was this an orgasm that married woman talked about?? geto senses your inner turmoil, leaning down again. "feelin good?" he ask, punctuating with a sloppy kiss to your neck.

you nod. it did feel kinda good, so it must be the latter option. that only made sense, right? women orgasmed when they felt good during sex, so geto was just bringing you closer to that point.

the god grins down, maliciously. "good, think you're ready?"

ready for what? but before you can find the voice to ask, his fingers are withdrawn, earning a small whine from you. it felt weird, being so empty after he had your ass filled to the brim. "geto" you pout, looking back at him. this is exactly what he wanted. you, finally giving into pleasure, while still believing you kept your virginity.

geto traces his tip against your clenching pucker, pre-cum smearing across it as he looks down at your body. "shit, can't wait t' fill ya up, darlin." he growls, spreading your cheeks and pressing his tip in, slowly.

the stretch was way more than you expected. geto was big, he didn't prepare you enough. yet if it meant pleasing sukuna, serving your god was your one priority. that meant taking geto's dick on the altar even if it was such a big stretch, you could do it.

you whimper, pressing your head into the cool stone. geto's body was warm, yours even warmer. the stone provided some sort of relief to the heat pulsing through you as geto shoves himself deep, thick dick filling your ass to the brim. it was so much more than his fingers, yet it felt so right.

he didn't ask if you were ready. you weren't expecting him too. there was a difference in the authority of your roles, you were the one made to submit to him. you wouldn't dare question or defy him.

you were a maiden of sukuna, made to serve and please. maybe geto wasn't your god, but if his tribute of you, getting fucked dumb in the ass, was pleasing to sukuna, then you would obey.

geto groans behind you, thick cock being swallowed by your walls, clenching around his twitching shaft. "so greedy, ngh" he pants out, hips rolling against your ass. he was enjoying this, watching him ruin his enemies maiden on an altar. it was disgusting, yet worth the disdain he would bring sukuna.

lying to you was the perfect plan - not only had he corrupted a maiden, but he was actively violating sukuna's beliefs. it was a beautiful crime, one geto would cherish, laughing as he watches sukuna's wraith fall on the poor citizens.

it was all part of his plan. he grins, picking up the speed. you were drooling against the stone now, a cool puddle of salivia dripping down your chin, whimpers and pleads falling from your lips as geto pounds relentlessly into your hole. he could barely make out a few words, other than "so full" and "i hope this pleases him."

the chaos that would unravel would be worth this, worth every last drop of cum geto was about to pound into you. sukuna would be hated after the outlash he would show the citizens. they would come crawling to geto, make him their god.

geto turns your head towards him a bit, parting your lips to spit on your tongue. "swallow" he commands, punctuating his word with a harsh thrust. you were seeing stars, feeling dumb at this point. all you could think about was pleasing these two gods. sukuna would be happy, and geto promised he would leave you alone.

that knot in your stomach returns, and you feel yourself coming close to your orgasm. it doesn't last long, though. geto's orgasm comes first, filling your pretty asshole full of his cum. he pulls out before even letting you get your release. smirking down at the masterpiece he had made out of sukuna's maiden.

"you look stunning, doll." he coos. "now, lay yourself down on the altar, and i'll close the catherdral down for the day. sukuna will be so excited to see this tribute, dontcha think?" geto cups your cheek, helping you onto the table. cum pools from your hole onto the stone, and you lay in a mess of spit, crushed tributes, and geto's cum.

the god of mischief walks out of the cathedral, bidding a farewell. silence falls in the space, leaving you alone with what little thoughts you had.

you prayed to sukuna that he would be sated with the tribute geto had given him. but something dark curled at the corners of your mind, something that told you this might have just been a game of geto's...

© sanjity 2025 ⋆ please do not feed my work to ai, repost or translate my works on other media sites, such as, but not limited to: tiktok, wattpad, ao3, quotev, or other sharing sites ♡

[eatglassgays]

I've seen this a lot on twitter esp how squid game is supposedly lbh's most iconic role and it made ljj famous like yes, in many ways it did. they gained worldwide recognition and became household names but they were already VERY FAMOUS AND WELL RESPECTED in their industry before squid game like so many prestigious films, series, and accolades and all of a sudden them becoming less significant because of a netflix show just doesn't sit right with me. they have had absolutely marvelous careers outside of squid game, I mean cmon, lbh is starring in the next park chan wook. western validation didn't make them who they are, they were already fucking incredible

[astvrook]

OBSIDIAN NECTAR. (s. jake)

pairing: golden angel! jake x shadow being fem. reader genre: dark/yandere/toxic romance, erotic fantasy, supernatural tragedy and lyrical horror. content warnings: 18+ content. consensual but dark power scenes, explicit language and body transformation. wc: 3,3k+

eurynomos appeared on the threshold of your prison like a shadow that had forgotten its own darkness. he did not cross the door, but it was the door that shifted, moving aside with a silent bow, as if the iron feared to brush against his presence. then, in a deep voice charged with the gravity of the gods, he announced that he brought a gift. and the laughter escaped your lips before the air; it was not a mockery, but the crackle of something old, something that has not awakened for millennia.

since your name was erased from the sefer ha-chayim and rewritten in the record of the cracks, there had been no laughter in your throat, only a steady hum, like glowing embers, or perhaps the echo of broken wings.

"a gift?" you asked, raising an obsidian goblet brimming with shadow wine. "for me? as if i might have something to celebrate?"

eurynomos was silent, because the angels are not born: they are named. demons don't die, they are simply forgotten. and you, you dwelt in a limbo, where neither memory nor oblivion dare tread.

the adjuster ❮ so called by the gods who feared his scales forged of star-bone ❯ held out the palm of his hand. in it burned a faint, fragile light, about to dissolve into stardust. but you knew instantly that it was someone's pulse.

jake. the angel who once ❮ just once ❯ made your anger waver. hair golden as wheat before the harvest, lifted by the wind, and his mother-of-pearl wings curved towards you not in flight, but in a silent embrace. he, the only one who saw in you not a crime, but an open wound.

"it's not a joke," said eurynomos, as if the very idea sullied the silence. "it is a gift."

« gift. » the word burned your lips. « the present is he» the one who represented the promise that paradise still existed, that it was a place and not a threat. what was it now? a coin to appease your fire?"

"why?" you whispered, your voice cracking, like sand on ash.

"because the heavens believe that if you have something to lose, maybe you won't wipe it all out."

that's when it was too late.

an almost invisible necklace, a thread of liquid gold, closed softly but firmly around jake's neck. it wasn't an ornament: it was a hook, a loop that tied him to your will, to your fury, to that possible tenderness that you didn't know existed.

jake opened his eyes. his breath smelled of orange blossom amidst the stink of sulphur, as if spring had burst into the underworld. he never recoiled or screamed. he only looked at you with a curiosity so intense that it hurt more than any fear.

you remembered the first time you met. he had noticed the glint in your eyes and the shadowy spread of your wings. he did not say it, but you saw it clearly: a silent recognition, like one who finds in the enemy an unexpected reflection. you thought it was heavenly courtesy. because it couldn't be that an angel would look at you with such deep devotion... on a mere whim.

until you touched him.

a handshake, just for an instant. the flames you felt were not yours, but his, responding to the fire of the encounter like an ancestral home. his skin was tinged with a forbidden red, universally condemned, but he did not let go of your hand. nor did he recoil. and his master tore him from you with the urgency of one who fears losing a destiny tied to the thinnest thread.

but now he stood before you again.

bound.

surrendered.

yours.

“are you going to kill me?” jake asked, the mockery playing in his voice as the trembling in his words carried the fear of icarus as he felt the burning sun grow closer.

“no,” you replied, calmly approaching. “to kill you would require the consent of hades, and not even the alliance of all the gods could snatch you from tartarus. but i can mark my path upon your skin, like the ancient seals that tattooed those who fell from the empyrean.”

a click echoed. the guard, huge as a son of ares, seized jake with the ease with which hermes steals newborn souls.

the young man's wings, white as the alabaster of lost lockets, trembled, fragile and sublime, like the feathers of the celestial griffins before the fall.

“after this mark,” you announced, “you will be mine, jake. nothing will be left of the celestial or the divine in you, save what my will decides.”

jake's eyes widened with a flash of astonishment, but he held his gaze steady, fierce and docile at the same time, like a martyr accepting the fate woven by the moiras.

his face, worthy of greek heroes, burned with life that would soon be yours, even if you had to break it as one breaks a locket to drink the miracle.

a searing pain struck your mind, apollo's punishment for those who defy the light with shadow. you slumped on the throne, covering your vision with your palm, as if jake's clarity was a spear of helios aimed at your essence.

“stop,” you command the guard, voice sharp as damocles' sword. “his wings. tear them off, like the grigori chained in the babylonian abyss.”

the silence was heartbreaking. jake blinked, understood, and his cry was that of prometheus in chains, suffering divine torments: “no, wait! let me go!”

no one listened. two guards, stygian demons, dragged him away in a piercing shriek that floated off the walls like the broken banner of a fallen angel.

time was measured only in their screams, timed by cronus counting forgotten exiles.

hours later you heard the feathers fall, one by one; sounds of scourge and sacrifice, echoes of the torment lilith put her children through, stripping them of their grace to satiate an inhuman hunger.

you knew the pain because the same moiras denied you wings centuries ago: your fate was twin to his.

then the air became thick, charged with the sour scent of despair and an ominous power that only accompanies eternal loss.

with brutal force the first wing was ripped off; muscles twisting, flesh yielding with a horrendous tearing, breaking the silence with creaking bones and sinew.

the whiteness was stained bright red, staining the purity with searing pain. jake groaned, but was enveloped by the consuming shadow.

the second wing followed the same fate: brutal outbursts, the light eclipsed in a savage act. each fallen feather was a fiery lash on his skin, a ritual that punished body and soul.

your eyes did not blink, though a complex fire burned in your chest: absolute dominance, greed to possess his essence and delicate, mutilated humanity.

finally, after hours, jake returned limp, face down, his back scarred by dark rivers like acheron. and the guard bent to lift him up, but one sign from you was enough to leave you alone with the spoils.

as you approached with a bottle of dark wine, both of you shrouded in the gloom of the irrevocable, you poured the crimson liquid over the wounds. and dionysus would have applauded such cruel hedonism.

when jake wanted to scream, you silenced his mouth with your hand, imposing on him the silence of the damned.

the wine bubbled in the broken flesh: magic and poison at once, transforming the pain into a sweet and deadly addiction.

when the trembling stopped, you settled her head in your lap, like hera nursing a monster. her hair fell, and your fingers explored the nothingness where wings once shone.

there was no feather left, only emptiness: a wasteland waiting for your dominion.

for now, every inch of her back was your conquered kingdom.

no torment would ever claim something that was absolutely yours.

but something changed in you.

first you noticed it in your wings: the golden glow of the sun of helios faded, replaced by a jet black that reminded you of jake.

then it was your skin, turning pale and cold as the nights of hecate.

finally your energy, that strength that always stole the strength of others, escaped from you in sighs. as if someone was stealing your soul while you slept.

and weeks after the tearing, jake never quite covered himself. he wandered the basalt corridors like a sleepwalker; at other times he stood still by the window, naked against the wind of the abyss, willing the air to erase what was left of his light.

little by little something changed.

his skin took on a steely hue, as if his blood was thickening and turning darker.

his once luminous torso sharpened, with the sobriety of a warrior who knows the weight of the wound.

the inner light he emanated was extinguished. in its place, a dark, dense mist expanded beneath his collarbone, breathing into the crevice where his wings once soared.

and the orange blossom it used to exhale was replaced by a smell of rain on hot metal, of freshly exploded star powder, a scent that haunted you even in your dreams.

when jake lay back in bed that night, there was no trace of the shining angel who had once smiled at you from the other side of the war.

only a naked, perfect body in ruins, that seemed to whisper: “you broke me. now finish putting me back together in your image.”

without a word, you stared at him.

half-naked, the golden silk barely concealed his hips, while the light traced a fresh scar on his chest: your mark, your signature. and the sheet clung to his skin with sweat, revealing the tension of muscles waiting to be claimed.

there was no modesty, but the security of someone who knows that he belongs only to you.

“don't you notice anything different about me?” you asked, accused by a tightness in your chest.

“in you?” he answered, feigning offence, gazing down your body. “no, you dazzle. you are beautiful in every molecule, fascinating in every breath, (y/n).”

you almost laughed, bitter and tired, looking away from the mirror where you had been gazing at yourself. but your skin stirred a strange sensation, as if you didn't recognise your body. you'd even thought about wandering around naked so you wouldn't feel the weight of the fabric.

and jake sat up slowly, dropping the sheet to reveal the curve of his back, marked where the wings used to be.

there was no shame, only a silent offer: claim what was yours.

when your health began to crumble like a charred cathedral, you took the only card you had left: you sent the lightest psychopomp you could bribe ❮ a swan soul who still remembered the flight ❯ with the order to scale the seven heavens and steal a flash of truth.

days later he returned. the messenger landed staggering, his bird's eyes turned into broken mirrors. on the threshold of your prison he hesitated: the hellish air scraped his throat like ground glass.

and you could barely stand; your skin peeled off in thin scales, as if your own body wanted to change its owner.

still, you held out your hand, ready to pay any price for a name, for a cause, for a cure.

“what did you see upstairs?” you asked, your voice so fragile that the echo broke before it came back.

the swan opened its beak. what came out was a broken squawk, but the words formed in your mind without sound: “your energy is not lost. it is transferred. it is summoned.”

“summoned?” you repeated, anger mixed with giddiness. “who has the power to summon my essence?”

the messenger dared not say so; he only raised a trembling wing and pointed to the back of the room.

there stood jake.

naked.

standing like a time-polished statue. the torchlight slid over his skin and revealed the change in all its harshness, his breathing slow, deep, so controlled that the air seemed to obey him before filling his lungs.

and the eyes... two bottomless pits reflecting your own weakness.

“jake?” you murmured, taking a staggering step forward.

he didn't answer. his gaze was fixed on the messenger; the swan backed away until it hit the wall, feathers ruffled in terror.

then you understood: the messenger had not returned out of fear of you, but of him.

“what have you done?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

jake stepped forward. the gesture was slow, ritualistic: each movement tore through the silence as if it were cloth. when he was an inch away, he bowed his head; his hair — now the same jet black as his lost wings — fell over his eyes.

“i have not stolen your energy,” jake explained, and his voice echoed through the room like a sunken cathedral organ. “i have reclaimed it. you promised me your soul the first time you touched me, and i'm just collecting.”

you stepped back, but your body failed you; your knees gave way.

jake knelt with you, naked, unashamed, like a priest before his altar. he took your trembling hand and brought it to his chest. under his skin a cold light throbbed: your light, your archaic essence, locked now in a cage of bone and shadow.

“feel,” he whispered, “it still beats for you. but inside me.”

“that's impossible...” you gasped. “we demons can't be drained...”

“unless the drainer is more demon than the demon himself,” jake completed, the corners of his lips curving into a smile that was neither sad nor joyous, but possessive.

he leaned in; his forehead touched yours. the contact was an icy flash: a vision invaded your mind. then you saw him, years ago, kneeling before the high courts, offering his soul in exchange for yours. you saw how every ounce of purity torn away was a seal of his contract: let the angel sink, and the demon will be his.

“why?” you whispered, tears salting your parched lips.

“because,” jake said, kissing your temple with burning tenderness, “the only way to possess you completely was to let you believe it was you who possessed me.”

his hands, warm and firm, rested on your waist. it wasn't a hug; it was a final claim. the messenger, forgotten, shuffled towards the exit; jake didn't even look at him. his black eyes held you, only you, and in them shone the certainty of millennia:

“we are one now. and your skin...” he caressed your cheek with reverence, “will be yours again when my name is engraved on every pore.”

and without further ado, he took you in his arms ❮ naked he, naked you ❯ and the world was reduced to the shared heartbeat of two souls who no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

centuries later, mothers would tell their children the story of an empty throne. the throne that belonged to the fallen wrath and the angel who chose to fall.

to two beings who devour each other in an eternal embrace, where torment and pleasure merge.

meanwhile, on olympus, the gods look at each other, whispering that giving that angel away had been a mistake.

but it is too late now.

because every night, when the stars go out, a song is heard in the abyss.

a song of possession.

a song of obsessive love.

MASTERLIST

©astvrook 2025.