#this sounds more in line with the Universal Monsters Universe...

[subrosa25]

"Talk" || Coriolanus Snow x Reader || Pt. I

Author's Note: This is my first time writing for THG universe, so this is a recent side blog. I got a bit inspired by our favorite psychopath and wanted to contribute my own ideas... Drawing it's name from "Talk" by Hozier, and leaning a bit more into the dark academia vbe. This is the setup so largely SFW with some insinuation, and the smut will be in Pt. 2... Possibly might do a followup to that. Anyways, here's to hoping that THG fandom enjoys... ~ Rosa

Summary: New University student Coriolanus Snow finds something pretty in the Library, and does his best to charm this elusive if not slightly odd woman. (No use of Y/N!)

Word Count: 12,608

Rating: SFW with suggestive elements! Recommended teen +

Masterlist | Next Part (coming soon!)

Coriolanus Snow had missed his class’s first year at the University. His stint as a Peacekeeper had set him back, not completely, but just enough to knock him out of sync with his former classmates. They had gone ahead without him, eager young minds diving into privilege and position while he remained in limbo. Still, the delay came with its own reward: a full year of Dr. Gaul’s undivided attention. A rare, but exhausting privilege.

The University loomed larger and colder than the Academy, perched like a marble monument above the rest of the Capitol, its iron gates twisting with frost in winter. Its towers stabbed upward, spined with gold and lined with dark windows that reflected the ever-drifting snow. It was older than the war, older than memory, and inside its echoing halls lived the kind of knowledge that built and broke empires.

Unlike the Academy’s polished propaganda and curated privilege, the University wore its intellect like a crown of thorns: severe, prestigious, unforgiving. But Coriolanus no longer entered it as a poor Capitol boy from a crumbling apartment. He returned draped in the Plinth name, fortune stitched into every thread of his tailored coat. Becoming Sejanus Plinth’s replacement had opened every door he previously couldn’t touch. Overnight, the Snow name glittered again.

And yet, despite the reinstated wealth and the carefully restored legacy, Coriolanus found himself lingering in smaller corners of the grand institution. Perhaps it was years of deprivation that made the finer things seem... untrustworthy. The velvet chairs and gilded fixtures felt too much like theater. Too much like a lie. He had lived on the other side. The cold winters, the hollow pantry, the nights when they’d fed the fire with his childhood books just to keep the air from freezing them to death.

It wasn’t Gaul’s lab he longed for, though most assumed it would be. Volumnia Gaul’s infamous laboratory was his proving ground. The place where monsters were born and futures forged. But he hated it. The room pulsed with too-bright lights that seemed to hum with unseen electricity. The floor was always too clean, smelling of bleach and formaldehyde, and the glass tanks that lined the walls swam with things that shouldn’t have been alive. They moved wrong. They breathed wrong. And when they screamed — high, clipped, wet sounds — the echo haunted his ears long after he left.

No, the only place he felt peace was the library. It stretched across an entire wing of the west tower, a dark, hushed sanctuary of mahogany shelves and oil paintings faded by time. The air there smelled of old ink, brittle parchment, and the lingering warmth of firewood. In winter, the snow outside cloaked the windows in soft white, and the hearths crackled in every corner, casting light that danced across the spines of centuries-old books.

There was something almost sacred about it. The way silence settled like dust, the way history pressed in on him from every direction. Sometimes he’d sit for hours beneath the painted gaze of long-dead scholars and statesmen, their eyes yellowed with varnish and time. They’d watched empires fall and rise again. They watched him too, it seemed, with judgment and curiosity. The library reminded him who he was. Or who he could still become.

In the first weeks of term, the University shed its hushed solemnity and came alive. What had once been still, echoing halls now hummed with ambition. The previous empty halls from a summer away from academics, now replaced by students once more. The soundscape shifted. Leather soles against stone, low conversations in clipped tones, laughter that echoed too loudly from marble stairwells. Students had returned like a flock of birds migrating home, their plumage vibrant, their confidence effortless.

Coriolanus watched it all with a certain distance. He walked among them, yes, but rarely with them. His clothes were tailored, his shoes shined, his name reborn in gold. But he hadn’t grown into this world so much as he’d been thrust back into it. A place at the University had once seemed unreachable. Now it was expected. Demanded, even. And yet, even surrounded by rising architects of Panem’s future political heirs, scientists-in-the-making, and carefully bred diplomats, he found himself distracted.

Or rather, drawn. Relentlessly, quietly, to someone who did not try to be seen. She was there in the library before he ever realized he was looking for her. At first, just a shape moving between shelves. Quick, efficient. Not hurried, not lazy. Purposeful. She handled the books differently than others. Never tossing them onto carts or letting their corners bang against the desk. She moved them like they mattered. Like they were alive.

He noticed the way she dressed before he noticed her face. Always in darker colors—blues, grays, browns—soft fabrics that gathered gently at her wrists or collarbones. Modest, but never careless. As if her clothes were meant not to conceal, but to quiet the world around her. There was something unassuming in it, something that whispered rather than demanded attention. And that, he found, was far more intriguing. Capitol girls often wore themselves like advertisements. Loud makeup, sharper silhouettes, everything lacquered and loud. She was the opposite. She was intentional. And it unnerved him.

He told himself he returned to the library for the quiet. For the firelit alcoves. For the smell of wax and parchment and the lingering warmth. But his eyes always sought her. She never sat long. Always working. Always moving. Sorting, shelving, scribbling notes in tight, upright handwriting in the margins of ledgers he could never read from a distance. She spoke rarely, but when she did—usually to the aging head librarian, a woman with clouded eyes and a spine like a question mark—her voice was soft, low, and certain. Not shy. Just... restrained. Like she’d learned long ago that most people didn’t deserve her full volume.

He couldn’t place her. There was a different shape to her vowels, a different economy in her movements. A provincial edge, but softened by something else. Sharpness or learning or both. She was a student, he knew as much as he’d seen her exiting lectures with a folio clutched tightly to her chest. But her role in the library seemed more permanent. Like she belonged more to its wood and shadow than any classroom.

And she watched. Not constantly. Not obviously. But sometimes, while reshelving near where he worked, he’d feel her eyes linger on him for a breath too long. Not flirtatious. Not challenging. Merely... assessing. As if she, too, hadn’t figured him out yet.

It infuriated him.

It fascinated him.

In the first few weeks of his return, she became a kind of gravity. He found himself inventing reasons to stay longer. Digging into books he didn’t care about, scribbling the same notes twice just to avoid standing. Always waiting for a glimpse of her: half-lit between rows of books, or bent over some old volume, one fingertip tracing the spine as if reading by touch.

He didn’t know her name. He hadn’t asked.

Not yet.

But he would.

He first spoke to her because of the ink on her hands.

Not a grand excuse. Not something clever. Just a thin, inky stain smudged along the edge of her thumb and across her knuckles. Blue-black and half-faded, like she’d tried to wash it off but hadn’t bothered to scrub. She was seated behind the desk when he noticed it, her head bent low over the circulation ledger, writing in firm, narrow strokes. The firelight caught the side of her face, softening the planes of it, drawing warmth from otherwise unadorned features. No powder. No rogue. Just her skin. And the ink.

He watched her turn the page, still mid-sentence. Her eyes scanned it once before she resumed writing. Precise. Focused. Unaware of him, or pretending to be. Coriolanus stepped closer. Not close enough to startle, just enough to be seen. “That doesn’t come out easily,” he said, nodding faintly toward her hands. “The ink.”

She glanced up then, brows barely lifted. Not defensive. Not intrigued. Just aware. “I fear that is the point. To make marks that will not wash away with time,” she replied, closing the ledger with care.

He smiled faintly, playing at charm, though part of him was watching her like a hawk. “Do they make you log all that by hand?”

“They don’t make me,” she said. “I prefer it.”

“Even with the mess?”

A pause. Then: “Some things are worth a little mess.” He felt that. More than he expected to. Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it landed all the same. Honest in a way that caught him off guard. She reached for a cloth and pressed it into her palm, dabbing at the remnants of wet ink without much effort.

“I’m Coriolanus,” he offered then, smoothly, extending a hand. She looked at it. A blink. No surprise in her face: Only calculation. The kind that worked through a gesture before responding to it. Eventually, she took it. Her grip was firm, dry, and brief.

“I know,” she said.

He let that hang between them for a second too long. “And you are...?”

“I help with the library,” she said, neither smiling nor cold. Her tone was pleasant, almost wry. “That’s usually enough.”

Not your name, he noted silently. A boundary. Still, he nodded once, conceding the point with an easy elegance. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep coming back. See if you ever decide to tell me.”

She didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t flirt. Just returned to her work, flipping open a fresh ledger page. But before he could step away, she spoke again. “The book you asked to have pulled,” she said without looking up, “was misclassified. It’s political theory, not constitutional law. I had it pulled from the archive.”

He hesitated. He had asked for no such thing. Yet, she seemed to be keenly aware of the kind of material in which he normally sought to read. Political theory was a majority of the texts he found himself going back to. He understood the invitation in her carefully crafted lie, and the fact she’d raised her tone ever so slightly in case anyone lingering nearby seemed to be listening. “I’ll be back for it tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she murmured. And just like that, a door cracked open.

He returned the next day just after the second lecture. The library was quieter in the mornings, the hearths not yet fully stoked, the air still holding the last of the dawn chill. She was already there, of course.

This time, she was kneeling beside a low shelf near the historical archives, her sleeves rolled to the forearms as she sorted a tray of aging catalog cards. Her hair was tied back loosely, with strands falling free around her temples, and a half-finished cup of tea sat forgotten on the floor beside her. The scent of it—black tea and something faintly floral—hung in the air between them. Coriolanus approached without speaking, slowing his steps to let the soft sound of his shoes announce him. She didn’t startle. Didn’t glance up right away, either.

“The book,” she said, before he could speak, reaching without looking into the crate behind her. She held it up as she stood: slim, bound in rough maroon cloth. Worn at the corners.

He took it from her, careful to let his fingers brush hers only for the briefest second. “No ink on your hands today,” he said, letting his gaze flick meaningfully to hers.

“I’m more careful when I know I’ll be watched,” she said, calm, measured.

A pause. He smiled again, slower this time. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re not the first student who likes to wander through here looking thoughtful.”

“But I’m the only one you’ve spoken to,” he said, testing her. To that, she didn’t reply. Not with words. She merely stepped back toward the shelf and resumed her work, slipping a stack of cards into their drawer, her movements smooth and unbothered. And yet, there was something different now. A beat of silence between them that felt less like dismissal and more like... allowance.

He crouched near the opposite end of the same row, book in hand, pretending to skim a nearby title while he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t fill the silence with small talk. She didn’t ask why he was still standing there. And that, somehow, was permission. “I read the first few pages,” he lied, tapping the book’s spine. “The author’s a bit dry.”

“She’s meticulous,” the girl replied without looking up. “That’s different from being dull.”

He leaned an elbow on the shelf beside him. “You sound like you’ve read her.”

“I’ve read most of the people students only pretend to.” The line was delivered without arrogance. Just truth. It made his smirk falter, just slightly, replaced by something quieter. Respect, though he didn’t name it. He looked down at the book again, running a thumb along the faded letters on its cover. “Then maybe I’ll need your help interpreting it,” he said. “If I’m pretending too.”

This time, she glanced at him directly. Just for a second. Then she returned to the catalog drawer and slid it shut. “I doubt you're pretending,” she said. “But I do think you like to be seen reading.”

He laughed. Genuine, brief, surprised by her analysis. And for a moment, she smiled too. Small. Real. Then it was gone again, tucked away like a page turned too quickly. “If you find her dull then perhaps I can find something more to your liking tomorrow.” With that she turned and headed for the back rows without another word. 

He came back the next afternoon. Not immediately. Not so soon that it would look deliberate. But soon enough that she would remember her promise and see his effort to ensure she delivered upon it. The book she’d mentioned was waiting for him at the front desk, just as promised. A slim volume, clothbound and faded, marked with a small slip in her handwriting: See Chapter IV — margins are annotated.

Her script was neat. Upright. Coriolanus ran a finger along the top of the page, not reading the words just yet. Just thinking. Not about the book, but the gesture. She hadn’t signed the note. But she may as well have. He took the book, thanked the older librarian at the desk, and carried it not to his usual table in the center alcove, but to a smaller one just behind the reference shelves. Near the back, where the wood creaked and the walls curved in with old heat.

It took twenty minutes for her to appear again. She emerged from between the theology and statecraft stacks, carrying a few misfiled atlases and a slim red volume he couldn’t make out. Her pace was calm, measured, as always,  but her eyes flicked once toward the table where he sat. He saw her see him. He didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. Instead, he opened the book and turned directly to Chapter IV. The notes were precise. Sparing. Just small lines of pencil, underlining certain passages, bracketing others. There were no full notes, no opinions, only emphasis. It felt like a quiet kind of conversation between her and the author. And now, between her and him.

One phrase had been bracketed twice, a thin arrow pointing from one sentence to another: "Public loyalty is not rooted in law, but in fear of exile."

He read it again. And again. There was a chair across from him. Empty. He didn’t expect her to take it. That would be too forward, and she didn’t seem the type to offer her time so easily. Still, when she passed his table, he looked up. “Was this meant to be a warning?” he asked.

She didn’t stop walking. But she paused just long enough beside his table to glance down at the page. “If you think it applies to you,” she said quietly, “maybe it is.”

A breath. Then she was gone again, vanishing into the rows with her arms full of books. Coriolanus stared after her, lips parted slightly, the book still open in front of him. He couldn’t decide if she was mocking him. Or if she saw him more clearly than anyone else ever had. Either way, he knew one thing with complete certainty.

He would be back tomorrow.

The next time he saw her, she was at the desk again — not working, not shelving, but reading. A battered copy of The New Panem Legal Reader lay open in front of her, spine cracked from use. Her chin was resting on one hand, her expression unreadable. And beside her, as before, a chipped ceramic mug, contents long gone. Coriolanus paused a few feet back, adjusting the strap of his satchel so it fell noisily against his shoulder. She didn’t startle, but she looked up. The smallest flick of her eyes, the kind she might give to a passing shadow.

This time, he didn’t approach empty-handed. He set a small thermos on the desk beside her mug. Steel, clean-lined, warm to the touch. Neutral. Nothing ostentatious. “I thought I’d bring you something better,” he said simply. “Your usual smells like boiled dust.”

She blinked once, then looked down at the thermos. No movement to touch it. Not yet. “You’ve been cataloging my tea?” she asked, dry but quiet.

“I’ve been cataloging a lot of things,” he said.

That made her lips press together. Not a smile, but not disapproval either. A pause followed. Then, delicately, she closed her book and reached for the thermos. Twisted the top open. Sniffed. “Citrus?” she said.

“Orange blossom. And bergamot.”

“You drink this?”

“Sometimes, but I assumed you preferred bergamot because of your perfume.” Another pause. Then, surprisingly, she poured a little into her own chipped mug. She didn’t thank him. But she took a sip. Her eyes didn’t close, but he saw something shift in her posture. Just slightly. As if she'd exhaled without meaning to. “You don’t strike me as generous,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“So what’s this?”

“An investment.”

She looked at him, finally. Really looked, like she was trying to read past his face, past the Capitol-perfect posture and the studied calm of his voice. “And what kind of return are you expecting?” she asked.

He smiled. “That you remember it came from me.”

Her gaze didn’t drop. But after a long second, she reached into her book and pulled out a folded slip of paper. A page torn from a student ledger. She scribbled something quickly, then slid it toward him across the desk.

“Second floor,” she said. “Annex reading room. There’s a set of trial transcripts they never added to the public catalog I am supposed to be putting away later but conveniently I have found myself distracted. You want something real to read? Try those.”

He picked up the note. “Why give me this?”

She looked back down at her tea. “Because you actually read what I suggest.”

He found her in the annex, exactly where he’d read the transcripts last time. The room was dim, lit only by the failing light of a high, narrow window and a small desk lamp she’d angled toward a box of yellowing legal documents. His eyes traced the delicate lines of her tailored trousers as they turned into a looser button down blouse. She had one leg tucked beneath her, a few pieces of hair falling into her face as she flipped carefully through pages marked with age and ink.

She didn’t look up when he entered which meant, he was sure, that she’d already heard him coming. He didn’t speak right away. Just moved to the table and took the seat across from her, resting his elbows on the wood. She turned another page. “Careful,” she murmured, her voice soft in the stillness. “The spines crack if you open them too fast.”

He leaned forward slightly, studying the document in front of her. “I never see students in this annex”

Her eyes flicked up. “Most people don’t like it or have much use for the materials here. And those who do, simply request we retrieve it for them so they may leave.”

“I like it here.”

“No, you like me,” she said simply, and turned another page. “The records and this annex are seemingly a byproduct of stalking me it would seem.”

He blinked. She hadn’t said it unkindly. Not smugly. Just a fact. “I like both,” he said, after a beat. “But you’re right.”

That made her glance at him again, properly this time. He let the silence stretch. Let her look at his growing blond hair, at his perfectly trimmed suit jacket. “I was going to ask something,” he said, voice lower now. “But I’d rather not play with subtlety.” She tilted her head, not quite encouraging him, but not stopping him either. “I’d like to see you,” he said. “Outside the library.”

A pause. Her expression didn’t shift. She closed the folder gently, fingers still resting on the cover. “Why?”

His reply was quiet, without hesitation: “Because I think I’d still want to talk to you about something more than books and at a proper volume.”

She sat with that. Thoughtfully. The air between them changed. Then she exhaled through her nose. Almost amused. Almost not. “I work,” she said. “I study. I don’t go out.”

He didn’t move. “You could make an exception.” She watched him. Her thumb tapped once, twice, on the folder’s corner. Then stopped.

“There’s a used bookstall off the old Capitol Square,” she said quietly. “End of Rion Street. The owner doesn’t catalog anything properly, but he lets me sort through before it opens.”

“When?”

“Saturday mornings. Early.”

She stood then, gathering the stack in front of her. Not dismissive, simply done with her task and moving on to the next one. She didn’t tell him to meet her there. But she didn’t say not to. As she moved past him toward the door, her voice came, soft and dry over her shoulder: “Don’t wear anything you’re afraid to get dust on.”

And then she was gone.

It was just past sunrise when he arrived at the end of Rion Street. The Capitol was still half asleep, its glass facades bleary with frost, its avenues nearly empty save for the quiet shuffle of early workers and the smell of warm bread from a distant vendor. The bookstall sat wedged between two shuttered storefronts. And there she was.

Bent slightly at the waist, sifting through a crate of mismatched volumes with both hands. Her traditional worn academic clothes, replaced by something unexpected.  A heavy knit pullover that hung off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, covering something akin to a sundress which ended above the knee. Nylon tights clinging to her exposed legs. Her hair, usually pinned or knotted back, was loose now. Soft. Falling across her face in unkempt curls as she leaned forward. She wore wire-rimmed glasses this time. Nothing stylish. Much more dressed down than he normally saw her, and even then, she lacked the extreme fashionability of most of their peers. And still,  somehow, it caught him off guard.

He hadn’t thought of her as stunning before. Beautiful, yes. In a way that didn’t demand attention, but simply had it. He was more attracted to her mind and the fact she seemingly didn’t want to give him the time of day. She was lovely now.  More lovely than he thought possible. Not in the Capitol way. Not with shine or polish. But this was different.  Unstudied. Quiet. And it unnerved him more than he liked. She glanced up as he approached, blinking once through her frames. No surprise. Just a slight incline of her chin. “You’re late,” she said.

“It’s barely seven.”

“Exactly.”

He stepped closer, hands in the pockets of his coat. “You look…”

She raised a brow. “…like someone who doesn’t spend all their time in a library sorting books?” That earned him the smallest of smiles, crooked, barely there. “Interesting,” she said. “I believe you said you wanted to see me outside the library. You can’t expect me to always behave and look the same as I do there.”

He watched her kneel beside a crate, adjusting her glasses as she flipped open a clothbound title. The sleeves of her sweater slipped down as she moved, and for a moment he could see the pale line of her wrist, marked faintly by ink smudges. “From what I’ve gathered you really don’t care what people see,” he said.

She looked up. “Should I?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. She sat back on her heels and pulled a second book from the pile. This one with a thicker, spine cracked, title worn gold. She held it out without standing. “This one’s about wartime court proceedings. No one reads it because the language is dense. But it’s clean. Unfiltered. The kind of thing the University keeps under lock and key.”

He took it. Their fingers brushed. “You brought it for me?”

“I set it aside.”

He glanced down at it, then back at her. “Sorry, you look different today. Your hair its…” he trailed off, unsure as to the point he was trying to make..

Her gaze didn’t falter. “I’m not a different person simply because I look unlike the way you know me.”

“I didn’t say you were. I just wasn’t expecting this,” he gestured to her appearance.  Another quiet. He heard her suck in a slight breath, her eyes meeting his then darting away again. The street behind them rustled with wind.

Then, simply and without ceremony, she stood and brushed her hands on her thighs. “I usually get coffee after this,” she said. “The shop two blocks down scorches it.” A pause. Then, as she turned away: “You can come. If you don’t mind bad coffee.”

He followed. Of course he did. The coffee shop was barely marked. A peeled decal on the glass, a bell that didn’t ring when the door opened. Inside, the lights were dim and yellowed, the walls lined with uneven shelves and a chalkboard menu half-erased. It smelled like scorched grounds and the sweetness of sugary pastries. She didn’t wait for him to catch up. Just stepped to the counter, nodding once at the man behind it.

“Two,” she said. “Black.” No cream. No sugar. No hesitation. He reached into his coat for money, but she was already sliding a coin across the counter. She didn’t look at him as she did it. Just turned, took both mugs, and crossed to the back corner. A small table. Two stools. The kind that teetered if you shifted your weight too quickly.

He followed. She set one mug in front of the empty seat and sat without ceremony, pushing her sleeves higher up her forearms. A strand of hair slipped forward as she bent over the cup. She didn’t tuck it back. He sat. The stool creaked. He didn’t speak.

Outside, the street moved slowly. A flicker of light against a car window, the ghost of someone passing. The city hadn’t quite decided to wake up yet. She took a sip. “Still terrible.”

He mirrored her. “Burnt and bitter. Impressive, really.”

She didn’t smile, not exactly. But something eased in her jaw. For a moment, neither of them reached for the conversation. Then: “I almost didn’t come today,” she said, without looking at him.

“Why?”

She swirled the coffee in her mug. “I thought it would ruin it. This.”

“And has it?”

She looked up at him then. Really looked. “Not yet,” she said softly. “But it might.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Just sat a little straighter, hands curled loosely around the warm ceramic, letting the weight of the moment settle without trying to rearrange it. The coffee steamed between them, bitter and thin. Neither of them seemed to mind. Coriolanus leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers curled around the chipped mug.

“So,” he said, voice low, “where are you from?”

She didn’t blink. “The Capitol.”

“I figured,” he said. “But I never saw you at the Academy.”

“You wouldn’t have,” she said, calm. “I was tutored privately.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “That’s rare.”

She only lifted one shoulder. “I don’t do well with routine. Or noise. Or sitting in rows of desks pretending everyone’s there to learn because they actually enjoy it or see the value in it..”

He smiled, crooked this time, genuinely curious. “So what did you do?”

“Studied. Read. Argued with my private instructors. Took notes no one asked me to take.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“It was quiet,” she corrected.

A silence settled for a moment. He watched her trace the rim of her mug, slow and absent, like she was tuning something out. Then, before he could ask the next question: “I know you turned up at the University late,” she said. “And that you are being mentored by Dr. Gaul, yet you are not a biology student. You are in Political Science.”

He stilled, not visibly. “Do you?”

“You transferred in by request of the Plinth family. Top marks from your former schooling but, and correct me if I am wrong, appeared more like a Peacekeeper than a student the first few times I saw you.”

His jaw tensed faintly and then questioned, “Why do you say a Peacekeeper?”

“Your hair. It was shorn when I first saw you. Leaving Dr. Gaul’s lab.” 

“I hardly imagine that to be something worth notice. My hair.” he scoffed, sipping the coffee easier now that it wasn’t scalding. Somehow the bitter taste went down better than the higher quality one he now had at home.

“You mentioned mine looking different earlier did you not?”

He didn’t have a reply for that. Instead he changed the subject. “I didn’t know I was being watched.”

She didn’t smile, not exactly, but her gaze sharpened with something like amusement. “You’re a Snow. And you’re orbiting the Plinths now. People watch.”

He studied her for a moment. “But you do more than watch.”

She met his eyes. “I have been known to also listen to the whispers.”

Coriolanus leaned back in his seat, just slightly. “All right. What else do you know?”

“You sit straight even when no one’s looking. You read exceptionally fast. Your handwriting is quite frankly, terrible.” She rattled them off easily.

He laughed. A short, surprised and daresay light one. “That’s either flattering or terrifying.”

“Both,” she said simply.

“And what do I know about you?”

She raised a brow. “Apparently not much. Other than that I dress a certain way at the library, and that my perfume smells of bergamot.”

“I’m trying to know more.”

That made her pause. For just a breath. Then: “Try harder.”

He nodded once. Not offended. “Fair.”

Outside, the street was beginning to stir. Low voices, footsteps, a bell chiming open on the corner. She glanced toward the window, then back at him. “You want to know what I care about?”

“Yes.”

“Books that don’t lie. People who don’t pretend. Mornings when the city forgets to be loud. And burnt bitter coffee.”

He held her gaze. “And what don’t you care for?”

“Flash. Ceremony. People who ask questions just to get their turn to talk.”

But he only smiled again. A little smaller this time. “Those are rather charming observations.”

“I suppose.” No invitation in her tone. But no dismissal, either. She didn’t leave. Instead, she moved toward the window, cradling her mug in both hands, letting the silence settle between them again. The light was brighter now. Soft and gray, filtering through the frosted glass, tracing the curve of her cheek.

Coriolanus watched her for a moment before speaking. “If you were privately tutored,” he said slowly, “you have money.”

She didn’t look at him. Just let her finger trail down the side of the mug, collecting condensation. “Is that a question?”

“It’s an observation,” he said. “Which leads to a question.”

She tilted her head, still not facing him. “Go on, then.”

He nodded toward her. The oversized knit, the worn skirt, the wire-rimmed glasses slipping slightly down her nose. “Why come here? Why dress like this? You could be up the hill right now, sipping something hand-pressed with a lemon twist, talking about gallery openings and scholarships. You’ve got the pedigree — I can tell. But you show up on Rion Street with dust on your sleeves and ink on your wrists dressed like a commoner.”

She turned back to him then, slowly, until she faced him. Her eyes were clear behind the scratched lenses, and when she spoke, it was even. Not cold. Not defensive. “I was raised among people who performed wealth like it was faith,” she said. “Every shoe polished, every word rehearsed. I wore the clothes. Sat at the right dinners. Smiled at the right times.”

“And?” he asked.

“And none of it ever felt like mine.” That landed heavier than he expected. He looked at her, really looked — the undone hair, the small ink stain near her thumb, the softness of her cardigan as it hung off her shoulder.

“But people notice,” he said. “They talk.”

“No they don’t,” she said. “Not when you play enough into their rules and stick to the edges of their orbit like I do.”

Coriolanus watched her for a long moment. “You know, it’s strange. The first time I saw you — on one of those ladders in the art history section — you had your hair pinned back like a senator’s wife. Pearl collar. Nothing fancy by still playing enough into the illusion.”

She smirked, faintly. “I was hiding in plain sight.”

“From whom?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she took another sip of her coffee, then turned it slowly in her hands. “I do what’s required. And then I go home and wash it off.”

His voice was softer now. “And this? Today? Is this you?”

She considered him for a long moment. “This is closer,” she said.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Then I prefer this version.”

Her eyes flicked to his, unreadable. “You don’t know me well enough to have a preference.”

“Not yet,” he said.

A pause stretched between them, but not uncomfortably. Outside, a breeze moved past, scattering a page of newsprint across the street. She glanced toward it. “People are always so eager to be known,” she murmured. “Like it proves something. Like being understood makes them more real.”

“And you?” he asked.

“I think being misunderstood has its uses. As does hiding in the fringes of the world in which we occupy.”

He smiled. “You’re very practiced at disappearing in plain sight.”

“Good,” she said. “Then maybe you’ll stop looking.”

But she said it too late — too lightly — and they both knew he wouldn’t.

They met again in a quiet hallway off the main records building. Not planned, but not a surprise either. He’d stopped by the central filing office to sign off on something for Dr. Gaul, and she was there, crouched beside an unattended cart of misplaced volumes, re-shelving them in her own silent order. No clerk in sight.

“You volunteer here now?” he asked.

“I got tired of watching them shelve everything in the wrong place.”

He leaned against the doorframe. “So you’re rescuing lost files.”

“They deserve better.” There was that dryness again, effortless and soft-edged. She didn’t look up. Not until he crossed the room and crouched beside her. “I’ve got two hours before I’m expected anywhere,” he said.

Her eyes flicked toward him. “And?”

“And I’m asking if I can spend them with you.” She didn’t answer right away. Just slipped the last book into place, stood, and gestured with her chin toward the back exit. They walked silently until they were off school grounds, when he took the lead. She followed him to his flat without asking why.

He hadn’t offered an explanation, only a quiet, “It’s close,” when they left the archives, and she hadn’t asked for more. That was something about her: she didn’t press. She simply chose whether or not to follow. And tonight, she did.

The flat was what she’d expected. Spare. Orderly. Functional, in the way Capitol apartments often were. Polished wood floors, glass shelving, one too many mirrors pretending the space was larger than it was. She stood just inside the doorway, taking it in with the same composed disinterest she used to examine records or redacted testimonies. He’d allowed Tigress and Grandma’am to continue to occupy the apartment above, but as he’d begun repairing it with the Plinth’s money, he’d bought the one on the opposite side of the building, repairing it as well. Privacy when he sought it. Proximity to be with them if he chose. “You clean before you leave every morning?” she asked.

He shrugged off his coat. “It stays relatively clean.”

“Which is another way of saying you don’t live in it very often.”

He glanced over. She was running her fingers along the back of one of the chairs. Not sitting, not settling. Just touching. “Tea?” he asked.

“No thank you.” she said and instead, moved to the small sofa. He did the same, sitting next to her. Not close, not distant. Enough that their knees might brush if one of them shifted. “This isn’t how I thought tonight would go,” he admitted.

“You didn’t think it would involve me?”

“No, but I hoped.”

She smiled at that. It wasn’t wide. But it was real. “I don’t usually do this,” she said.

“Come to strangers’ flats?”

“Let people wonder about me for more than a few minutes.”

He studied her. “You knew I was wondering?”

“You make it obvious.”

“And you let me?”

Her voice was quieter now. “You haven’t asked anything I wasn’t ready to answer.”

He nodded slowly, eyes still on her. “You look different here,” he said. She raised an eyebrow. “Softer, and I daresay unsure,” he added.

That made her laugh, just once, dry. “That’s an illusion. You’re seeing me when I haven’t had the chance to calculate all the outcomes.”

“Is that what you’re usually doing?”

“All the time.”

He leaned back, watching her. “And right now?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” She looked at him then. Met his gaze for longer than she usually did. Not darting away, not calculating. Something in it held. And after a pause, she reached forward. Her hand was slow and  deliberate as she fixed the collar of his shirt. Not dramatically. Just smoothed it, her fingers brushing the base of his throat. She didn’t seem to notice the way it stilled him. “You don’t relax easily,” she murmured.

“Neither do you.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I like quiet rooms.”

Their eyes held again. Neither of them moved. Then her hand dropped. Her arm stayed close, though, resting lightly along the edge of the cushion between them. Their sleeves brushed. She didn’t pull away. “You want to ask me something,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Then ask.”

He hesitated, not because he didn’t know the question, but because he wasn’t sure she’d stay if he asked it. Still, he asked: “Why me?”

She tilted her head slightly, considering. Then leaned in, just enough that he caught the scent of her, something rich and decadent, jasmine mixed with bergamot. “Because you don’t fill the silence with nonsense," she said softly. “You wait in them until you are confident, and then you move.”

He nodded once, slowly. And then not boldly or abruptly, she rested her hand lightly on his knee. Just a touch. Brief. He didn’t move. “Don’t mistake this,” she said. “I haven’t let you in.”

He looked down at her hand, then up at her again. “I know,” he said. “But you didn’t lock the door, either.”

She held his gaze. Then stood. He stood too. Not blocking her, but close to it. At the threshold, she paused. Turned back. “If I come back,” she said, “don’t read too much into it.”

He smiled.  “I know,” he said again.

She left without another word. But the ghost of her touch lingered, emphasizing the heat in the room.

She came back three nights later. No warning. No message. Just a quiet knock against his door. Not tentative, but not loud either. The kind of knock that knew it would be answered. When he opened it, she was standing there with her hair half-pulled back and a wrapped bundle of old legal transcripts under one arm. He blinked. She lifted the bundle slightly. “You said you’d never read the Tribunal reviews from after the war.”

“I… did.”

“So,” she said, stepping past him, “I brought them.” He shut the door slowly, watching her cross the room with confidence since she’d done so before. She didn’t take off her coat, just set the papers on the table and turned to face him. She was waiting for something. Or maybe she wasn’t.  He looked at her. Really looked. This time she was a perfect blend of what he’d come to know her as. Her clothes from the University. Their worn, older academic appeal, but her hair shaken out, curly. The wire rimmed frames made their return.  “You came here just to bring me files?”

“I came here because I wanted to,” she said. “The files were just an added bonus of my presence.”

She unbuttoned her coat then, letting it slide from her shoulders. Underneath, she wore something he’d seen before. Soft fabric and bare forearms, her collarbone catching the light when she turned slightly toward him. “I don’t make these kinds of decisions lightly,” she said.

“I know.”

She stepped forward once. Slowly. “I don’t open doors,” she said, voice low, “unless I’m ready to walk through them.”

Coriolanus felt the weight of that, not purely as invitation, but as a sign of her trust. She was handing him something fragile. And he didn’t want to fumble it. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the last time you were here,” he said.

Her expression didn’t shift. “Then don’t waste the opportunity I’m granting you now.”

His hand lifted, slowly, to her elbow, just above where the sleeve was rolled. He touched her gently, barely pressure, like testing if she’d stay. She did. Closer now, just within reach.

“With this opportunity, do I get to kiss you?” he asked.

“Not if you ask like that.”

His thumb moved slightly along the curve of her arm. “How should I ask?”

“You don’t.” And she leaned in. Not all the way. Just close enough for her lips to graze the corner of his jaw. It wasn’t a kiss. Not quite. But her breath was warm against his skin. “Since you are hesitating, I think I’ll choose when,” she said softly.

“Understood.”

She stepped back half a pace, eyes still on him. “I don’t want pretty words,” she said. “Or rehearsed lines.”

“You think I rehearsed that?”

“I think you rehearse everything.” That made him smile  just a little. She was right.  She brushed past him then, toward the table. He let her. But not before letting his hand trail from her elbow to her wrist with a touch that lingered before it fell away.

“I don’t plan to stay very long,” she said. And even that small promise of minimal time, from her, was everything. She settled at the table, unwrapping the bundle with practiced care, but he could tell she wasn’t focused on the papers. Not really. He moved to the kitchen, not because he needed to, but to give her a moment. To give himself a moment. When he returned with two glasses — something better than the tea he often saw her drink — she’d already kicked off her shoes and drawn one leg beneath her, the Tribunal pages barely skimmed.

She accepted the glass without thanks, just a small nod. Their fingers brushed again but this time, he didn’t pull away. Neither did she. For a while, they sat in the hush of it, the warmth of the room settling around them. Outside, the city murmured faintly. Car lights sweeping past windows, distant hums from the grid towers. Inside, just the shift of paper, the soft clink of glass returning to the table, and the occasional rustle as she adjusted her sleeve where it was rolled.

“I was wrong about you,” she said, not looking up.

He glanced over. “How so?”

“I thought you wanted something pretty you could show off. Someone that said the right things at the right dinners. A Senator’s wife.” He recalled his choice of words the day at the coffee shop, his decision to refer to her in that manner. Now it felt clipped in a way. 

“And now?”

She lifted her eyes. “Now I think you’re not entirely sure what you want.”

He didn’t answer right away. Her gaze didn’t flinch. “I know I want you to stay,” he said, quietly.

“I already knew that,” she said. “You are just catching up.” She shifted then, closer. Casually, but not without purpose. One of her knees brushed his thigh beneath the table. She didn’t move it. He watched her, the way her hair fell along her jaw, the faint light playing off her collarbone. Gods, he really loved her collarbones. He wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t unnaturally thin but something about the way they always caught the light looked divinely feminine in a manner he wasn’t accustomed to focusing on. Her lips were slightly parted, but not waiting. Just breathing.

“Say something real,” she demanded after a moment of silence.

He leaned toward her. Just slightly. Close enough to speak, not to touch. “I think about you,” he said, “more than I should.”

Her eyes didn’t drop. “And what do you think about?”

He hesitated. “About how you look when you're not playing a role you seemingly don’t want. About your hands when you’re sorting through old books. About what it would take to make you stay longer than ‘a while.’ About what I’d do if we were alone.”

Her breath caught just barely. And then she stood. But not to leave. She came around the table, glass in hand, and stopped in front of him. Her free hand reached out — slow, deliberate — and touched his jaw, just with the side of her fingers. “We are alone right now,” she whispered. 

“Funny how that happened…” he replied, a charming smile playing on his lips. He wanted to highlight the fact she sought him this time. Where every other time he was chasing after her like a lost puppy, this time she hadn’t satisfied his request. This had been the first time in which she came to him of her own free will and in a way larger than simply entertaining him at work. That had to mean something. 

“I’ve never needed someone,” she said. Her eyes were uncertain. He could see the conflict within them. She looked as if she couldn’t make up her mind. She looked like he was beginning to address the manner in which she returned curiosity towards him. She seemed at war with herself in a manner that was maddening. After a moment she continued. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

Her hand slid back into his hair and she kissed him. It was deliberate. Quiet. Not the kind of kiss meant to spark something immediate, but the kind meant to linger. Like she was giving him permission to know her differently. As if that war within her slowed only for a moment to allow herself the brief indulgence of taking something she wanted without consequence. When she pulled back, she didn’t move far. Her forehead rested lightly against his. “I’m still not staying the night,” she whispered.

He nodded, his breath shallow. “I didn’t ask you to.”

She let her hand trail down from his hair to his shoulder, her fingers catching faintly at the collar of his shirt. She looked at him then for the first time as if there wasn't any distance behind it. “I should go,” she murmured. But she didn’t move. Neither of them did. Seconds passed like held breath. Then he shifted slightly, just enough to brush his knuckles along the inside of her wrist. “You could stay a little longer.”

Her eyes didn’t drop. “Why?”

“Because for once, I don’t feel the need to watch my words for the fear of you finding out how I am imagining you.”

She was quiet at that. He couldn’t tell if she was flattered, flustered or something else entirely. She was simply…still. And then, slowly, she exhaled. She stepped back, not away, but just enough to turn, grab his hand in her own and pull him to the sofa behind her. Her thigh pressed against his as she drew her legs up beneath her, the tension in her shoulders loosening inch by inch. “Do you always say things like that?” she asked. “Like you're rehearsing a speech no one asked you to give.”

He smirked. “Only when I mean them.”

She looked over at him sidelong. “Still, you are very practiced in eloquence."

“Trust me when I say, I am starting to not be that way when it comes you.” That silenced her again. She reached behind her head, unpinned the clip from her hair without comment, and let it fall around her shoulders. He watched the motion — the casual vulnerability of it — and felt something inside him ache a little. Not with want. Instead it bore the weight of knowing her more than he imagined most people could, and yet, still wanting more. She looked over their shoulders, at the Tribunal papers still spread across the table. “Are we going to pretend we’re still working?”

“We could,” he said. “If it makes you feel better.”

She shook her head and turned toward him. Her leg resting against his now, warm through the fabric. “I don’t need to pretend tonight,” she said. And then she leaned in again, slower this time,  her hand settling on his chest like she was grounding herself there. Their mouths met again, deeper now. Her fingers curled into his shirt. His hand slid along her waist, and for a while there was only that. Quiet breathing mixed with the slow caress of their lips moving.  The shared warmth, the kind of touch that didn’t rush because there was no need to.

When they finally pulled apart, she stayed where she was, resting against him, her head tucked beneath his chin. He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. It was better that way. Later, after the streetlights had become the only source of light, and the silence between them had deepened into something heavier but not uncomfortable, she spoke again, her voice barely above a murmur. “I don’t sleep easily.”

He brushed his thumb lightly along her forearm. “Neither do I.”

Another pause. “But I might close my eyes,” she said. “For a while. Just to rest.” He nodded. And when she leaned into him fully, her body settling along his, he reached down and pulled the knit throw from the back of the couch, draped it over her shoulders without a word. She didn’t thank him. But her fingers, resting near his ribs, curled softly into the fabric of his shirt and didn’t let go.

The Capitol’s grand hall gleamed under dozens of chandeliers, the air thick with whispered alliances and polished charm. Coriolanus moved beside his grandmother, the embodiment of control and propriety. His tailored coat, immaculate. Her silk gown catching the light with every measured step. But then his eyes caught her. She was seated just off to the side near the gilded balcony, poised in a way that drew the eye without trying. Her dress was exquisite. A deep blue satin that hugged her figure and shimmered softly with each slight movement. Her hair swept into a loose, elegant updo. Every detail marked her as someone who belonged in the room.

And yet—her attention was buried in a dog-eared book. Worn and well-loved, held close as if it were a lifeline. She barely noticed the swirl of Capitol aristocrats drifting around her. His grandmother noticed too, arching a delicate brow. “She’s beautiful,” the old woman murmured, “and utterly distracted by that book. Not something you see every day.”

Coriolanus blinked, heart quickening. “I know her,” he said quietly.

“Really?” his grandmother asked, with a sly tilt to her lips. “Poor thing seems a bit odd.  What does she do in a place like this? With all that beauty? Sit alone, ignoring the crowd?”

He hesitated, the memory of quiet mornings at a cluttered bookstall flooding back. The way her wild curls tumbled loose, the casual defiance in her sweater and glasses. Then again on his sofa somewhere between this world and that one, where she’d kissed him without urgency, but stayed nestled against him as she slept. “She’s… different,” he admitted.

“Well then,” his grandmother said with a mischievous smile, “go say hello. Or better yet, ask her to dance.”

Coriolanus felt a flicker of hesitation, but the warmth of his grandmother’s gaze urged him forward. He stepped toward her, the polished floors echoing beneath his steps. She looked up, meeting his eyes with a calm that made him catch his breath. “You didn’t expect to see me here,” she said, closing her book gently.

“No,” he admitted. “To be frank, I haven’t seen much of you at all recently. Perhaps you’ve been hiding from me?” He raised a brow. Her expression didn’t shift, so he continued. “But you are right where I would expect to find you.”

“On the fringes?” She smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips.

“I was going to say in your own world. A goddess not bothering with mortal men.”

“As if I command that level of attention Coriolanus,” she scoffed, but her smile depended with his compliment.

“You command my attention,” he stepped closer, “Isn’t that enough?” He offered his hand, a silent invitation. “May I?”

Her eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face. “Only if you promise not to step on my toes, mortal.”

He grinned. “You have a deal my goddess.” As she rose, their hands found each other, a touch light but electric. They moved into the flow of dancers, and for a moment, the weight he’d felt since her disappearing act began to lift. Here, beneath glittering chandeliers and watchful eyes, something quiet and real began to bloom. They moved slowly across the dance floor, the music swirling around them like a private current.

She glanced up at him, eyes glinting. “So… did you attend with a cougar, or…?”

He laughed under his breath. “That’s my grandmother. The one who ensures I don’t tarnish the family legacy.”

“Ah. The matriarch. No wonder you looked like you couldn’t exhale.” She tilted her head. “I half expected her to hiss at me for luring you away.”

“She’s too sophisticated for hissing,” he murmured. “But she’s definitely assessing you as we speak.”

“Well,” she said, voice light, “if she’s anything like you, I’m probably already catalogued, footnoted, and filed.”

“She admired you,” he said simply.

Her brows lifted, pleased. “Then perhaps I should conclude this early and thank her for her impeccable taste.”

He chuckled. “You’d have to escape me first.”

She leaned in, her breath brushing his ear. “I think I’m up for the challenge.”

His hold on her tightened slightly, not possessive, but aware. Measured. As if instinctively drawing her closer before the dance slipped through his fingers. “It’s hard to focus on anything else,” he murmured, “when you’re this close.”

Her lips curled, a touch of mockery in the smile. “Flatterer. Do you say that to all the Capitol's most eligible women, or am I truly that disarming?”

“Special,” he said, without pause. “I’m not even trying to hide it. Especially when I know how perfect your lips feel against mine…”

“Good.” Her eyes flicked to the cluster of onlookers across the floor, faces half-lit by crystal and calculation. “But you should learn to.”

He studied her, brow tightening slightly. “Why?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned with him, letting the music guide them through the wide arc of the ballroom floor. They moved in rhythm, but her gaze was somewhere else, sharpened, weighing the room like a strategist surveying a battlefield.

Then she looked at him again, and her voice lowered. “If you want to be able to kiss me in a place like this,” she said, ��you’ll have to learn to play by the rules. Not charm. Not instinct. Rules.” He blinked, caught off guard not by the words, but by the cool precision of them. She continued, more gently now. “This world isn’t built on honesty, Coriolanus. It’s built on performance. Timing. Power. And appearances, most of all.”

“I thought you don’t care for appearances,” he said, quieter now.

“I often don’t,” she replied. “That’s what makes this... complicated.”

Their steps slowed into a turn. His hand remained at her back, hers at his shoulder, but the space between them had shifted. “Until you handle their expectations properly,” she said, “we’ll have to keep this”, she glanced briefly down at their joined hands, “as it stands. Private.”

He exhaled slowly, but nodded. Not in defeat. In understanding. “And what is this, exactly?”

She looked up at him again. No coyness. No pretense. “A possibility,” she said.

“And if I choose to play by the rules?” he asked.

Her gaze flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Then someday,” she said, soft but sure, “you won’t have to ask or be kept at arms length in rooms like this.”

And then she slipped her hand from his and stepped back, her absence sudden and sharp as cold air. He watched her walk away, her gown sweeping behind her like a trailing secret, every movement composed. Measured. Controlled. But she didn’t look back. She didn’t have to.

He knew she’d left him with a challenge. And a promise. And both of them were going to keep him awake.

The street was quieter than usual, bathed in the honeyed light of late afternoon. Long shadows spilled across the worn cobblestones, and the air held that stillness just before evening settles in.

Coriolanus spotted her before she saw him. She walked briskly alongside a tall, broad-shouldered man whose lined face and steady eyes spoke of a life lived alert. His hand rested lightly at her shoulder. Not commanding, just present. Protective. Her curls were tucked beneath a simple scarf, her coat slightly oversized, sleeves pushed to her elbows to reveal delicate wrists. She looked... ordinary. And still, impossible to miss. She wasn’t expecting him. It had taken days—quiet questions, discreet inquiries, and careful threading of names and routines—until he’d gathered just enough to find her here. With the man she called uncle. He stepped forward and cleared his throat gently. She looked up. Surprise flared in her eyes, flickering quickly into composure.

“Oh. Nice to see you again,” she said. Too formal, too bright. Her voice pitched higher than usual. It grated, because it wasn’t her. But Coriolanus understood. The performance was for her uncle’s benefit. He was finally coming to understand how she operated in the perfect balance of her own wishes and expectations. 

Still, he pressed forward, polite smile in place. “You as well. I’ve found I rather enjoy our conversations at the University Library.” The man turned to face him, assessing. Not unkind, but not careless either. “Coriolanus Snow,” he said, extending a hand to the man.

“Lukas,” the man replied, gripping his hand with practiced strength.

“It’s an honor, sir.”

Lukas’s gaze narrowed. Not hostile, just sharp. “You’ve been around my niece long enough to be familiar. But I’d appreciate a little more than a name, young man.”

Coriolanus glanced at her, then back to Lukas. “We’re both students at the University. I spend a great deal of time in the library researching policy and strategy. I also assist Dr. Gaul with her development projects for the Capitol.”

Lukas gave a small grunt, considering. “So you're the one working under Gaul. An aspiring Gamemaker.”

“Yes, sir.”

A pause. Then: “And what do you know of her?” Lukas asked, tilting his head slightly toward his niece. “She rarely gives the time of day to anyone. Yet here you are, not long after a gala where, if the reports are true, she was seen dancing with a young man. Tall. Fair-haired.”

“That was me,” Coriolanus said calmly. “My grandmother and I passed her as she was reading. Alone. I thought someone so beautiful shouldn’t hide in the shadows with a book all night.”

“You managed to pull her out of a book?” Lukas said, eyes flicking to his niece with mild disbelief.

“So it would seem.” Coriolanus hesitated, then added more quietly, “Forgive me if I speak too freely, but... your Niece is remarkable. Intelligent. Self-possessed. Exceptionally well-mannered. I was hoping to ask your permission to take her out. Properly. For dinner. Somewhere deserving of her.”

Lukas’s gaze lingered on him, measuring, not just the words, but the weight behind them. Then he looked at his Niece. The flicker of something passed between them. A history. A warning. “You know she’s not like other Capitol debutants,” he said, voice low. “She doesn’t bend easily. She’s cautious. And I’ve kept her that way on purpose.”

“I know,” Coriolanus said. “That’s part of why I admire her.”

Lukas raised a brow. “And you? What is it you want?”

“To be someone she can trust,” he said. “To offer her more than distraction or fading affections. To build something real. I much enjoy our conversations on literature and her perspective on our society. Beauty fades, however intellect is a noteworthy characteristic I hold firm in admiration.”

The silence held for a moment, heavy with unspoken things. Then, slowly, Lukas nodded. “Alright, Snow. You have my permission.”

She looked at Coriolanus then. Her eyes wide, touched with disbelief, and something softer just behind it. “Thank you,” Coriolanus said quietly. She smiled. A rare, unguarded one. The kind that warmed even the fading light around them. He stepped forward and offered his hand. She took it with practiced grace, letting him lift it gently to his lips. He kissed her knuckles lightly, then released her. “I’ll send word once I’ve made arrangements,” he said.

“Until then?” she replied, voice laced with something amused, something curious.

He bowed his head slightly, then turned to leave. As he walked away, he heard Lukas chuckle behind him. “So… you’ve got an interest in Crassus Snow’s son?”

Coriolanus slowed his step, just enough to catch her quiet reply: “He noticed me when most do not.” It was true, he did notice her. And in time, she was becoming such a well guarded possession he intended to claim in more than simply private. 

The restaurant was quiet. Tucked into a narrow side street where the Capitol’s noise faded into something softer, more deliberate. The air inside was warm with low conversation and the scent of saffron and roasted citrus. Candlelight shimmered off polished silver and glass, dancing over the crisp white tablecloth between them. Coriolanus watched as she settled into her seat. Elegant, composed, effortlessly striking. Capitol polish, yes, but that same quiet defiance still burned in her eyes. The same spark that had unraveled him since the very beginning. “Nice place,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room, precise and appraising. “You have a talent for finding corners no one else would think to look for.”

He gave a slight smile. “I thought it suited us.”

She looked back at him, arching a brow. “Us?”

“Well,” he said, lifting his wine glass, “I didn’t charm your uncle just to share dinner with an empty chair.”

She took a slow sip of wine, the candlelight catching the curve of her cheek. “Impressive, by the way. Lukas doesn’t usually take to… anyone.”

“I was on my best behavior,” he said smoothly.

“Seeing you size up the man was quite humorous. He usually is not caught off guard, but a suitor for me certainly caught his attention. Normally I send the boys running for the hills and he knows that.”

He laughed softly, a quiet thing. “I’m full of surprises.”

She tilted her head, eyes catching the light. “You say that like a threat.”

“Maybe it is.”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. The first course arrived in careful, artful portions. They ate slowly, unhurried, but with a tension that simmered just beneath the surface. “So,” she said eventually, setting down her fork with deliberate grace, “If you are so full of surprises and things have taken a more traditional approach, how long before you start quoting obscure romantic poetry at me?”

He feigned offense. “You wound me. I hadn’t even reached the sonnets portion of the evening yet.”

“Good. I’m terrible at trusting men who speak in riddles.”

He smiled, just enough to be disarming, not enough to lose his footing. “Then maybe it’s time I stop pretending I’m unreadable.”

Her gaze met his, steady. Sharp. “Are you?”

He didn’t flinch. “I don’t want to be.”

A beat. Then she leaned in, elbows lightly brushing the edge of the tablecloth, voice low but unguarded. “What if I told you I was tired of the performance? Tired of pretending not to care what happens next.”

He reached across the space between them, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek with a touch so careful it almost wasn’t there. “Then I’d say you’re not alone.”

Her eyes dropped to his hand, then lifted again, softer now. “That would be��� new.”

“Not unwelcome, I hope.”

She gave a quiet laugh, real this time, unpolished around the edges. “No. Not unwelcome.”

He leaned back slightly, but didn’t break the connection between them. “Then let’s agree,” he said. “No more theater. Just us.”

She studied him, and the quiet between them grew rich. Thick with something unsaid, warm and golden, as if the whole world had narrowed to a single breath held too long. Then she gave a single nod. Measured. Certain. “And if it turns out I like the idea of us?”

He didn’t smile this time. His gaze didn’t flicker. He simply said, voice low and steady,  “Then you came to the right table.” Around them, candlelight flickered softly, casting the rest of the restaurant in a warm haze of murmured conversation and clinking glasses. But their table felt separate. Removed. As though whatever hovered between them had carved out its own space in time. By the second course, the tension hadn’t softened, it had sharpened. And then, somewhere between a sip of wine and a shared glance over the rim of her glass, he felt it.

The faintest scuff beneath the table. Quiet and deliberate. He assumed she was merely adjusting her crossed ankles but then felt it. A brush of her heel against his ankle, featherlight. Then the slow glide of nylon-covered toes tracing up the line of his shin, just beneath the hem of his tailored trousers. His fork paused mid-air. His breath hitched. His eyes met hers across the candlelit glow, wide—caught somewhere between astonishment and awe. She didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink. Her expression was perfectly composed, but her eyes told a different story: cool, calculating heat. He swallowed, lowering his fork with forced calm. “Is that... strategic provocation?” he asked, voice pitched low.

Her lips curved. “Consider it a field test.”

“For what?”

“To see how easily you're rattled.”

“You’re assuming I am,” he replied, adjusting slightly in his seat.

“You’re not?” she asked, tilting her head, teasing with the pretense of innocence.

He leaned in, elbows resting lightly on the table, voice dropping into something velvet and dangerous. “I’m many things,” he said. “But I don’t scare easily.”

Her foot retreated slowly, almost lazily, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. She picked up her wine glass, eyes never leaving his. “Good,” she said. “I don’t enjoy chasing things that collapse too quickly.”

He took a long sip of his wine, trying to ground himself. “Remind me not to underestimate you again.”

She smiled. “You’ll forget. That’s part of the fun.”

Their main course arrived, but neither of them looked down at the plates for a moment too long. The food might as well have been decorative for how little either seemed interested in it. Conversation resumed, but it had changed. It became taut and layered. Every word was a double-edged note. Every glance another drawn breath between moves.

And still, beneath the table, her foot found him again. Lighter this time, but with more confidence. He shifted in his seat again, this time deliberately, inching closer to the table’s edge. “You do realize,” he said, his voice dry, “that I invited you here to make a proper impression.”

“Darling,” she murmured, eyes gleaming, “you’re making an excellent one.”

He looked at her. This girl with her silk composure, her sharp mouth and sharper mind, all elegance and provocation wrapped in one, and knew, with absolute clarity, that nothing about her would ever be easy. He also knew he would never want it any other way. He returned his attention to his plate, or at least made the attempt. But the food was secondary now. His senses were tuned entirely to her. To the warmth of her presence across the table, and more urgently, to the press of her foot slowly climbing his leg again.

Her toe slipped past the cuff of his trousers this time, the faint glide of nylon against skin drawing an involuntary breath from his lips. He didn’t flinch. Not visibly. Instead, he set his knife down with deliberate precision and reached for his wine, using the motion to conceal the clench of his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was maddeningly composed. “Is this how you usually conduct your field tests?”

She raised her glass, her expression placid, but her eyes sparkled like dark wine catching the light. “Only when the subject is particularly... uncooperative.”

His fingers curled slightly around the base of his glass. “You’re not making it easy to behave.”

“That’s the point,” she said sweetly, her foot now dangerously close to the inside of his thigh. “I wanted to see where your control ends.”

He didn’t move, but his pulse thudded beneath his collar. Still, his voice was smooth when he spoke. “Careful,” he murmured. “You might not like what happens when it does.”

Her head tilted, as though considering him under a microscope. “Oh, I think I might.”

He gave a quiet, humorless laugh, low in his throat. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Then you should stop me.”

He leaned forward then, just slightly, enough to close the air between them without touching. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” he said, voice like a slow match being struck. “But if I did, I’d want no misunderstandings about who started it.”

Her foot stilled, just barely, hovering at the edge of somewhere truly irreversible. For a breathless beat, they simply looked at each other. He didn’t move away. He didn’t touch her. He simply held her gaze, as if daring her to go further. She didn’t blink. “Fine,” she whispered. “Let’s both pretend we’re not tempted.”

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. Just tension, sharp and taut. “Pretending,” he said softly, “is something I thought we agreed to no longer do with one another.”

“We did,” she said, drawing her foot back inch by inch, “yet, you still look like you’re unraveling.”

“I am,” he said. “Just politely.” They sat back in their chairs at the same moment, perfectly composed, as if nothing had passed between them but wine and wit. A slow silence settled between them, not awkward, but charged.

Then she reached for her water glass, and with a smirk that barely touched her lips, said, “I hope dessert is something cold. You look like you need it.”

He chuckled, tightly, dry. “You’re impossible.”

Her smile widened. “And yet here you are.”

The seconds ticked by, stretched taut by unspoken things. Her foot had returned to its place, and yet the memory of it still ghosted along his skin like a secret he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge. They spoke less now. Not from lack of things to say, but because every glance, every shift in posture said too much already.

He reached for his glass, but she reached at the same time, fingers brushing, brief but electric. Their eyes met. A beat passed. Neither pulled away. She leaned in, the candlelight catching the gold at the edge of her lashes. “If you were hoping for a quiet night of manners and politics,” she murmured, “you chose the wrong girl.”

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into something unreadable. “On the contrary. I think I chose exactly the right one.”

“Is that confidence,” she asked, voice barely a whisper, “or surrender?”

He laughed under his breath, quiet, low, almost dangerous. “Does it matter if I’m still walking willingly into whatever fire you have planned?”

The flicker in her gaze changed then. Something shifted. The amusement remained, but underneath it came a hunger, flickering at the edges like a flame finally given air. “Then stop walking into it,” she said. “Run.”

The words hit him. She wasn’t just provoking now. She was inviting. Daring. And he was already halfway there. For a moment, he sat still. Very still. Then he reached slowly across the table and took her hand, not playfully, not with pretense. Just contact. Direct and deliberate. Her fingers curled into his, soft but certain. His thumb traced a slow line across her knuckles. “This isn’t going to end the way either of us expect, is it?” he asked.

She smiled, the slow, secret kind that belonged to someone who knew exactly how dangerous she was. “That’s the point, isn’t it? All the games. All the tension. Finding out exactly what sweet spot between bold and uncertain we occupy? There is a joy in contradiction. There’s an excitement in seeing how far each pendulum swings.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you want to know all the ways I think of you when I am alone?”

He exhaled through his nose, letting the weight of the moment settle. Then he straightened, controlled again, but just barely, and signaled to the waiter. “Check, please,” he said, not breaking eye contact with her. The waiter appeared instantly, discreet. As he placed the bill on the table, Coriolanus reached for it without looking down. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded lightly, eyes sharp with satisfaction. “What’s the rush?” He slipped a credit token into the folder and handed it back with a faint, knowing smile.

“There’s only so long I can sit across from you without doing something foolish,” he said.

“Foolish,” she echoed, voice soft and velvet-dark. “Or overdue?”

He stood and stepped aside to let her rise, offering his hand once more. This time, when her fingers slid into his, there was no performance. Just heat. And intent. As they stepped into the night, the restaurant faded behind them, candlelight and restraint left at the table. What lay ahead… was no longer polite or restrained… But something else entirely.

To be continued...

Let me know if you wished to be tagged in Pt. 2!

[myfanfictiongarden]

Set in Eastern Europe in the 19th Century, Dr. Pretorious (Christoph Waltz) has to track down Frankenstein's Monster (Jacob Elordi)—believed to have died in a fire 40 years before—in order to continue the experiments of Dr. Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac).

Official Wikipedia description

....

....wait

NO, THIS IS NOT HOW THE STORY GOES!!!!

are you freaking kidding me?

[sheliesshattered]

I have been begging game developers to use colors besides brown and gray for literally more than two decades now

but that doesn't mean I want a whole generation of games that look and sound like a fuckin 1990s sugary breakfast cereal commercial

[jungkoode]

OUT OF LINE | 02

"where promises go to die"

"Grief doesn't rot like lilies—it evolves. Sometimes into walls that keep everyone out, sometimes into bridges you never expected to build. Madrid is teaching you the difference."

next | index | wc: 8.5k

↦author's note : Hello monsters, gremlins, goblins, and yes—you, the one under the table hoarding the peanut cookies like they're State Secrets. You've been reported to the Kiki Nation High Tribunal. Formal charges include: cookie hoarding, suspicious crunching noises, and bribing witnesses with chocolate chip alternatives. Justice will be served. Possibly with milk. Now, AS FOR THIS CHAPTER. AHAHAAHA. Okay. So. Right out the gate we start with That Scene. You'll know when you see it. Some of you may be tempted to go "Kiki why did you put your entire kikussy into poetic and ambiguous language???" and to that I say: THANK YOU FOR ASKING, MR. INVISIBLE. You see—my girl Y/N is grieving. And not in the cinematic way, but in that awful, quiet, dissonant way. The kind where everything looks almost normal, sounds almost right, but you're not in it. That suspended, floaty, untethered state where you're just... drifting. I wrote this opening with the intent to evoke, not explain. Because I don't think grief—real grief—ever makes clean narrative sense. It's messy. It loops. It aches. It dissociates. So her inner monologue reflects that. BUT. I didn't want it to be bleak. So I slipped in a little light: female friendship. You guys know how much I value it. Sofia Chen = my babygirl already. Her screen time may be short but her impact is earthquaking. Also: brace yourselves for the physio intern. I'm not spoiling anything but AAAAA. The little scream I let out when writing him was medically concerning. Just know you're gonna love him. I do. I really do. Then there's that Taehyung scene. The physio session. Yeah. That one. Okay so—Coke Zero? TRACK IT. It is not a throwaway. Put it in your mental detective wall with the red string. That detail's doing work. Now let's talk about what's really happening in that scene: you've got a man weaponizing his body as a final line of defense. He can't stand the thought of being unimpressive—of someone not reacting to him. So what does he do? He performs. Gets obscene. Pushes boundaries. Pokes at discomfort. He's like: if you don't like my mind, my attitude, my words—then at least flinch for my abs. Validate me with your silence, if nothing else. And she doesn't. And it bothers him. He's fishing. And if that doesn't tell you everything about the man's psyche—Listen. I said what I said. Also. Can we collectively scream about how every private university is just a glorified capitalist PR firm?? I wanted to reflect that weird, fake "we're all a happy family :)" collaboration tone between institutions. The smiley emoji energy that reeks of Excel spreadsheets and nepotism. If you know, you know. Finally: THE GROUP CHAT SCENE. My ✨ magnum opus ✨ Marco is literally an idiot and possibly irredeemable but I hate how funny he is. It's the banter. The banter is what gets him laid. Leo = my Shayla. I want to protect him so bad. Who knows if I will. Point is—I loved being able to start showing more team names and dynamics. There's something really special about letting a cast feel lived in. You're only seeing glimpses—but those glimpses are building a very specific emotional architecture for what's to come. ANYWAY. That's enough from me. Enjoy the chapter. Scream in the tags. Track the Coke Zero. And for the love of Jungkook's tattoos, STOP HIDING THE PEANUT COOKIES. I SEE YOU. – Kiki ♥

Where do promises go when left unattended?

You wonder if they rot, like lilies left too long in water. Or if they just fade, the way the scent of your mother's perfume used to linger in the hallway—now gone, replaced by the sterile tang of Madrid tap water and overpriced detergent.

It's a question you've long buried, somewhere between the unpacked boxes in your Madrid bedroom and the ache that still sits heavy when you think of your dad's tired eyes.

Or maybe it's bigger than that—your whole damn life, a scrapbook of sweet nothings you swore you'd keep. Staying in Barcelona. Holding tight to Mom's hand in memory. Rooting for a team that felt more like family when yours got ripped in half.

Death didn't just knock that day; it kicked the door down, left the air thick with something sour, like rotting lilies.

Mom used to fill the house with them.

White ones from the market on Sundays, yellow ones she'd steal from the neighbor's garden when she thought no one was looking.

Now you can't walk past a flower shop without your throat closing up, without that familiar knot threatening to crawl up and spill everything you've been swallowing down.

University isn't the escape you hoped for. Not the endless readings on joint mechanics, not the sterile newness of a city that still feels like a borrowed coat, and definitely not the present, which drags like a bad hangover.

You're two weeks into this Madrid experiment, and every day is a reminder of what's gone.

But then, somehow, there are people. Small, unexpected pockets of something lighter that make it easier.

You just never expected easiness to have a name like Sofia Chen.

You're slouched in a lecture hall at UEM, campus filled with the kind of international crowd that makes you feel both invisible and exposed. End of September, semester just kicking off, and the air's got that crisp edge that doesn't match the heat still clinging to the streets outside.

Sofia's next to you, scribbling in her notebook with a focus that's almost annoying. Almost. Meanwhile you—well, you're scrolling through your phone, thumb flicking over a screen that's stubbornly empty of anything worth reading.

No messages from Dani.

Not that you expected any.

You told yourself the distance—geographical, emotional, whatever—would be the perfect excuse to untangle the mess of feelings you've carried for him since you were sixteen. Unreciprocated, unspoken, and now, unnecessary.

Doesn't stop the sting, though. Expected hurt still hurts.

Your fingers drift to Jungkook's chat instead. A few unread messages, probably memes or some random check-in. He's the only thing that feels like home lately, a tether to Barcelona that hasn't snapped yet.

You don't open it. Not here. Not with Sofia's voice cutting through your haze.

"I have never seen anyone our age swallow down those in twos like you do," she mumbles, not looking up from her notes when her pen scratches against the paper, somehow grounding.

You know she's talking about the pikotas in your hand, the sour-sweet candies you've been popping absentmindedly.

Two at a time, always. A habit from forever ago, when Mom would slip them into your pocket before school.

You don't miss a beat, tossing another pair into your mouth. "Just say you have horrible taste."

She snorts, finally glancing over. Her dark hair falls in a neat curtain over one shoulder, and her eyes crinkle just enough to show she's not actually judging.

"I'm half Chinese. Taste is like, our whole point."

You roll your eyes, but there's a smirk tugging at your lips.

Sofia's got a way of sneaking past your usual walls, not with force but with this quiet, persistent ease.

You met her two weeks ago, first day of classes, when the semester started and you were still figuring out how to navigate the sleek, expensive campus. Because it's just the kind of place that screams privilege—private, international, one of the most expensive universities in Spain, all courses in English to cater to the global mix of students who can afford it.

You were sitting alone in the back of a lecture hall, trying to blend into the polished wood and glass, when she plopped down next to you. No hesitation, just a quick "Mind if I sit?" and a grin that didn't wait for your answer.

She clocked your last name on your notebook, matched it to the buzz about your dad being Real Madrid's new physio, and didn't make a big deal of it. Just nodded like it was trivia, not gossip.

You appreciated that more than you let on.

Since then, she's been a constant. Study sessions in the campus library, coffee runs at the overpriced café downstairs, late-night texts about assignments. She's Madrid-born, Chinese-Spanish, a sports psychology major with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue when she wants. She knows about your dad's job, knows you're fresh off the boat from Barcelona, and hasn't pushed for details.

That's why you don't mind her sitting here, filling the silence with her quiet banter while you chew through candy and memories.

Madrid's like that. Too much of everything—light, noise, space—and none of it fits right.

Not like Barcelona did, with its narrower streets and warmer shadows.

Still, at UEM, you're just another face in a sea of ambitious twenty-somethings, most of whom couldn't care less about football. Real Madrid, Barcelona—it's not their world. They're chasing MBAs, tech startups, international law degrees.

That, however, does not mean they don't know who Kim Taehyung is.

"Hey, speaking of taste—or lack thereof—have you seen the news this weekend? That whole scandal with Real Madrid's golden boy? Taehyung?"

Fuck Sofia for ruining your peace. You take all the good things you said about her back.

Of course she'd bring it up. Not because she's obsessed with football—most people here aren't—but because Taehyung's mess is everywhere. A superstar, a celebrity, the kind of hot that has women tripping over themselves and brands clawing for a piece of him.

His whole 'can't keep it in his pants' routine isn't even a flaw to most; it's charm, a marketable quirk that somehow makes him more desirable.

You've seen the headlines (who hasn't?), the grainy party pics, the lipstick smear on his neck that's got half of Madrid's press losing their minds.

Nike's 'concerned,' apparently.

You doubt he cares.

You shrug, keeping your face blank. "Yeah, I saw. Not exactly news when it's him."

Sofia raises a brow, catching the edge in your tone.

She doesn't know about your first run-in with him, the way he loomed at the training ground like he owned the air itself, expecting you to melt under his gaze; and you… Didn't.

Just stared back, flat and unimpressed, until he looked almost confused.

Which was honestly refreshing. He needs to get humbled.

But Sofia doesn't need that story, not yet. You're not sure why it even sticks in your head. It's not like he matters.

"Fair," she says, tapping her pen against her chin. "Still, it's wild. Guy's got the world at his feet, and he's out there acting like a frat boy on spring break. My psych prof would have a field day with his impulse control—or lack of it."

You huff a small laugh, more out of habit than amusement. "Probably. But it's not like anyone's surprised. That's just… him."

Her eyes narrow a fraction, like she's filing that comment away for later. You don't like how she does that, reads the unsaid stuff in your pauses. Makes you feel seen in ways you're not ready for.

You pop another pikota, let the sour bite ground you.

The lecture hall's still noisy, a guy two rows down arguing with his friend in rapid-fire German, a girl across the aisle snapping a selfie with her overpriced latte.

Normal. Disconnected from the football bubble you've been dragged into.

You wish you could stay in this pocket of mundane forever, where no one cares about football or your dad's job or the way some prick keeps jostling his dick around like it's a birthday party and his junk is a gift.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, screen lighting up with Jungkook's name.

A distraction. A lifeline.

A… video of a ferret stealing an entire sock drawer, dragging socks one by one to build a nest?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜

You snort—actually snort—loud enough that Sofia looks up from her notebook with raised eyebrows.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚏𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙻𝙼𝙰𝙾𝙾𝙾

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚌 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚒'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 🤔

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜

You pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He's talking about you, obviously. Those stupid chocolate croissants from the Barcelona training facility café that you'd get genuinely upset about when they sold out.

It feels like a lifetime ago—back when your biggest worry was missing breakfast pastries, not navigating the social minefield of Madrid's elite football culture.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

You swallow thickly, staring at your screen for a couple seconds.

Because Jungkook's always been good at checking in without making it feel like an interrogation. He knows you well enough to understand that direct questions about your emotional state will get deflected, but asking about Madrid in general? That's safe territory.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚊𝚍'𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗?

You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Sofia highlight something in yellow marker.

How do you explain that Madrid feels like wearing clothes that don't fit? That every day feels like you're playing a role you never auditioned for? That you miss the easy warmth of Barcelona so much it physically hurts sometimes?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚒

Sofia waves at your phone like Jungkook can see her, which makes you roll your eyes.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙷𝙸 𝚂𝙾𝙵𝙸𝙰

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒 𝙰𝙼 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒'𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒'𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚒

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢

Your heart does that stupid flutter thing it always does when Dani gets mentioned.

Even now, even with Carla, even with the distance and the time and the rational knowledge that your teenage crush was exactly that—teenage and over.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚊𝚍'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚒s

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚘𝚘

No, he didn't.

It's easier to pretend he didn't.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚎'𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎?

You know exactly what you're asking.

He knows too, judging by the way the writing dots disappear two times before his next reply.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚊𝚑

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: ��𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗…?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎? 👀

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒'𝚖 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞

The homesickness comes and crashes like a tidal wave.

It never quite goes away, the ache for the people who knew you before Madrid, before everything got complicated.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚢

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚘

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚓𝚔

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢

Family.

Something warm settles in your chest.

Not the grief, not the homesickness, but something warmer.

A reminder that distance doesn't erase the connections that matter.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: ❤️

You set your phone down, a sigh escaping your lips.

Madrid's still foreign, and two weeks in, and you're still mourning. Not just Mom, though that's a wound that never scabs over. It's Barcelona too. The team, the culture, the way Camp Nou felt like a second home. The way Dani smiled without agenda, the way Jungkook teased like a brother.

You're in Madrid by accident, by necessity, and every white jersey you see feels like a betrayal.

But then there's Sofia, a small, stubborn reminder that not everything here has to hurt.

You chew another candy, slower this time. Let the sourness linger.

Promises might wither when left alone, but maybe, just maybe, some things grow in their place.

You're not ready to name it. Not ready to trust it.

But for now, sitting here with Sofia's quiet scribbling as your backdrop, it's enough to keep you from sinking.

Traffic in Madrid is apparently a personal vendetta against punctuality.

Your dad's running twenty minutes late because some jackass decided the M-40 was the perfect place for a fender bender, which means you're here. Setting up his station. Organizing equipment you could identify with your eyes closed because you've been watching him work since you could walk.

The physio room's too clean, too sterile, too Real Madrid.

The Barcelona facility had character—scuff marks on the walls, that one massage table with the slightly wobbly leg that everyone avoided, the persistent smell of Bengay that had seeped into the paint over fifteen years.

This place looks like it was designed by people who've never actually treated an injury.

You're sorting through resistance bands when Namjoon appears in the doorway, looking like he's lost a fight with his textbooks. Again.

"Your dad said you might be here," he says, adjusting his glasses. "Traffic's insane out there."

Right. Namjoon.

You met him exactly nine days ago when he wandered into the wrong lecture hall and ended up sitting through your Sports Medicine seminar. Turned out he was supposed to be in another class but was too polite to leave once he realized his mistake. Also turned out he's doing his practicum here, shadowing the medical staff twice a week.

Small world. Smaller when your dad's the new guy everyone wants to impress.

"He's stuck near Cuatro Caminos," you say, testing the tension on an elastic band. "Should be here soon."

"Need help with anything?"

You gesture at the perfectly organized equipment. "It's just busy work. Dad's paranoid about first impressions."

Namjoon nods like he understands the pressure of being the new guy. Which he probably does, considering he transferred here from Seoul and still looks slightly shell-shocked by Spanish bureaucracy.

"I'll be in the film room if you need anything," he says. "Marco's apparently having issues with his hip flexor and wants to review some footage."

Of course Marco has issues. Guy probably pulled something showing off for whatever Instagram model he's currently terrorizing.

Namjoon disappears, leaving you alone with the antiseptic smell and the growing certainty that helping your dad was a mistake.

You should be back at UEM, pretending to study while Sofia explains the philosophical implications of biochemical reactions.

Instead, you're here. Instead, you're in enemy territory. Organizing equipment for people who think Barcelona is a quaint regional hobby.

The door opens again.

"Thought I saw the physio's…" The voice trails off.

You know that voice. Heard it exactly one week ago, asking if you knew his name like that was supposed to matter.

You don't look up. Keep sorting through the massage oils like they require your complete attention.

"…Daughter," Taehyung finishes, giving the Coke Zero in his hand one last sip. "Interesting."

"Riveting," you say to the bottles of arnica gel. "There's a Nobel Prize in it somewhere."

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you've said something amusing instead of dismissive. Then, leaves the can on the furniture near the door.

You look up.

Grave mistake.

He's shirtless again because of course he is. Apparently shirts are optional in his world, a suggestion rather than a requirement. Fresh scratch marks across his back, angry red lines that tell a very obvious story about his weekend activities.

Classy.

"Something wrong with your scapula?" you ask, because that's why people come here—medical issues.

Not to parade around half-naked making small talk with staff daughters.

"How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess."

He moves closer, traces of whatever shampoo he uses lingering in the air. It reminds you of lemons… And something else that's probably pheromones or whatever evolutionary bullshit makes objectively terrible men attractive to people with functioning ovaries.

"Your dad around?"

"Running late." You cap the massage oil, set it back in its designated spot. "You can wait."

"Or you could take a look."

You blink. "I'm not a physiotherapist."

"You know what you're doing." He's already settling onto the massage table, lying face down like the decision's been made. "Study the same stuff as your dad, should be the same no?"

"It's really not."

"How?"

Because studying and actually doing the work with your own hands is essentially different.

Because med students are not doctors.

And physio students aren't either.

But explaining that to Kim Taehyung would mean talking to a toddler. And you have better things to do than waste breath on a manchild.

"Because."

"Compelling argument."

You could leave. Should leave. Let him wait for your dad like a normal person.

But maybe it's the way he's so entitled, and acts like so. Maybe it's the need to put him in his place—especially when you don't even know where yours is.

So, you wash your hands.

"Where's the pain?"

"Right side. Under the shoulder blade. Been bothering me since Saturday."

Saturday. When he was making headlines for all the wrong reasons. When those scratch marks were being carved into his back by whatever random woman decided he was worth the trouble.

You approach the table, professional, detached. Just like you've seen Dad do a hundred million times before.

You place your hands on his back, feeling for tension, knots, the specific kind of tightness that comes from overcompensation.

His skin is warm. Firm.

The scratch marks are raised under your fingers, evidence of Saturday night's adventures literally written across his shoulders.

"Here?" You press against the scapula, finding the knot immediately.

"Mmm." The sound is low, almost a purr. "Yeah, right there."

You ignore the way he says it. Focus on the muscle. The problem. The solution.

"Probably compensation," you say, working your thumbs in small circles. "You favor your right side when you tackle. Puts extra stress on the stabilizing muscles."

"Hmmm." Another noise, drawn out and definitely unnecessary. "That feels… really good."

Your hands pause. "Are you making those sounds on purpose?"

"What sounds?"

But he's grinning into the table. You can hear it in his voice.

"The porn sounds."

"I don't know what you mean."

You resume working, digging deeper into the knot. He needs to learn that his little games don't work on everyone.

"Ah," he breathes when you hit a particularly tight spot. "Oh, fuck, that's—"

"Can you not?"

"Not what?"

"Sound like you're getting jerked off."

He turns his head, looking at you over his shoulder with that smirk that probably gets him everything he wants.

"Is that what it sounds like?"

"It sounds like you're doing it on purpose."

"Maybe I am."

"Well, don't."

He simply glances at you, smirk plastered all over his face.

You work in silence for a few minutes, focusing on the actual muscle tension instead of the idiot attached to it. The knot's stubborn, layers of compensation built up over weeks of training and whatever he does in his spare time that leaves scratch marks.

"Your weekend activities aren't helping," you say, pressing harder than strictly necessary.

"Mmhm." Another deliberate sound. "My weekend activities are very… thorough."

"I mean the scratches. They're affecting your posture."

"Ah." Like you've just told him something profound instead of basic anatomy. "The scratches."

"Unless you're wrestling with cats, you might want to tell your… companions… to be more careful."

He laughs, and you feel it vibrate through his back under your hands.

"I'll pass along the feedback."

The muscle finally starts to give, tension releasing under sustained pressure. You move your hands to the surrounding area, checking for related knots, secondary compensation patterns.

"Oh," he breathes when you hit another tight spot. "Yeah, that's… mmm."

"Jesus Christ."

"What?"

"Do you have to narrate everything?"

"I'm appreciative." His voice is muffled by the table but you can still hear the amusement. "Sue me for having good manners."

"This isn't appreciation. This you auditioning for a porno."

"Can't it be both?"

You press your elbow into the knot. Hard.

He chokes on whatever smart-ass comment he was about to make.

"Better," you say flatly.

"Fuck, okay, point taken."

The thing about Taehyung is that he's predictable. He pushes until he finds resistance, then pushes harder to see what happens.

Classic spoiled rich boy behavior—no understanding of boundaries because no one's ever enforced any.

You've met his type before. Barcelona had them too, though they usually had the decency to pretend they weren't entitled assholes.

"Turn around."

He does, and now you're face to face with his chest. Which is. Well. It's a chest. Perfectly sculpted, golden skin, the kind of definition that suggests both excellent genetics and obsessive gym habits.

You've seen better.

(That's a lie, but you're committed to it.)

"The problem's in your back," you say, positioning your hands on his shoulders from the front. "You're compensating with your anterior muscles."

"My what now?"

"Front muscles. Keep up."

He grins at that, like you've just confirmed some theory he's been testing.

"So you're saying I've been working too hard?"

"I'm saying you've been working wrong."

Your hands find the tight spots along his clavicle, pressing into the muscle tissue with more force than strictly necessary.

Indeed, he makes another sound—something between a gasp and a moan—and you seriously consider just walking out.

"That's definitely gonna leave marks," he says, looking down at where your thumbs are digging into his skin.

"Good. Maybe you'll remember proper form."

"Oh, I'll remember this."

The way he says it makes your skin crawl.

Not because it's gross—which it is—but because it sounds like he genuinely means it.

Which is worse, somehow.

You finish the treatment in relative silence, mostly because you've perfected the art of selective hearing. He tries a few more times to get a reaction, but you're done giving attention to his stupidities.

"Ice it for twenty minutes when you get home," you say, stepping back and washing your hands again. "Anti-inflammatories if the pain persists."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

You're already moving toward the sink, washing your hands again because touching him feels like it requires immediate sanitization.

"Your dad teach you anything else?"

"How to bill insurance companies."

He laughs. Again. Like you're actually funny instead of just sarcastic.

"Useful skill."

You dry your hands, not letting him out of your periphery because it feels dangerous, somehow. He's sitting behind you on the table. Shirtless. Fixed.

Still there.

Can he leave?

"Was there something else?"

"Just curious."

"About what?"

"You."

You muster all the oxygen in the room one breath. Inhale deeply. Exhale slowly.

"There's nothing to be curious about."

"I doubt that."

You turn around. He's still sitting on the table, legs dangling like a kid at the doctor's office. Except kids don't usually look like they've been sculpted by people with advanced degrees in human anatomy.

"I'm the physio's daughter. That's it. That's the whole story."

"The physio's daughter who transfers from Barcelona and acts like Real Madrid personally wronged her family."

"I don't act like anything."

"You act like we killed your dog."

"You didn't kill my dog."

"But you hate us anyway."

The worst thing is—he doesn't ask it like a question, just states it like it's a fact. Like he knows more than you're letting on.

"I don't hate anyone."

"Liar."

He doesn't know you enough to accuse you like that, especially when it's imbued in such friendly tone, like he's commenting on your coffee order instead of calling out your entire emotional state.

"I don't know you well enough to hate you."

"But you know enough to disapprove."

"I disapprove of a lot of things."

"Such as?"

"People who think the world revolves around them."

He grins. "Guilty."

"People who can't take a hint."

"Also guilty."

"People who make everything about sex."

"Depends on your definition of everything."

You stare at him. He stares back, completely unashamed. Like this is normal conversation instead of him basically admitting to being exactly the kind of person you despise.

"You're unbelievable."

"Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know."

He slides off, and it's always like this—moving like he's never doubted his welcome anywhere. Casually arrogant, lazily confident.

He's standing now, fingers tapping against the table in that absurd manner of people trying to look sexy.

Whether it works, you're not gonna comment.

But your dad's equipment suddenly feels very small, the space between you measured in inches instead of feet.

"I should go," he says, but doesn't move.

"Yes. You should."

He reaches for his shirt, hanging on a nearby chair. But instead of putting it on, he steps closer. Close enough that you can see the exact color of his eyes, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the small scar near his left eyebrow that probably has a story you don't want to know.

His hand moves, casual and way too quick, slipping into the pocket of your hoodie before you can react.

"Think I'll be borrowing one of these."

He pulls out a pikota, examining it like it's a rare artifact instead of candy you buy at any corner store.

"Those are mine."

"I know." He pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Sour. Interesting choice."

"Give it back."

"Can't. Already eaten."

"The rest of them."

"Finders keepers."

He's still standing too close, looking down at you with that smirk that suggests he knows exactly how inappropriate this is and doesn't care.

"Besides," he says, finally stepping back, "now I know what to call you."

"My name is—"

"Gominola."

Your brows knit in disbelief. There's just no way—no way—that Real Madrid's number two, Kim Taehyung, the arrogant prick standing in front of you, had the audacity to cut you off mid-name… only to nickname you Gominola.

"That's not my name."

"It is now."

He pulls on his shirt, covering the scratch marks and the evidence of whatever he does when he's not being a professional athlete.

"See you around, Gominola."

He's gone before you can respond—so you settle for cursing him inwardly, instead of outwardly.

But not quite gone.

Because the Coke Zero can is still sitting there on the counter like a monument to his casual disrespect for other people's spaces. Empty. Sweating condensation onto the pristine surface of your dad's equipment station.

Of course.

"Your trash," you call out, voice flat.

He pauses in the doorway, glances back at the can like he's seeing it for the first time.

"That's what you're here for, no?"

The audacity. The absolute fucking audacity.

"I'm not your maid."

"Hmmm… No?" He shrugs, casual as breathing. "Organizing equipment, cleaning up after people. Very maid-adjacent activities."

You stare at him. He stares back.

Neither of you moves.

Your eyebrow twitches—just once, a microscopic flicker of irritation that you can't quite suppress. It's involuntary. Reflexive. The kind of tell that gives away more than you'd like.

But he catches it. Of course he does.

"I like that," he says, leaning against the doorframe like he's settling in for a show. "That little frown you get. Right there." He gestures vaguely at your face. "Makes you look real cute when you're pissed off."

Cute.

He called you cute.

Like you're some pet that's learned a new trick. Like your irritation exists for his entertainment.

"Fascinating. I'll add that to the list of things I don't care about."

"Long list?"

"You'd be surprised."

He grins so bright, for a second you wonder if you just complimented his mother instead of basically telling him to fuck off.

"You know what? Keep the can." He straightens up, preparing to leave for real this time. "Consider it a memento."

"Of what?"

"Today. This conversation. The first time you touched me."

Your skin crawls inwards. Because the way he says it? It's not only sexual—though it definitely is—but it also sounds like he's already planning the sequel.

"It was a medical procedure."

"If you say so, Gomi."

And then he's actually gone, leaving you alone with his trash, his stupid nickname, and the lingering scent of lemons that somehow makes the entire room feel smaller.

You grab the can. Toss it in the bin with more force than strictly necessary.

The metal clangs against the sides, echoing in the silence.

Your eyebrow's still twitching.

Cute. Right.

You make a mental note to practice better facial control.

The last thing you need is Kim Taehyung thinking he has any effect on you whatsoever.

The thing about expensive universities is that they love attaching corporate logos to everything.

Like slapping a Nike swoosh on your degree somehow makes the crushing student debt more palatable. Or maybe it's the other way around—Nike gets to pretend they care about education while really just hunting for the next generation of athletes to exploit.

Either way, you're sitting in a lecture hall that's way too big listening to Professor García explain why this is such an 'incredible opportunity.'

"Nike has graciously agreed to sponsor a networking event for our Sports Science students," he says, gesturing at a PowerPoint slide that's probably older than some of the freshman. "This is exactly the kind of industry connection that makes UEM graduates so sought after."

You chew a pikota. Slowly. Let the sour-sweet dissolve on your tongue while Sofia scribbles notes like this is information worth remembering.

Corporate networking events.

Your favorite.

Right up there with root canals and Real Madrid training sessions.

"The event will be held next Friday at seven PM," he continues, clicking to the next slide. "Cocktail attire. Representatives from Nike's European division will be there, along with several prominent figures from Madrid's sports community."

Sofia elbows you. "This could be huge for internships."

"Thrilling," you say, not looking up from your notebook where you're not taking notes. Just doodling. Tiny ferrets stealing socks from faceless businessmen in suits.

"I'm serious. Nike sponsors half the football world. Imagine the connections."

The problem with Sofia is that she still believes in the system. Still thinks that networking and handshakes and business cards will somehow lead to meaningful careers instead of just more meetings with people who think they're important.

You've seen the system. Lived adjacent to it your entire life.

It's mostly bullshit wrapped in expensive suits.

"Plus," Sofia adds, leaning closer, "it's not like you have anything else going on Friday night."

What you hate about Sofia is that she is, often, not wrong.

And this time, she isn't either.

Your social calendar consists of studying, texting Jungkook, and watching your ferrets commit small crimes against your furniture.

Hardly the stuff of legends.

"Representatives from Madrid's sports community," you repeat, finally looking up. "That's vague."

"Probably Real Madrid players," says the guy sitting in front of you. Miguel something. Rich kid with a trust fund and opinions about everything. "My dad knows someone at Nike. Says they've got some big partnership thing happening."

Of course they do.

Because apparently there's no corner of your life that Real Madrid can't invade.

Not university. Not home. Not even corporate networking events that should theoretically have nothing to do with football.

"You okay?" Sofia asks, probably noticing the way your jaw's gone tight.

"Fine."

But you're not fine. You're calculating the odds that you can skip this thing without Professor García noticing. Or caring.

Except that would mean explaining to Sofia why you're suddenly allergic to networking events. Which would mean explaining about the move from Barcelona. Which would mean explaining things you don't have words for yet.

So instead you nod. Smile. Pretend like the thought of spending an evening making small talk with Real Madrid players doesn't make you want to crawl under your desk and stay there.

"Great," García says, apparently wrapping up his sales pitch. "I'll email you the details. Remember, this is optional but highly recommended. Nike doesn't offer these opportunities often."

The lecture moves on to muscle fiber types and you try to focus. Really. But your brain keeps drifting back to Friday night.

To cocktail attire and corporate representatives and the growing certainty that your life in Madrid is about to get exponentially more complicated.

Sofia's still taking notes. Dutiful, organized, probably already planning her outfit.

You draw another ferret. This one's stealing a Nike swoosh.

Seems appropriate.

Home feels different now that your dad’s working for Real Madrid.

Not worse, exactly; just… Heavier. Like the walls are holding their breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

You can hear him in the kitchen, moving around with the kind of agitation that means he’s either cooking something complicated or thinking through a problem. 

You have lived with him enough to know it’s usually both.

"¿Qué tal la universidad?" (How was university?) your dad calls out when he hears you drop your bag by the door.

"Educativa," (Educational) you say, which is technically true.

You did learn that Nike has tentacles that reach into every corner of Spanish academic life.

"Bien. Ven aquí un momento." (Good. Come here for a minute.)

The kitchen smells like garlic and something that might be steaks if your dad’s feeling ambitious. He’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan that’s definitely too big for two people.

Force of habit. 

He’s been cooking for crowds since your mom died, like muscle memory doesn’t understand that the crowd is gone.

"Tenemos que hablar sobre el viernes," (We need to talk about Friday) he says without looking up.

Friday. The Nike thing. Of course he knows about it. Probably got an email from someone at the university, or maybe Nike reached out directly. Corporate synergy and all that.

"Ya sé lo del evento de networking," (I already know about the networking event) you say, leaning against the counter. "El profesor García hizo el gran anuncio hoy." (Professor Garcia made the big announcement today.)

"No es eso—" (That's not—) He stops stirring what you now recognize as the veggies side dish. Looks at you. "¿Qué evento de networking?" (What networking event?)

Oh.

Oh, this is worse.

"Nike está patrocinando algo en la UEM. Viernes por la noche. Estudiantes de ciencias del deporte." (Nike's sponsoring something at UEM. Friday night. Sports science students.) You watch his expression change from confusion to something that looks suspiciously like resignation. "¿Por qué?" (Why?)

He sets down the wooden spoon. Runs a hand through his hair in that way that means he’s about to deliver news you won’t like.

"El Real Madrid tiene una cena programada con representantes de Nike. Viernes por la noche a las nueve, pero tenemos que estar allí a las siete y media." (Real Madrid has a dinner scheduled with Nike representatives. Friday night at nine, but we have to be there by seven-thirty.) He pauses. "Las familias del personal están invitadas." (Staff families are invited.)

The pieces click together immediately.

You want to throw something.

"Es el mismo evento." (It's the same event.)

"Eso parece." (Appears so.)

"Así que las 'figuras prominentes de la comunidad deportiva madrileña' son—" (So the 'prominent figures from Madrid's sports community' are—)

"El equipo. Sí." (The team. Yes.)

You stare at him. He stares back, apologetic but not apologetic enough to fix this.

"No puedo ir," (I can't go) you say finally.

"Sí, puedes." (Yes, you can.)

"No iré." (I won't go.)

"Sí, irás." (Yes, you will.)

It’s not a conversation. It’s a statement of fact, delivered in the tone he uses when discussing treatment plans with stubborn patients. 

Final and absolutely non-negotiable.

"Papá—" (Dad—)

"Esto es importante." (This is important.) He turns back to the stove, but his shoulders are tense. "Mi puesto aquí sigue siendo nuevo. Aún me están evaluando. Estos eventos importan." (My position here is still new. Still being evaluated. These events matter.)

Right. 

Because everything comes back to that—his job, his reputation, the delicate political balance of being the former Barcelona physiotherapist who now works for Real Madrid.

You’re not just his daughter at these things. You’re evidence. Proof that the transition is working, that the family has successfully integrated into Madrid’s football culture.

No pressure.

"¿Cuántos jugadores?" (How many players?) you ask, because you need to know the scope of the disaster you're walking into.

"La mayoría del primer equipo. Entrenadores. Algunos miembros de la junta." (Most of the first team. Coaches. Some board members.) He glances at you. "Es un gran evento para Nike. Anuncio de nueva asociación." (It's a big deal for Nike. New partnership announcement.)

"¿Y tengo que estar allí porque...?" (And I have to be there because...?)

"Porque eres parte de esta familia. Y esta familia se apoya mutuamente." (Because you're part of this family. And this family supports each other.)

The guilt trip is subtle but effective. Because he’s right. You are part of this family. 

The only family either of you has left.

And if supporting him means suffering through dinner with Real Madrid players while maintaining the fiction that you’re happy to be there, then that’s what you’ll do.

Even if it kills you.

Even if one of those players is as arrogant as Kim Taehyung.

"Vale," (Fine) you say. "Pero no voy a fingir ser fan del Madrid." (But I'm not pretending to be a Madrid fan.)

"No te estoy pidiendo que lo hagas." (I'm not asking you to.)

"Y no voy a hacer conversación sobre lo genial que es el equipo." (And I'm not making small talk about how great the team is.)

"Entendido." (Understood.)

"Y si alguien pregunta sobre el Barcelona—" (And if anyone asks about Barcelona—)

"Les dices la verdad. Que lo echas de menos pero te estás adaptando." (You tell them the truth. That you miss it but you're adjusting.) He turns off the heat, faces you completely. "Esto no tiene que ser una tortura. Solo... sé tú misma. Sé educada." (This doesn't have to be torture. Just... be yourself. Be polite.)

Be yourself. Right.

Because your ‘self’ is exactly who you want to be around a table full of people who represent everything you’ve been raised to view with suspicion.

Everyone keeps saying that like it’s simple advice instead of the most complicated thing in the world.

Your ‘self’ is a Barcelona girl in Madrid territory. A physio’s daughter who knows too much about football politics and not enough about corporate networking. Someone who misses her mom and protects her dad and has strong opinions about ferret care.

None of which feels particularly useful for surviving dinner with Real Madrid.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe being yourself is exactly what will get you through this.

Even if ‘yourself’ includes the part that finds Kim Taehyung insufferable.

Especially that part.

"¿Qué me pongo?" (What should I wear?) you ask, because if you're doing this, you might as well do it right.

"Algo bonito, elegante." (Something nice, elegant.) He pauses. "Tu madre tenía un vestido negro. Aún está en el armario de arriba." (Your mother had a black dress. Still in the closet upstairs.)

The mention of Mom never stops the dull ache from forming and stirring in your chest. 

Like lillies in full bloom. 

"Ya me las arreglaré," (I'll figure something out) you say, because the thought of wearing her clothes to a Real Madrid event feels like blasphemy.

He nods. Goes back to stirring.

You grab a pikota from the jar on the counter, unwrap it, let the sourness ground you while you process the fact that your Friday night just became infinitely more complicated.

"¿Al menos me dirás quién va a estar allí?" (Will you at least tell me who's going to be there?) you ask. "Para poder prepararme para el sabor específico de pesadilla que va a ser esto." (So I can prepare for the specific flavor of nightmare this is going to be?)

He rattles off names. Players you recognize from sports coverage and social media. Coaches you’ve seen on the sidelines. Board members you don’t know and don’t care about.

“Taehyung?” you ask when he doesn’t mention him specifically.

"Probablemente. ¿Por qué?" (Probably. Why?)

Because he called you Gominola and stole your candy and made sounds during a medical procedure like he was auditioning for porn. 

Because he thinks you’re cute when you’re angry and left his trash for you to clean up.

Because something about him makes you want to claw his eyes off and you’re not sure you’ll hold yourself back if you have to be in his space for three hours. 

"Solo preguntaba," (Just wondering) you say.

Your dad gives you a glance that’s accompanied by a small frown, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead…

"Estará bien," (It'll be fine) he says, turning back to the meal. "Unas pocas horas. Buena comida. Luego se acabó." (A few hours. Good food. Then it's over.)

Right. A few hours.

In a room full of Real Madrid players.

Including Taehyung.

Who will probably find new and creative ways to be insufferable while you try to maintain your dignity and support your father’s career.

What could go wrong?

You eat another pikota. This one tastes like impending doom.

"Voy a estudiar," (I'm going to study) you announce, pushing off from the counter.

"La cena está en una hora." (Dinner's in an hour.)

"Bajaré." (I'll be down.)

You head upstairs, leaving him with his meat and his optimism.

Up there, the room feels smaller than usual, like the walls are closing in with the weight of Friday night’s obligations.

Just as if your room represents exactly how you’re feeling.

Hari and Nube are there, watching you from their cage, probably sensing your mood through whatever weird telepathic connection you’ve developed with them.

“Esto es una mierda,” (This is shit) you tell them.

Nube chitches in what sounds like agreement. Hari just steals another sock.

Smart ferret. Some problems are best solved through theft and chaos.

You flop onto your bed, staring at the ceiling while your brain runs through worst-case scenarios.

Taehyung will be there. Obviously. Because the universe has a sense of humor and no mercy.

He’ll probably make more inappropriate comments about your appearance or your attitude or your apparent cuteness when angry. He’ll probably find new ways to invade your personal space while maintaining plausible deniability. He’ll definitely do that thing where he acts like everything is a game and everything is fair and square. 

Everything is his prize if he so much wishes for it to be.

And you’ll have to sit there. Smile. Be polite.

Support your father’s career while maintaining your sanity.

Should be simple.

Should be.

Your phone buzzes. Not Jungkook this time—something different. A WhatsApp notification for a group you don’t recognize.

𝐍𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐃𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 - 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐝

47 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡�� 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑝．

You stare at the screen. Scroll through the participant list. Every name you recognize from training sessions, plus dozens you don’t. Players, coaches, staff, board members. The entire Real Madrid ecosystem crammed into one group chat.

And somewhere in that list—Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

"¡Papá!" (Dad!) you call downstairs.

"¿Sí?" (Yeah?)

"¿Por qué estoy en un grupo de WhatsApp con toda la organización del Real Madrid?" (Why am I in a WhatsApp group with the entire Real Madrid organization?)

Pause. The sound of a wooden spoon being set down.

"Cena de Nike el viernes," (Nike dinner Friday) he says, like this explains everything. "Todos los asistentes necesitan estar al tanto. Vienes, así que estás en el chat." (Everyone attending needs to be in the loop. You're coming, so you're in the chat.)

Right. Because your life wasn’t complicated enough.

You scroll through the chat history. Pure chaos. Forty-seven people trying to coordinate one dinner, and it’s exactly as much of a disaster as you’d expect.

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝟽:𝟹𝟶

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙽𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚛…?

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙵𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢.

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊?

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚗𝚘

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚜  

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊, 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘?

The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚘 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

Your stomach drops. There it is. The question that’s not really a question.

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 👍

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

You stare at that message. Blink in silence like that’ll somehow transcribe your response into existence.

God, why are they all annoying? 

The typing dots appear under your name. Everyone can see them. Forty-six people watching you not respond.

You delete whatever you were going to type.

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚜𝚘 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎?

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚈𝙴𝚂 𝙻𝙴𝙾

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊’𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 💀💀💀

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙴𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷

The chat goes quiet for exactly thirty seconds. Then:

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎?

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝟷𝟿:𝟷𝟻.

Your dad appears in the doorway, probably wondering why you’ve gone quiet.

"¿Todo bien?" (Everything okay?)

"Solo leyendo el chat grupal." (Just reading the group chat.) You hold up your phone. "Es como ver un documental sobre machos alfa en su hábitat natural." (It's like watching a nature documentary about alpha males in their natural habitat.)

"¿Tan malo?" (That bad?)

"Marco acaba de decirle a Leo que su novia va a dejarlo durante los aperitivos." (Marco just told Leo his girlfriend's going to dump him during appetizers.)

He winces. "Marco es... directo." (Marco's... direct.)

"Marco es un sociópata." (Marco's a sociopath.)

"Es joven." (He's young.)

Young. Everyone keeps using that word like it explains away basic human decency.

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙾𝚔 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

The responses flood in. Names, plus-ones, family members. A parade of people who belong in this world, who wear cocktail attire to corporate dinners without feeling like they’re playing dress-up.

You watch the numbers climb. Forty-seven becomes sixty-two becomes seventy-eight.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚃𝚊𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎?

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚏𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚘

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝? 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝙸𝚃 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙵𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕

The lie is so obvious it’s almost insulting. You’ve seen the headlines, the Instagram stories, the lipstick marks that make sports blogs. 

Taehyung’s focus is definitely not on football.

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 - 𝙻𝚎𝚘 + 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝙵 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙻𝚎𝚘

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘 𝙸’𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: ✅ - 𝚇𝚊𝚟𝚒 + 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝙳𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚘 + 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚊

The list grows. Couples, families, people who fit together like puzzle pieces in this Madrid ecosystem.

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 - 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞́𝚜 + 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛.

There it is. Your attendance, reduced to a line item in someone else’s confirmation.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 ❤️

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟽𝟾 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚜’ 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚘𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚘 👎

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠  

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚒 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐞𝐥: 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚛. 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙱𝙾𝚃𝙷 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝚃𝙾𝙿

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚅𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝟷𝟾:𝟺𝟻

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐢́𝐚𝐬: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙻𝚈

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚊𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚊𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙰𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 not

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚏𝚏

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚜

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙾

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 𝐕: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙽𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛.

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚛?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙻𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚖

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚞𝚗

𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐞𝐥: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞́: 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜

𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚́𝐬: 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚝 

𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚́𝐬: 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐚́𝐬: 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐏𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐨: 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚗𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐢́𝐚𝐬: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎

𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬: 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚂𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕

𝐋𝐞𝐨: 𝚍𝚘 𝙸 𝚝𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢 

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐???

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚔𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝙾𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚙

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡): 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜:

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝟷𝟾:𝟺𝟻 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚢

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 (𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥: 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢: 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗

𝐃𝐚𝐝: 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢.

"Cena en diez minutos," (Dinner in ten) your dad says.

"Sí. Ya voy." (Yeah. Coming.)

You’re about to pocket your phone when one more message appears.

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝

Three words. Could mean anything. Could mean nothing.

But they feel like both a warning and an oath.

You’re not sure which would be worse.

The pikotas in your pocket suddenly feel insufficient armor for whatever Friday night’s going to bring.

Seventy-eight people. One dinner. Two many Real Madrid pricks whose entire personality orbits around their egos.

What could go wrong?

Your dad calls up the stairs. Dinner’s ready.

You pocket your phone, take one last look at the ferrets.

“Deseadme suerte,” (Wish me luck) you tell them.

Nube chitches. Hari steals another sock.

Some things never change—even when everything else does.

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[brattysx]

#O2 — “Some Monsters Don’t Hide in The Dark”

Han Su Gang x reader | Brave Citizen Universe | +18 mdni!

Tags: psychological thriller, dark themes, obsession, toxic dynamics, slow burn, fear, emotional manipulation, stalking, unsettling tension…

O1 — O2 — O3 — O4

It was never just words.

What Han Su Gang had done to me for years wasn’t some fleeting kind of cruelty, the kind masked by sarcasm or hidden beneath silent disdain. It wasn’t just bullying. It was something else — something calculated. It was a method. An art form, almost. A deliberate, structured way of destroying someone from the inside out until even the broken pieces were ashamed to exist.

That morning, the sky was too clear. That kind of dishonest blue — clean, soft, almost comforting. The kind of sky that lies. The kind of sky that, if someone passing by happened to glance up at it, would make them think everything was fine. Peaceful. Normal.

But it wasn’t.

Inside the classroom, the heat clung to every surface like a second skin. The air conditioner had broken again — for the third time that week. Everyone was complaining, fanning themselves, peeling off their jackets, trying to breathe through the discomfort.

Everyone but him.

Han Su Gang sat beside me as if he were made of another temperature entirely. As if heat didn’t touch him. His shirt collar was slightly open, his sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows, and his legs stretched carelessly out from under his desk like the rules of posture, of space, didn’t apply to him.

He looked like he owned the room.

And in a way, he did.

When the teacher turned to face the board, I heard it — the sharp, unmistakable sound of crumpled paper behind me. A soft crackle that shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. To me, it was a trigger. A warning. My whole body went still.

A second later, something hit the back of my neck.

Cold. Damp. Immediate.

Laughter followed. The worst kind. Stifled, guilty laughter — masked behind fake coughs, disguised by palms covering mouths. It wasn’t loud, but it cut through everything. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t have to.

It was always him.

“I’m testing your sensitivity,” he whispered, leaning just close enough for his breath to brush my skin. “Still seems to work.”

The paper landed on the floor beside my chair. A used napkin.

Disgusting.

And humiliating.

My fingers trembled as I reached for my pen again. I took a deep breath. Tried to focus on the whiteboard in front of me. But all I could see were shadows. His presence stretched in every direction, wrapping around me, smothering.

The rest of the day dragged on in that same blur — numb, heavy, exhausting.

But that day, something changed. He decided to push further. To cross one more line.

During break, I headed toward the water fountain in the far corner of the school courtyard — the part near the back wall where no one really went. It was quiet there. Overgrown. Forgotten. It was one of the few places I could go to breathe without being watched.

Or so I thought.

I leaned over, letting the cold water trail down my chin, eyes closed for just a moment — just long enough to let my guard slip.

Then I felt it.

A hand. Pressing against my back.

And then, impact.

My body slammed forward. Metal met bone as my hip collided with the edge of the fountain. My thigh scraped hard against the concrete below.

I twisted back instinctively.

I already knew.

Han Su Gang stood a few steps away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Not even a flicker of guilt. Not anger. Not pleasure. Just that blank stare — like he had shoved me out of boredom. Like I was nothing more than a pawn that had served its purpose.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said, voice flat. Almost polite.

“You’re sick.”

The words came out before I could stop them. Pain flared in my leg and hip, but the heat in my chest burned hotter — anger eclipsing fear, if only for a second.

And then I regretted it.

He took a step forward. Then another.

Not fast. Not threatening in the way people expect danger to be. Just steady. Just inevitable.

Each footfall felt heavier than the last, like the ground was folding beneath his weight. He stopped when there was only a breath of space between us.

His eyes didn’t stay still. They scanned me — from my face, to my shoulder, to my hand clutching the edge of the fountain. Then back up. Methodical. Exact. As if he were cataloging me. Deciding which part to break next.

“Say it again,” he said, softly.

I didn’t.

Because up close, his scent — sweat from the sun, dust from the courtyard, something human and wrong — clung to the air around us. I felt it more than smelled it. I felt it like a prison.

The prison was him.

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he smiled. That same twisted, arrogant smile.

And spit on the ground next to my leg.

“Watch your mouth,” he muttered, before turning and walking away.

I stood frozen, the burn in my chest crawling up to my throat. The need to cry rose fast and brutal — like acid. But I swallowed it. Swallowed everything.

I wouldn’t cry in front of him.

He didn’t deserve to see that.

But he knew.

He always knew.

That inside, I was already breaking.

When I returned to class, no one said anything. A few glanced my way, then quickly looked away. Some giggled quietly. Others pretended they hadn’t seen.

And his friends — his loyal audience — stayed close. Laughing when expected. Sitting in all the right places. Blocking out any potential help with their presence alone. They were his barrier.

No one ever called me the victim.

To them, I was just the weird girl who had some “issue” with Han Su Gang.

That’s what they whispered. “The dramatic one.” “The one who doesn’t like him.” As if I were the problem. As if the fact that I saw him for what he truly was — a predator — made me dangerous.

Even the teachers saw.

And still, they did nothing.

That afternoon, in science class, he didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me.

He just reached across the table, picked up my pen, and scribbled something at the bottom of my page.

No request. No glance. Just ink on paper.

When I finally looked down, I saw the words:

You’re not getting out.

Four words.

But within them, there was an entire sentence. A verdict. A cage. A life.

And somehow, I already knew —

he meant every one of them.

⸻

At the end of class, when the final bell rang, I stayed seated a little longer than I needed to. I made a show of packing my things slowly, adjusting the position of my notebook, closing my pencil case carefully, as if I were trying to keep everything perfectly in place. But it was a lie — a quiet, desperate performance. I was only waiting for him to leave first. Just this once. Just give me a few seconds to breathe.

But it didn’t work.

When I finally stood, he was still there. Not walking out the door like the others, not even pretending to be in a rush. He was standing beside my desk — unmoved, unbothered — with his bag slung over one shoulder and his eyes fixed directly on mine. That expression of his, impossible to read, settled like ice against my spine. There was no surprise in his face. No curiosity. It was as if he had been waiting. As if he knew what I was trying to do — and had made sure I couldn’t.

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” he asked, his voice soft, casual, disturbingly natural. The kind of tone someone might use with a girlfriend, a classmate, a friend. But not me. Not like this.

I didn’t answer. I walked past him as quickly as I could, willing my shoulders to shrink, to disappear. I wanted him to forget I existed — just for one minute.

But he didn’t let it go.

“Tomorrow is your birthday.”

I stopped in my tracks.

The words were like a blade: short, sudden, and surgically placed. There was no emotion behind them — just knowledge. Cold, undeniable, weaponized knowledge.

I turned around slowly, something tightening in my chest. He was still looking at me, still holding that unreadable calm. There was no anger in his voice. No warmth, either. Only that lethal stillness — like he could destroy you without even raising his voice.

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. Like this kind of violation was a natural part of how things were.

“I know everything.”

The sentence didn’t hang in the air — it settled, like poison. Heavy and invisible. He didn’t explain himself. Didn’t offer a story about overhearing someone mention it, or seeing it on some class record. No lie to soften the truth. Just a declaration — absolute and final.

“October third. Thursday. You’ll be seventeen. You hate whipped cream on cake. You prefer dark chocolate. You’ve worn the same brand of sneakers for three years. Your blood type is O-negative. You’re allergic to shellfish. You wore glasses between the ages of nine and eleven. Your uniform number is nineteen. You’ve written three essays about the concept of freedom since you transferred here.”

Each word struck with precise force. Not because of volume, but because of what they revealed. The detail. The impossibility of it all.

It wasn’t possible.

He spoke as though he had read a journal I never kept, listened to conversations I never had. As if he had been there beside me through every second of my life. Watching. Recording. Memorizing.

And maybe, in some terrible way, he had.

My throat closed up. I felt my stomach twist slowly, the nausea creeping in like smoke.

“You’re sick,” I muttered.

He smiled — that smile he always wore when I tried to wound him with words. That same infuriating, controlled curve of the lips. Not because he didn’t feel the insult, but because it confirmed something he wanted: that I still felt something.

“No. I just care more than you’d like me to.”

I didn’t reply. I just left.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on my bed, knees hugged tightly to my chest, my back pressed against the wall. The blanket wrapped around my shoulders like armor, even though I knew it wouldn’t protect me. The room was quiet — too quiet. Every sound stood out: the ticking of the clock, the whisper of wind outside the window, the occasional bark of a dog in the distance.

And running beneath all of it was his voice. Echoing. Repeating.

“I know everything.”

I started to wonder how much he truly knew. How deep it went. How far.

Did he know I sometimes locked myself in the school bathroom just to cry, just to feel alone where no one could watch?

Did he know I’d already tried to leave?

Because I had.

Two weeks earlier, I went to the school office. Alone. My heart was a fist in my throat. I sat across from the director, my hands cold and folded on my lap, and I asked — quietly, but firmly — for a transfer.

“Why?” he asked, though the tension in his face said he already knew.

“I’m not adjusting,” I said. “I need to go. This place… it’s not good for me.”

He stared for a moment. He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t press. He just nodded and told me he’d review the request and let me know.

I left with something small inside me — not quite hope, but close.

The next day, Han Su Gang walked into class late. Everyone noticed. It was rare for him to be late. He didn’t seem worried. He looked at me — only me — then walked straight to the teacher, whispered something I couldn’t hear, and left the room again.

That afternoon, I was called back to the office.

The director’s demeanor had changed. He wasn’t pretending anymore. His tone was clipped. Detached.

“Your request for transfer has been denied,” he said.

I blinked.

“But… why?”

He looked away, pressed his lips together, and answered almost under his breath.

“It’s better this way.”

And I knew.

He knew. He always knew.

Han Su Gang had known from the beginning. And through silence, through backdoors and influence and fear, he had made sure I stayed exactly where he wanted me.

After school, I saw him again — leaning against the far wall behind the building, scrolling through his phone like he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn’t look like he was waiting. But the second he saw me, he slipped his phone into his pocket and walked toward me.

“You tried to run, didn’t you?”

I froze. My face flushed hot. My hands trembled.

“One day,” I said, my voice barely steady, “I’ll leave. And you won’t know where I went.”

He kept walking. Slowly. Like he was moving to a rhythm no one else could hear. A dance of control. Of inevitability.

“I always know where you are,” he said. “And even if you disappear, I’ll find your path. Because your path always leads back to me.”

His words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. They were something worse — true.

And the worst part? Some small part of me believed him.

He wasn’t just dangerous. He wasn’t just obsessive.

He was the only person who had ever really seen me — every crack, every shadow, every quiet part of who I was.

And he was the only one who made it his mission to destroy it all — piece by careful piece.

⸻

After that moment, everything around me seemed to slow down — not in a gentle way, but in the suffocating stillness of dread, like the air itself had thickened into something I had to wade through just to move. School stopped feeling like a place. It became a corridor with no end, a series of echoing footsteps I couldn’t escape, a daily ritual of endurance. The classrooms turned into whitewashed boxes, sterile and airless, and every face — teacher, student, staff — blurred into anonymous, indifferent shapes. No one spoke to me. No one looked at me for longer than a blink. It was as if my mere presence had become radioactive, and getting too close risked exposure.

I was a virus. And he was the threat that kept everyone away.

Each time I entered the classroom, I felt him before I saw him. His presence came first — a pressure, an energy, a static field that made my skin tighten. It was in the air, like heat before a storm. My body braced for it without thinking, recognizing the subtle warning signs: a shift in the atmosphere, the change in background noise, the prickling sensation along my spine. He didn’t have to speak. He didn’t have to move. Just existing near me was enough.

And he knew. He knew how it made me nauseous. He knew how my hands turned clammy, how my heart pounded when I heard his name whispered down a hallway. He knew I felt his eyes on me before I even entered a room — and he enjoyed it.

But then… something surfaced.

A memory.

Not loud, not clear. Just a faint, flickering echo of something I’d buried because it seemed meaningless at the time. But now, it was different. It clawed its way back into my mind like a ghost, demanding to be seen. I couldn’t sleep. Sometime after midnight, I climbed out of bed, careful not to make a sound. I went to the old wooden wardrobe in the corner of my room — the one with chipped paint and hinges that squeaked when they moved too fast.

I reached into the back, beneath a stack of neatly folded clothes, and pulled out a box. A battered shoebox, taped at the corners, its cardboard worn soft from age. I didn’t even remember the last time I had touched it.

Inside were remnants. Leftovers from a life I rarely acknowledged. A crumpled piece of paper covered in childish doodles. A plastic keychain with my mother’s name written in shaky pen. And then, at the very bottom — the doll.

She was still there.

Wrapped in a gray scrap of fabric, her yarn hair tangled, one of her button eyes hanging by a thread. Her dress, once white with tiny blue flowers, had yellowed with time, but remained intact. I had received that doll on my fifteenth birthday. And I had never known who gave it to me.

That morning, she had appeared on the kitchen table, resting inside a small box with a simple bow. My aunt barely glanced at it.

“Some neighbor must’ve dropped it off,” she said. “Or someone from school. Weird.”

She hadn’t touched the gift. She hadn’t cared. But I had kept it. Because it was the only one. The only birthday present I’d ever received. No one had ever written me a letter. No one had ever handed me a flower or left me a note scribbled in secret. That doll was the only thing that had ever arrived for me.

And now, three years later, it burned in my hands.

Because I remembered the words.

“Tomorrow is your birthday.”

That voice. That certainty.

And suddenly, I knew. It wasn’t a neighbor. It wasn’t someone from school. It had been him.

Han Su Gang.

I dropped the doll onto the bed like it had scorched my skin. My stomach turned, but not with fear. It was something else. Something sicker. A disgust laced with a shameful curiosity. A twisting realization that even then — even then — he had already been watching. Already keeping track. Already deciding who I was.

Why would he do it?

Why go so far to know me, only to hurt me?

Why observe every part of my life if all he wanted was to own it, to crush it?

Why stop anyone else from getting close, if he was the one doing the damage?

Why… keep me from drowning, only to ensure I stayed under?

I didn’t have answers. Only more questions. And each one made my head spin harder.

Because this was the truth:

Han Su Gang knew more about me than anyone else in the world.

He knew what I liked, what I hated, what I dreamed about, what I feared. He knew my habits, my weaknesses, my footsteps. He knew the clothes I wore. The books I chose. The way I wrote the letter e in cursive.

And he used all of it — every detail — not to protect, but to control. To dismantle.

The next morning, I walked into class with my skin pale and my stomach heavy. The doll was in my bag. I didn’t know why I’d brought it. Maybe I needed to feel it again. Maybe I needed proof that this was real.

He was already there.

Of course he was.

He looked at me. Smiled. Said nothing.

But I knew. I knew he knew. And he knew that I knew. And the silence that hung in the space between us was more suffocating than any word could ever be.

At lunch, he sat across from me without asking. Without hesitation. Just slid into the seat like it had always been his. He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“How’s the doll?”

The spoon fell from my hand. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Just breath. Just panic.

“You…” I tried to speak.

He leaned back, arms folded, watching me like he was measuring how far the knife had gone in.

“I figured you’d have realized by now,” he said.

“Why?” I whispered.

He stared for a long time, like he was deciding just how much I deserved to know.

Then his voice dropped to a murmur — smooth, soft, horrifying.

“I don’t let anyone have you. Not even the loneliness.”

I froze.

“Not even the loneliness?”

“Not her. Not freedom. Not anyone. You’re mine. You always have been.”

⸻

My hands were cold. The cafeteria still surrounded me — the metal tables, the flickering white lights above, the steady murmur of voices that didn’t belong to me — but I wasn’t really there anymore. My body remained seated in front of him, but my mind had shut down. It was as if some part of me, maybe the last piece of my sanity, had retreated into a dark corner, hiding, waiting for the storm to pass. But even that, he took from me. He took everything. The sounds around me faded into a distant hum, as though the world itself had pulled away and left only him — and my involuntary submission to his presence.

“And the doll…” he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “…wasn’t just a gift.” Leaning against the table, one elbow bent, he brought his face closer to mine. His eyes locked with mine like invisible blades, cutting from within without leaving a trace. “That doll was you. Small, fragile, quiet. Just the way I wanted. The way I still want. The way you’ll always be.” I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, but it didn’t stop his words from crawling into me. He never touched me. He didn’t need to. Every syllable he uttered felt like an invisible hand wrapped around my throat, pinning my arms down, pressing my consciousness to the floor. I felt his control not through touch, but in the air — as if every molecule of my being had to pass through his gaze to exist.

“Do you think you’re real?” he asked, and for a moment, the world came to a halt. “Do you think you exist outside my vision? That if I stopped looking, you would keep being?” The question hit harder than any threat. It was absurd, sick — and yet it struck something raw inside me. Because, in some awful way, he was right. He shaped the space around me. His eyes followed me when I walked, when I wrote, even when I thought. He was the filter. The lens. The frame that gave my presence its form. “I’ve been looking at you since before you looked at yourself. Since before you knew what fear was. I’m the reason behind your silences. Your stutters. The way you walk. The way you dress. The way you write.” I couldn’t breathe.

“Stop…” I murmured, my voice weak, trembling, barely audible.

“You exist because I allowed you to exist. And if one day I decide you shouldn’t, you won’t.”

I stood up violently. The chair screeched across the floor with a sharp, dry sound that shattered the bubble of silence around our table. A few heads turned. Some people glanced our way for a moment. But no one moved. No one came closer. Because it was him. Because no one ever stepped between Han Su Gang and whatever he decided to claim. I crossed the cafeteria with my stomach in knots, tears brimming in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not there. Not in front of him. I ran to the bathroom, locked myself in the last stall, and collapsed onto the cold floor, my back pressed against the wall, breathing unevenly like my body was trying to escape itself. I still had my backpack. The doll was still with me. And without understanding why, I pulled it out and placed it on my lap, as if I needed to see it to believe it was real.

My fingers trembled. That little fabric figure, stitched with such strange care and tucked away for three years without reason, was a replica of me. It was the mold. The symbol. The sign. He didn’t just watch me — he constructed me.

And I hated myself for still holding it gently. For not throwing it away. For not tearing it to shreds. For being unable to fling it far from me, like it had rooted itself into my skin. Because, despite everything, a part of me still wanted to understand. A weak part, a stupid, confused part — but alive. I wanted to know why he did it. Why he hated me so much, yet knew every detail about me. Why he watched me so precisely while claiming to want to erase me. Why he kept other boys away from me, even though he was the one hurting me the most. Why, even as the weight that pulled me under, he never let me drown completely. It was as if he wanted me to survive just so I could keep existing inside the prison he had designed for me.

That night, when I returned home, I placed the doll on my bed and stared at it for over an hour. I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. I just looked. And for the first time, I started to fear myself. Because deep within me, hidden and silent but present, there was a part that could no longer separate pain from presence. A part that was growing used to it. Used to him. To this cage disguised as routine. To this corrupted bond that, through repetition, had begun to feel familiar. It had started to feel like mine.

And that was more dangerous than any direct violence. More lethal than any spoken word. Because fear can be fought. Anger can be turned into fire. But what I felt was something worse. It was a diluted identity — the slow, quiet erosion of whoever I had been before him. I wasn’t even sure if I had ever been whole. Maybe I had always been the doll. Maybe he never needed to break me. He only had to convince me that I was never whole to begin with.

And little by little, he was succeeding.

a/n: you really liked it, i was really hoping that when you read it, you would! even though it’s dark, some people don’t consider it that way, but i’m telling you, this shit is truly a dark fanfic! i hope u scared 😱😉🥊

[cactus-cuddler]

𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Professor!Bucky Barnes × Female!Student

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Plot: You challenged his authority. He challenged your mind. But neither of you expected words to turn into desire

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: 🔞 Explicit content ★ Student/Professor dynamic ★ Power play ★ Oral sex ★ Fingering ★ Dirty talk ★ Age gap ★

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 4,6 (sorry)

The new academic year is just around the corner, and as always, you already know what you're signing up for: every history and literature course you can fit into your schedule.

It’s your comfort zone—familiar subjects, familiar structure.

But then, scrolling through the updated course catalog, something catches your eye. A title that reads less like a class and more like a dare:

“Europe in Conflict: Truths They Won’t Teach You in History Books”

You roll your eyes.

It sounds like pure academic clickbait—designed to provoke, to stand out, to spark controversy.

You’ve always believed that history is history. It’s written, it’s documented, it’s taught.

There are no “hidden truths.” No conspiracies buried between the lines of a textbook.

Still… you hesitate.

Something about that course nags at you. Maybe it’s the arrogance in the title.

Maybe it’s curiosity.

Or maybe it’s the quiet voice in the back of your mind that wants to prove it wrong.

Whatever it is, you find yourself doing something you didn’t expect: You enroll.

Not because you’re convinced.

But because you want to see what this so-called “truth” really is.

«Are you sure about the title of your course? No one’s going to sign up,» said Sam Wilson, arms crossed, looking at his best friend — James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky to his friends. Buck, only to Sam.

«Too late. I changed my mind. Why didn’t you stop me from thinking it was a good idea to become a university professor instead of an ambassador?» Professor Barnes shot back, fussing with the collar of a shirt that didn’t feel quite right.

He had never been one for fancy clothes, and spending hundreds of dollars on suits wasn’t exactly his thing. That’s why he borrowed one from Sam, even though they were clearly not the same size. In Sam’s clothes, he looked more like a badly dressed clown than a respectable professor — but that didn’t seem to bother him.

Despite appearances, Bucky was nervous. He tried not to show it, but this was his first class, his first time teaching. He didn’t have the degrees, the credentials, or even the confidence. But there was one thing he did have: the past. And he hoped that would be enough. All he had to do was tell his story — or at least, parts of it.

The other professors weren’t exactly thrilled about him joining the faculty. He’d seen the way they looked at him — with doubt, with mistrust. He’d heard the whispers in the halls:

«An assassin, teaching our students?»

«We're putting their education in the hands of that monster?»

He ignored them. Smiled politely. "I’m going to be the best damn professor this place has ever seen," he told himself, scanning the crowd in the staff lounge. Deep down, he knew they were jealous. They had worked all their lives for their place here. He? He’d just been brainwashed by Hydra, fought in World War II, and committed unspeakable crimes.

When he walked into the classroom, the seats were already nearly full. That surprised him. Maybe not everyone thought it was a bad idea. Maybe someone really wanted to hear what he had to say.

When the bell rang, he walked up to the board and wrote his full name in block letters. Underneath, a few words — concepts, really — that he would come back to later.

Then he turned to the class.

«Nice to meet you. I’m Professor Barnes. First thing you need to know: I didn’t study history,» he said, letting the words hang in the air as he scanned the room full of young, curious eyes.

A wave of murmurs spread through the class. He let it build — he wanted the noise, the reaction.

«I lived it,» he added. And just like that, silence fell.

It felt good, the way those words hit. He wasn’t sure he liked teaching, but he definitely liked that feeling — making them think.

«What you read in history books,» he continued, «is always filtered. By whoever wrote it. Their bias, their experience, their agenda.»

But before he could go on, a voice interrupted him — sharp and challenging. Yours.

«And you’ve read them all to be so sure?» you asked, staring at him as if trying to peel away the layers and see what kind of man he really was.

«What do the books say about America during World War II?» he asked the room, shifting the focus.

A hand shot up. A student replied, «We were the saviors. Just like in the first war. Every conflict in Europe — we brought peace.»

Bucky let out a bitter laugh.

«Hiroshima and Nagasaki — mean anything to you? Or the ‘liberators’ who raped women and children in concentration camps? Did you know about that?»

Everyone went still. Except you. You didn’t flinch. Those facts, to you, were just the surface. History ran deeper. These things happened everywhere.

«You funded dictators in Latin America. And that’s just what we know. If you think you’re the heroes, remember — to many people around the world, you’re just the villains. It all depends on the lens you use. If a dictator wrote the history books, would they sound any different?»

Heads shook all around the room. Yours too.

By the end of the class, Professor Barnes gave them their first assignment: an essay, based on what they'd just discussed.

You liked the idea. It gave you space to write everything you were thinking — maybe even prove him wrong.

Still, he annoyed you. His attitude, the way he spoke — rough, blunt, even crude. His shirt was wrinkled, his pants too big, like he hadn’t even tried. Nothing about him said “professor.” And maybe that’s what bothered you the most.

“What do you mean by an ‘F’?” you ask, taking the essay back from Professor Barnes a week later.

It had been a week filled with subtle battles — you challenging everything he said in class, questioning his views, pushing back with sharp comments and a fierce determination to prove him wrong.

You weren’t just a passive student; you made sure he knew you wouldn’t be easily silenced.

So, seeing that failing grade felt like a challenge thrown back at you — and you weren’t about to accept it without a fight.

He doesn’t answer. He simply ignores you and continues returning papers to the rest of the class. You’re furious. Your essay has no corrections. It’s perfect—like everything you do—and yet, right there on the front page, is a bold red F.

«Today, we’re going to talk about the Cold War,» he announces from the front of the room, calm and collected. «But I won’t be the one leading the lecture. Today, we’ll hear Russia’s perspective. Please welcome a dear friend of mine—Yelena Belova.»

You don’t hear the rest. The anger churns in your chest. You’ve never received anything lower than a B- in your entire academic life, and now this man—this random man—is trying to ruin your GPA?

You make a decision. After class, you’re going to his office. You need answers.

The moment comes sooner than expected. Now you’re standing in front of a small golden nameplate that reads: “James B. Barnes.”

You take a breath, gather your nerve, and walk in—without knocking.

He doesn’t flinch. He’s grading more papers, wearing a pair of glasses that should honestly be illegal on a man like him.

«I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but it looks like you already have,» he says, nodding toward the chair across from him.

«Can you explain this to me?» you say, your voice sharp as you drop the essay onto his messy desk.

«It’s well written,» he replies without looking up. «But all you did was summarize the textbook. I expected more, to be honest.»

«I didn’t just summarize. I added my own thoughts.»

«Thoughts based entirely on the textbook,» he counters. «I want students who think outside the box. Not ones who just regurgitate material.»

«So your grades depend on your mood?» you snap.

«No,» he says calmly. «They depend on whether you make me think.»

«At least tell me how I can fix this. I can’t have this F on my record.»

He finally looks up. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk. He’s read you like a book.

«Write something that actually makes me think. It doesn’t have to be related to class. Surprise me.»

He lingers on those last two words—surprise me—like a challenge.

You don’t thank him. You stand, chin high, and leave without another word. But deep down, you already know:

You’re going to make him regret that smirk.

After class, you head toward Professor Barnes’ office.

You wanted to hand him your new assignment away from prying eyes.

What you’ve written is pure fire—designed to provoke him, to make his knees weak.

And yet, the closer you get to his door, the more part of you wants to turn and run.

But no.

His arrogance can’t go unpunished.

He asked to be surprised—and you’re not the kind of girl who backs down. You’ve written about femmes fatales. Women who, with nothing more than charm and flesh, struck harder than any weapon ever could.

You knock softly. When he gives permission, you step in, place the paper on his desk, and slip out without saying a single word.

Mr. Barnes scans the pages with quiet focus.

The title burns red at the top, the text below laid out in perfect black. He doesn’t yet know what’s coming but he was sure you’d surprise him. He saw it in your eyes: That fire. That refusal to play safe.

How Desire Disarmed Europe

The most dangerous weapon has always been a wet mouth and a willing body.

They never needed armies. Just a gaze that lingered too long. A mouth slightly parted in pretend innocence. A hand trailing up a thigh—slow, teasing, dangerous.

Men went to war thinking they were in control,

But the moment we opened our legs their minds fell silent.

They'd step into our beds with the arrogance of conquerors, and leave with their egos shattered, begging for more.

We let them think they were taking us when really, we were wrapping ourselves around them, tight and wet and trembling. Just enough to make them think they were gods.

We whispered their names between gasps, scratched our nails down their backs, bit their lips until they moaned like beasts and all the while, we watched them fall apart.

They thought they were using us, but every groan they pulled from us was designed. Every movement, every cry, every shiver a calculated strike. Because the truth is, you can drop a man to his knees without ever touching a blade.

You just have to touch him where it matters, wrap your mouth around his thoughts, Ride his pride until it breaks, And leave him aching, ruined, and addicted.

So, Mr. Barnes tell me. When was the last time you truly lost control? Was it the heat of battle… Or the heat between her thighs?

Mr. Barnes was captivated by those words.

The deeper he read, the warmer his cheeks became, a flush creeping slowly across his skin.

His breath grew a little heavier, his pulse quickened.

Carefully, he picked up a green pen and began to write his comments—words that he would hand back to you the next day in class.

“So this is how you play, huh? You open your thighs on paper and expect me to keep my hands behind my back? You wrote this to make me sweat, to test how far you could push before I snapped. Careful, sweetheart—some men don't break. Some... bite back. Your metaphors are sharp, your rhythm tight. But it’s your mind that’s the real trap, not your body. And that? That’s what makes it dangerous. You wanted a reaction. Here's one: I haven’t stopped thinking about what you wrote. Not because it was brilliant—though it was. But because now, every time I look at you, I wonder if you moan the way you write: slow, deliberate... and just a little cruel.”

~ J. Barnes

Mr. Barnes handed your paper back in front of the whole class — so that everyone would know.

That you had rewritten it.

That he had noticed.

That it meant something.

You’d already read his comment three times. This was the fourth.

You knew you were pushing limits — but you hadn’t expected him to push back.

An A. And scribbled in the corner, his note: “Good girl.”

It made your cheeks flush hot, and he knew it.

Of course he knew.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he addressed the class.

«Today I want you to write an essay based on this prompt: Love in times of war.

Find some real examples online, but give me something you won’t find in textbooks.

If you want to write about the Times Square kiss, give me the truth — not the version polished by journalists to make the end of a war look romantic. Be original.»

You glanced around.

Everyone looked thrilled, inspired.

But to you, it felt like an invitation — or maybe a trap. Did he choose that topic for you? No. Probably not. But sooner or later, even Barnes — with all his bitterness toward history books — was bound to bring up what they never talk about: love.

You looked up.

He was watching you.

You turned away quickly.

But not before catching a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. So you wrote. Not about romance. Not about fairytales blooming in the ruins. But about women who wore lipstick and smiled wide as they married soldiers not for love, but for the hope they’d never come back. So they could inherit everything.

You wrote that love, in war, is like a seed thrown on frozen soil. Meant to be buried, never meant to grow. That most couples didn't live happily ever after — most didn’t even live together again.

You wrote about the postwar hunger. The need for freedom — even in desire. Because being tied to a man who might never return makes you crave passion even more. And when you do, they call it sin. And then, at the end, you added this — not loudly, but deliberately:

“Sex should be had before it’s too late. What was it like, not doing it for so long? Actually — Mr. Barnes — are we sure you’re not still a virgin?Back then, hardly anyone had sex before marriage, and as far as I know... you never got married.

Wouldn’t it be something if all that hard exterior of yours was just hiding the fact that you’ve never once heard a girl moan your name?”

Professor Barnes handed your essay back with the others, two classes later. His steps were steady, his tone calm — almost too calm. You weren’t prepared for what came next.

He stood at the front of the classroom, papers in hand, and began speaking about each student’s work — aloud, by name, with the same quiet sharpness as a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. You hadn’t expected this. If you had known he’d comment on them in front of everyone, you never would’ve written what you did. Not like that.

«Most of you approached the topic with romantic eyes. I found your work moving — some of it, almost touching. That doesn’t happen often, so… well done,» he said with a light, reserved applause. It grated on you — the way he pretended to be a qualified professor. A man who hadn’t studied for this role, hadn’t earned it.

He wore authority like a jacket that didn’t quite fit — too stiff on the shoulders, too new for the man inside. Your classmates beamed with pride. A few exchanged smiles. Others whispered excitedly, clearly thrilled by the unexpected praise. You sat still. Something cold fluttered in your chest.

Then: «The only one who didn’t take a romantic approach was y/n,» he added, voice cool, almost amused.

Every head turned.

A dozen curious stares met you like waves — some amused, some skeptical. One girl smirked. A boy raised his eyebrows, interested. You didn’t flinch.

«Would you mind sharing your thoughts with the class? Come up here.»

You rose slowly, uncertain but composed. Your fingers gripped the pages tightly as you made your way to the front.

Now you stood where he had stood — under the dull classroom lights, facing thirty pairs of eyes… and his comment, written in that now-familiar green ink that haunted your dreams like a secret.

“There aren’t only good girls and good boys in this world. Your piece felt more like an invitation than a provocation. I’ve heard plenty of women moan my name. Wanting me just for themselves. You're like that because you want to become one of them?”

Your throat tightened, but you kept your expression neutral. You held the page steady, then looked up — gaze level, voice calm.

«I wrote that love in wartime is a coin with two faces.

On one side, you find what the history books love — aching letters, kisses in train stations, poetic heartbreak.

On the other side, there are women who married men hoping they wouldn’t come back.

For a pension. An inheritance. A chance at owning something — maybe for the first time.

Because love isn’t always enough… when the world around you is falling apart.»

Your classmates sat still, uncertain whether to laugh or think harder. A few leaned forward. One boy looked visibly shaken; a girl whispered “damn” under her breath. Someone at the back coughed awkwardly.

From his desk, Barnes watched you — head tilted, eyes unreadable. There was something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not warm. Not cruel. But hungry. And patient. Like someone waiting for the next move in a game only the two of you were playing.

At the end of the class, everyone left.

A few paused to compliment you—sincerely, or maybe just out of curiosity—and you accepted their words with a pleased smile. If Barnes had meant to embarrass you, he’d failed. This game—you were the one playing it. And you knew exactly how far you could take it. You were just about to walk out when his voice stopped you.

«Close the door. Come here.»

You obeyed, calm, as if time itself was on your side. You had nowhere else to be. Neither did he. You stepped up to his desk.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you in silence, like he was trying to read something written on your skin. It annoyed you.

«Are you going to say something, or should I start?» you asked, sharp.

«I was hoping you would,» he replied.

His voice was low. The tone, unreadable.

«Since the first day, you’ve looked at me like you’re waiting for a reason to hate me.»

«It’s not hard,» you shot back.

«You don’t deserve to be here.»

He stood up—slowly—closing the space between you.

«Really? Tell me one thing you knew about this subject before I started teaching it.»

You stayed silent.

«Maybe it’s not that I don’t deserve this job…» he whispered, leaning in,

«…maybe you just can’t stand seeing me as only a professor. Can you?»

He curled a strand of your hair around his finger, deliberate.

«Tell me… You wouldn’t want to be one of them, would you?» His eyes were locked on yours.

Your breath caught—just slightly—but you didn’t flinch. You glanced at the door. Not because you wanted to leave, but because you wanted to remember: you could. You just didn’t want to.

His gaze slipped to your mouth. You smiled. Barely. And then—you kissed him. He didn’t pull away. Quite the opposite. He kissed you back, deeper. And when you finally broke apart, you were the one smiling.

You had known this would happen. And you liked the taste of his surrender. His gaze had changed. Darker. More resolute. And yet, he hesitated. As if still wondering whether this was a mistake—whether he should stop.

«I thought you were only good at writing provocations,» he finally said, voice rough. You stepped closer, just slightly, your tone calm—guiltless.

«Maybe I am. But you're the one who chose to read between the lines.»

He narrowed his eyes. He was a man used to control, and you were slowly stealing it from him. Not with shouting. Not with scandal. But with the ruthless logic of desire. Your fingers brushed the edge of his collar. Nothing more.

«Tell me to stop,» you whispered. And he didn’t. This time, it was him who leaned in. No rush. No remorse. He kissed you like he was trying to understand you. Like every touch was a question only your body could answer. Your back met the edge of the desk. Papers shifted slightly, disturbed. He pulled back for a moment, breath heavy, eyes searching yours—as if to ask: Are you sure? You nodded.

There were no more roles left to play. There was only the present. And an empty classroom, cut off from time.

«Not here. Come to my office in half an hour. You still have time to back out,» the professor says, trying to summon all the self-control he has left. You nod. After all, the classroom couldn’t be locked—and if you got caught, you'd both be in serious trouble.

You show up at his office prepared. Before leaving, you stopped by your dorm to change. Your roommate asked where you were going, knowing you had no more classes. You made up an excuse, but she didn’t fully believe you.

You walk in without knocking, locking the door behind you. You toss him a condom he catches effortlessly. He looks at you, amused, a grin curling his lips.

«Didn’t expect you to be so impatient. I figured you’d back out,» he says.

You chuckle. «And let you win? Never.»

You clear his desk of anything you find unnecessary and hop up onto it, sitting with purpose, making sure you’re fully on display for him.

«I’m at your mercy, Professor. How did I do on my assignments?» you ask playfully, letting him undress you piece by piece—without lifting a finger to help. You wanted to see if he was really as skilled as he claimed.

You hadn’t planned for this, so you weren’t wearing anything sexy—just a matching bra and panties in a subtle color. You’d deliberately chosen a bra that was tricky to remove, but he unhooks it with disarming ease. That surprises you.

Now you’re fully exposed. You’re naked, with nothing to hide behind, and yet you don’t feel the least bit uncomfortable. You love the way he looks at you—how his eyes trace every line, every inch of your body like he’s seeing something rare.

He starts touching your thighs—soft, bare skin under his fingers—and then moves up, taking your breasts in his hands. He pinches your nipples between his fingers with confident pressure. You bite your lower lip, trying not to moan at these teasing touches. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

But he notices.

He parts your legs wider, determined. He’s going to make you moan his name, one way or another. His fingers slide through your folds, spreading you open to see how wet you already are—how ready your body is for what’s coming. With his thumb, he begins to tease your clit, starting slow but quickly growing rougher, faster, watching your breath hitch and your composure begin to crack.

When you gasp, he pulls his thumb away and licks it clean right in front of you—tasting you deliberately.

He wants more.

He kneels between your legs, kissing your inner thighs with a teasing slowness before finally going where you need him most. He presses a wet kiss to your clit, then captures it between his lips, sucking with a rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. His tongue moves expertly, hitting all your sensitive spots, learning from every twitch of your body and flicker of your expression exactly where to press, where to circle, where to make you fall apart.

He slides his tongue inside you, one hand gripping your ass tightly, nails dragging just enough to leave light scratches behind.

«Mr. Barnes…» you sigh, breathless, no longer pretending to be in control.

He replaces his tongue with two long fingers—index and middle—sliding them deep inside you while watching your face twist in pleasure. Seeing you like this, overwhelmed and submissive to your own desire, gives him a surge of raw satisfaction.

«You’re even more beautiful when you let go,» he murmurs, continuing to thrust his fingers into you.

You're soaked—hot, wet, and so ready for him. He pulls his fingers out slowly, savoring the way your walls cling to them. He brings them to his lips first, then presses them against yours, forcing you to taste yourself. You open your mouth, sucking them until you can’t taste anything but yourself on his long, teasing fingers.

Then he unzips his jeans.

He takes out his thick, throbbing cock, stroking it from base to tip, his eyes locked on you. You stare, surprised.

«What a shame someone so inexperienced has something like that,» you mutter between gasps, provoking him.

«You must have high standards if ‘inexperienced’ means someone who almost made you come with just his tongue,» he shoots back, still slowly stroking himself, watching your reactions closely.

For now, he’s content just watching you—fisting his cock, savoring the view of your naked body spread out on his desk.

«I’ve been touching myself like this every night lately. Thinking about you,» he admits.

You bite the inside of your cheek. That caught you off guard. You’ve been fantasizing about this too—about fucking your professor—ever since that heated argument a few days ago that ended with unspoken tension crackling between you.

You wonder how much longer he’ll make you wait before finally filling you with that cock.

«If you want it,» he says, seeing the hunger in your eyes, «you have to ask me.»

But you won’t. He knows it. He’s testing your limits.

Instead, you take control.

You slide two fingers between your thighs and begin to fuck yourself—hard, fast, reckless. Your moans are louder now, bolder than before, almost like you want him to feel replaced. You watch his expression as your pleasure builds.

«Just so you know,» you pant, eyes locked on his, «if you don’t make me cum, I’ll do it myself.»

He can’t tell whether it’s a threat or an invitation. Either way, it pushes him over the edge.

He tears open the condom, rolls it on, and rubs the head of his cock against your clit—teasing you—before plunging inside with a single sharp thrust.

He fucks you with firm, deep, confident strokes, hitting all the right angles. It doesn’t take long before your body’s shaking uncontrollably, your orgasm ripping through you like a wave.

He follows seconds later, groaning your name against your skin.

You both finish together, trembling, moaning each other’s names—soft enough not to be heard outside the door, but loud enough to echo inside each other’s heads for a long time to come.

Thanks for reading!!!

[stars-eclipsing]

ִֶָ࣪☾. | Love is Blind.

Mark/ Mohawk Mark x reader

About: Basically invincible variants bullshit, and mohawk mark is the hottest I fear. Reader mistakes mohawk mark for their mark. Ouch! Tags: Non canon compliant, literally has nothing to do with what actually went down, mohawk mark playing his cards right to get some. we love a clever man around here, Reader is naive asf, implied smut but it's really just some kissing. (saint virgin eclipse era.)

-------------------

“Just stay calm and I’ll fix everything, I promise.” You hear a shrill scream and the sound of a thousand science fair volcanoes erupting. In response, you duck behind an apartment building. 

Clutching your bag to your body, you somehow make it through the alleyway and out the other side, just a little further from the destruction. In that moment, Mark decides to give you some of his classic, wise advice, “And preferably get further from the damage? I can still see you, you know…” 

You close your eyes and cringe at that. Oh, that snarky, asshole, piece of shit. With a big mouth, too. You glare at the sky. Although you don’t see him, you hope it gets the message across. 

Maybe if Mark stopped pulling his goddamn punches, then a fire breathing dragon wouldn’t be terrorizing your district. And in that moment you swear to yourself that when Mark saves the universe, you’ll kill him immediately after, so he wouldn’t even get to enjoy it. 

Before you can plan your revenge on your boyfriend, a car plummets heavily into the gravel from the sky, just a few feet away from you, and you instictively scream. The car makes a million different noises of honks and rings as you try to catch your breath. Why me? You lament, Why goddamn me? 

“Are you okay?” You hear across the line once you’ve calmed down a little more, and you clench the phone in your hands. 

“Just peachy. I’ll call you back when I get some place safe.” You snap into the speaker, and Mark says something brilliant like, “Whuh?” before you end the call. 

You make sure to put your phone safely in your bag before you run. You run faster than you’ve ever run before in your life. You run away from the danger, from monsters and superhero boyfriends and unfortunately— your apartment and flat screen TV. 

Adrenaline keeps you going till you reach the heart of the city. You manage to accidentally break the lock of your planned safehouse in your rush, but you decide to shut it behind you and pretend that didn’t happen. 

You hang your bag, and in that moment quickly decide that leaving the door unlocked was not one of your brightest ideas, and you begin to barricade your door, placing any heavy furniture you can find in front of it. Which honestly, isn’t much. 

Once you sit down on the plain white bed, you start to notice the burn in your legs and your sides from sprinting halfway across the city. You try to rub your waist as you look for Mark’s contact on your phone. 

“Need help with that?” 

The voice makes you shriek and jump from the bed. Your heart beats a mile a minute as you see Mark– no, Mark with a mohawk resting on the inside sill of your window. 

With that realization, you take a pillow and throw it at him, “Oh my god Mark, you scared me—!" He dodges easily and you try to catch your breath, "What are you doing here? Go. Help The Guardians or something.” You say, slightly out of breath.

Mark hops off the window and stalks towards you, there's a crazed gleam in his eyes, “Don’t worry, it’s all taken care of…” He says rather breathily, like he’s in awe or in disbelief. 

He comes towards you till he’s right in front of you, and you miss the way he grips your shoulder by the way your blood is still thumping madly in your veins, and slides across your arms till he reaches your hands, and squeezes. 

Ignoring your rapidly beating heart, you get on your tippy toes and try look across his shoulder to the window. Without even taking a glance yet, you hear a scream and the sound of catastrophe. Before you can open your mouth to tell him to 'get back out there!', Mark zips to the window, shutting the blinds and coming back to his original position with such speed it nearly knocks you off balance. Luckily, he’s there to stabilize you by gripping your hips, digging his fingers through your jeans. 

“Mark—” You tell him, then sigh when he raises his eyebrows and smiles. He appears a bit different. You’d noticed it when you first saw him, but with the blinds closed…

“What’s with the new do?” You ask him, “Got your hair burnt off or something?”

He laughs, boisterous in a way that Mark has never. You wonder if it’s the adrenaline from the battle, and merely roll your eyes. 

He pushes you back to the bed, till you willingly fall on the white sheets and he climbs on top of you. 

“Fuck. I missed you, you’re so goddamn hot.” He breathes as he kisses your jaw wetly, trailing all the way to your chin. “You like my hair?” 

You ignore him. “The world needs you, and you’re here, fooling around?” You grumble, not exactly thrilled with this turn of events. 

He can play the ignoring game too, “My hair. Do you like it?” He kisses your lips sloppily, and you don’t even extend the effort to kiss his back, just letting him suck and kiss as he pleases. 

Your eyes flit to his hair, thinking about it seriously for a moment, “Mmm…yeah. It’s sexy. I guess.” You add that last part to keep his ego contained. He chuckles and bites at your neck, kissing it roughly after. 

“You’re so fucking sexy im gonna ruin you.” 

He wastes no time in pinning you and making out sloppily on the bed. You grip the hair that is on his head to angle him as you please. He finds that funny.

You barely hear your phone ring. But with super hearing, of course your boyfriend manages to detect it. Mohawk Mark kicks at your bag, and your phone clatters out of it, showing a missed call from: Mark <3

Not proofread but I dont keh because I am wild and free! Stay tuned for tomorrow nights episode where I peg him!!! <33

[grunckle]

On stars, guardians, and Rain World’s cosmology.

One aspect of Rain World lore that’s asked about quite a lot but normally never gets satisfying answers is the topic or Rain World’s space/universe/cosmology. Despite first impressions though, there’s a lot more it than meets the eye, so I thought I would compile most everything we know about it.

For one, to get it out of the way, Rain World isn’t on a planet, and its universe is fundamentally different from our own. This is something Joar has talked about on occasion.

He also said on an earlier dev log how Rain World functions more like a fantasy world where it doesn’t hold much relevance than a real sci-fi like planet.

“Oh, another thing - Rain World isn't a planet lol Cheesy Or I guess it might probably be on a planet, just as Lord of The Rings, Sex And The City, Zelda and Frankenstein's Monster are probably technically on a planet, but just as in those examples the planet aspect isn't really relevant at all. Rain World is more of a fantasy world or a dream world, not somewhere you can go in a space ship ~”

But even if it’s not incredibly relevant, it’s clear a lot of thought was put into Rain Worlds fictional cosmology, this was even mentioned by James.

So, that being said here's what we know about Rain World's cosmology in game.

The biggest indicator of Rain World's unique cosmology is that the Farm Arrays deep pink pearl just mentions celestial spheres, which are aspects of older cosmological models.

"This one is just plain text. I will read it to you. "On regards of the (by spiritual splendor eternally graced) people of the Congregation of Never Dwindling Righteousness, we Wish to congratulate (o so thankfully) this Facility on its Loyal and Relished services, and to Offer our Hopes and Aspirations that the Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory Cooperation may continue, for as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres and/or the Cooperation continues to be Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory." ...May Not as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres Grey Hand, Impure Blood, Inheritable Corruption, Parasites, or malfunction settle in Your establishment."

More subtly, there's also a mention of the ground colliding with the sky.

"If you leave a stone on the ground, and come back some time later, it's covered in dust. This happens everywhere, and over several lifetimes of creatures such as you, the ground slowly builds upwards. So why doesn't the ground collide with the sky? Because far down, under the very very old layers of the earth, the rock is being dissolved or removed. The entity which does this is known as the Void Sea."

You could chalk this line up to flowery language, but considering the presentation of the rest of the dialogue, it sounds more like an actual aspect of this world.

We know from the Chimney Canopy echo that the sun rises.

"From within my vessel of flesh, I would perch upon this spot to observe the rising of the sun."

And from the top of The Wall we can see the moon and stars (confirmed to be stars by Joar in the previous screenshot, instead of satellites or something else) , which are green!

So, what does this all mean? I think we can entail a few things with what they've given us.

For one, the mention of the ground colliding with the sky implies some sort of firmament, which isn't an unusual concept in the general realm of celestial spheres.

But on the topic of celestial spheres, the pearl actually isn't the only place we see the concept. Guardian halos are very similar to depictions of celestial spheres, and also astrological clocks.

You can make of this as you will, perhaps the astrological references being tied to guardians could hint at the nature of karma, but there isn't much to really delve into that idea.

For what it's worth, celestial spheres are also core concepts in Gnosticism, which Rain World is heavily inspired by. I explain it more in this post about Void Worms, but for a quick synopsis in Gnosticism there are seven planetary spheres, and an eighth above them; the planets and stars are fixed to their spheres. These things just further cement the fact that celestial spheres seem to be a key aspect of Rain World's cosmology, and it would also likely imply it's universe follows a geocentric model.

For a bit of a more out-there theory, people have pointed out how the view atop the wall stretches really far, going far beyond what we could see on a spherical planet like Earth, which has led some to theorize that the world is also flat.

But what is probably the most important aspect of Rain World's cosmology is the nature of dust. Dust builds up, and the bedrock of the world is eaten away at by the Void Sea. Civilizations rise and fall into the sea as new ones are built above it. Many, including myself, believe that the world exists in a sort of state of equilibrium. The world is dissolved from the bottom, then that falls back on the world as dust; even in the final moments of the game we see dust suspended in the void sea depths.

And hey, even void worms are described as being star-like.

"Oh, interesting. This is a diary entry of a pre-Iterator era laborer during the construction of the subterranean transit system south of here. In it they describe restless nights filled with disturbing dreams, where millions glowing stars move menacingly in the distance."

Cyclical, recursive, something else entirely? We can never really pin down the true nature of Rain World's cosmology, but the things we do get hint at something strange and unique. It's such an interesting aspect of the lore, and it seems like Videocult will continue to make mysterious cosmologies in their future projects...

[bigtedbear]

" 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 "

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭: 𝐥𝐮𝐨𝐜𝐡𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

content warnings: gay relationship, descriptions of grevious bodily injury, implied self-mutilation/self-harm, male reader, monster x human relationship, hurt/comfort writing, hey this starts out really dark please take care of your mental health, arguments, misunderstood feelings, mermaid courtship, alternate universe where luocha is a traveling doctor who's studying biology and anatomy across the universe blah blah blah, luocha is pretty genuine in this even though i know he is in fact a snake let me idealize for a moment okay, luocha puts a ring on it without realizing he is literally putting a ring on it

full admittance you'll probably find parallels with @/havanilla's merventurine au at the start of this cause it was one of the last things I read on my old tumblr account before it died on me and i fear i DO have brainrot

to add to my earlier warning about this chapter beginning out dark, there will be a marker for the cuter, mermaid courtship section of the fic!! look for a marker like the one below VV

" welcome back caller 🪷! connecting your line as we speak! "

" new contact noted! caller luocha has been added to your phonebook - love, 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟 𝑡-19 “

A pained scream ripped through the air.  

It was a shame it couldn’t be distinguished from the sound of other yells and shouting from all over the deck.  In fact, it seemed the anguish was completely drowned out by the noise of an older man beginning to bark orders from the side of the fishing boat.  Gravelly with age and experience, sets and more sets of hands seemed to jump to action, rushing over to that specific side of the deck.  

In the crew’s haste, they didn’t seem to notice they had also woken up the residential cabin.  Things were more than hectic; the experienced crew themselves were in a frenzy.  There was something that demanded urgent attention and it seemed none of the regular passengers were privy to what exactly it was. 

Still, in the curious sea of civilian passengers renting their rooms in the bowels of the ship, a tall blonde head of hair peered over the crowd straight to the source of the fuss.  Over the sea of yellow rain jackets adorning the working fishermen, he caught sight of some kind of reflective surface… what many wrote off as an oversized fish, Luocha continued to strain his eyes at.

Should he have been anyone else, perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed.  But Luocha was a doctor, he was more than familiar with noises of distress; with the scent of blood.  Something in the very core of his body shook with each of the pained and weak motions of an equally pained, weak patient.  The vibrations crept up his spine from the wooden boards of the ship, whispering into his ears. 

Something was wrong. 

Something was terribly wrong. 

Despite the protests of one of the tour guides, urging him to go back to sleep, he rushed towards the scene.  The same pained screams; the sounds of the body on the deck; the reflection of the “oversized fish”, they became clearer and clearer the closer he closed in.

Before he could make it into the crowd of men at work, he was caught by one of their coworkers.  Clad in a yellow raincoat, shadow cast across his face in the rain, the obviously displeased grimace all over his face only further sent Luocha into a state of panic.  A tense grip on his elbow, the man spoke in a language he didn’t understand.  Even if he didn’t understand the words themselves, Luocha was more than smart enough to understand the message the worker was trying to convey.  Before he could be pulled away, he made one last attempt to see what exactly was going on. 

When he did manage to catch a glimpse, he froze. 

Perfect, round tears running down flushed, red cheeks. 

The skin was pulled taut in another scream.  Based on the shaking motion of the face, he could only really come to the conclusion the body was being jerked in every direction possible. 

“Stop… STOP!”  He yanked his elbow out of the man’s grasp, crashing directly into the back of another worker.  In his haste, he shoved the man out of the way only to find his path blocked by even more yellow raincoats.  “You’re only going to worsen the injuries! I’m a doctor!” 

Despite not considering himself to be very physically fit, something about the situation discarded that reality entirely.  An unknown strength washed over him as he forced his way through the clusterfuck of workers trying to wrestle the screamer into place. 

He didn’t understand, Luocha didn’t understand. 

There was an injured crew member on the deck, screaming–what kind of idiot would continue to pull and stress the skin around the wound? Was that why the team leader seemed to screaming with such vigor?  Was he equally concerned about one of his staff suddenly being sent into debilitating agony? 

But no, not even in the slightest.  

Through the crowd, a wet mop of hair thrashing against the backdrop of a barbed fishing net came into view.  The urgency only further sent Luocha wrestling through the crowd of men, all but screaming himself as he watched the injured man on the ground contort his facial muscles in abject horror.  

“Stop it, you’re hurting him!” 

 He could hear his own vocal chords start to tear as he shrieked for the poor victim.  With each passing moment, fear and anxiety seized the doctor in his entirety before he finally managed to part the crowd like the red sea. 

In the end,

he wasn’t faced with a crew member. 

...

A merman. 

Something he’d only heard of in the planet’s folklore. 

It seemed well-known the small surviving population hardly ever ventured out of protected waters for fear of predators. 

What was this one doing so far out…?

With the opportunity making itself known, the unknown merman continued to thrash but harder, lips curling upwards as another shrill cry of agony streaked the night air.  From up close, the doctor could only watch the formerly smooth, unmarred skin become tainted with red.  Washed with your own blood, you looked more similar to some kind of horror movie monster than a person. 

But even in the face of monstrosity, his inner doctor only saw the blown out pupils, the senseless aggression, the fear written all over his patient’s face in their own claret stain.

“You’ll end up killing him, stop, STOP!” 

He completely ignored his own pain as the barbs in the net ripped into the fabric of his pajamas, cutting open his knees when he threw his body on top of yours.  His hands flew around carelessly in an attempt to unlatch the hands that seemed determined to pull at you from every direction.  

At the loss of the hands all over your body, your screams died down into pitiful hyperventilation, curling in on yourself in an attempt to cover the wounds weeping crimson all over the formerly white net.  

Instead of relief, instead of some kind of graditude, it seemed he was only met with friction.

“Oy, blondie, paws off, do you understand how much money you’ve got your hands on right now?” 

The thick accent confused him at first, then the words themselves didn’t seem to compute. 

“Excuse me?” 

You yelped again when one of the men pulled at the net.   The cold metal tore sore flesh in chunks.

“Mermaid scales are priceless.  So are the pearls they cry, we caught the bastard fair and square so. Step. Off.” 

His mind scrambled to understand the sentence, thoughts muddling together in a blender of pain and panic.  “I- I-” 

“You?”  Another crew member chimed in, crossing his arms, “You’ll what, doctor?  You can either get off of him and wrap up your cuts yourself or we’ll drag you off and the barbs can teach you to keep your nose out of other people’s business.” 

“I-”  his breathing picked up drastically, suddenly confronted with such a terrible moral dilemma. 

When prying hands began to make grabby motions for the edges of the ropes, he choked out his final answer.

“I'll pay for him!"

“...”

“...”

“...”

He swept his rain-soaked bangs out of his face, his voice shaking, “You were planning on selling him, right?”  He fumbled with his sleeves, “I make good money, I swear, I-,” he swallowed, “I can afford it.  Just take as much as you want out of the account I used to pay for my cabin.”

“...” 

“...”

Things were a little bit awkward, to say the least. 

Despite an attempt being made to cooperate while you were awake, it seemed the pressure and the mounting stress of nearly dying made it unable for you to accept the fact that Luocha was not, in fact, going to hurt you. 

The attempt to deal with the various injuries littered all over formerly smooth, silky skin was unproductive at best.  In fact, it only created more problems.  Trying to operate while you were largely unreceptive to anything he was saying was by far the worst decision he could’ve made given the circumstances. 

Point blank, he needed to get the barbed hooks out of your skin.  If he didn’t, the wounds would be at increased risk of infection.  After all, based on the cruel treatment he’d seen on deck, he knew the metal was most likely unsanitized.  Doing this while you were awake was easily the worst decision he could've made.

Promising not to hurt you while continually yanking pieces of metal out of your tender flesh was not a good way to build trust. 

"..."

"..."

You poked at the “strange” bowl that’d been set in front of you.  It was some kind of clam-fish hybrid soup. I mean, Luocha was trying to be considerate of your regular diet.  Surely, since you were living out in open waters, you were pretty used to eating fish right?

He, however, failed to realize you weren’t exactly in a spot to ever enjoy the luxuries of cooked food… or soup.  He’d laid out some utensils for you to use on top of that; it was a shame you didn’t know how to use them. 

"..."

"..."

You realized pretty early on that he’d saved you from becoming a victim to death by blood loss.  After all, when you were dropped in a holding tank until the ship arrived at the port, the water went cloudy from the dirt, debris, and blood all over your body.  In your little waist-high tank, he’d done his best to make sure you’d actually survive through the night.

Despite your reservations about him, you did your best not to scream while you were confined to a glorified holding cell.  Nails digging into the glass, biting down hard enough on the towel to tear, you tried your best to stay still while he fished countless little hooks from your back, arms, and chest.  

Removing the large hook in your shoulder was the most painful part of the process for the both of you.  You, for obvious reasons.  The hook made a clean cut through the muscle--scraping up against the bone--by the time you were awake enough to realize you were wrapped up in a barbed net.  Luocha, on the other hand, was the one that had to deal with the struggle while trying to complete a very tricky operation.  

Eventually, the problem dealt with itself when you passed out.  Really, he should’ve sedated you to start with, and he cursed at himself for not thinking of it sooner.  After you went out, he did his best to stitch everything up–hell, he wrapped you up in enough bandages to look like a mummy. 

But, since the two of you actually arrived on the island, there wasn’t so much as a word shared from either party. 

You woke up in a little bathtub, in a little bathroom, feeling like your arms were falling off and you couldn’t breathe because of how tight all of the bandages were wrapped around you. Eventually the giant bandages changed to smaller ones attached with some medical tape.  The only bulky one left was the one wrapped around your shoulder. 

"..."

"..."

With some trepidation, you grabbed at one of the fishtails sticking out of the mystery liquid, digging a finger in between the meat and the ribs to peel it off the bone.  Carefully, you used one of your freshly trimmed nails to remove the thick, scaly skin, then biting off a chunk to chew and swallow.  

The longer you stared at the bowl, the more confused you became. 

Yes, you knew how to eat a fish. 

Yes, you knew how to eat a mussel. 

No, you didn’t know what to do with whatever else was in the bowl.  

You paused eating when the man sitting across from the bathtub cleared his throat.  He made a vague gesture towards your lap, “Would you…?”

‘...mind if I showed you how to eat a bowl of soup?’ 

Without much hesitation, you offered up your meal again, much more interested in the chunk of fish in your hand.  Biting off another piece, you drank in the pleasant familiarity in just having some tilapia for once.  

He picked up the spoon. Deciding not to embarrass you further, he decided to taste test the food himself instead of trying to feed you. He let the silver spoon clatter back into the bowl, passing it over to you again. Despite the clear demonstration he’d given you, you opted to pick at one of the mussels hiding underneath the broth. 

“...”

“...”

He cleared his throat again, seemingly averting eye contact as he stared at the tiled walls. 

You diverted your attention from your bowl back to the blonde doctor. 

“I don’t mean to be rude or pry in any way,” he swallowed, “but what exactly were you doing so far from protected waters?"

You didn’t seem surprised in the slightest by his question, grabbing at the other fish tail in the bowl, “Smuggling and poaching.”  

He tilted his head curiously.

“Protective waters have attendants to track general pod health, they have the authority to temporarily remove merfolk from the water to do routine health checks."  You finally wrapped your hand around the spoon awkwardly, bringing some broth up to your lips. "Smugglers get jobs as attendants cause only tagged mermaids are considered protected.” You wiggled one of your finned ears, your left ear. Notably, there was a small tear in one of the fins. “It only takes a couple minutes for an attendant to catch a mermaid, sedate them, get them into a vehicle, remove their tag and throw them out into the right spots for a couple grand.” 

“I see.” 

You hummed, finally bringing the soup up to your lips, “Speaking of, how much did you end up having to pay for me?”

"..."

"..."

“Excuse me?” Luocha’s hands rested in his lap. 

“How much did you end up paying for me?”  You picked up another mussel, “I’m pretty good about keeping up with the price of scales and pearls.  I know you bought me as some kind of pity project, but I'm pretty eager to go back out to open waters.  Just name your price and I can start trying to pay off the debt.” 

The doctor blinked a couple times. “Oh… oh my god, absolutely not!”  He shook his head, bringing his hands up in front of his chest defensively, “There is no need to pay me back in the slightest.  Please, just rest well and remain healthy.  That would be the best payment.”

“What’s this?” 

He rolled the small iridescent pearl between his gloved fingers. 

“It’s a pearl.” 

He cracked a smile at that. It was gone as quick as it arrived as he brought the little treasure to his face to take a closer look.  “Well yes, but where did you get this? Did you have it stashed on you somewhere?”

You twirled your finger in a circle on the surface of the water. “No,” absentmindedly you observed the little whirlpool it made, “I made it.” 

He blinked a couple of times, hand dropping back to his side. “Pardon?” 

You finally looked up from the surface of the water, “I made it.” 

He cocked his head to the side, “You… made a pearl?” 

You looked at him, bored, “Well, yeah, did you not know mermaids make pearls?”

He looked from you, to the pearl, and then back at you.  “No… I’m afraid I didn’t know.”  His palm closed into a fist around the pearl, “How?” 

“...hm?”

He gestured towards his closed hand, “How did you make it?” 

You gave a huff, “Well, you’ve seen me make them before.”  

He frowned, “I… have?”

‘-and I didn’t notice?’

You nodded, shifting around in the bathtub to try and stretch your long tail out a little bit.  "The night I got caught on the boat-" Your jaw tensed, a sudden pang of soreness shooting up from your extremities. "-they were all over the deck, there were a bunch in the little tank they had me in.” 

His frown only deepened as he did his best to recall, “I don’t think I remember seeing them…? Does your blood crystalize into them or something of the sort?” 

You rested your head on the porcelain of the tub, bringing your arms up to cushion your cranium.  “Tears,” you murmured, “Merfolk tears turn into pearls.” 

‘Ah… so that’s why you mentioned there being so many on the ship.’

But then it hit him. 

“Why were you crying?” 

You shrugged, “Most mermaids in protected waters can cry on command.  We get a lot of tourists that give us gifts, sometimes if we’re interested we’ll give them a pearl in return.” 

He nodded like he understood, but suddenly the beautiful gem felt heavy in his fist.  He opened his hand and offered it back, “As beautiful as it is, I don’t wish to see you shedding any tears while you’re under my care.” 

You pushed his outstretched hand away, “Well, I already made it.  There’s no use trying to return it.” 

“Still, I feel terrible receiving a gift with such painful origins,” he sat down on the stool that’d become his usual spot.  “I’m a doctor. My goal is to make sure you’re in the least amount of pain possible.” 

“You should feel honored, you’re really the first person I’ve ever given a pearl to,” you raised your head from its spot on your arms, “I usually only gave them to little kids that didn’t bring me gifts so I’d give them something.”  You sank further into the water in the shallow tub.

“My concern is why you believe you should be giving me gifts in the first place,” he crossed his left leg over his right, scooting in closer, “I’ve already told you that taking care of you has always been of my own volition.  It is quite literally my job.  If you’re giving this to me as a gift and not repayment, I might be more inclined to accept it.” 

You huffed,  “Well, I guess you caught me.” 

His brows furrowed, “So I was right, you’re trying to pay back a debt again.” 

“...”

“...”

“...”

This time, he sighed.  “I’ve already told you, your health and wellbeing are both priceless.  I would never ask a patient I forced into care to pay me any sum of money-”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” The water rippled when you sat up suddenly, “Why don’t you want to accept any kind of payment? I’m tired of talking to you as property and owner.  You bought ownership, legally I’m your property. I don’t want to be your property.” 

“You aren’t my property-” He quipped, expression growing displeased.

“But I am,” you cut him off.  “You signed paperwork, you exchanged a certain sum of money.  Even if you thought I couldn’t hear you doesn’t mean I didn’t.” You crossed your arms across your chest, “I still heard the captain of the ship talking about sale prices with you.  I know I was considered a higher quality product, I know I was expensive.”

The doctor opened his mouth; and closed it and opened it again.  He struggled to find the correct words to use. “I didn’t consider that an exchange for ownership of you, I considered that to be the price of your wellbeing.  I’ve never considered you to be anything but an equal to me.” 

You drew your lips into a tight line, “Well, if I was an equal, you’d let me contribute to the cost somehow.  You wouldn’t treat me like some helpless baby.”  You gestured to his closed palm, “The pearl in your hand is priceless, sealing a handful of them would recuperate the money you wasted-”

Luocha held up his hand, “Stop-”

But you insisted, “Hell, if I ripped a couple of scales out you could more than pay for me.  You’d have enough money to buy another sorry sack of shit to take care of-”

“Don’t EVER-” he cut you off aggressively, “EVER, suggest such ludacris things to me again.  I refuse to even think about it.” 

“..."

Luocha shook his head, getting his gloves wet when he reached into the water to hold your hands in his own, “I would never ask you to do something like that to yourself.  I would never ask you to hurt yourself to please me and I would never ask you to hurt yourself because you needed my help.”  He gave your palms a gentle squeeze, “You did not ask to be put in the position you’re in now,  I am the one that chose to do this and I will be the one to set the price on my help; that price-” he paused, making sure you were looking him in the eyes, “-will always be no price at all.”   He pushed the pearl back into your hands.  “Give this pearl to one of the children that visit the waters after you’ve healed up in my stead, yes?” 

“It’s not exactly how I remember it.” 

You squirmed against the sensation of the water, arms still looped around Luocha’s neck.  

“Any discomfort?” The doctor asked, “Tell me if anything hurts.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” You shuffled around to try and make yourself comfortable.  You did your best to find the familiar rhythm of the waves, but your tail felt as useless as it had the entire time you’d been confined to the bathtub.  “It’s… cold.” 

Luocha nodded... even though he couldn't quite understand.  “If you aren’t straining any of your injuries, you can hang on for as long as you need to.”

You mumbled, trying to draw your elbows closer to your chest, “I’m not.” 

“...”

“...”

It’d only been a week since the last time you’d tried to repay your imaginary debt to Luocha.  Things got… less tense between the two of you. 

You didn’t put up a fuss when he put some ointment on the scars that formed all over your skin.  You didn’t squirm when he unwrapped your shoulder bandage.  You’d usually bide your time silently in the bathtub.  Mostly, you’d nap.  But that got old quickly, especially since a bathtub isn’t the most convenient spot for sleeping. 

Luocha could tell you were bored out of your mind all on your lonesome. To satiate this, he’d usually sit with you in the bathroom and try to teach you things like how to play cards.  You were a little apprehensive with him, like you always were, but it seemed you opened up to him a lot more towards the end of your stay in his temporary residence.

You’d become a pretty competent blackjack player all things considered.

You opened up more and more about your life down below.  Usually, you’d be afraid to tell anyone about that information.  Smugglers often targeted specific pods if one of the products happened to be particularly pricy.  But Luocha wasn't at any risk, was he? 

“...”

“...”

Eventually, as the water started to feel more natural on your skin, you let your grip loosen from around his neck.  As the welcoming embrace of the ocean seemed to envelop more and more of your body, you could feel the former tension in your muscles start to melt away. 

You laid yourself horizontal to the surface of the water, tentatively starting to create your own ripples in the vast expanses of blue.  Maybe it didn’t feel exactly as you remembered, but the gentle pressure of the cool, cool sea against your skin felt like home. 

Your arms splayed out in the waves like an angel, basking in the familiarity of it all.  “You can let go now.” 

Slowly, surely, pale arms lowered you into the arms of the same waters you’d been in a little over two months ago.  You shocked yourself when you chased after his hands. Still, as slick as an eel, you slid away from him into the open ocean, finding a boyish glee in the pure ecstasy of true freedom.  

You took off like a little jet, head first into the deep end. 

Luocha could only really watch with a small smile while you explored the vast array of little treasures hidden beneath the horizon line.  

It felt like only fifteen minutes had passed when you re-emerged from beneath the ocean blue, but to your shock, the sun was starting to set and Luocha was off on dry land, wringing the water out of his hair.  

In all of your fun, it seemed you’d forgotten about that man who’d made all of this possible for you. 

“...”

You pursued him onto the sand, watching him characteristically tilt his head to the side to express his curiosity.  You pushed your own wet mop of hair out of your face with your hand, suddenly feeling a little less confident in your choices.  Despite your trepidation, you felt you at least owed him this much. 

That didn't make it any easier.

“I-” you swallowed, curling in on yourself, “What if I wanted to give you a gift? If it wasn’t some kind of repayment?” 

He smiled, flipping a soaked lock of hair over his shoulder, “As long as you aren’t lying to me about repayment, then I would gladly accept.”

You suddenly felt a new wave of confidence wash over you, your chest puffing up a little bit, “Well, I have a gift for you.” Even though you failed to notice your little finned ears wiggling in excitement, Luocha did not. 

You reached up to your right ear, unhooking the beautiful golden earring that’d you'd been wearing since you’d been thrown out of protective waters.

His eyes widened.   

“It-” You offered the hoop to him, “It was my mom’s.”

Luocha blinked a couple times, staring at the bangle before looking back up at your face instead.  

“Well?  You said you’d accept it if it was a gift.”  You pushed it into his face, feeling a red hot flush wash over your features, “This is a gift; from me to you, no strings attached.” 

He carefully took the thin gold loop in his fingers.  He noticed the signs of oxidation and the water damage. 

It was already far less valuable than the pearl you’d tried to offer him.

Yet its sentimental value was unrivaled. 

“...”

“...”

“Did... your mother like jewelry?”

You shrugged, looking away from him, “Yeah, she had a lot of it from my dad.” 

Luocha nodded.  “Well, did she have a favorite kind of jewelry?” 

At this, you paused.  “I mean… I guess she did.  She wore a lot of rings… why?” 

“Well, since this is a gift I won’t refuse it,- Luocha slid one of the golden bands wrapped around his fingers off,  “-but if you can’t have her earring anymore, then you can at least have a piece of jewelry your mother would’ve liked to wear.”

You felt your face transition from an embarrassed pink to a much deeper red.  “You… you know what you’re offering me, r-right?” 

He didn’t respond in the way you expected.  Instead of his usual confusion, he pushed the ring towards you again with one hand.  The other went to work, looping the clasp of the earring through a piercing that was just a little bit too close to closing.  

It felt like your brain was melting.

‘Is he… flirting with me?’ 

You took the golden ring between your fingers, watching him use his newly freed hand to further force the earring through the piercing hole. You could only feel the heat creep up your neck to your ears; fuck, it felt like you were going to burn alive on the sand. 

When he finally got it in, he flipped a chunk of wet hair over his shoulder.  He framed the golden hoop with his palm.  Playfully, he asked, “How does it look?” 

‘...’

‘He’s definitely flirting.’ 

You immediately ripped your gaze from his face to the ring that suddenly felt like a hundred pounds in your palm. 

‘...What fingers do humans usually put the ring on again?’

Shakily you slid the golden ring onto your left hand, examining the way it glinted in the light of the sunset.  

‘...holy shit, did I just get married?’ 

“[name]?” 

You blinked a couple times, suddenly ripping your gaze away from the shiny metal.  “Sorry, sorry.” 

He chuckled at your expense, enjoying the little fluttering of your ears everytime he seemed to catch your attention again.  “Thank you for the gift, I’ll cherish it dearly.” 

You nodded. 

“...”

“...”

The silence was interrupted with a quiet sniffle. 

“...[name]?”

You aggressively wiped the tear off your face, watching the consequent pearl roll across the grains of sand.  “H-Hey, you can’t just give me this ring and leave-” You took a deep breath, “-That’s not fair, that’s not fair at all.” 

He was a little taken aback at the sudden resurgence of emotion, “Would…” he paused.  He thought it over before tentatively putting a hand on your shoulder, “Would it help if I stayed a little longer?” 

You shook your head, putting your hand over the one on your shoulder to hold it between both of your own hands.  “You have to promise to visit me a lot.  It’s going to take me a long time to find my family, so if you don’t visit I’m going to be lonely.” 

He, once again caught off guard, nodded, “O-Of course!” His own cheeks tinted a pale pink. 

“You promise?” 

He nodded again, this time using his other hand to clasp your hand in both of his.  “I promise I’ll visit.”

a side note for this upcoming section: i did a lot of world-building for this fic behind the scenes, the current planet they're on is largely submerged beneath the waters and they live on a bunch of island nations. To link up with that idea, my idea of the mermaid smuggling industry is to do with the concept of foreigners coming in and destroying local ecosystems. (Colonization)

Long story short, the planet is loosely based on Polynesian Islands so I chose Māori names for our supporting cast but keep in mind I am FAR from an expert and I mean literally no disrespect at all to anyone at all. Only the names are Māori in nature because I feel like no matter how much research I do, I would be unable to capture the essence of the rich culture of New Zealand. I'm a little gay fanfic writer I have not done nearly enough research to claim I know ANYTHING, I just thought it'd be cool and help with world-building in case people want a part-two or something

“What’s got you so worked up?” 

“Shut the fuck up Iarere, this is like the seventh time in the same hour.” 

Your younger brother held his hands up defensively, “Well, things got boring around here without you!”  He let himself fall towards the ground next to the boulder you’d splayed out all the little pieces of gold you’d managed to scrounge up.  “You manage to make it back from outside of protective waters and instead of hating everything and everyone, you’re suddenly getting all buddy buddy with the tourists trying to get some trinkets.  I know you’re old but are you really getting that desperate?” 

You frowned, “I’m not that old.” 

Iarere rested his face on the cool surface of the rock, prodding at one of the particularly flashy necklaces.  “You’re old to me.”  

Your frown deepened. Not just because your brother was calling you old, but because Luocha’s weekly visit was coming up and you hadn’t managed to gather up nearly as much as you would’ve wanted.   For your kind, caring, doctor husband who was already well off, a few necklaces and a handful of rings and earrings wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to woo him.  “I guess I am getting towards the end of the usual age people get married at.” 

The younger man nodded, humming, “Yeah, so do you have anyone in mind?” 

You bit your lip.  

I mean, yes, you were married. 

But it felt inauthentic if you didn’t present your husband with some kind of dowry first. 

Yes, Luocha only presented you with one of his old rings, but he also paid a hefty sum to rescue you from certain doom.  He also nursed you back to good health, refused to take any payment for any of the medical treatments or the food that’d been wasted making sure you’d retain your strength throughout your recovery. 

In your mind, maybe human dowries were just a little bit different. 

Despite opening your mouth to voice your dissent, your little brother jumped up at the opportunity to tease you.  “So you do have someone you’re thinking about!” 

“I-” 

“What are they like?” Iarere gripped your shoulders, tearing your attention away from your inner dilemma.  “What do they look like? Do I know them?”  He gasped, shaking you back and forth and he demanded to know, “Did you meet them while you were outside?!” 

You gripped at his shoulders in return, “I didn’t say I had anyone in mind!” 

“...”

“...”

He pursed his lips, “Yeah, I’m not buying it.” 

You groaned, bringing your hands up to your face.

He only got more excited, leaning in way too close for comfort as he squealed, “So I was right?!” 

“Right about what?” 

Your eyes darted over to the side, watching one of the few friends you’d managed to retain at your grown age.  “Thank the gods, Akahata, get Iarere off me before he gives me whiplash.” 

He hummed, “Well, I’m more interested in what exactly you guys were talking about before.”  You watched as his eyes flitted from you and your brother to all the precious metal and gems you’d laid out.  “Actually don’t tell me, let me guess.”  He pointed at the rock, “You’re setting up a dowry, but you’re upset because you know no amount of jewelry would ever get anyone in the pod to consider settling down with your ugly mug.”

“HAH!” 

Your ears fluttered in irritation.  “That’s a horrible guess.” 

Akahata shrugged, “Well, I mean, your mug’s only ugly cause you frown all the time.  If you actually made an effort to smile more, you’d probably have a lot more people that’d be willing to accept you with no dowry.” 

Your frown tugged at the corners of your lips as you massaged your temples, “For your information, I’m making a dowry cause I already got married.” 

“...”

“...’

“...”

“You WHAT?!” 

Iarere’s fists clenched even tighter around your biceps, “You told me you lost mom’s earring, not that you got married-” 

“It’s a long story-” You started, 

“Not long enough to not tell either of us!” Your best friend screamed in abject horror.  “The moment Ngaio and I started courting each other I told you immediately-”  You grimaced when he pushed your brother out of the way to be the one to shake you back and forth, “-and you get married and you don’t tell me until afterwards?!” 

“It wasn’t planned! I didn’t even realize he was courting me until he gave me his ring-” You countered, face lighting up pink.

“So it’s a him…” Iarere mumbled, putting his hand to his chin.  His expression lit up as the pieces started clicking together in his head.  “Is that where you’re going tomorrow?!” 

“YOU’RE GOING TO MEET HIM TOMORROW?!” 

You were growing more overwhelmed by the minute, averting eye contact.  “Yeah, so what? We’ve been meeting up every week while I was looking for you guys.  Is it weird for husbands to spend time together?” 

Akahata abruptly let go of you, leaving red imprints of his hands on your arms.  “That’s not that problem, that problem-” he paused for dramatic effect, “-is that you’re planning on meeting up with him after returning and you’re not even telling us who he is!” 

Iarere put a hand over his heart, feigning his disappointment as he let himself sink into the sand below.  “I think I’m going to faint.” 

You sighed, “Well-”

Akahata jabbed an accusatory finger in your chest again, “Is he even good looking enough for you? Is he any good at providing? What was his dowry like?  What pod is he even from?!”

“He’s not from a pod-”

Your brother hummed, “So is he a lone wanderer out beyond the boundaries of protected waters saving pretty mermen he wants to marry?” 

Your face twisted into one of disgust, “Keep your fantasies to yourself.” 

Iarere huffed, “Well, what else am I supposed to think when you say he’s not from a pod?  He obviously has so be some kind of lone wolf, PLUS you got married before you made it back.” 

Akahata put a contemplative hand under his chin, “I mean he has a point.” 

You shook your head, “He’s a human.” 

“...” 

“...” 

“...”

“You’re joking.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You’re joking…” 

You held up your hand, gesturing towards the ring on your finger. 

“Oh my god, you’re not actually joking.” 

Your younger brother squealed, “Oh my god this is like something out of all those movies on the surface! Tell me all about it!” 

You frowned, pushing through both your peers to make it back to your makeshift table top.  “He’s… a doctor, but he was working as a trader on a big ship.   He was there the night I got caught and he ended up buying me off the boat and he patched me up and released me.” 

Your best friend sighed, “Only you can make a story that romantic sound like a business deal.” 

Iarere furrowed his brows, “Wait, wait, wait, when did he propose?” 

“Well-” You fumbled over your words, “I caught feelings and I thought I might as well start the courtship process-” 

“YOU made the first move?!” 

“Shut up!” You pushed your overly eager younger brother’s face away, “I didn’t know if he even knew about mermaid courting so if I was going to start courting him, I had to do it then.”

“...go on.”

You sighed, “I gave him mom’s old earring, but instead of just taking it, he gave me one of the rings he was wearing.” You covered your face, feeling another wave of crimson wash everywhere from your neck to the tips of your ears.  You still couldn’t get the memory of him showing off the earring out of your fucking head. “I mean- I- I even asked if he knew what offering me his ring meant and he just put it in my hand.” 

Your younger brother kicked around on the sand eagerly, waving his hands around excitedly.  “That is actually one of THE most romantic proposals I’ve ever heard of!” 

Akahata crossed his arms, “Damn, I feel like mine was lacking.” 

You huffed, “Well, Ngaio is still your wife.” 

“And whatever his face is still managed to wife you--of all people--up.”

“Touche.”

“Oh wow, you brought more than you usually do.” 

Luocha chuckled behind his hand, his own little bag of purchased trinkets hanging loosely at his side. 

You hummed, thumbing over the beautiful glistening stone of a diamond necklace you’d managed to get off of a rather infamous regular.  “You’re one to talk.” 

He gave a small grunt of exertion as he sat next to you on the sand, letting the bag fall to the side, “You’ve got me there.”  He couldn’t help the pleasant swell of warmth in his face as you gestured for him to turn around. 

I mean, maybe you weren’t the best at communicating what you were feeling or what you wanted from him, but you’d been getting better.  Instead of just grunting a yes or no to the questions he’d ask, you’d actually make time for some conversation with him.  Be it from your annoying younger brother to the changes in the pod since you’d returned, it seemed you shared what little woes you had with Luocha.  

You also seemed to share endless amounts of little golden treasures with him.  From old, worn gold, oxidized iron, anything really that you could find, you provided it to him and put it on him with the most delicate touch your rough, scarred hands could muster.  Maybe it was nothing, maybe it was something.  He couldn’t control the way his heart sped up whenever you leaned in to help him put on a new pair of earrings you’d gifted him.  He surmised gift giving was some kind of love language that was common among merfolk.  Perhaps you’d also enjoy it if he brought you gifts of equal value! 

Still, the pounding in his heart was not helped when you’d started smiling at him. 

Everytime he managed to catch one of the rare glimpses of your smile–even worse when you’d laugh–he almost felt like he was looking at something forbidden.  Something he wasn’t worthy of, right in front of him.  For someone who had been through so much, you really opened up to him remarkably quickly after you’d been released.  Perhaps before release you’d been scared of being sold off? The familiar feeling of the waters must’ve don wonders to make you relax this much. 

Even worse when the physical affection began.  It started as simple as reaching out to the side of his face to brush the hair away from his ear so you could catch sight of the golden hoop he’d taken to wearing.   It transitioned to taking his gloves off so you could look at the rings you ended up gifting him.   Before he could really process how quickly the two of you were moving, you were pressed up against him at every opportunity.  

He knew it was natural for merfolk to not wear clothing, but did you have to have such a muscular chest? 

Even now, as you fumbled with the clasp of the absolutely beautiful diamond necklace, you wrapped an equally muscular aquatic tail around his leg.  He didn’t exactly know if this was normal between merfamily-could he call them that?--, being overly affectionate.   Even if it felt like a little more than just normal bonding, he did his best to still the pounding of his heart when your fingers brushed his hair out of the way so you could make sure the gem was oriented correctly.  

Trying his hardest to quell the tide of warmth surging up to the tips of his ears, he put a hand over his erratic heartbeat.  He prayed to the Aeons above you couldn’t feel it as your chest pressed against his back.  

You wrapped your arms snug around his torso, pulling him further into your stomach.  Resting your chin on top of his blonde hair, you found the gloved hand resting over his heart to hold in your own.   The two of you let the silence hang in the air for a moment. 

“...”

“...”

You gave a quiet huff before you moved your chin from on top of his head to bury itself into the crook of his neck.  As his fingers interlocked with yours, he found himself looking at all the gold rings he’d adorned your fingers with.  Each and every one, he could put a time and day to. 

But then, his eyes landed on your ring finger. 

“Oh, you still wear that old thing?”

“...hm?”

You glanced down at your hand, raising a brow.  His finger was tracing over the ring he’d exchanged when he was releasing you back into the open water.

“You still wear the same earring I gave you,” you murmured, flicking it with your freehand.  “I’ve given you countless pairs of earrings since, yet even when you wear one stud, you’ll always wear the same one every time I see you.” 

His chest rumbled with a bout of laughter, “I suppose you’re right.”  He perked up suddenly, “Oh, that reminds me, speaking of this earring…” He reached towards the rather large bag of gifts he’d brought with him.  He threw a few of the boxes of gold ornaments he’d purchased before finally fishing the box he was looking for out of the bottom.  “I went shopping and when I saw this pair, I simply knew you’d love it.” 

You hummed, looking at the little navy blue box in his hand.

He made quick work of the bow wrapped around the holding case, nimble fingers peeling open the little box before he presented you with his gift on their signature velvet cushion. It looked like… 

…a replica of your mother’s earrings. 

He offered them up to you with a bashful smile, watching in silent amusement when your ears flicked back and forth in some kind of excitement. 

Delicately, gently, you picked up one of the hoops and twirled it around your fingers. 

“...”

“...”

“...Well? Do you like it?”

You didn’t respond, reaching up to your right ear to remove the little stud you’d chosen to wear to this outing.  Fidgeting with the clasp of the loop, you threaded it with a calculated ease through your piercing.   

“I like it.” 

He clasped his hands together, “Good, I’m more than glad.” 

“...”

“...”

“She would’ve loved to meet you.” 

“Hm?”

You paused, “My mother, I mean,” Your thumb fidgeted with the back of the earring.  “She always wanted to see her sons get married, but she passed before she could.” 

Luocha blinked.  

“Pardon?” 

You tilted your head to the side, “My mother; she would’ve loved to meet you.” 

“No, no,” Luocha could feel the deep claret paint his face a messy red as he scooted to face you, “What did you mean by seeing her sons get married?”

“...

…Did you not know?” 

Luocha blinked. 

“We’re married.” 

Another blink. 

“You… Is that why…?” He gestured towards the gifts strewn across the sand.  He looked back towards his own bag of gifts. 

‘Oh for crying out loud-’

“I-” he cleared his throat, “I apologize, I seem to have… entered this marriage under false pretenses.”  He put his hands on his temples, “How- Where- When exactly did this happen?”

You hummed, “When you let me back out into the water.  When I gifted you my mother’s earring, that was the signal I wanted to start courting you.  When you gift something back, that’s an officiation of marriage.” 

He coughed into his hand, trying to think through this situation logically. 

Okay, so he accidentally got married.

What the fuck. 

The train of thought seemed to end there. 

…

He was, however, plagued with another train of thought. 

‘Well, you have been making eyes at him for a few months now.’ 

…

Those thoughts were not helping.  

“...”

“...”

“If you want to end the marriage, it’s as simple as saying so,” you added, “I thought you knew what my intentions were-”

“NO!”

Luocha covered the bottom half of his mouth.  “I’m fine with the arrangement as is, but it appears human marriage and merfolk marriage are officiated in very different ways.” 

Your brows furrowed. 

“...”

“...”

“...Are you saying you want to officiate the marriage as humans would?”

The tips of Luocha’s ears burned with embarrassment.  “I-” 

You held one of his hands in yours, eyes seemingly boring holes into his face,  “Whatever it is, as long as you want to do it, I will do it to the best of my ability.” 

Any complaints were silenced when he was confronted with such sincerity.  “Well…”

You waited patiently, folding your hands in your lap.  

Finally, it seemed your “husband” made up his mind.  

“Close your eyes.” 

You paused, seemingly surprised, but nonetheless your eyes fluttered shut moments after. 

Luocha urged himself to breathe, flexing and unflexing his hands.  

He leaned forward, closing his eyes as he…

…planted an innocent peck on your lips.

there's a note on the side of the phone booth, read it?

" idk how to describe it but now being on the other side of this, i'm feeling something similar to post nut clarity "

first post since losing literally everything on my first account yay !!

yes guys, luocha and his mermaid husband were openly cuddling on the beach for months and he's wondering "is he into me or am i bro-zoned"

that being said, losing my tumblr has now forced me to realize how many people genuinely like my writing hey guys I went scrolling through user kamisatoelogy's blog to look for their modern ayato fic and i found out someone dedicated time and effort into archiving my works???? and you guys went looks for me????

i fr feel like getting on my hands and knees and thanking everyone for all their support and love over this process and apologizing for scaring you guys so bad

you guys are so sweet and so many of you have been so helpful in getting my blog back up and running again :((

i started drafting my fics in google docs to make sure it isn't all GONE if i get shit on again so this chapter is brought to you by font: unica one, it was 27 pages total (i am insane)

shout out to Chappell Roan cause she really put me in my tunnel vision work zone while i was writing this

if u guys r looking for a writing hack, i trained myself like a sleeper agent to start writing when i play songs on hour loop it puts me in a work rut

- love, operator t-19

[cookies-after-dark]

BRO AND W/ THE BEAST SOUNDS

i think they have?? multiple grows?? stay with me now-

there's growls that are mildly threatening, smth small that are used as a warning (think of like,, animals getting nipped during play and they get annoyed; it's a sort of growl that says "hey i didn't like that")

AND THEN there's the growls that are actually threatening, like they're wildly pissed off, and in my head they sound eldritch, like something you would never hear on earthbread, something that awakens primal fear in cookies (altho all growls sound different, they cause the same effect)

i can imagine w/ all the beasts in yandere contexts (altho smilk is always on my mind), when their darling escapes that growl leaves them and the jam (?) of everyone around gets cold. or they catch their darling mid-escape attempt and growl like that, to scare the darling out of ever trying that again (picture smilk growling like that while his darling is almost out of the spire, the darling freezes, and he picks them up by the scruff and drags them back to his bedroom *ahem, nest*, no words needed; as a side note, i think the darling would never expect a sound like that to leave smilk, which is even more terrifying and they remember that truly, at the end of the day, they're dealing w/ an eldritch god)

eldritch beasts my beloveds

additional tags: yanderes, unhealthy relationship dynamics, kidnapping, isolation, predator/prey dynamics, possessiveness

ships: yan!burning spice cookie x reader, yan!mystic flour cookie x reader, yan!shadow milk cookie x reader

The very very few (two) mutuals from my mains/discord that I allow to see this blog will read this and look at me like 😒 because projecting animal linguistics and animal behaviors/socialization onto animal-like characters are like, the only things I ever talk about.

I cannot imagine in any universe that any Beast (that have so far been released) other than Shadow Milknwould ever he angry that you escaped, even the yabdwre versions. Burning Spice Cookie delights in having another chance to hunt you down like a prized buck, and Mystic Flour Cookie is so emotionally balanced and capable that any feelings or urgency or dissatisfaction can be tempered before she brings you back herself.

Burning Spice Cookie, upon seeing your nest empty and your scent stale, would growl in excitement. He'd climb atop the highest ledge and let out a loud bellow; not of rage but a rallying call, a mighty sound that carries for miles. Whereever you may be, it's most likely you hear it, and so does any other spice warrior in the vicnity. Burning Spice Cookie wants to let everyone in his territory know that the hunt is on.

Mystic Flour Cookie is mostly unpreturbed by your escape, she knows you won't be gone for long. Her vocalizations are mostly saved for you anyway; so the most you'll hear is a chuff or a deep sigh as soon as she curls your arms around you to take you home.

Even as yanderes, those two are pretty "well adjusted", for Beasts anyway, that they won't immediately fly off the rail in anger if they find you missing. Surprisingly, yandere Burning Spice Cookie is slower to anger than yandere Shadow Milk Cookie for several reasons (BS isn't nearly as insecure, for one very important reason).

Shadow Milk Cookie, though? It would be a straight up lie to say that Shadow Milk Cookie doesn't enjoy scaring the wits out of you when you step out of line. Either through his illusions or his straight up Eldritch Call that basically says "You little annoying gnat, stop right where you are." in unholy monster language. But make no mistake, it pisses him off when he has to go fetch you again.

He's possessive in a way that feels more personal and targeted than even Burning Spice Cookie, and he's unrelenting in a way that feels more restricting than Mystic Flour Cookie.

Even Black Sapphire Cookie and Candy Apple Cookie can't help but back off when they hear Shadow Milk Cookie snarl so dreadfully like that. They don't risk getting in his way to bring you back and discipline you; they know he's got a handle on that.

[thestarsaboveme]

Lads men x Reader who's really into horror movies

masterlist

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: reader who really likes horror movies.

xavier | zayne | sylus | caleb

rafayel x reader | fluff

Rafayel watches you from where he's lounging sideways on your couch, head propped on a pillow like some tragic Victorian poet. He looks criminally comfortable for someone sitting through a 1970s horror slasher. The kind with grainy film and uncomfortably long shots of people doing absolutely nothing before something awful happens.

But you, you are in your element.

You're sitting cross-legged with your notebook in your lap. Well, notebook is a strong word. It's more like a fabric-bound monster of its own. A monstrosity of dog-eared pages, scribbled thoughts, bookmarks made of candy wrappers, and a paperclip that's given up on doing anything useful.

You're scribbling furiously with a glittery gel pen as the killer's silhouette appears behind the protagonist on screen.

''You see that?'' you say, eyes gleaming as you pause the movie, so you can better gesture with your pen. ''They used high-contrast techniques to create deep shadows and strong highlights, blurring the line between the physical and the psychological. It's a callback to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari-expressionist influences, full circle. Ugh! So good.''

Rafayel raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

''Cutie,'' he says, voice thick with amused affection, ''only you could make murder sound like a love letter.''

You grin without looking up. ''I don't like the gore, I like the craft. There's intention in every frame. Every light. Every angle. The violence is just…contextual punctuation.''

He hums thoughtfully. ''A semicolon of suffering.''

''Exactly!''

There's a moment of silence as you flip a few more pages, trying to find your breakdown of the film's lighting progression. Rafayel leans over a little, pretending to peer into the book, but mostly just using it as an excuse to get closer.

He taps one corner gently. ''Is that…a pressed flower?''

''Yes. From the Suspiria screening. The remake, not the original.''

''Of course,'' he murmurs, clearly having no idea what that means but delighted all the same.

Then, softly, ''You carry entire universes in this book of yours.''

You blink, caught off guard. ''It's just a notebook.''

He smiles like you've said something heartbreakingly naive. ''It's a testament. To what you love. To how your mind works. And if I may say so,'' he traces the notebook's tattered edge with a fingertip, ''that is its own kind of romance.''

You feel your face heat up.

''I mean, if you really want romance,'' you say, trying to regain footing, ''we could watch Crimson Peak next. The actors have said that it's a very passionate love story, supported and complemented by fantastic elements. And not to forget, it's the first film in the Mystery Horror Genre. ''

He exhales a laugh. ''That might be the most you version of flirting I've ever heard.''

You bump your shoulder against his, smiling. ''You're still here listening.''

''Cutie, I would sit through a thousand jump scares and a dozen cursed VHS tapes just to hear you talk about third-act structure and prosthetic gore.''

''…Even found footage films?''

He shudders. ''Let's not test the strength of my devotion.''

You laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder as you unpause the movie. He adjusts slightly, letting you rest against him while your chunky notebook stays balanced in your lap. His hand finds yours, thumb brushing softly over your fingers as the scene resumes.

Blood erupts on cue, the soundtrack crashing down like a closing curtain.

And Rafayel smiles, because nothing makes him feel more enchanted than seeing you light up in the dark, explaining why fear on film is just another way to understand the human heart.

[moonstruckme]

hello! i saw u were hoping for more eddie requests (or less marauders requests, was what you were getting at i think) n i was wondering if u had any thoughts on summer with eds? maybe night swimming…making out on a towel in the back of his van…lots to consider…

p.s. — ive yet to request anything from you, so this is my first chance to say how much i love your work! 🩷

Okay okay, you guys are wearing me down about writing summer blurbs. Twist my arm! Thanks for requesting love ;)

cw: pg-13 smut, mention of not eating

Eddie Munson x fem!reader ♡ 858 words

Eddie’s hair has dried frizzy, which doesn’t give you a lot of hope for yours. His skin is still sun-warm, and you shiver for reasons that are multiplying by the minute, pressing close as he mouths over the dip where your neck meets your shoulder. You’re not sure exactly how you’d ended up in Eddie’s lap. You’d climbed in the back of his van to get a towel, and somehow that towel had ended up spread beneath the both of you, scratching lightly at your bare shins as the sun slips below the horizon and your boyfriend brutalizes your neck. He bites down just this side of too hard, making you gasp. 

“Eddie,” you plead, fingers winding in his hair. “We can’t do this here.” 

He releases the skin of your neck with a lewd suctioning sound, moving to that place under your ear that gets you melty like a popsicle in July. His hands grip your ass, squeezing indulgently as you squirm in his lap. “Says who?” 

“Says—” He kisses that favored spot and your head falls to the side to accommodate him, an embarrassingly needy sound escaping you. “—says, I don’t know—the cops.” 

Eddie’s laugh is so raucous he has to pull away. You’re not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. His hands slide to your hips, grounding you as he looks at you with eyes wide and incredulous. “The cops?” he asks. 

You swallow, nodding. You have this horrible vision of Jim Hopper himself getting a call about the suspicious van parked by the lake, coming over and shining a flashlight into the open back doors to find you both naked and in the middle of things. 

Eddie laughs some more, shoulders shaking with it, and you can’t help but snicker a little too just because he is. “Baby, the cops don’t give a shit about what we’re up to. I’m sure they have better things to do.” 

You shoot him a look, because you both know damn well that when Hawkins isn’t being threatened by monsters from a parallel universe, it’s completely dead around here. 

“Let’s go back to your place,” you urge. “This towel’s all wet anyway, and I wanna shower.” 

Eddie makes himself at home in the juncture of your neck again, kissing lazily. “S’not enough room in my shower for both of us,” he complains.

“We can pick this back up after, I know—shit, Eds—” Without warning, his hand slips up to palm your tit, pushing aside the scant covering of your swimsuit. You try to sound reasonable. “I know I taste like lake water.” 

“Mhm. It’s hot.” 

“It’s gross.” 

“You’re gross.” He pauses, lips lifting momentarily from your shoulder. “Okay, wrong comeback. I’m distracted. It’s not gross, baby.” His grip tightens on you a second before he licks up the side of your neck, holding you in place when you squeal and try to get away. “Mm, yummy lake water.” 

“You’re disgusting,” you laugh, leaning back and setting your hands on his shoulders so he can’t try it again. 

“Aw, come on.” A thick finger slips under the elastic of your bikini bottoms, tracing a line around your hip as his other hand squeezes your boob lightly. Eddie grins at your tiny inhale. “Have a little fun.” 

“Eddie,” you say warningly. 

“Yes?” Another finger joins the first, your swimsuit stretching to accommodate them. 

“I want to go home.” You imbue your voice with as much firmness as you can. When Eddie pouts, you go for the kill. “I’m getting really hungry.” 

Immediately, the wickedness leaves his expression, replaced by a sweet concern. “Yeah?” The elastic of your swimsuit snaps back into place, and you jolt. Eddie flattens his palm over the spot, rubbing apologetically. “I forgot, you barely had anything for lunch. You wanna drive through somewhere?” 

“No, I can make it until we get home,” you say softly, backpedaling a bit in the face of his caring. “I’m not dying, just a little hungry.” 

Eddie’s mouth pulls to one side. “You sure, sweet thing? It’s a bit of a drive back. We could grab McDonalds.” Your eyes widen, and his grin makes a return, this time crooked and dorky. “Yeah?” 

“That sounds amazing,” you admit. “Do you think they’ll give me a hashbrown even though it’s not breakfast yet?” 

“I’ll make sure they do.” He eases you off his lap, reaching over to close the back doors. You start looking around for your flip-flops. “I think they’re serving breakfast all day now anyways.” 

“Ugh, awesome.” You imagine the greasy taste, and your mouth floods with saliva. Shit, you actually are pretty hungry. Eddie climbs into the front seat, reaching for your elbow to help you over the console behind him. The material of the seatbelt feels warm and rough against your skin. “Just to be clear,” you say, “I didn’t mean that I wasn’t having a good time. We still should have a re-do later, after food and showers.” 

Eddie huffs a laugh, turning the keys in the ignition so the van rumbles to life underneath you. “No need for a re-do, baby. We’re just having an intermission.” 

[starrynights-sunnyskies]

⋆*·ﾟSo what if flowers wilt... misa x putellas!femreader

⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ

your sisters are left dealing with the aftermaths of what happened in the club, and you wake up to a flowery surprise.

or; part three of the as the flowers bloom, my heart does too universe

(no misa in this chapter. well... not in person, but in spirit... if you know, you know!)

⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ

"Are we sure she's home?" Olga asked before the three of them slipped inside the building with Alexia's key. The patter of their footsteps echoed against the walls of the stairwell of the old apartment building.

"Ale, I really don't think we should go in, in case she called someone over after all," Alba whined, dread filling her limbs with each step.

But Alexia stood firm, "I need to check on her." She pushed the key you'd given each of your sisters for emergencies into the lock and pushed the door open.

Your heels were discarded on the carpet in the hall, your clutch with its content spilled out on the little dresser. It was dark, aside from the little ball of warm light coming from the living room and casting shadows through the hallway. It was dead silent. Until it very clearly wasn't.

Alba immediately put her hands on her ears, afraid the high-pitched scream would be followed with sounds she could never un-hear, but let them drop again when she realised your sighs and cries weren't born from pleasure.

"You've ruined my life! You've ruined me! Fuck you!"

The dread of knowing you were talking to someone, and having a hunch on who you'd lash out on this way, made Alexia cross the hallway within seconds before she ran into the livingroom with Olga and Alba in tow, albeit hesitantly.

Alexia had her hands balled into fists, instinct taking over to protect her little sister from the monster that was making her cry this hearting-achingly. Frantically, she looked around for the perpetrator behind your pain, but there was only one person pacing the living room.

The sight before them absolutely tore them apart.

With your makeup smudged, your hair a mess and your face blotched and wet, your shoulders shaking and your chest heaving, you were pacing through your living room, your phone clutched tightly into your hand as you yelled into it.

A sob racked your body when you hurried out a blabbered sentence through your tears, and Alexia's stomach dropped. You paced around, yelling into the device, your Spanish blurring together in an incohesive mumble in the heat of your anger and sorrow. She half wondered how none of your neighbours had taken to calling the police with all this yelling after midnight, but she figured this had been the usual back when your ex had stayed with you and could start a fight about everything.

So, it didn't take a wild guess to figure out who was on the other side of the line.

Alexia rushed over, wrapping you in her arms, stopping you from pacing. Startled at having been pulled out of your state, you shrieked and fought her hold, but Alexia pushed you against her chest with great strength.

"Hey, hey, hey. Mira me- look at me. It's me. You're safe. We're here."

She tried to coax you down into her side on the couch, but your body was rigid and shaking. Alba walked over, unsurely, never having seen you in such a state and afraid any wrong move would ruin you even more. Her hand shook as she rubbed against your back, trying to help calm you down.

Alexia and Alba exchanged a look and Alba nodded, gently trying to pry the phone out of your iron grip— emphasis on trying.

"Give me your phone."

"No- I'm not done." You growled, turning away from Alba, but let Alexia pull it from your hand after your exhaustion set in.

Alexia further cradled you into her arms and held the phone out for Alba to take, who got ready to give the person on the other end of the line a big chunk of her mind, when she peeked at the screen and furrowed her brows.

"You're not even talking to anyone?" She questioned, seriously worrying about your sanity now.

"She hung up five minutes ago but I wasn't done." You heaved as Alexia shushed you again, helping you simmer down. With balled fists clutching onto your sister's shirt, you felt as if you were five again-- finding comfort in your older sister's embrace after you'd hurt yourself or got overwhelmed.

Alexia placed a kiss on your hair while Alba softly wiped the snot and tears away from your face with a napkin.

You could hear someone else move around your living room, the clinging of glasses and the faucet turning on before Olga appeared crouched before you. Embarrassment suddenly kicked in at the realisation it hadn't just been your sisters who'd seen you break.

"Drink something, Y/N/N." Her hand cupped your trembling one as she helped you take a few sips. You felt pathetic, but couldn't help but agree that the cold freshness of the water did help. The quiet moment didn't last long.

"Why would you accept her call?! Unless you called her yourself, but I sure hope that you weren't stupid enough to do that." Alba fired at you, but Alexia immediately gave her a stern look.

"Because she kept calling. I was afraid she'd come over if I didn't," You turned to Alexia, who was still cradling you, "Can you help me get new locks?" Alexia's heart broke at the look you gave her.

"We should've done that earlier. I'll call someone first thing tomorrow." She seemed to exchange a look with Olga, who nodded, "And I'm staying in the spare room tonight."

"No, you have a match tomorrow." Resolutely, Alba dropped her stuff and kicked off her heels, "But I'm staying."

"Well, I'm staying, too. End of discussion." Alexia huffed out, frustrated with herself that her tight schedule was trying to have her neglect her littlest sister when she needed her the most.

Immediately, you spoke, "No, I don't want Olga to have to be alone because of me." Alexia's chest tightened at how you spoke of yourself, at how your lips had snarled in distaste, as if you weren't worthy of the comfort the three of them were giving you.

Olga appeared before you again, gently dabbing at your hairline with a cold towel, "Y/N, you're family, you're important," She gave you a gentle smile, one clearly meant to calm you down and add some lightheartedness to the tension in your chest.

"I'm going to bring Olga home, then I'll come back, okay?" Alexia pulled you up and gently handed you over to Alba, who walked with you to your bedroom, helping your shaking form out of the dress you'd picked out for the club and into your most comfortable sleepwear. It was as if your tears had finally gone out of stock with the amount of emotional exhaustion you suddenly felt wash over you. You were but a mere vessel of yourself now. Empty and hollow. Exhausted to no end, no more room to feel.

Alba grabbed your chin and wiped your face with your makeup wipes, not looking into your puffy eyes that were staring at her, knowing it would break her resolve. She quickly turned around to throw the wipes away, her chin already wobbling.

"I got you a Tinder brunch date tomorrow." You mumbled out stoically, watching her eyes widen to twice their size as she quickly turned around.

"When did you-?!"

"When you gave me your phone." You wiped your stuffy nose with the back of your sleeve.

"Jesus, Y/N."

Your lip trembled, feeling more and more like a failure as your sister sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"She- She's pretty, likes dogs and has n-nice tattoos." You hiccuped through your old tears, suddenly feeling new ones well up, "I meant well..."

Alba rubbed her temples, knowing you were on the verge of another breakdown and that she needed to tread carefully.

"It's okay, Y/N/N."

"I just thought- I just want to see you happy and in love."

Alba finally let the tears fall. They were silent, but fell in rapid flow, "I don't really care about relationships right now. I'll be happy when you are. I promise you." She walked back over to your slumped form on the bed. You immediately latched onto her waist and hugged her, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to let the warmth and love of your sister's safe embrace engulf you.

After Alba changed into one of your oversized shirts, she pulled you in your bed and tucked you in safely, promising you she'd be back after cleaning up the mess you'd made in the hallway and living room.

Alba knew she shouldn't have left you by yourself, ready to wallow in your sorrow again and fall into the deep web of overflowing emotions and overthinking worries, but she knew that if she didn't step out to take a breather, she'd break down herself. The way you had trembled, the way your eyes had been filled with pure devastation and pain, had ruined her more than she would probably ever admit. The last time she'd seen your big, teary eyes look up at her like that, had been when your family had been in utter shambles. She took a big sigh and rolled her shoulders, sending away any negative feeling wanting to pull her down that rabbit hole again.

"Hey," Alba turned around, a stack of fallen magazines in her hands as Alexia stood in the doorway, taking off her jacket.

"Hey."

"How is she?"

"Alive," Alba sighed and threw the magazines back on their stack next to the couch. She stood still, frozen in place, staring at the magazines while she could hear Alexia throw her jacket over the barstool.

"Thank you," She turned around, facing her sister, "For being here."

Alexia gave her a tight-lipped smile, exactly sensing the deeper layer of Alba's thank you. Alexia was a great athlete, but that hadn't always coexisted next to being a great sister, leaving Alba to take over when she had been just as young herself. The fact that Alexia was here now, showing her they were doing this together, meant a whole lot to her.

Alexia walked over, wrapping Alba in a tight hug, feeling the younger woman starting to shake a bit. It was hard not to, so she let it happen as the tears fell.

"Oh, God-" Alba grumbled through a snicker and wiped her tears away, "Look at us."

Alexia smiled softly, knowing you weren't the only Putellas who was allergic to letting emotions show.

"It's okay." Alexia reassured.

Alba nodded, "Okay." She blew out a breath, "I'm not ready to go back in, but I don't want her to be alone."

"I'll go."

A soft knock on the door a while later had you look up, and Alexia's head appeared around the door, quietly peeking to see if you were still awake.

"Hey, soldier," She tried to smile to comfort you, but it looked more like a grimace the second she held the doorpost. Immediately, she whisked her hand away as if she got burned by the crack she felt in the wood, reminding her of bad times.

She didn't say a word after, only kicked off her shoes and threw on the hood of her Nike hoodie before burying herself beneath the mountain of covers Alba had covered you with. You sniffled and snuggled up to your older sister, much like old times during nights before a big day or after nightmares. She pulled you closer, planting a chaste kiss on your messy mop of hair. The silence was a little unsettling for her, because she knew that that meant you were busy thinking about a thousand things in your head. And, to be fair, so was she.

It was clear what you had been thinking about when you spoke,

"Please, don't tell Mama," You mumbled against her chest as her hand played with your locks of hair.

"You can't hide your pain from her forever."

"I don't want to worry her or make her sad again." You sounded like a child with a small vocabulary as you muttered, but who was still able to perfectly get her point across. Sometimes there was power in simplicity.

Alexia sighed, knowing how badly little-you had reacted to your own and your family's heartbreak after your father had passed. Despite your age, you had all these emotions, all these feelings you had no clue what to do with. Atop of that, you'd absorbed everyone else's emotions like a sponge, and often lashed out when it got you too overwhelmed. Your grades in school had dropped, you'd lost a few friends who hadn't understood how you were still so down after a few weeks and you had started to fight with Alba or be cross with your mother. It had been the start of your sometimes unbearable behaviour and had only added to your mother's agony instead of relieving her from it.

"But she's your mother, she wants to be there for you when you need her the most. Much like Alba and I want." She pulled you closer, inhaling your familiar scent—  the same shampoo scent she remembered you'd used ever since your pre-teens when it had lingered in the bathroom after you'd occupied it when she'd specifically requested to use it after training, "So don't push us out again, okay?"

You shook your head against her chest, not looking up when you heard your bedroom door creak open a moment later. The bed dipped behind you.

Alba spooned you as she got beneath the covers, arm slung around you while her hand reached out for Alexia's. The three of you lay there for a couple of minutes, in silence. Your bed wasn't large enough to feel like the gigantic bed of your parents which the three of you had often used as a trampoline or fallen asleep on to nap. Perhaps you had simply outgrown the size of your younger bodies, but it was a nostalgic kind of comforting nonetheless. With the three of you no longer living under the same roof, these moments had been scarce as of late. You realised how badly you'd missed and needed them now that they had their arms around you.

You tried to talk but no words came out, so you cleared your throat, "She might come tomorrow... or soon, you know?"

Simultaneously, your sisters's grip tightened around you.

"Let her come."

"I dare her to."

"She has something of mine, she wants to give back. That's partly why she called."

"Whatever could she have that she thinks is so important to you that she uses it as a bribe?"

Your lip trembled again when you stared at your chipped doorpost, realisation washing over you that your ex still had the one thing you had been yearning for—  the daisy and dolphin charm bracelet that your father had given you for the last birthday he'd been present at.

You pulled at Alexia's shirt, your sniffles drowning out against her chest. You could yell. She would forever be tethered to you so long as she had the one thing she knew you treasured the most. Your were too exhausted to bring it up, knowing you would have a lot of explaining to do once you broke that news, so you kept your mouth shut. And you preferred both your sisters very much out of jail, knowing what kind of mayhem could start once they learned of your secret. Besides, your body was depleted enough to fall into a deep sleep within ten minutes, now that you were in the safety of the arms of your sisters.

"Is she gone?" Alba whispered in the dark of your bedroom after your sniffles had stopped and your breathing seemed to have regulated.

"Yeah, out like a light."

Alba looked pensive for a little while. Alexia swallowed back the lump in her throat, knowing the tears would fall within the next hour, when Alba had fallen asleep too. That was if the girl could even get any sleep herself after this hell of a night. Alba's words earlier in the living room had meant a lot to her. Guiltily, she realised that Alba had done this more than she had—  often being the one to pick up the pieces of your heart whenever something had gone wrong... and you hadn't had the smoothest journey so far. She still blamed herself for not being around enough. Because if she'd been there, she could've seen right through you and would have known you weren't okay the second problems started to appear in your relationship.

Alba softly sat up in the bed, your arm still around her waist, "Imagine if you'd listened to me and we hadn't come here."

Alexia's voice rose, "Stop."

Alba pulled the duvet over your shoulders when you stopped breathing for a second, tucking you back in. Alexia felt relief when you didn't wake up.

"We'll need to do something, you know that, right? She needs us. She can't do this alone anymore, we can't let her."

"And we'll be there for her," Alba sighed, "No more idly waiting until she's ready. We were too nice to her about it before, trying to give her the space she wanted."

"We'll be there for her every step she needs to hold our hands." Alexia nodded, sealing the promise, "Wether that's driving her to therapy, or burning all the shit of the she-devil that's still lying around here. I'm sure I've missed some. And I'll call maintenance tomorrow, for a new lock."

"I'll call her friends and take her to mami."

"You really think we should tell mom? She'll be worried sick. Literally."

"She might be twenty-four but right now she needs her mom as much as she did when she was five."

"Mami's going to be upset."

"And she'll be even more upset if we keep it from her."

Alexia nodded and shuffled around to make herself comfortable, then turned around to your sleeping form. She leaned over, first planting a kiss on Alba's forehead before planting one on yours,

"I love you. Both of you."

⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ

Alexia hated the yawn that left her, the third one in barely two minutes. The rational part of her brain knew that not having been able to sleep a wink would surely ruin her entire day, and she had an important day ahead, but she couldn't think of that right now as her littlest sister lay exhaling soft puffs of air next to her. She softly brushed your hair out of your face and smiled, realising you were wearing an old and washed out jersey— her name on the back long gone. In your sleeping form and without make-up on, all snuggled up under your covers, you looked no day past twelve years-old. It was an endearing moment after a horrible night.

Alexia's eyes then fell on Alba, who was splayed about uncomfortably and snoring softly. At least she'd gotten some sleep, albeit without sheets covering her most of the night, but that was mostly thanks to your hogging. Knowing the two of you deserved all the sleep you could get, she quietly shuffled out of bed and peered out of the curtains. She pulled her phone off the charger on the nightstand but jumped when two notifications came in.

Alba stirred and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, Alexia's apologetic smile meeting her as she adjusted to the light that peered through the curtains.

"Wha-" She yawned, "What time is it?"

"Seven."

"Wow- that's way too early for me." Alba yawned again, sensing the exhaustion in Alexia's voice, "You didn't sleep, did you?"

"I'll take a nap later on the bus." She lied, knowing there was no way she could find any sleep with the worries currently playing on her mind.

Alba felt chilly and rubbed her arms, only now realising what had happened. She didn't know why she was still surprised, she should've expected to wake up with only one of her legs draped under the covers. This time, she couldn't find the courage to pull and pry the sheets you'd hogged off you and over herself again. She scooted closer to your sleeping form, pulled you against her and tried to find some warmth in your arms, tugging Alexia back down as well. Your eyelids were red and swollen and your cheeks blemished and flushed from all the tears you'd shed. A memory flashed through her mind, and it immediately hit her with the force of a car crash—  a much younger-you clinging to Alba, fisting her shirt in your hands and your body shaking with sobs. Back then, she'd long given up on trying to console you after having realised you were so caught up in your heart ache, that your older sister's muttered words went straight over your head. She had just held you... had squeezed when she felt your body shake with another wave of sobs, and cupped your head and held it safely against her shoulder. It had proved to work, back then... her quiet comfort. There had been times where all Alba had wanted to do was exchange you with one of her friend's younger siblings, who had to be far easier to live with and seemed way cooler. She still remembered the plenty diary passages where she'd begged the universe to rid her of her annoying little sister... but you needed her, and she had to admit, she needed you just as badly. Despite your grievances and quarrels, you had found the comfort you so needed in your sister, and she had let you hold onto her like a lifeline, admittedly using the opportunity to let out a set of tears herself. The amount of times the two of you had fought, had given the other the silent treatment for days until either she or you had shown up in the other's room deep in the night with teary sleepy eyes to sleep with the other had brought you closer. It had unified you and advanced your relationship from young siblings fighting over toys or clothes to maturing ones, realising there was strength and love to be found in a sibling.

Alexia knew you had envied her for some time, jealous of the escape she found in football. How she could throw herself into her passion and put everything on pause during those ninety minutes. How she could take her grief and turn it into fiery passion and dedication, while you were unable to do anything but let it simmer until an inevitable outburst. She'd sensed the innocent resentment in your eyes the second she'd seen it, and taken you with her to the local fields in your neighbourhood. She'd given you some of her old gear that would fit and switched from mindless passing and shooting to tiny lessons of agility and dribbles. But you hadn't taken to the sport as well as she had. It wasn't second nature to you, and each time the ball didn't hit the net or it bounced off your feet in an entirely different direction as you'd meant, your frustration would only grow. Still, despite being young, you realised she was taking time out of her busy day, time she probably much rather spent resting after all the training, to be with you. She might not have been the best at comforting you with words like your mama, or with tough love and eventual quality time like Alba, but she was there... making an effort. That counted for something, and meant a great deal. After many frustrated growls and kicks, and after your energy had depleted, she would sit with you on the grass, overlooking the rest of the fields. Her company was comforting, her presence grounding, as if all would stay all right as long as your big sister was right there with you. And even now, she needed you to know that it would.

As you lied there now between your sisters, years later, needing the protection and comfort you'd so clearly lacked the past few months, Alexia and Alba remembered the promise they'd made all those years ago when they'd first held you. They squeezed tighter from both your sides, not caring that they could risk waking you from your slumber. They just needed you to know they were there. They would always be.

A tired groan slipped past your lips. You felt a pounding headache coming on.

"No."

Alba sniggered, "To what? We haven't said anything."

"Yet." You mumbled against her, the deepest sigh leaving you as you felt Alexia snuggle closer into you from behind. Your nose was stuffy, your throat itched and your eyes felt like they'd grown the size of melons. It all made reality hit way too soon. You wished you could have stayed trapped in your bubble of slumber for a little longer, but knew that that bubble would have to pop eventually.

"What's for breakfast, superstar?" Alba asked, receiving a noncommittal hum in return.

"I happen to remember that flower, eggs and milk were on the grocery list last week," Alexia chided, nudging your sides, "Is someone hungry for tortitas?"

Your sisters waited expectantly, giving each other a victorious smile as you peeled open one of your eyes.

"I'm not getting out of bed," You huffed out, tiredly, hiding your face from the light that had seeped in through the room.

Alexia forcefully, yet playfully, grabbed your head in her hands and planted the fattest kiss with the loudest smack.

"You don't have to. We'll eat here."

"And can we watch-"

"Whatever your current celebrity crush is in?" Alexia laughed, knowing you too well, "Definitely, we can."

"Of course," Alba rolled her eyes, and joined the laughter, playfully planting a kiss just as wet on your forehead before following Alexia out the room.

"Wait-" Your sleep was gone as soon as guilt ate away at you. You pushed yourself up, "Your date, and your football match!"

"I'll be able to stick around for at least one tortita." Alexia reassured.

"And I asked for a rain check on my date. She really is cute, by the way," Alba winked.

Your sisters left the room, leaving you to yourself in some sort of a daze. Your mind was still too fried and tired to let it properly process all that had happened the past twelve hours, let alone the past few weeks. The one prominent thing that rose to the surface, was the realisation and peace that came with it, that whatever would happen next, you'd have your two sisters by your side. You heard their muffled voices through the door, pans clattering against each other and someone stumbling into something. Oh, how grateful you were to have them in your life.

As Alba started to rummage through your kitchen and get to work, Alexia started to clean a little of the mess still lying around. She opened your windows, organised all the things you had lying about in your bathroom and put a bundle of clothes in the washing. Her face turned to one of surprise when she recognised the familiar tiny jewellery box lying opened and forgotten between some makeup brushes on your bathroom counter. She recognised the blue velvet box with the name of the local jeweller of Mollet del Vallès scribbled inside within an instant. Her father had given each of his daughters a charm bracelet on their eleventh birthday, his lucky number. She still had the one he'd given her—  it had tiny cleats, footballs and the FC Barcelona crest as charms. She knew yours had daisies and dolphins, two obsessions of you at the time. Only, the box was empty. It was strange, for she knew it was too valuable to you to wear it out and about every day and risk losing it. There was only one day you would wear it, and... well, that day had been turned into an even more horrible one this year. Perhaps you had just given it another place, or clung to it in comfort after the events of the past few weeks. She made a note to ask you about it later.

She rose her brows in surprise when the buzz signalling someone was ringing your number downstairs rang through your apartment. Your building wasn't modern enough for her to see who was asking for your attention through some device, and she felt dreadful when the thought of it being your ex crossed her mind. She pressed the button of the intercom and it immediately crackled to life,

"Yes?"

She clenched and unclenched her hand into a fist, praying this day wouldn't start out horribly already. She sighed in relief when a male voice croaked through the tiny device on the wall.

"Delivery for Y/N Putellas."

Alexia rolled her eyes, knowing you liked to splurge, a little too often. Then again, if retail therapy was what had kept you up and running like a normal human being... and if you could afford it, then she'd gladly look the other way.

"I'll be down in a minute."

You had left the warmth of your bed and tiptoed into the kitchen as soon as the smell of something burning wafted into your bedroom.

"Alba-" You yelled through the apartment, "If this place burns down I will kill you!"

"Sorry!"

"Use the damn hood!"

"I hate the sound!" You could practically see Alba roll her eyes, "It's so obnoxious."

Not trusting your sister enough in the kitchen, you'd pulled yourself out of bed. The blanket you'd draped over you swept the floor behind you. It showed only your face as you walked up to your sister in the kitchen.

"The first one's always a mess." Alba justified while scraping the tortita off the pan and right into your trashcan.

You flicked on the hood above the stove and watched her drip half of the spoon of batter onto your counter, "Mama always does one at a time."

"Well, I don't have the luxury of time today."

You perched yourself onto the edge of your couch, staring at Alba, gut being punched once again. You'd half hoped, well, expected, that she would stick around now that she didn't have her brunch date to get to. You didn't want to be alone again. Not only did the prospect of being left with your thoughts worry you, you also worried about a certain someone arriving to your doorstep before maintenance could give you a new lock.

"Oh."

Alba immediately turned around, "No, no, no- I'm staying with you," She reassured with a smile, "We just have a full schedule ahead of us."

Groaning, you fell back onto the couch.

"I don't want to do anything, Alba."

"So I should just tell your friends you no longer want to see them... and tell mama she's cooking for one instead of three tonight? You've rotten inside that bed of yours long enough now. You're done with locking yourself away from the world now."

You knew better than to argue with your sister when she used her tone of finality. So you laid there, on your couch, inspecting your very boring ceiling.

You were relieved to see Alexia appear from out of the hallway, but what she held in her hand made you sit up in an instant— a large bouquet of flowers. You recognised a bunch of white peonies and pastel pink roses. In the middle of it was one large red dahlia.

"Hey, I thought we'd stay in bed?" Alexia wondered, walking over as if she wasn't carrying a bouquet thrice the size of her head.

"Oh, you really didn't have to do, but thank you." Alba played along, eyes too focused on the flowers and not on the pan in front of her while she tried to flip a pancake, making it crumble.

"It's for you," Alexia put the flowers out for you to grab, the fresh scent of them immediately filling the room.

"You guys got me these?" Your chin started to wobble again, feeling overwhelmed by the sweet surprise of your sisters, when Alexia swiftly shook her head.

"N-No," She muttered out, a little panicked, not wanting you to start your rollercoaster of emotions all over again, "They were just delivered to you. By a local florist."

Interest now piqued, Alba joined, "Who sent them then?"

Alexia eyed you, hoping this wasn't the start of some stalker you'd gotten yourself by inviting mere strangers into your home and bed. God knew she couldn't deal with anything like that atop of everything else. Alba warily inspected the bouquet for a note, a scribbled message on the wrapping paper—  anything to prove this wasn't a weak attempt from your ex to mend things.

Tears prickling in your eyes, your voice was shaking as you muttered, "Why would someone sent me flowers? I don't deserve-"

Alexia's features hardened as she crouched to get to your level, "Y/N, no. Just, no. No, no, no. Look at me- hey, listen," You found the eyes of your sister, "You do. You deserve all the love in the world and you might not believe me now, but you do." She pushed the bouquet against your chest, "And it seems we're not the only ones whose life you lift up simply by being there, or else they wouldn't have surprised you with this, so we're not being biased as your sisters."

Alba coughed, playfully, and lovingly brushed her fingers through your tangled bed hair, "Just the tiniest bit biased though. You can be an incredible pain in the ass."

Alexia shot her a look.

Suddenly, you jumped up, leaving your sisters confused to your abrupt leave.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm going to look for a vase- Oh, my-" Their heads whipped to the stove, where another pancake was ready for the bin again.

"Alba," You groaned, "When will you learn you multitask like shit?"

Alba couldn't help but laugh as you ran around the kitchen like a headless chicken, one hand holding the bouquet preciously to your chest as if it was a newborn baby, the other flipping Alba's concoction in the trash again.

"Wait- did you two even put eggs in this?"

Alexia and Alba gave each other an awkward look, realising they'd forgotten that. But forgetting an egg or two was always better than not being there for you.

⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ

© 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝘆.🖤

this has been waiting in my drafts to be published for three months now, hope you enjoy!

[1117-yungi]

MOONSTRUCK. park seonghwa x gender neutral!reader [1.9k]

on a quiet rooftop under the moonlight, two strangers who have crossed paths countless times finally connect. as the night deepens, their magnetic pull becomes undeniable — they realize they might not need to navigate life’s uncertainties alone under the stars.

genre. neighbor!seonghwa, neighbor!reader, strangers to lovers, angst, fluff, smut

warnings. lowkey angsty, swearing, seonghwa has glasses, secret mutual pining, unprotected sex, kind of vanilla in a way, he does choke reader briefly, he's unbelievably cute and gentle with reader its sickening, reader is lonely. pet play? idk bunny used as a pet name. size kink, praise, rushed ending, implied monster cock seonghwa tbh, slight body worshipping, probably more...

note. i have been obsessed with moonstruck by enhypen so this is kinda based on that song and i broke the text where the smut starts so its optional guys...

the quiet hum of the city fades as you step onto the rooftop, the air crisp and cool against your skin. above you, the moon hangs impossibly bright, spilling silver light across the skyline. it's your escape, the place you go when the noise of life becomes too much. your apartment seemed suffocating at this moment, providing anything but comfort — maybe from the thought of finals approaching. it was quiet as always on the rooftop. but tonight, you're not alone.

he's there, leaning against the railing with a look of quiet wonder, as if he's never seen the stars this close before. you don't know his name, only that you've passed him in the halls of your building, shared shy glances in the elevator, and felt a strange pull whenever his gaze lingered a second too long. the idea of making conversation with him during those minimal interactions, if you'd even call them that, was overwhelming.

to your surprise, he makes that conversation. "you come here often?" he asks, his voice soft but carrying in the stillness. god, it was such a line and it made you crack a smile.

you nod, hesitant. "it's peaceful. feels like the world stops spinning for a while."

he smiles, mimicking your own and it's as if the moonlight shifts just to illuminate him. the slight shadow casting over him makes him look just that more attractive. "i get that. sometimes, it feels like we're all just… lost satellites."

the conversation flows effortlessly, surprising you both. you talk about the constellations, the city lights, and the quiet dreams you've kept locked away. there's something magnetic about him, something that feels both familiar and completely new at the same time.

as the night deepens, the gap between you closes. there was once a distance between the two of you, but he changed that. he takes a step closer, then another, until his shoulder brushes against yours. you can feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cool night air.

"i've seen you before," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "but i've never known how to start a conversation. you seemed… untouchable, like the moon itself."

you laugh softly, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and vulnerability. "i'm not the moon. i'm just as lost as anyone."

his eyes lock with yours, and for a moment, the world truly does stop spinning. "maybe we’re not meant to find our way alone."

and then, with the stars as your witness and the moon as your accomplice, he leans in, and the universe tilts in your favor.

for the first time, you're not just stargazing — you're falling, and the descent feels like coming home. you don't pull away. for a moment, neither of you move, as if the world outside the rooftop had disappeared entirely. it's just you, and him, and the soft murmur of the city below, distant yet somehow alive, like a quiet heartbeat. his breath is warm against your skin, his presence steady, like he’s been waiting for this moment, too.

the sound of a car horn blares far below, and you realize you're both still standing there, caught in the quiet hum of the night. your hand brushes against his, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to reach for him — to hold on to whatever it is that's growing between you. his fingers are warm, his touch hesitant at first, but it's enough. just enough to feel real.

"is it always this easy?" you ask, your voice almost lost in the wind. you half-expect him to laugh or back away, but he doesn't. his eyes are soft, patient, like he's waiting for you to figure out what comes next.

"maybe we're just lucky," he says, his voice low, almost intimate. "or maybe we were meant to find each other tonight."

the words hang between you, like a secret shared under the stars. it feels like a thousand possibilities are unfolding in this one single moment, and yet you both stand there, just existing in it. there's no rush. no need for anything more. just the quiet connection that’s formed in the spaces between your words, in the way your hands fit together so perfectly.

you shift slightly, turning to face him more fully, and for the first time tonight, you meet his gaze with the courage to hold it. his eyes are deep, and you find yourself lost in them, like a new constellation you want to learn by heart. it's an unspoken question between you — about who you are, what brought you here, what you both want. but there’s no need for it to be said aloud. not right now.

"i didn’t think…" you begin, but the words stall in your throat. "i didn't think i'd meet anyone here."

"yeah," he says with a small, almost imperceptible grin. "i didn’t either. but maybe that’s the point. sometimes, the things we're not looking for are the things we need the most."

you smile then, the kind of smile that feels like it's been waiting for years to be released. it's not just about the words; it's about the quiet certainty that somehow, in the stillness of the rooftop and the light of the moon, you both understand each other more than anyone else could.

the breeze picks up, ruffling your hair, and you close your eyes for a brief moment, listening to the night. for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you're just waiting for something to happen. the world feels full — full of possibilities, full of moments yet to come.

"i guess we're not alone after all," you whisper.

he steps closer, if that was even possible, his breath warm against your ear, and the space between you is no longer a distance to be crossed. he leans down, just enough to make the air around you both thrum with something electric.

"seonghwa," he whispers. you frown before realizing that you hadn't even known his name. you whisper your name back, making him smile. he repeats it, as if it was a new flavor he hadn't tried before.

his lips brush against yours.

it's soft. a gentle connection. but it lingers, like the promise of something more. the moment doesn't feel like the beginning of something fragile, something that could easily slip away. it feels like the start of something solid, something you can build with each other. your arms wrapped around his shoulder and tugged him deeper into the kiss, offering a more passionate take.

you were breathless after a few moments. as you pull back, your fingers still tangled with his, you know — the city below, the stars above, none of it matters. this moment is enough. it's all you need. you and a stranger.

"you're right," you say, finally finding your voice again. "maybe we weren't meant to find our way alone."

"no," he agrees, smiling like he’s been waiting for you to say that. "we weren't."

the night stretches out before you, wide and endless. next thing you knew, he was guiding you towards his apartment, just down the hall from yours. you had grown so familiar with the front door that seeing the inside was strange. seonghwa was neat, more neat than you had expected.

words didn't need to be spoken between the two of you anymore. his lips found yours with ease; your lips were like a drug and he was becoming an addict, needing another fix. you raised your hands to cup his face, deepening the kiss. the tension had finally boiled over into a heated passion and lust between the two of you, with seonghwa pushing you down onto his couch, not sparing another moment as his large hands begin roaming over your body, worshipping your skin as you made out.

breathy sighs escaped your wet lips, and your gaze drifted along his body before tugging on his shirt, signaling you wanted it off. he let out a breathless chuckle from his throat. "as you wish," he whispered before removing the fabric.

wow.

your hands reached out to touch his abdomen, grazing each defining line on his stomach. he shivered at your touch, melting slightly. and soon enough all of the clothes creating distance between your bodies were removed.

seonghwa reached down, rubbing his hard dick up and down your entrance, attaching his lips to yours once again.  he kissed along your neck as a distraction as he started to slowly to push in, testing the waters, watching your face as he stretches you out. "fuck," you whispered. he was so patient. he watched your reactions and each facial expression you made carefully, making sure he wasn't hurting you in any way. "you okay?" he asked after kissing your temple, making you so overwhelmed with feelings and more importantly, pleasure. it had been a while since you had sex.

he kept placing gentle kisses on your forehead temple, keeping himself still until you give him the okay. you eventually nod against him, your face still buried in his shoulder, holding him to you.

setting a slow pace, he watches your body with an intensity you weren't familiar with. you had never felt so cared for; a strange feeling erupted from your chest. but after hearing your moans start to gradually increase, he picks his pace up, hitting something so deep inside of you that it makes your head fall back. he takes the opportunity to graze his plush lips against your neck as it becomes more exposed.

he's hitting that certain spot inside you, sending a euphoric feeling through your abdomen that makes your thighs shake deliciously. it was like your entire body is infatuated by him. the care, the attention, the fondness, even the angle of his hips as they snap against yours.. it all has your mind floating on cloud nine. and god, you don't want it to stop, you don't ever want this feeling to end. you needed for him to hold you close, to have him in your blood, even. you know addicted just like he was; you've had a taste of him and you knew it was him. just him. fuck, you were moonstruck.

"seonghwa," you moaned in a pornographic way. he visibly shook at the sound, his eyebrows and face contorting for a moment. "fuck, bunny, don't say my name like that, you're gonna make me come," he groans, lifting his head up while adjusting his glasses that had fallen to the tip of his nose. the same hand moved up, applying a slight pressure to your neck that made your head fuzzy with pleasure and emotions.

you barely even registered his words as he spoke. a chuckle erupted from his chest, repeating it. "are you close?" he asks, and you could only muster up a whimper in response, holding tight onto his biceps. "you make me go crazy over you," he says, his upper body falling down on top of yours again, as he holds you close. and then you come, the warmth and safety his body is giving you making you release, every part of your being comforted by the man above you as he orgasms as well, shooting his load deep inside of you.

and for the first time, as seonghwa breathes quietly on top of your sweaty body, you know that whatever happens next — whether it's the pull of a final exam or the quiet moments shared on a rooftop — you won’t be facing it alone. the city hums, but you're no longer lost. you've found your place in it. and maybe, just maybe, it's with a stranger you met under the stars.

[aventurineswife]

Reader that's a demon that represents the sin of gluttony, reader can be very rude sometimes and is constantly seen snacking on stuff, reader became a demon after being sacrificed to the devil and ever since, they've called themselves one of the devils valiant soldiers, the characters accidentally end up falling in love with reader after witnessing reader cause mass destruction cuz they were pissed and the characters think reader is some sort of overlord but reader turns out to be super chill about being a demon and only act evil when they wanna make people scared of them or when they wanna prove a point(the annihilation gang and the legion is chasing reader and trying to get reader to join them, reader doesn't want to join the destruction.)

I was thinking Boothill, Aventurine, Blade, Kafka, Acheron, and Jing Yuan, you pick which character u wanna do!

Between Crumbs and Cataclysms

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Kafka x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Demon!Reader, Dark Humor, Unlikely Allies, Chaos, Casual Destruction, Snarky, Found Respect, Morally Grey.

Warnings: Mild language, implied violence, destruction, morally ambiguous themes.

Aventurine stood at the edge of the casino’s grand balcony, the lights of the city sprawling beneath him like a sea of fireflies. The world always seemed like a gamble to him, a constant series of risks and rewards. But tonight, something felt… different.

His eyes narrowed as he observed the chaos unfolding below. The sounds of screams, explosions, and destruction rippled through the air, and in the middle of it all, a figure stood, casually munching on a bag of snacks—each bite taken with the same lackadaisical ease as if the entire galaxy's fate wasn't hanging in the balance.

Aventurine tilted his head, intrigued. He'd heard the rumors—whispers of a demon who devoured everything in sight, a being representing the sin of gluttony, one whose wrath could raze cities and whose casual disregard for destruction had become the stuff of legends. He’d even heard people call you an overlord.

But the image he’d built in his mind was not what he saw before him. You weren’t the terrifying monster that stories made you out to be. You were just… eating chips.

“What a spectacle,” Aventurine muttered under his breath, his usual flair for dramatic commentary giving way to something closer to genuine curiosity. He adjusted his blazer, ensuring his gold-lined roulette imagery caught the moonlight just right. His instincts told him you weren’t simply here for the chaos; there was something deeper to your presence.

He stepped forward with purpose, his polished black shoes clicking against the stone floor. As he approached, your gaze lifted, your eyes barely flicking over to him before you went back to chewing.

“Don't mind me,” you said casually, your voice rich with an uninterested tone. "I'm just having a snack."

Aventurine smirked, unable to hide the gleam of fascination in his eyes. He had seen many things in his life—risks, gambles, grand gestures—but nothing quite like you. You didn’t seem interested in his persona, his theatrics, or even his title as one of the Ten Stonehearts. To you, he was just another person in the chaos of the universe.

“Quite the appetite you have,” he remarked, still studying you as you reached into your snack bag for another handful. “Tell me, is this your idea of a… victory feast?”

You shrugged, not even bothering to look up from your snacks. "Victory? Nah. Just satisfying a craving, y'know? Got a lot of pent-up frustration and hunger. So, I'm making sure I don't go overboard this time."

Aventurine couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. “Pent-up frustration… So, what’s the gamble here? The city? Your snack supply?”

You smirked, a little amusement flickering in your eyes. "Nah. The gamble is whether or not people can learn not to cross me. It’s more fun when they think I’m some overlord trying to destroy everything. It gets the right kind of attention. Besides,” you added with a devil-may-care grin, “it lets me prove a point.”

He watched as you carelessly tossed a half-eaten bag of chips into the air, watching it explode in a cloud of crumbs as it collided with the side of a building. He chuckled softly. You didn’t act like an overlord, you probably were an overlord.

“You know, if you ever considered not throwing tantrums, you could be a dangerous ally,” Aventurine mused, his voice laced with interest. “But, of course, you enjoy keeping them guessing.”

“You bet,” you responded, leaning back casually. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold, don’t I?”

Aventurine’s eyes narrowed. There was more to you than met the eye, but there was something oddly compelling about the way you operated. Something that matched the duality of his own existence. Perhaps it was your unpredictability, or perhaps the fact that you didn’t try to pretend to be anything you weren’t.

His lips curled into a sly smile. “I think I could have some fun with you.”

Aventurine extended his gloved hand toward you, his gaze steady, waiting for you to either accept or dismiss his offer. As you looked at him, unamused, the tension between the two of you simmered.

Finally, you grabbed his hand and gave it a firm shake. “We’ll see. But only if you don’t expect me to be some kind of ally. I’ve got my own agenda.”

“Understood,” Aventurine replied smoothly. “I don't need another team member, just a… worthy adversary.”

Kafka observed you from the shadows, her sharp eyes studying the scene. Her right hand rested on her chin as she evaluated the chaos you'd unleashed, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your destruction was swift and savage, like a storm in human form. Yet, your demeanor was as relaxed as someone enjoying a leisurely afternoon snack.

She watched you devour yet another sandwich with unsettling indifference, the residue of the city you’d obliterated already coating your lips. You were everything she had heard about and yet… completely opposite. The infamous demon of gluttony, they said. Yet here you were, casually making yourself at home in the wreckage you’d created.

Kafka’s finger twitched, and her mind spun with possibilities. It wasn’t often she encountered beings like you—those whose true power lay in their ability to confuse and manipulate perception. The rumors had portrayed you as an overlord, a figure of unimaginable wrath, but the reality was something else entirely.

She approached you slowly, her heels clicking softly against the debris.

“So, the great Glutton, in the flesh,” Kafka's voice was cool, her words carefully measured, as though testing the waters. “I must admit, I was expecting… more of a spectacle.”

You paused mid-bite, looking at her with a half-lidded gaze. “Spectacle?” you repeated, as if the word was foreign to you. “What, you think I’m supposed to scream and act all evil to prove a point? Nah, I just blow things up when people piss me off. Sometimes, I just want some peace, but I’m okay with chaos too.”

Kafka tilted her head, studying you further. Your casual air was nothing like the terrifying demon she'd imagined. You were too relaxed, too… human.

“You’re a demon, yes?” Kafka continued, circling you like a predator testing its prey. “But you don’t act like one.”

“Eh, it’s all about the show, isn’t it?” you shrugged nonchalantly, wiping your hands off on your shirt. “People are too quick to label. Besides, who wants to be all angry and ‘evil’ all the time? It’s way more fun letting people think you’re terrifying.”

Kafka chuckled softly, her eyes narrowing. There was something dangerously intriguing about you. Your ability to play with perception, to twist expectations to your advantage—she couldn’t help but admire it.

“But aren’t you a little tired of all the destruction? Of always being hunted by the Annihilation Gang, the Legion, the IPC? You could have power. True power.”

You glanced at her, a raised eyebrow showing the faintest flicker of curiosity. “Power’s overrated. What’s the fun in having all that when you can just snack on a sandwich and watch the world burn?”

Kafka’s lips curled into a smile. “You're more than just a destroyer, aren't you? You have an agenda—just as I do. Perhaps, we could join forces.”

You paused, considering the offer. "I told you. I’m not looking to join any group. I’m just here for the fun and the snacks. But sure, let’s see where this goes."

He had been tracking an unusual disturbance across the galaxy—an entity so powerful that even the IPC couldn't fully comprehend it. Boothill had heard rumors: A demon, said to embody the sin of gluttony, was wreaking havoc wherever they went. Some called them a harbinger of doom, others spoke of their insatiable hunger for power, but Boothill wasn't buying the hype. He'd seen his fair share of destructive forces.

He reached the site of the latest chaos—a once-bustling marketplace now reduced to rubble. The smell of charred food and debris filled the air. Boothill began to scan the wreckage. His eyes narrowed as he observed the scene. And then, there it was—a figure sitting casually on a pile of smoking ruins, munching on an oversized sandwich as if it were any other afternoon snack.

The figure was... relaxed. Too relaxed for someone who was supposed to be an unstoppable force of destruction.

"Well, well," Boothill muttered to himself, aiming his eye at the figure, which had yet to notice him. "A demon, huh? I’ve seen worse."

As Boothill approached, you lazily glanced up, crumbs falling from your mouth as you chewed. "Oh, hey," you said with a smirk, not even remotely phased by the carnage around you. "You look like a guy who might need a snack. Want one?"

Boothill blinked in confusion. This demon, the one who had been tearing through entire cities, was offering him food? The audacity of it. "I’m not here for a picnic," he growled. "I came to see what kind of monster you really are."

You shrugged, taking another bite of your sandwich. "Oh, you know, the usual. I make a mess, people get scared, and then they try to make me join some stupid legion or annihilation gang. Bunch of guys in robes trying to get me to sign on for world destruction, as if I’ve got time for that."

Boothill’s mechanical body hummed in surprise. "Wait, you're not here to destroy the galaxy? You just... do it for fun?"

You chuckled, tossing the sandwich aside. "I mean, yeah. It’s funny, isn’t it? People panic when I start causing chaos, and they always assume I’m some big overlord or something. But honestly, I just wanted to grab a few snacks and scare some people. Kinda like putting on a show. I’m not really into all this 'world-ending' business."

Boothill stood there, dumbfounded. His eyes scanned the scene once more—massive holes in the ground, torn-up roads, fire still smoldering in the distance. This was the work of someone who had no care for life, who thrived on destruction, who... just wanted to be left alone with a snack. It didn't make sense.

"That’s it? All this destruction, and you're just... chilling?" Boothill asked, still trying to wrap his mind around it.

"Yep. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a demon," you replied with a lazy yawn. "But I like to keep it casual. If I wanted to join the annihilation gang, I would’ve done it by now. But I’m not looking to end the world, just eat and take a nap. I’ve got better things to do than join some group of crazies."

Boothill was taken aback. Here was a demon who, despite their immense power, had no real desire to take over the world. All they wanted was food, peace, and maybe a little chaos for the fun of it. It was such a bizarre mix of menace and indifference that Boothill couldn’t help but feel intrigued.

"I thought you'd be more... intense," Boothill admitted, taking a cautious step closer. "Aren’t demons supposed to be all evil and hell-bent on destruction?"

You stretched lazily, your eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "Nah, that’s just a stereotype. I can be as evil as I want when it suits me. But really? I’d rather just get some rest. So, what about you? You’re not exactly the type to just wander around, are you?"

Boothill narrowed his eyes, still unsure whether to approach the situation as an ally or adversary. "I’m looking for revenge," he said simply. "The IPC destroyed my home, killed my family. I’m not here for petty politics, just destruction. Justice."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "That’s a big mission. I’m more of a 'do what I want, when I want' kind of demon. Sounds like we’re not on the same page, huh?"

"Not really," Boothill agreed. "But... I respect the independence."

For the first time since meeting you, Boothill allowed himself a small smirk. This encounter was strange, but there was something about your carefree attitude that made Boothill pause. Perhaps you weren’t all bad. Maybe you didn’t fit the mold of the typical villain. You were... human in a strange, twisted way.

"So," Boothill asked cautiously, "What happens now?"

You stretched out and popped another snack into your mouth, grinning as you relaxed further into the ruins. "Well, I guess we go our separate ways. You keep chasing down your revenge, and I’ll keep avoiding those idiots who want me to join their death cults. We can always bump into each other again if you feel like a snack or two."

Boothill’s eyes glinted with amusement. "You sure know how to make a mess of things, but you don’t seem so bad after all."

You gave him a lazy wave, then popped another snack into your mouth, smiling with satisfaction. "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep things interesting. Take care, cowboy."

As Boothill turned to leave, he couldn’t help but feel an odd respect for you. You might not be what he expected, but in a way, you were just like him—fighting for your own cause, in your own way.

And maybe, just maybe, Boothill found a strange comfort in the chaos you created.

[ankababy]

In Another Universe…

Niragi x reader

This is a short fic, related to A Home. Just something I’ve been thinking about, kind of plus content. You don’t have to know anything about A Home to read it though, important things are explained. :P

This is more of a test to see if y’all like this type of content, love you<3

TW: mentions of sex, out of character Niragi in context of having a loving girlfriend??

In another universe…

The fireworks never happened. The meteor didn’t exist. No games, no Beach happened. Or perhaps, in this world, it never even threatened.

Here, the streets are whole. The trains run on time. You pay your taxes late and complain about it. You drink too-sweet coffee from chain shops and laugh too loud on the sidewalks. And in this universe, you are still learning.

Psychology, humans, patterns—the strange ways people tick. You were always good at noticing, always good at feeling. But here, you had a desk, a university ID, deadlines you kept forgetting, and professors who said you had “an extraordinary instinct” for people. You loved learning. Still do.

And Niragi?

He’s not a monster in this universe. He’s not clean either, not soft, not healed. But he’s here. Flesh and blood and living like the rest of them. Working from a cluttered desk in an apartment, monitors glowing blue against black-out curtains. No guns. No borderlands. Just code. Engines. Game environments and what else. He’s in his own world with a headset looped around his neck and one hand flying across the keys.

He didn’t even look up when you came in. He knew it was you. You always dropped by around this time.

Your arms were full—plastic bags rustling, something homemade in a bent paper bag, something you picked up from a bakery he liked but never admitted to. You wore your favorite hoodie, oversized and soft, sleeves dragging over your fingers. Your hair was tied up, and you had no makeup on, no grand plan in mind. Just… dropping in. Like a girlfriend. Because you were.

You were his girlfriend.

You moved to the desk, setting the food down beside the chaos of wires and controllers. “You’ve eaten nothing but Red Bull today.” you said softly, more like a note than a complaint.

Niragi made a sound—noncommittal, gruff. His mouth moved with thought, eyes locked on the screen. “Thanks.” he muttered. Then, without looking, he reached out. His hand found your bare thigh. Fingers slid up, warm, tracing the soft skin there.

Your breath hitched, just a little. Not because it was sexual. Not even because it startled you. It was just… tender. Not a word people associated with him.

“I brought that salmon thing.” you said, voice lighter, letting yourself smile.

“Hm.”

His hand stayed for a moment. A thumb stroked absentminded circles against the inside of your thigh, and then, just as casually, he withdrew it to return to the keyboard.

You watched him. Watched the way his hair fell over his face, watched his mouth twitch with thoughts he didn’t say. His brows knitted together as the screen lit him.

“You’ve been working all day?” you asked.

“Mm. I’m fixing everyone’s fuckups.”

“And who’s fixing your fuckups?”

That made him glance at you. Just a flicker. He made a face, but it wasn’t mean.

Your heart fluttered in your ribcage. It was stupid. He was stupid. But it still made you smile.

He went quiet again, typing. You watched the screen for a moment, pretending to understand the lines of code. You didn’t. Not really. But you liked being near him. Liked the glow of the monitors on his skin, liked the way he was just near. You liked your boyfriend.

You met him about a year ago—you and him? That pretty princess and that… guy? No way.

Now you were in his apartment. Now he touched you like it was automatic. Now he fed you a bite of his food with the same fork he used. Now he took showers with you. Now he had his hand on the backrest of any chair you sat in.

“Put your glasses on.” you said gently, brushing a piece of his hair back.

“No.” he muttered instantly.

“You can barely see.”

“Still typing.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t press. You learned over time when to push and when to let him be a stubborn ass. And glasses were always a battle. You knew he didn’t like how he looked in them.

But that didn’t mean you couldn’t still care. He didn’t make it easy, but that wasn’t the point. You didn’t love him because it was easy. You loved him because it was him.

With a soft sigh, you nudged the edge of his chair with your hip.

He didn’t say anything.

So you did it again, a little more pointed this time.

He finally leaned back an inch, one of his knees spreading just slightly, and that was your cue. That was how he said yes.

You climbed onto his lap, folding yourself into him like muscle memory, your arms looping around his shoulders, your face resting near his neck.

His only acknowledgment was the subtle shift in his posture—the way he pulled you closer with one hand resting on your thigh again, the other still navigating through his… whatever the fuck was on the screen, you didn’t understand. He didn’t stop. He just worked with you there, comfortable in the weight of you.

He was an asshole. No point sugarcoating it. Half the time you weren’t even sure if he liked people in general. You knew he didn’t have many friends. Could count them on one hand, maybe. And even then, he kept them at arm’s length—a good offense is the best defense, and allat.

But he was a good boyfriend. Actually.

He didn’t cheat. He didn’t lie. He didn’t make you feel crazy for needing a little love. He texted back (eventually), and he always made sure your charger was in the wall when you came over. He didn’t say I love you a lot, but you knew it when he sat with you in the hot bath after a hard week, or when he rested his face in your hair.

He was mean, sure. But not to you. Not where it counted. Not where it would hurt you.

You ran your fingers lightly through his hair. “You’re gonna fry your retinas out before thirty.”

He hummed. Noncommittal. Like he didn’t care. But he leaned into your hand when you touched him, just slightly.

You knew him. You saw him. You saw how hard it was for him to be open, to let himself be soft. But he did, with you. It wasn’t fireworks. It was letting you in the room when he was in work-mode, letting you sit on his lap while he did that whatever, letting you see him when he wasn’t funny or tolerable. Just him. Raw. Messy. Brilliant. Exhausting.

He never thought he’d be in a relationship, much less a good one. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t think he deserved it. He’d been dragged through too much shit—bullied, shut down, walked over—and he hardened himself until he didn’t think anyone could reach what was left underneath.

But you did.

You loved him through the silence, through the rough nights, through the snide comments and occasional cold shoulder. You didn’t nag, didn’t play games. You brought him food. You asked him to wear his glasses.

It was working.

You were good for him.

You kissed his cheek.

He didn’t flinch or lean into it. Didn’t say anything. Just shifted his hand from the keyboard for a second, fingers brushing up your thigh, dragging the pads along your skin, enough to feel your body, to acknowledge your closeness. Then it was gone again. Back to the mouse. Back to the window.

And it was fine.

Because that was how he loved—not loudly, not dramatically, but in those little, passing gestures. A hand on your leg. A hoodie you could keep. The way he never asked you to leave, even when he was buried in work and hadn’t spoken aloud in hours.

Loving him was hard. He wasn’t the type of man built for softness. The world had taught him too early that vulnerability made you a target, and he learned how to fight back.

Then you showed up.

You weren’t loud, you weren’t pushy. You didn’t try to fix him or force your way into his head. You were just… there. Warm and steady and unbelievably kind.

You didn’t need him to be perfect. You didn’t need him to talk like an actor or fuck like a porn star or break down crying in your arms to prove he had feelings. You just needed him. As he was.

And he needed you more than he ever admitted.

The intimacy? Better than he imagined. Not just the sex—though that was good, god, it was amazing—but the intimacy in the silence. The way you curled against him without needing to talk. The way your hand found his. The way you let him be quiet. The way you kissed him on the cheek and didn’t get mad when he didn’t react the way most people wanted him to.

You were a sweetheart. Actually. So gentle, so good, and somehow never weak. You didn’t let him walk over you. But you didn’t need to fight to be seen, either. You just were. Present. Real. And slowly, carefully, you made room for him to be, too.

He’d watch other people talk about love and anniversaries and weekend plans and he’d feel this strange hollowness in his chest, like that part of him had never developed. Like it wasn’t in the code.

But here you were. In his lap. In his space. In his life.

And he hadn’t pushed you out.

He was still an asshole. Always would be. He’d still forget things, still give short answers when his brain was elsewhere, still roll his eyes at romantic gestures like they physically hurt him. But you didn’t ask for sweetness all the time. You just asked for honesty. Presence. And he gave you that, in his own way.

He’d never say it out loud—not often—but he was happy. With you.

And for a man who never thought he’d be soft again—that was everything.

You let your fingers trail along the back of his neck, soft and slow, brushing over the tense muscle that always seemed to lock up when he worked for too long without stretching. He didn’t comment, but you felt the smallest sigh leave his chest.

You smiled to yourself, and kept going. Light touches. Careful pressure. Just enough to soothe, not distract. You massaged the base of his neck, the spot just between his shoulder blades, then slid your hand down under the collar of his hoodie, fingers brushing his skin. He didn’t make a sound, but his breath caught.

It was like this, always. You giving, Niragi receiving in silence. He never asked for it. Never admitted he liked it. But he never pulled away, either.

“You’re tight.” you murmured.

“I’m always tight.” Niragi replied, dry. “The fuck else is new.”

Your hand dipped to his chest, fingers splayed lazily over his sternum, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath it. He didn’t wear softness well. But it lived inside him. You’d found it.

You pressed a kiss to his neck, then whispered, “Can I take a shower?”

He didn’t even blink. Just muttered, “No. That’s why all your shit’s in my bathroom. Obviously.”

He’d never flat out say make yourself comfortable, but you had your toothbrush in a ceramic cup beside his, a drawer with your skincare stuff, and a ratty old hair tie hanging off the faucet. You had shampoo, and a soft robe he claimed he hated. His place didn’t look like a bachelor pad anymore. Not really. Not with the pieces of you tucked in every corner—in a way only someone who lives in a space would notice.

“Okay. I’ll leave you to whatever this math stuff is.”

He grunted. His fingers slowed just a little as your body lifted off of him, the way he tracked your movement with the corner of his eye even as he was still focused.

You stood, stretching slightly. He reached out briefly to squeeze the back of your thigh before letting go.

And you loved that. That he didn’t fake some performance of affection. That he didn’t overdo it. You’d dated people who said I love you ten times a day but never looked at you the way he did when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

This man—mean, difficult, brilliant, and infuriating—was yours. And he didn’t give you romance in the way people wrote about it.

And yeah, he was hard to love.

But you were built for it.

~

The light from your phone screen cast a faint glow over your face, highlighting the slow, dreamy blink of your lashes as you scrolled aimlessly.

You were lying on your side across his bed, one leg bent lazily, the other stretched out. His shirt—too big on you, loose in the sleeves, warm from the dryer still—clung to the damp places your towel hadn’t fully gotten to. It hung just long enough to brush your upper thighs, but not enough to cover the curve of your ass, where your panties peeked out.

It was around 1 am. You’d been here before. This hour. This mood. This bed, by yourself.

He worked late. Always had. You never bitched about it. Never whined or pouted or guilt-tripped him into stopping early. You knew what he was like—how his brain was wired like a machine that didn’t shut down, not really. He tried. Sometimes he’d try for you, get up mid-project just to lie beside you even if his body never stopped vibrating with unsolved problems.

But tonight had been one of those nights where you expected to fall asleep alone. You could feel it in your body—how it had started sinking into the mattress, how your limbs were giving in to gravity, one heartbeat at a time.

So when you heard the door creak open, soft footsteps on the hardwood, you didn’t even react right away. Just slowly glanced up from your phone, eyes half-lidded, sleepy.

There he was. Hair messy from raking his hands through it all night. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, faint marks on his skin from resting them against the edge of the desk for hours.

“You done?” you asked, voice quiet.

He nodded, eyes tracing the curve of your legs, the way his shirt clung to your chest, the lazy smile on your lips. “Just about.”

“Good.” You shifted slightly, moving your phone off to the side, one arm reaching out. “Come to bed.”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled his hoodie over his head in one clean movement and dropped it to the floor. His shirt followed. Then his belt. He wasn’t trying to seduce. He didn’t have to. This wasn’t about sex. Not now, anyway.

You rolled onto your back as he approached the bed, watching him with heavy eyes, lids fluttering. You were too tired to be playful. Too soft to tease. You just needed him close.

He climbed in beside you, sheets rustling, mattress dipping under his weight. His arm slid under your neck as you instinctively shifted to press against his side, your leg hooking over his, body curling toward him like a flower to sunlight.

“You’re always so warm.” you mumbled into his skin.

He didn’t reply, but his arm tightened around you.

“You look good.” he said after a beat, voice lower now. “In that.”

You smiled, sleepy and slow. “It’s your shirt.”

You tucked your face against his chest and sighed. Deep. Full. That kind of sigh that only comes when your body knows it’s safe, finally.

“I missed you.” you whispered.

“I was in the next room.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you.”

He didn’t say anything. But his hand found your lower back, resting there, fingers moving in slow, absentminded circles against your spine.

That was the thing about Niragi. He didn’t always say the things you wanted to hear. But he did them. He showed up. He came to bed. He let you lay on him like this. He didn’t pull away.

He was hard to love. But not impossible. Not for you.

Because you didn’t need him to be easy.

You just needed him to be here.

And tonight, he was.