#with the exception of threads themselves

[sysig]

Do not separate them /threatening (Patreon)

[8cfc00]

augh who up feeling like they should be humanely euthanised for liking media the wrong way... sorry for fandomising certain characters but not fandomising others enough in the right way.

[seumyo]

yearning drunk!husband ushijima wakatoshi.

NOTE. contains a bit of alcohol content—though nothing too explicit or anything concerning <33

It always started the same way—kind of like an inside joke that grew wings, feathers, a tab, and Ushijima’s name on the reservation list.

Ushijima never initiated going out drinking with his Schweiden Adlers teammates. In fact, he rarely said anything about it at all. It was always someone else who mentioned it after a game. Always someone else who slung an arm over his shoulder and declared, “C’mon, Ushiwaka, we have to celebrate,” even though Ushijima had never once expressed interest in alcohol, bar food, or drunken conversations.

Still, he always went.

Because it’d be rude if he didn’t at least stay for a few minutes, he thinks.

Sometimes he showed up in his team windbreaker, sometimes in a long, dark gray coat that made him look like a trench-wearing monument of silence. And he never said no, even when the clamor of celebration was already grating at the edges of his patience.

Tonight was one of those nights.

They’d won by the skin of their teeth—an overtime set against a grueling opponent, the kind of match that made even the benchwarmers feel like champions by the end. So of course Heiwajima had started the round-up in the locker room. Hoshiumi had shouted over everyone about their lucky bar down the street, and within twenty minutes, the entire team had found themselves in their regular private suite.

Ushijima sat at the end of the table, his back straight, a glass in front of him filled with alcohol he didn’t particularly like. His teammates were loud and loose and chaotic—laughing at Sokolov trying to arm-wrestle the bar’s bouncer, clapping every time someone dropped a fork, and yelling across the table in at least three different languages.

“A thousand yen says he’ll ask about his wife in twenty minutes,” Hoshiumi said quietly, leaning toward their captain, Hirugami Fukurou.

“You’re giving him way too much credit,” Romero replied, fondly grinning. “He gets wistful around minute twelve.”

“He gets wistful the moment he sits down.”

Ushijima was unmoved. He stared at his drink, took a single sip, and let it rest in his hand. He didn’t participate in the yelling, the toasts, or the story someone was animatedly telling about a missed serve from three seasons ago. He just existed—quietly, stoically—as a satellite to the chaos.

Except, of course, they all knew he was waiting.

He always was.

There was a pattern to the transformation. First, he’d sit there like stone. Then he’d blink a little more slowly. His brows would draw together—not in anger, but in vague confusion, like he was lost in a thought he couldn’t solve. His fingers would move against his glass, not to drink but to fidget, just a little.

And then…

“Has anyone seen my phone?” Ushijima asked, barely louder than the buzz of conversation.

Hoshiumi slid it across the table immediately. “Right here, Ushiwaka. Sorry! We took a few pictures here and there.”

“Thank you.”

He looked down at the screen. It was still lit with the last message from you from earlier that day: Good luck, baby. Don’t forget to stretch your left shoulder. He’d never replied—he never did, not when he was already in headspace—but now, he stared at it like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You want to text her?” Hoshiumi asks, lightly teasing, which Ushijima didn’t catch onto.

Ushijima didn’t answer. He opened the thread and typed a few letters. Deleted them. Typed something else. Backspaced. Then just stared.

And then finally: “She hasn’t replied.”

His teammates laughed.

“There it is!”

“It’s only been seventeen minutes! I win!”

“No, you cheated. I said ten, and he didn’t even check his phone until minute twelve!”

“Shh, shh, look at him—he’s pouting.”

“Wait, is this the pout phase? I thought that came after the silent brooding phase.”

“Technically we’re entering pout-brood overlap. It’s a dangerous time.”

Ushijima didn’t argue. He simply set the phone down again and folded his hands in front of him. Kageyama leaned over.

“You want me to call her for you, Ushijima-san?”

Ah, yes. Kageyama was too nice for his own good. Trying to enhance his socialization and trying to lessen his awkwardness with his teammates when the conversation didn’t revolve around volleyball.

Ushijima nodded. Just once. Immediately. “Yes.”

...

“Amazing! He’s not even trying to hide it.”

“Can you imagine being that in love?”

“He just wants his wife. Look at him. He’s a whole sad poem in one sitting.”

“She’s gonna get here, and he’s gonna light up like a lantern.”

“May this love run me over.”

Kageyama stood and walked a few paces away from the table, already dialing your number. Meanwhile, the others watched Ushijima sip his drink again—not because he wanted it, but because it gave his hands something to do. His eyes were glued to the screen even though no new notifications had appeared.

Romero leaned in conspiratorially to Hirugami. “Do you think she talks to him in, like, soft tones? Calls him ‘baby’ and stuff?”

“I think so,” he shrugs. “I think they’re sweet like that.”

“Aw, young love.”

The teasing continued, but it softened. Because underneath the jokes and the laughs was a sort of awe.

Their teammate—so serious, so focused, so unreadable on court—was completely and utterly soft when it came to his wife. Not in a loud way. Not in any way that could be easily teased, really. It was quiet. Heavy. Real.

When Kageyama returned, he had a pleased expression. “She’s on her way. Said she just got off work and is driving over.”

Ushijima gave another slow blink.

“Thank you.”

Kageyama nods. Somehow they manage to have conversations even if they just continue nodding to each other.

As soon as Kageyama said it, his phone buzzed with a new message. He didn’t even need to open it. He could tell by the way his entire body relaxed by a single, barely noticeable degree.

Sorry, hun. Just got off work. Are you okay?

He replied.

I’m okay. I miss you.

And then he set the phone down and folded his hands again, this time with more calm. More certainty. You were coming. That was all he needed to know.

The others noticed the shift immediately.

“He smiled.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“He did! Don’t argue with me; I saw it. It was micro. But it counted.”

“He’s already halfway out the door with his heart.”

“Watch, the second she walks through that door, he’ll go full puppy mode.”

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the door opened. A gust of cold air followed you inside, along with the soft jingle of the bar’s entrance bell. You spotted them easily—your eyes landing on Ushijima before anything else. And his entire body seemed to change shape.

He stood up—not quickly, but instantly, with a kind of gravity no one else in the room had.

You smiled as you approached, slipping out of your coat and brushing off the cold that nipped your nose softly. “Hi, love,” you greeted softly. “You ready to go?”

“Yes,” Ushijima said, already reaching for his jacket.

As he shrugged it on, you turned to the table. “Hope he wasn’t too much trouble?”

Hoshiumi leaned on the table with a grin. “[Name], your husband is the definition of ‘not trouble.’ We’re just grateful you came to collect him before he sighed himself into the carpet.”

“Tell them what he said!” someone shouted.

“He asked if anyone had seen his phone like it was a national emergency.”

“And he didn’t pout—he brooded. Like a man out of a romantic novel.”

“I think I did,” Ushijima just nodded at their comments about him.

He then stood by quietly, waiting for you to finish your goodbyes. When you looped your arm through his, he leaned ever so slightly toward you.

As they left, Romero raised his glass.

“To [Name]’s husband,” he declared. The table cheered.

Outside, as you two walked toward the car, you glanced up at him, fingers tightening around his arm.

“You really okay?” you asked.

He hummed. Then, in that low, steady voice only you ever got to hear, it softened—

“I missed you,” he said again. “They were loud. I wanted to see you very much.”

You smiled and gave his arm a firm, loving squeeze. “Well. I’m here now.”

And... yeah.

That’s what he’s been wanting to hear all night.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[curlicuecal]

playing science telephone

Hi folks. Let's play a fun game today called "unravelling bad science communication back to its source."

Journey with me.

Saw a comment going around on a tumblr thread that "sometimes the life expectancy of autism is cited in the 30s"

That number seemed..... strange. The commenter DID go on to say that that was "situational on people being awful and not… anything autism actually does", but you know what? Still a strange number. I feel compelled to fact check.

Quick Google "autism life expectancy" pulls up quite a few websites bandying around the number 39. Which is ~technically~ within the 30s, but already higher than the tumblr factoid would suggest. But, guess what. This number still sounds strange to me.

Most of the websites presenting this factoid present themselves as official autism resources and organizations (for parents, etc), and most of them vaguely wave towards "studies."

Ex: "Above And Beyond Therapy" has a whole article on "Does Autism Affect Life Expectancy" and states:

The link implies that it will take you to the "research studies" being referenced, but it in fact takes you to another random autism resource group called.... Songbird Care?

And on that website we find the factoid again:

Ooh, look. Now they've added the word "some". The average lifespan for SOME autistic people. Which the next group erased from the fact. The message shifts further.

And we have slightly more information about the study! (Which has also shifted from "studies" to a singular "study"). And we have another link!

Wonderfully, this link actually takes us to the actual peer-reviewed 2020 study being discussed. [x]

And here, just by reading the abstract, we find the most important information of all.

This study followed a cohort of adolescent and adult autistic people across a 20 year time period. Within that time period, 6.4% of the cohort died. Within that 6.4%, the average age of death was 39 years.

So this number is VERY MUCH not the average age of death for autistic people, or even the average age of death for the cohort of autistic people in that study. It is the average age of death IF you died young and within the 20 year period of the study (n=26), and also we don't even know the average starting age of participants without digging into earlier papers, except that it was 10 or older. (If you're curious, the researchers in the study suggested reduced self-sufficiency to be among the biggest risk factors for the early mortality group.)

But the number in the study has been removed from it's context, gradually modified and spread around the web, and modified some more, until it is pretty much a nonsense number that everyone is citing from everyone else.

There ARE two other numbers that pop up semi-frequently:

One cites the life expectancy at 58. I will leave finding the context for that number as an exercise for the audience, since none of the places I saw it gave a direct citation for where they were getting it.

And then, probably the best and most relevant number floating around out there (and the least frequently cited) draws from a 2023 study of over 17,000 UK people with an autism diagnosis, across 30 years. [x] This study estimated life expectancies between 70 and 77 years, varying with sex and presence/absence of a learning disability. (As compared to the UK 80-83 average for the population as a whole.)

This is a set of numbers that makes way more sense and is backed by way better data, but isn't quite as snappy a soundbite to pass around the internet. I'm gonna pass it around anyway, because I feel bad about how many scared internet people I stumbled across while doing this search.

People on quora like "I'm autistic, can I live past 38"-- honey, YES. omg.

---

tl;dr, when someone gives you a number out of context, consider that the context is probably important

also, make an amateur fact checker's life easier and CITE YOUR SOURCES

[verstappenverse]

In Every City, It’s Still You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After weeks of hiding your fears that Max cheats on the road, your confession leaves him heartbroken that you think so little of his love. (Requested)

2.2k words / Masterlist

Max's texts come in at 2:13 a.m.

Landed. In the hotel now. I miss you.

Try to sleep.

Talk tomorrow. Love you.

You stare at your phone for a while, the bluish light casting sharp shadows over your face in the dark room. The words are sweet, comforting even, but they don’t settle the unease coiling low in your stomach. Your thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating.

You type, Miss you too. Sleep well, and hit send. But it feels... hollow.

It’s not him. Not really. Max hasn’t changed, he still texts you every time he lands, still calls you baby in that low, tired voice that makes your heart ache. But something around him has shifted, and you feel it all the way from home. The messages feel like a thread stretched too thin, too tight, trembling, like it might snap if you pull just a little harder.

Because it isn’t the distance anymore. It’s everything else.

It’s the way girls throw themselves at him in the paddock every day, effortlessly pretty, sun-kissed, always laughing too loudly when he’s around. The influencers in the hospitality suites who watch him like they already belong to him, cameras flashing like they have something to prove. The blonde in Canada who sat on the pit wall like it was her throne, perfectly poised and knowing exactly where the lenses were. The brunette in Imola who wore Max's number on her cheek like it meant something personal.

And you were... here. Alone in bed, scrolling through tagged photos with a growing ache in your chest and a nauseating swirl of insecurity you couldn't quite explain.

You know Max loves you. He told you. He shows you. But some nights, like tonight, you can’t stop the slow, creeping doubt. The fear that love isn’t always enough when you aren’t there. When someone prettier or bolder or more his world is.

You turn your phone face-down and blink hard into the ceiling, trying not to cry, because it isn’t him.

It’s you. Spiralling.

And you hate that you can’t stop.

It isn’t like Max has ever given you a reason to doubt him. He doesn’t flirt. He isn’t sneaky. He never makes you feel small or uncertain. He makes time for you, even when he’s exhausted and halfway across the world. He calls when he says he will. He texts when he’s landed. He checks in between meetings, between media, between practice sessions.

But even the most reassuring routines begin to feel fragile when you spend your nights alone, scrolling through social media feeds that turn love into a ticking time bomb.

On Twitter or TikTok it’s like cheating wasn’t just a possibility, it was a guarantee. People talk like it’s an open secret. Like all of them do it. Like staying faithful is a joke, not the norm.

And you hate how easily those posts get under your skin.

One comment in particular has lodged itself somewhere deep in your brain, rotting quietly.

You think any of them are faithful on the road? They’ve got girls in every city babes. You’re just the one they come home to.

You remember reading it in bed, the words hitting harder than you ever wanted to admit. You’d stared at it for too long, re-reading it like it was some kind of warning meant specifically for you.

Maybe it isn’t about Max. Maybe it’s just a bitter stranger talking from experience. But what if it wasn’t?

What if Max is different without you, surrounded by constant temptation and girls who don’t hesitate?

What if all the love you give to each other at home isn’t enough to hold his attention in Singapore, or Brazil, or Vegas?

What if you’re stupid for thinking you’re the exception?

The thought makes your stomach twist, hot and cold at the same time. You hate yourself for even questioning him, but the doubt creeps in anyway, quiet and venomous. Because love isn’t always louder than fear. And lately, fear has found a voice you can’t ignore.

It comes out on a random Wednesday.

Max has a few days off and is finally back in Monaco with you, curled up on the couch, wearing sweatpants and eating cereal out of the box like he’s a college student and not a multiple world champion.

You’re quiet, distracted, picking at the hem of your sleep shorts while some Netflix show runs in the background.

“Babe?” he says, nudging your leg with his knee. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’ve been weird since I got back from Canada.”

“Have I?”

Max sits up a little straighter, the playfulness gone. “Don’t do that.”

You swallow, staring at the bowl in your hands. You don’t meant to say it, but maybe you need to.

“I just…” you start, voice quieter than you expected. “I sometimes wonder what really happens when you're away.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

You feel your heart begin to race. There was no easy way to explain it, no version of this that wouldn’t hurt him. But keeping it inside had only made it worse. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to look at him, to see the confusion on his face.

“Okay… just don’t take this the wrong way,” you say, voice trembling. “You’re surrounded by beautiful girls. All the time. At afterparties, on boats, in clubs. They throw themselves at you. And I know you say you love me, I do, I hear you, but…”

You pause, eyes searching his. “Max, people like you… you have options.”

Silence.

You keep going, even though your throat feels like it’s closing. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m not. I just, I’ve seen what people say online. About how no driver, no athlete stays loyal. That it’s just how it is. That they all cheat. That it comes with the territory.”

You glance up again, and what you see in Max’s eyes feels like a punch to the stomach. Hurt. Pure, disbelieving hurt.

He stares at you like you’d just slapped him.

“You think I cheat on you?” he asks, voice low, almost stunned.

You flinch. “I don’t know. I think… I think maybe you could. One day. And I wouldn’t even know.”

He stands up so fast the phone on his lap clatters to the floor.

“Jesus Christ, how could I not take that the wrong way?” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “You really think that little of me? You really think I’m capable of looking you in the eye and lying to you like that? Of touching someone else and then coming home to you like nothing happened?”

Your heart drops. “No, Max, that’s not—”

“You think I’m out there fucking around in every city I go to?” His accent thickens, voice rising with disbelief. “That I land and what? Just start looking for a warm body?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to,” he snaps, pacing now. “You just implied that for all this time what, you’ve been sitting here imagining me cheating on you and not telling me?”

Your eyes sting. “I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to seem insecure.”

“You’d rather just assume I’m a liar?”

“No, Max, fuck—no. It’s not like that. It’s not even about you, it’s... God, it’s not even logical, okay?” You were scrambling now, words tumbling faster than your brain could sort them. “It’s just there’s this stigma, okay? That athletes are cheaters. That they all are. And I guess some part of me thought that was just… part of the deal.”

Max stares at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “So because other people fuck up their relationships, I’m guilty by association?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“You are, though,” he snaps, stepping back like your words burn. “You’re saying you don’t think I’ve done anything, yet, but you’ve already decided I probably will.”

“I’m saying I’ve seen it happen!” you cry. “To people who swore they’d never do it. Who looked just as in love as we are.”

Max stares at you for a long time, chest rising and falling.

Then, quietly, “You think I’d put you through that?”

Tears well up in your eyes. “No. But I’m scared that you could. That one day I won’t be enough.”

“You think I’d just wake up one day and decide you weren’t enough?” he asks, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “That I’d throw us away for what, something easy? Something empty?”

“I don’t want to think that,” you whisper. “But it’s like this constant voice in the back of my head saying, don’t get too comfortable. Saying people like me don’t keep people like you.”

Max looks like he wants to yell or be sick. His fists are clenched, jaw tight, frustration radiating off him.

Then, just as suddenly, his face crumples.

He sits back down.

And says, more softly than you expected, “I love you.”

You sniffle. “I know.”

“Clearly you don’t.” His voice cracks ever so slightly, a barely-there fracture that makes your heart squeeze. He swallows hard, throat bobbing, like the words were caught on something sharp on their way out. He looks down for a second, just a flick of his eyes, then back at you.

“I love you,” he says again, more deliberately this time. Slower. Like he wants you to feel every syllable. “I love you.”

His hands ran over his thighs before curling into loose fists again.

“Like… when I’m away, I go to bed early because I miss you,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And I mean physically miss you. Like my chest fucking aches and everything feels too quiet and I stare at the ceiling hoping you’ll call even though I know you’re asleep.”

You blink, stunned by the rawness in his tone.

“I check my phone like an idiot,” he goes on, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “Every five minutes. Just to see if you sent a stupid meme or said goodnight again. And if you didn’t, I reread the last thing you said. Because it makes me feel closer to you.”

You feel your eyes start to burn again, but he isn’t finished.

“When I come home and you’re here? It’s like—” He breaks off, searching for the right words, his brows knitting together. “It’s like I can breathe again. Like I stop being whatever version of me the rest of the world expects and I just… exist. As me. As yours.”

He let’s out a breath, slower this time. Measured.

“I don’t care what people say. I don’t care what some idiot online thinks is ‘normal’ for a driver or a man or anyone in this life. I don’t care what the stereotype is. I don’t need a club full of models or some yacht party to feel important.”

His gaze locks onto yours, eyes fierce but tender.

“I don’t want options. I want you. You’re it for me. You always have been. And I need you to know that. Not just hear it, not just nod and say okay know it. Because I don’t have a backup plan. I don’t want one.”

He exhales, like saying all of it left him exposed in the best and worst way.

You wipe at your cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice hoarse. “Do you have any idea what it does to me to think you’ve been carrying that around? That you’ve been hurting because you’re afraid I’ll leave or stray or whatever the fuck people think drivers do?”

You shake your head. “It’s not fair to you. I know that.”

He exhales slowly, nodding. “No. It’s not. But I get it. I do.”

You look up.

“I’ve seen what fame does to people,” he says. “I’ve seen guys ruin good things for a pretty face and some attention. And I hate that you’ve had to wonder if I would do that to you.”

You feel like the smallest person alive. “Max, I’m so sorry.”

He reaches for your hand.

“I need you to trust me,” he says, fingers tightening around yours. “Not the version of me that strangers make up. Me. The guy who texts you at 2 a.m. because I can’t fall asleep without hearing from you. The guy who thinks about you twenty-four seven even when I’ve got a million other things to focus on. The guy who looks at other girls and doesn't feel a damn thing and only thinks, ‘none of them are you’.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I do trust you, I’m just terrified of losing you and—” you whisper, “I just let the noise get in my head.”

He pulls you into his chest.

“Next time it gets loud in there,” he murmurs against your hair, “you come to me. Let me be louder.”

You nod, arms wrapping around him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I love you so much.”

Max presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re mine. You hear me? I don’t want anyone else. Never have. Never will.”

You let the truth of that settle into your bones like warmth.

Maybe people will always talk. Maybe they’ll always be stories and rumours. Maybe they’ll always be stereotypes and assumptions and endless temptations.

But you aren’t dating a stereotype.

You’re dating Max.

And Max? He only ever wants you.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds

[mangostarjam]

you've been touching him a lot since he got back.

itoshi sae doesn't do anything about it — doesn't dissuade you from tugging at his sleeve or sliding his jacket zipper back and forth while you talk. doesn't comment or bring your attention to it.

but he watches.

you've been around him a lot since his plane landed, making up for all the time he's spent abroad, as if your daily chat threads haven't been enough. most of the time it's just the two of you, the way it used to be. sometimes his brother is around, though thankfully it doesn't seem like you've gotten any closer to rin since sae left.

other times there's a group, mostly your friends, a mix of guys and girls who don't seem to know what to do with themselves around him. sae is used to this — fame brings strange things to light — but you treat him as you always have, except for the touching.

you don't touch anyone else.

it makes him think.

sae has his reasons. he's never let your relationship get past that line, drawn in the sand. he's a professional football player on the other side of the world, and you have a life here. you have friends (even though you still call him your best friend), you have a job (that you complain about all the time), you have family (that can't be bothered to ever congratulate you on anything).

it wouldn't be right — to make you leave. to take you away. not when he needs to focus on being the best in the world.

(he is the best in the world. all those years ago he showed the U-20 team in japan the difference between them, the way the most they could hope for was dating a gravure model. sae never cared about that aspect. he already had you.)

he lets you touch him, but he doesn't touch you back. he keeps you at arm's length — where you're safe.

and then you ask him to be your wingman.

someone else — touching you? kissing you? having you? unthinkable. sae steps out of the shower and barely dries off before pulling on his briefs and pants. steps into his room and there you are, sitting on his bed, looking good, if a little sad.

he considers telling you to get your passport updated and catches the way your eyes trail down his form. maybe this conversation would be easier if he's wearing a shirt — your gaze is too heated, too distracting. you probably think you're being sneaky, hiding your feelings as best as you can, but sae knows you.

and your casual touches are ocean waves washing that line in the sand away.

sae walks towards his closet when it happens again. your finger in his belt loop, stopping him in his tracks. "what?"

"you were ignoring me," you say. "i asked if my outfit is okay."

your outfit is more than okay. "i would have told you to change if it wasn't."

"if you're going to be my wingman, shouldn't you hype me up?" you huff.

sae feels his jaw clench at the reminder. "no," he says, and his tone comes out cold. you don't seem to notice, falling back on his bed and testing every bit of self control in his grasp. "this is a waste of time."

he goes to pull on a shirt before he does something drastic. you're saying something, but it hardly matters when his flight leaves if you'll be on the plane with him. you've covered your eyes with your forearm, so you miss the way he pauses at the foot of the bed, teal eyes drinking in your form splayed out so defenselessly.

sae climbs over you silently, knees nudging yours apart, hands planted on either side of your body. "this is a waste of time," he repeats, watching with amusement as you take in his position. a blush sweeps across your face, but you don't push him off. that's a good sign, at least.

"what, you think i'm not worth being a wingman for?" you ask. silly. you have no idea.

and then you reach for his belt loops again, as if that's a totally normal thing to do and not something that drives him a little nuts every time. sae prides himself on his control, though, so he doesn't lean down to kiss you just yet.

"tell me," sae says, "have you become this touchy with all your friends since i've been gone?"

"n-no?"

it's cute, how wide your eyes get. sae leans down a little closer. feels your breaths on his lips. still doesn't kiss you — yet. "then i won't be your wingman. you don't need one."

"why not?"

do you know how breathless you sound? sae considers his apartment in spain, how he'll need to make sure the bedroom doesn't share any walls with the neighbors. the way you sound is all for him and him alone.

"because you have a boyfriend, now."

(companion piece to this)

[writesvani]

dear me — jeon jungkook

lawyer! jeonjungkook x privatechef! reader

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

comment here for Dear Me taglist;

find Dear Me on wattpad!

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: angst, fluff, smut (all characters are of age), YEARNING, explicit language, pinning, misunderstandings, forbidden love, JK being torn (but so is Y/n), this is NOT a cheating fic, arguing, cursing, substance use (alcohol & cigarettes), nostalgia, happy ending (probably)

word count: 56,4k & more coming soon!

ꪆchapter index୧

— chapter one: Me VS. Me

— chapter two: It's you – well me again, UGH

— chapter three: Saturdays are for Yoongi

— chapter four: The House

— chapter five: Us & immaturity

— chapter six: The Orbits

— chapter seven: The Family Games: May the Pettiest Win

— chapter eight: Fifteen Years and a Pinky

— chapter nine: Play It Again

— chapter ten: Tethered Threads

— chapter eleven: The Secret

& more soon!

ꪆdrabbles + extras୧

— dear me moodboard

— i'm gonna be his wife; (pending...)

— the way we were; JK's pov (pending...)

— the egg yolk incident; (pending...)

the drabbles in this story are part of the DearMeVerse, so i highly recommend reading them to get a deeper understanding of the plot. as the story unfolds, new drabbles will unlock, and they’re designed to enhance the experience. i suggest reading the chapters in order, and in the author’s notes, i’ll let you know when’s the best time to dive into each drabble, as they’ll be posted after certain chapters.

but don’t worry — reading the drabbles isn’t a MUST. they won’t change the story, but they’ll add extra layers to it, helping you connect with the narrative in a more meaningful way.

DISCLAIMER:

I do not own Jeon Jungkook, BTS, or any of the real people mentioned in this story. They belong to themselves — and as much as I'd love to claim them as my own, I am not that lucky. This is purely a work of fiction, written by a fan who enjoys imagining what could happen if their lives were a bit more dramatic and a lot more fictional. Any resemblance to real-life events is purely coincidental, unless it involves them being cute, in which case, I’ll take credit for that part. This story is just for fun, and no harm was intended in its creation. Please don’t sue me, I promise I’m just here for the fic!

all works published here are created by me (@writesvani on tumblr). i own all rights to my original works, including any written content, original characters, and plotlines. copying, redistributing, translating, or posting my works on any other social media without my explicit permission is strictly prohibited. all rights reserved.

[heliosunny]

Ooh so I had a dream that Anaxa was my academic rival. He was relatively standoffish so I figured he disliked me since we only spoke when necessary. I didn’t mind since that meant i could do my introvert things and focus on research. But when we were forced to work together he slowly and methodically over time showed his true colours as a yearning yandere 😳 like he was obsessed but super cunning!

I’m excited to see what he’s like in game! Lol

Yandere!Anaxa x Reader

Scratch. Scratch.

The steady rhythm of pens against papers filled the research hall, a quiet symphony of intellect in motion. The air was thick with the weight of concentration, punctuated only by the occasional murmur of scholars trading theories, the rustle of turned pages.

And then, Anaxa sat down beside you.

You didn’t react immediately. He was always like this—silent, only engaging when necessary. If he had his way, the two of you would exchange no more than a few words, and that was fine with you.

Except this time, there was no avoiding him. Collaboration was mandatory.

“I don’t like group projects” he said.

“Then don’t slow me down.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “If anything, you’d be the one struggling to keep up.”

“Then let’s not waste time.”

The first task was simple: gather the necessary data, record findings, and return for analysis. Simple in theory, at least.

You had expected this to be a tedious affair, given Anaxa’s usual standoffish nature. Instead, you found yourself standing slightly behind him, quill in hand, watching as he effortlessly extracted information from people as though it was second nature to him.

With scholars, he was sharp and direct, threading his questions in a way that made them eager to prove themselves. With common folk, he was almost… charming, casual yet undeniably persuasive. You had seen him argue in academic settings before—blunt, efficient, never wasting words—but this was different.

You, in contrast, played the role of a secretary, silently noting down everything while he worked.

“I can feel you staring.”

You scoffed and focused back on your notes. “I’m just writing.”

By the time you had gathered everything, the sky had long since darkened.

“Here,” you said, handing him the notes. “We can continue analyzing everything tomorrow.”

Anaxa took them without a word, his fingers brushing against yours.

“…See you tomorrow then”

The next day, Anaxa arrived as usual. But something felt… off.

The way he sat down, just a fraction slower than normal. The faint rigidity in his posture, as if he were forcing himself to act as though nothing was wrong. But you weren’t blind.

You turned slightly toward him, frowning. “You’re warm.”

“I didn’t realize you made a habit of checking my temperature.”

You ignored his teasing and pressed the back of your hand lightly against his forehead. The heat radiating from his skin was undeniable.

“You’re burning up” you muttered. “Why are you even here?”

“I can handle it,” he replied smoothly, pulling back from your touch. “We have work to do.”

You gave him a look but didn’t push further. If he wanted to be stubborn, fine. It wasn’t your problem.

So, you carried on.

At least, until he collapsed.

One moment, he was beside you, the next, his hand slipped, his quill clattering to the floor, and before you could react, he was tipping forward.

“Anaxa—”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up. He was burning. The room buzzed with hushed voices, but you barely registered them as you adjusted your hold on him.

“You idiot” you muttered under your breath, shifting your grip.

The school nurse didn’t seem particularly alarmed—apparently, scholars pushing themselves to the brink wasn’t uncommon. Still, she instructed you to stay with him until he woke, citing that you were his research partner and therefore the most convenient choice.

You sighed but didn’t argue. It wasn’t like you were going to waste time.

Settling into the chair beside the infirmary bed, you placed your research materials on your lap. If you had to stay, you might as well be productive.

Beside you, Anaxa stirred faintly in his fevered sleep.

You shook your head, refocusing on your work.

It wasn’t your problem. Right?

By the time Anaxa stirred awake, you had already finished reviewing and organizing the research data.

“…You stayed?”

“The teacher asked me to” you replied, stretching slightly from your prolonged stillness. “Lucky for you, I got everything sorted while waiting. You don’t have to worry about today’s work.”

“I see,” he muttered before sighing. “I’ll make it up to you. I don’t like leaving debts unpaid.”

“It’s fine. If it’s you, you would’ve finished it without needing my help anyway.”

He huffed a small laugh at that, shaking his head slightly. “Still. Let me repay you somehow.”

You didn’t bother arguing further. If Anaxa wanted to do something in return, he would, regardless of what you said.

The walk to his home was quiet, the evening air carrying a gentle chill. He insisted he was fine, but you weren’t about to let him wander off after collapsing just hours ago. At least not until he was behind his own door.

When you reached his residence, you stopped at the threshold, waiting for him to step inside.

“Go rest” you instructed simply.

Anaxa leaned against the doorway, tilting his head at you with something unreadable in his gaze.

“I will,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

You turned, heading home without a second thought.

The moment the door shut behind him, Anaxa exhaled, letting his carefully constructed mask slip just enough for a glimmer of satisfaction to creep in.

His plan had succeeded.

A fever induced on purpose, a minor sacrifice to buy uninterrupted time with you. To measure your worth.

It had been worth every moment of discomfort.

He wasn’t fully recovered yet, but that didn’t matter. He felt good. Good enough to return tomorrow.

After all, there was still more to do.

The next day, Anaxa arrived in class looking perfectly fine. Or at least, that’s what you assumed.

As you went over the next steps of your research, he sat across from you, quill in hand, but his usual sharp attentiveness was… lacking. His gaze drifted, unfocused, as if his thoughts were miles away.

You frowned, tapping your fingers against the table. “Anaxa.”

“Yes?”

You squinted. “Were you even listening?”

His lips parted slightly as if to deny it, but judging by your unimpressed stare, he knew better than to lie.

“…Not entirely” he admitted.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Alright, I’ll explain it again. This time, try to keep up.”

Anaxa nodded, but as you began your explanation once more, his mind refused to cooperate.

Focus. That was all he needed to do. He was no stranger to deep concentration, to immersing himself in the pursuit of knowledge.

But right now, his mind was full of you.

The way you gestured slightly while explaining, the way your brows knitted in mild frustration, the way your lips moved with certainty,...

I should pull myself together. This research is more important. It’s an opportunity to prove myself, to push boundaries, to—

But then there was you. You, who sat right in front of him, completely unaware of how maddening you were.

His jaw tensed slightly. How frustrating.

By the end of the day, Anaxa had agreed with nearly everything you proposed, his input far less argumentative than usual.

You had chalked it up to discomfort. Maybe he was still feeling unwell, maybe he hadn’t fully recovered from the fever, maybe he was simply tired.

But the truth was far from that.

It wasn’t his discomfort that affected him—it was you.

---

Anaxa was absent the next day.

Instead, one of his acquaintances approached you between classes, delivering his message: “Anaxa said to come to his place for today’s work.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much.”

To his credit, working with Anaxa was nothing short of effective.

Most groups would still be figuring out the framework of their research, yet the two of you were already halfway done.

It was almost funny—should you be relieved that you had been paired with one of the top scholars, or irritated that it happened to be him, your long-standing rival?

Yet, oddly enough… these past few days hadn’t been unpleasant.

Maybe, just maybe, he was only unbearable when he was off on his own, doing things his own way. When he worked with you, the process was smooth, methodical, efficient.

After class, you made your way to his home as requested. Anaxa had the workspace neatly prepared, his focus unwavering as you both spent the evening finalizing key points. Hours passed without notice, the ticking of the clock drowned out by the steady rhythm of progress.

When you finally checked the time, you realized it was late.

You gathered your things, stretching slightly. “I should get going.”

Anaxa, who had been reviewing some notes, didn’t look up immediately. “It’s late,” he said, as if that was reason enough for you to stay.

“I can handle a walk home.”

“Stay the night. It’s safer.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then—

The news broadcasting on the TV got your attention.

…Due to unforeseen incidents, residents are strongly advised to avoid traveling at this hour. Increased security presence will remain active throughout the night…

You frowned. Perfect timing.

“It seems you have no choice.”

“Alright, fine. Just for the night.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, “I’ll get you something to drink.”

You narrowed your eyes at his unusual hospitality but didn’t comment. Instead, you took a slow glance around his home, properly observing the space for the first time.

It was… neat. Impeccably so.

Not surprising.

In the kitchen, out of your line of sight, Anaxa exhaled slowly.

He hadn’t expected his plan to work this perfectly. Sure, he had anticipated a high chance of you staying if he played his cards right—but to have the news itself provide the final push?

Fate must have been on his side tonight.

As he prepared your drink, his mind wandered—as it often did these days—back to you. The way you worked seamlessly alongside him. The way you challenged him without hesitation. The way your presence had become an unshakable fixation in his thoughts, leaving no room for anything else.

It was infuriating. It was intoxicating.

This night was an opportunity. A rare chance to further deepen the dynamic between you two.

By the time he returned to the living room, his expression was composed.

You glanced at him as he handed you the drink. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Despite the circumstances, the night carried on as usual. Research, discussions, debates—it was a cycle you had grown accustomed to. But tonight, something felt… different.

Every now and then, Anaxa’s hand would graze yours when reaching for a paper. His shoulder would brush against you as he leaned over to reference something. A brief touch at your wrist when handing you a pen.

You weren’t sure if it was intentional or simply a consequence of working so closely, but every time it happened, it sent a strange awareness through you.

“I’ll make something to eat.”

The meal was surprisingly good—not extravagant, but warm and filling. You finished quickly, eager to make more progress.

By the time you looked at the clock again, it was terribly late.

Too late to be working, really, but neither of you were the type to leave things unfinished.

It was only when exhaustion started creeping in that Anaxa finally spoke.

“You should sleep.”

“Yeah, I probably should. I’ll just—”

“I’ll take the floor. You can have the bed.”

“That’s unnecessary. It’s your bed.”

“You’re the guest.”

“That’s not—”

“Are we really arguing about this?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, glaring slightly at the sheer stubbornness in his tone.

In the end, you reluctantly took the bed, if only because you knew Anaxa would not let this go otherwise.

Though the bed was comfortable, sleep didn’t come immediately.

You turned slightly, peeking over the edge to see Anaxa lying on a mattress on the floor. His eyes were still open, faintly illuminated by the dim light in the room.

“We should see the professor tomorrow,” he murmured, “Get their input on our progress.”

“Mm,” you hummed in acknowledgment.

“We’ve gotten further than expected. Not that I doubted it.”

Another hum.

Then silence.

He waited for you to respond again, but when nothing came, he tilted his head slightly—only to find you already fast asleep.

For a long moment, he simply watched.

The even rise and fall of your breathing. The way your features softened in sleep.

This—this was rare.

With one last glance, he closed his eyes.

Tonight, at least, he could rest easy.

----

You should’ve known nothing would go in your favor forever.

When you received the professor’s feedback, the document was marked with more corrections than you anticipated. Whole sections needed restructuring, some data needed refinement, and a few parts—ones you were sure were solid—had to be completely rewritten.

Your fingers tightened around the papers as you skimmed through them again. This wasn’t bad per se—you still had plenty of time to make adjustments—but the sheer volume of work made your mood plummet.

Anaxa, on the other hand, remained unreadable as he flipped through the notes.

“You look like someone just told you the world was ending”

You shot him a glare. “Forgive me for being disappointed that we basically have to rewrite half of our research.”

“We have time. Figuring these out now is better than later.”

You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temple. He wasn’t wrong. You just weren’t in the mood to hear it from him.

Before you could dive back into overanalyzing the feedback, Anaxa leaned back in his seat, regarding you with a slightly tilted head.

“You need a break.”

“What?”

“Let’s go somewhere else. Relax your mind.”

You gave him an incredulous look. “Relax? With someone like you?”

“Why not?”

“You don’t exactly scream ‘relaxation’”

“I’m not a machine, you know.”

Debatable.

But still, as much as you hated to admit it, maybe a distraction wouldn’t be the worst idea. You had been staring at research papers for hours, and your frustration would only make it harder to focus.

“…Fine,” you muttered, standing up. “Where did you have in mind?”

Anaxa smirked. “The park.”

The idea was simple: a quiet walk, fresh air, a moment away from academic stress.

The unfortunate reality?

The sky had other plans.

What started as a slight drizzle quickly turned into a full downpour.

You and Anaxa were still several minutes away from any proper shelter when the rain came crashing down. Neither of you had thought to bring an umbrella, and within moments, you were both completely soaked.

“Great,” you muttered, shaking off excess water from your sleeves. “Just great.”

Anaxa, to his credit, seemed unbothered, running a hand through his now-drenched hair before nodding towards a nearby structure—an old, empty bus stop.

“Come on.”

You didn’t hesitate, dashing under the small roof, though the wind still sent cold droplets clinging to your skin. You shivered slightly, rubbing your arms for warmth.

Anaxa glanced at you, his own clothes dripping, before casually undoing the top buttons of his soaked shirt.

You looked away. “You couldn’t have checked the weather before suggesting this?”

“Oh? Now it’s my fault?”

You huffed, exasperated. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Despite the misfortune, there was something almost ridiculous about the situation. Just you and your rival, stuck in a downpour, drenched to the bone, forced to wait it out together.

“How long do you think this will last?”

Anaxa leaned against the cold metal pole of the bus stop, his eyes glinting in amusement as he smirked.

“I suppose we’ll have to find out.”

The rain didn’t let up for nearly half an hour.

Eventually, when the skies finally cleared, he walked you home.

You were tired, cold, and utterly done with the day—but what you didn’t expect was that this little misadventure would come back to bite you.

You should have known.

Between being drenched in the rain and already being exhausted from research, it was inevitable. By the next morning, you were miserable.

Your body ached, your throat was scratchy, and just lifting your head felt like a monumental effort.

With no choice but to stay in bed, you barely had the energy to process the fact that someone was knocking at your door.

You dragged yourself up, shuffled to the entrance, and opened it—only to see Anaxa standing there, holding a neatly compiled stack of papers.

“…I see you caught it” he mused, stepping inside uninvited.

You groaned. “You—this is your fault.”

“Perhaps. But don’t worry—I’ll take responsibility.”

You weren’t sure what he meant by that until he set down the papers, rolled up his sleeves, and immediately started doing everything in your place.

He cleaned up, cooked a warm meal, fed you, and before you could protest, tucked you into bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You wanted to argue. You really did.

But the warmth of the blanket, combined with exhaustion, made it impossible to resist sleep.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you stirred.

Your fever had gone down slightly, enough for you to shift around without feeling like your limbs weighed a ton. But as you turned, you noticed something… off.

Anaxa was lying next to you.

For a moment, you thought you were imagining things. But no—he was actually there, asleep beside you.

You had no memory of this happening. Did he stay to keep watch? Did he lie down and accidentally fall asleep?

You sat up carefully, intending to move him to a proper bed, but��he was heavy.

Before you could figure out what to do, he stirred.

“…What are you doing?”

“I was going to—uh, move you.”

Anaxa exhaled softly, closing his eyes again. “Too late for that.”

“…Fine.”

Resigned, you gave up and lay back down.

When you woke up, there was no alarm. No rush to get up.

It was a day off.

For once, you had the luxury of sleeping in.

But as you stirred, you realized something far more shocking.

Your head was resting against Anaxa’s chest.

Your mind went blank for a second before you carefully, very carefully, tried to move away.

“…Going somewhere?”

Your heart nearly jumped out of your chest.

----

The next week flew by in a blur.

You and Anaxa polished your research, made the necessary revisions, and finally handed it in.

The results came back excellent. High marks. Praise from the professor. A complete success.

This meant one thing: no more group work.

You were relieved. No more Anaxa. No more of his annoyingly efficient work ethic, no more subtle brushes of contact, no more unexpected moments of domestic care.

You were fine with it.

Anaxa, however, was not.

The moment the research project ended, Anaxa felt a strange, suffocating emptiness.

No more long nights of working together. No more excuses to linger at your place. No more seeing your little expressions of focus, frustration, or amusement at his dry remarks.

It was unacceptable.

You might have been fine with moving on, but he wasn’t.

Which meant—he would have to change that.

He needed a reason for you to come back to him. A reason you couldn't ignore.

A few days later, you received an urgent message from a faculty assistant.

The professor wanted to see you.

You went to their office, only to be met with a look of concern.

"I need to speak with you about your research paper" the professor said.

"Is something wrong?"

"There's been an issue. A section of your research was flagged—it seems there's a discrepancy in the data. Anaxa was the one who noticed it and reported it. He suggested reviewing the findings together."

A discrepancy? But that didn’t make sense! You had double-checked everything. Hadn’t you?

"Since you two worked on it together, I’d like you to resolve this matter with him before we take further action," the professor continued. "He's already waiting for you in the library."

With no other choice, you left the office and made your way to the library.

When you arrived, Anaxa was already seated, flipping through your research.

"Finally here?"

You sat down, exhaling sharply. "I heard you found a mistake."

He tilted his head slightly, tapping the paper with his fingers. "It’s subtle, but yes. A slight inconsistency. I figured we should fix it together before the professor takes further action."

You frowned, leaning over to read where he was pointing.

By the time you were finished, there were no remaining "errors" in your research. The professor thanked both of you, and that should have been the end of it.

Except it wasn’t.

If anything, Anaxa had wormed his way deeper into your life.

You started noticing it in class—the way you kept running into him more often than before.

He always sat near you now. Always seemed to already be there whenever you arrived. You just noticed the way he casually pulled out a chair beside him and glanced at you, as if it were already decided you’d sit there. The way he always had an extra copy of the day’s notes, ready in hand before you even asked. The way he spoke about things he shouldn’t know about—little details about your schedule, your habits, things you were sure you hadn’t told him.

It was as if he had memorized your life without you realizing it.

One evening, you were packing up after class when Anaxa leaned against your desk.

"You’re free this weekend, aren’t you?"

"Why?"

"Because," he said smoothly, "we’re going out."

"Since when?"

"Since now," he replied. "I already planned it."

"You didn't even ask if I wanted to."

"You would’ve said no. I’m not giving you a choice," he added, tilting his head slightly. "Not when you spend so much time avoiding me these days."

"I don’t—"

"You do."

"I’ve been generous so far," he murmured. "Letting things happen naturally. But I think I’ve waited long enough."

You weren’t going to agree. That was your initial instinct—to push back, to tell Anaxa you had better things to do.

But he had already anticipated that.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound like a secret only for you.

"Come on," he murmured, "You owe me."

"For what?"

"For catching your mistake in our research. You wouldn’t want an academic scandal, would you?"

"That’s a low move, even for you."

Anaxa just smiled, "Is it?" he said, "Or is it just a reasonable exchange?"

You scowled, but before you could say anything, he continued.

"Besides," he added, "you’ve been stressed lately. I can see it."

"You barely take breaks," he continued, "Always pushing yourself, overworking, barely sleeping. It’s a wonder you haven’t collapsed yet."

"I’m just looking out for you," he murmured. "A little outing won’t kill you."

You hesitated.

Logically, you knew he was playing you. He was twisting the situation to make you feel obligated.

But… was he wrong?

You sighed.

"Fine..."

----

Anaxa left the classroom that day with a sense of satisfaction coiling deep in his chest.

That was too easy.

A little pressure, a well-placed guilt trip, a carefully crafted excuse—and you caved.

You always acted so guarded, so wary. But all he had to do was find the right buttons to push.

And he did.

It was just one step closer.

One step closer to making sure you’d never pull away from him again.

It started with one mistake.

At first, you thought nothing of it—just a lapse in focus, a careless slip. Everyone had bad days. Perhaps you had been tired, overworked, or maybe distracted. It was bound to happen.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Your academic performance began to plummet.

It made no sense. You were always meticulous, always double-checking your work. But now—now your answers weren’t what you remembered writing. Numbers and formulas were off. Essays you swore were polished came back with errors you had no recollection of making.

You frowned at your latest assignment, your hands tightening around the graded paper. A sinking feeling settled in your gut as you stared at the corrections—mistakes that didn’t feel like yours.

This… this wasn’t just random errors.

Something was wrong.

And yet, you couldn’t pinpoint what.

The frustration began to eat away at you, leaving you restless, anxious, and second-guessing yourself.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you placed your assignment on the desk in front of you. Another disappointing grade.

“You’re overthinking again.”

You flinched slightly at the familiar voice.

“I don’t get it,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I checked everything. How did I mess up?”

“Maybe you’re just tired,” he said. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

That had crossed your mind before, but… something still felt off.

“Can you check it for me?”

“Of course”

The more you struggled, the more you needed him.

At first, it was small things—him offering advice, fixing your mistakes, guiding your hand. But over time, it became more than that.

He was always there, always soothing you when frustration built up. Reassuring you when doubt clouded your mind.

"You can’t keep going like this," he murmured one evening, after yet another failed attempt at solving a problem. "Let me take care of it."

It was easier to rely on him.

You didn’t notice at first, but others gradually became distant.

The subtle way he redirected conversations, the way your interactions with classmates grew shorter and less meaningful. Like he had woven an invisible web around you—one that no one else could penetrate.

And by the time you realized it, it was already too late.

One evening, as you sat together reviewing notes, Anaxa spoke casually.

"Everyone else is unnecessary," he said, flipping a page with ease. "Only we matter."

----

One evening, while Anaxa was out, you found his notebook.

At first, you assumed it was just another research journal. But as you flipped through the pages, your blood ran cold.

Every page was about you.

Your schedule, your habits—things he shouldn’t have known.

What time you usually woke up. What days you skipped meals. What places you went to alone.

And then— How long you stared at him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

Every detail was written in precise, calculated handwriting.

Your hands shook as you clutched the book, realization slamming into you like a tidal wave.

You needed to leave.

Now.

"Going somewhere?"

"I—I need to—"

"You look pale," he interrupted, "Are you feeling unwell?"

"I—I’m fine...I just…"

Before you could finish, a sharp prick bloomed against your skin.

"You’re just exhausted. You need rest."

When you woke up, the notebook was gone.

Anaxa sat beside you, his expression calm, almost concerned.

"You were having a nightmare" he murmured, brushing a hand over your forehead.

"You were muttering in your sleep," he continued, "Tossing and turning. It must have been… unsettling."

The notebook. The pages. The proof—

But there was nothing.

"Don’t worry" Anaxa whispered, "It was just a dream."

That’s all it was.

[azullumi]

"to your never, to my nothings" ; phainon

premise— he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you.  content tags & warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary

"jellyfish" — i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died

Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.

The three children who bear different smiles were the first to notice—subtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talking—or gossiping—it among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.

He can’t say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.

Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fast—like wildfire carried by the idle breeze—reaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?

And of course; “Lord Phainon, your ears are red.” The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldn’t see the red that dusts his cheek.

He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze. 

“The city is under attack!”

The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.

Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.

“Phainon!” His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, you’re there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, you’re pulled in a tight embrace.

“You’re alright.” He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours. 

Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesn’t relent and you have to reassure him that you’re fine—but he doesn’t believe you, not until he’s certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.

Thus, he sees it—a gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.

His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.

“Phainon,” You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. “ I’m okay, but there are others who are not.”

“But—”

“You must go.”

He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his title—it draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.

A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: “It’s alright, I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me.” Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sigh—a quiet surrender—and steps closer. 

Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you. 

His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but there’s a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he can’t speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.

You don’t say a word, instead, you just nod, because it’s easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do more—but instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.

And he leaves.

But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when it’s your name on his lips.

“You’re a great friend, Phainon.” You’ve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.

But who was he to expect more? After all, he’s not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, it’s the small things that betray him—the quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint.  Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.

And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.

Maybe it’s the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe it’s the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational things—and yet, here he is, drowning in them.

Maybe it’s the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse. 

But you don’t notice. And perhaps you never will.

Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if you’ll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hear—serene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[almostwisegalaxy]

The forbidden in his eyes

Go hyun-tak x Sieun Sister!reader

Part 2 of UP to two Read this first I beg you

The reader has a shy character in this story

.................................………………………………………

Initially, Si-eun wasn't wary.

Hyun-tak was always the quiet one, but he saw everything. A quiet rock. He never took the lead unless necessary, and yet, he was always there when needed. That was his strength. And it was surely what had reassured Y/N, even if she didn't say it.

It was gradual.

The first time was a quick trip to the local park. A break between classes, a desire for fresh air. Humin had yelled at pigeons, Juntae had gotten lost in his own thoughts as usual, and Si-eun had seen, in the distance, Y/N sitting on a bench. And Hyun-tak… standing next to her, offering her an ice cream. She had smiled. He had looked away.

No one said anything. But Si-eun felt it.

That something, there. Slight but very real. An invisible thread between the two of them.

It intensified over the weeks.

Y/N, usually reluctant to stay in overly noisy groups, more often agreed to join them. But not for them. For him.

"Is Gogo coming?" she would sometimes ask, in a detached tone that was anything but innocent.

The first time she called him that, "Gogo," everyone burst out laughing. Except Hyun-tak, who turned beet red.

"Why do you call him that?" Humin grumbled.

"I don't know. Gotak, it's ugly. Gogo, it's softer."

And as if it were obvious, it stuck. Gogo this, Gogo that.

Even Juntae smiled, with his enigmatic look. But Si-eun frowned. He didn't say anything that day. He just watched Hyun-tak out of the corner of his eye.

Y/N was tactile. That wasn't new.

She'd cling to his arm when they walked together. She'd rest her head on his shoulder on the subway when she was tired. She'd take Si-eun's hand without warning, like when she was little. And yet… it wasn't the same with Hyun-tak.

It was never her who changed. It was him.

Every time she placed her hand on his shoulder, Hyun-tak became stiffer. Every time she laughed at one of his jokes—and only his—he would pinch his lips to keep from smiling too broadly. And most of all… he'd blush. Like a living blush. guy...

Every single time.

And Y/N? She saw nothing.

She continued to talk, to laugh, to tug on his sleeve, to complain about her homework, to thank him for a snack, to sit just a little too close.

But it was always him who looked away. Who pretended. Who whispered to himself: You don't have the right.

Hyun-tak knew.

He kept telling himself it was stupid. That it was temporary. That she was fifteen, and he was seventeen. It wasn't much, maybe. But in his head, it was a barrier. A forbidden line. He told himself he wasn't good enough for her.

Not smart enough. Not strong enough. Too used to solving problems with his fists. Too awkward with words.

And yet, he couldn't help but stay. To be there. To reach out when she stumbled. To give her his jacket when she was cold. To send her a message at night when he knew she'd had a bad day.

She didn't always reply.

But when she did, it was with these simple little words:

- Thanks, Gogo.

- You save my day.

And he would sit on his bed, phone on his chest, eyes closed, his heart a little too heavy.

He didn't have the right.

But he didn't want to distance himself either.

One afternoon, they found themselves alone, without the others. Y/N had invited him, almost without thinking.

"Can you help me study for math? Oppa's not here, and I hate equations."

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then he accepted.

At her place, it was quiet. Clean. A little messy too. Books, folded clothes, snacks hidden in a corner of the desk. She was comfortable. He, less so.

She had put on an oversized sweater. Did it belong to him? He preferred not to ask.

She sat on the floor, legs crossed, the textbook open in front of her.

"Explain this to me," she said, pointing to a problem.

He knelt beside her, tried to explain.

She understood quickly. And smiled.

"You're really not dumb, Gogo."

"You're better than you think you are."

"You're cute when you say that like it's nothing."

He looked at her. A little too long.

She didn't even notice.

That evening, Si-eun came home early.

He found them both in the living room, bent over a notebook. Nothing suspicious. Just… too close. Too fluid. Too natural.

Y/N looked up and said, cheerfully:

"Oppa, Gogo saved me from despair!"

Hyun-tak stood up, nervously, hands in his pockets.

"I'm going to go."

He avoided Si-eun's gaze. Y/N, meanwhile, continued to put her things away as if nothing had happened.

But Si-eun felt his stomach clench.

It wasn't that he didn't like Hyun-tak.

It might even have been the opposite.

He was the most reliable of them all. The one who fought without hesitation to protect others. Who had never betrayed, never lied, never fled. When they were in trouble, he was the one who stood firm without thinking. He was loyal, upright, courageous.

But Si-eun was struggling.

Too much.

To see him look at Y/N like that.

With that mixture of silent admiration, contained tenderness, and guilt. Si-eun saw it. He read it in his gestures, in his silences.

That look… it didn't belong to a mere friend.

But he said nothing.

Not yet.

***

A few days later, it was a rainy day.

Y/N had missed her bus. She had called Hyun-tak. Not her brother. Him.

He had run to her stop, found her soaked, shivering. She had tried to joke.

"You're allowed to tell me I'm an idiot, go ahead."

He removed his jacket without answering and placed it over her shoulders. Then, simply:

"I can't leave you like this."

They walked slowly, under an umbrella that was too small. She laughed. He blushed. And in that fine rain, he had wanted to take her hand.

But he didn't.

He didn't have the right.

Si-eun watched them from afar.

He still said nothing.

But his fists sometimes clenched, for no reason. His gaze became harder. Not towards Hyun-tak. Nor towards Y/N. Just… towards this reality he couldn't control.

He wanted to protect her. Like before. Like always.

But he also knew… that he couldn't keep her away from the world. Not forever.

And most of all, that she would choose him herself.

Even if she didn't realize it.

Even if "Gogo" remained a silly nickname in the eyes of others.

For her, he had become a landmark.

And that…

that scared Si-eun more than anything.

---

POV Hyun-tak

He should have backed away long ago.

He knew it.

He had known it the first time she ran to him with that smile too big for her still-round cheeks, when she grabbed his arm without asking permission, when she called him Gogo as if it were normal.

No one called him that. No one dared.

But she did. Without thinking. Without barriers.

And he said nothing.

He should have pushed her away, acted distant. He didn't. Because he was weak. Because in this world of chaos, blows, pain, and silence, she was light.

Not a blinding light.

A gentle flame.

Something rare. Fragile. Terribly alive.

Y/N was tactile. She always had been. She clung to the people she loved. She tugged on sleeves, tapped arms, leaned back without warning, slipped her fingers into his without realizing. And with him, it was worse.

He had tried everything to convince himself it meant nothing. That he could handle it. That he could be the one who stayed, solid, unmoving. But sometimes, when she laughed, gently hitting his shoulder, when she clung to his bag, he wanted to scream.

Scream at himself.

Because he felt too much. And she, nothing.

Not like him.

She was at an age where you live through others. Where you heal through those you think you understand. She didn't see his glances, his silences, his trembling. She didn't feel the tension in his arm when she unexpectedly hugged him. She didn't see the fire burning in his chest when she half-fell asleep on his shoulder during bus rides.

She was just herself. Spontaneous. Carefree. Without malice.

And he…

He was drowning.

He suspected Si-eun had noticed.

He wasn't blind.

He felt his gaze linger longer, heavier, when Y/N shamelessly clung to him. He saw his jaw clench, his fists tighten. He recognized that tension in his eyes, that fine blade of worry beneath his voice.

But that day, it was no longer suspicion. It was fire.

They were alone. In front of the high school. The others had left. Y/N too.

Si-eun had called him in a calm tone. Too calm. He knew that tone. It was the calm before the storm. The one used when words become more powerful than shouts.

"We need to talk."

Hyun-tak said nothing. He nodded.

They stopped at the corner of a building, by the wall, where no one lingered at that hour. It was grey. The cold wind whipped their faces.

And then Si-eun spoke. Straight into his eyes.

"You're going to stay away from her."

A blade.

Simple.

Cold.

Hyun-tak didn't flinch. But his heart skipped a beat.

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

"So?"

"I… I understand."

A terrible silence.

But Si-eun didn't let up.

"Do you think I hate you?"

Hyun-tak clenched his teeth. His gaze trembled.

"No."

"Do you think I take you for a jerk?"

"No."

"Then why haven't you moved? Why do you let her cling to you? Why do you look at her like that?!"

The voice rose. And the blow landed—not a fist. Just a mental slap. A sharp word.

Hyun-tak opened his mouth. Then closed it. He felt tiny. Ridiculous. Ashamed.

But he had to speak.

"Because I love her."

The word was uttered. Slowly. Like a secret being buried. A pain being bled.

Si-eun took a step back. Not shocked. Not surprised. Just… broken.

"You love her?"

"I know I don't have the right."

"You love her?!" Si-eun repeated, his voice broken this time.

Hyun-tak felt his breath shorten.

"I love her like you love what you've never had. Like a fixed point in an unstable life. I love her because she smiles like she's never suffered. Because she still sees beauty in ugly things. Because she truly laughs. And because, when she touches me, I feel like I exist."

A silence fell.

Hyun-tak wiped away a tear before it fell.

"But I won't do anything. I swear. I never have. I never will. I'm not that kind of guy. I already hate myself enough."

Si-eun lowered his head.

And then, in a whisper:

"I respect you, Hyun-tak. You're my friend. You've saved me more than once. I'd trust you with my life. But my sister…"

He looked up.

"My sister isn't just someone. She's all I have. She's the only person I've ever wanted to protect, before myself. Before everything. You were there when she was broken. You saw her in pieces. You saw how she put herself back together. And you're important in that too. But now…"

He paused.

"Now you have to choose. Either you keep making her smile, in silence, from a distance. Or you leave."

Hyun-tak didn't answer immediately.

He felt his heart screaming. His throat was dry. His eyes burned.

But he nodded.

"I'll keep my distance."

It was a lie. Not about the action—he would do it. But about the pain. He knew he would stay. That he would burn in silence. That he would live beside her, without ever having her. That every time she touched him, he would turn away. Every time she spoke too close, he would step back. That he would become a wall.

And it would hurt.

But he would do it.

For her.

For Si-eun.

For himself.

Because sometimes, loving means staying away.

That evening, he went home, alone. He locked the door. He sat on the floor, back against the wall.

He buried his head in his arms. And he cried. Silently.

No sobs. Just tears. Burning. Relentless. Uncontrollable.

Because sometimes, the heart doesn't understand that what it wants, it cannot have.

And that even sincere, tender, honest love…

… can hurt.

And be forbidden.

---

POV HYUN-TAK

Distancing himself from her. He had decided.

It was what he had to do. What Si-eun expected. What a good friend, an honest man, would do. Not what he wanted. But since when did desires have a place in this kind of equation?

So, he put distance between them.

It wasn't brutal. Just… gradual. He replied less. No longer laughed at her jokes. No longer allowed himself to be touched. When she walked past him, he pretended to be distracted. He no longer responded to her nicknames. He no longer looked at her. At least not when she could see him.

She understood.

Not everything. But enough.

Y/N wasn't stupid. Nor blind. She had first thought it was a passing mood. Then, she insisted, a little. He held firm. Until she confronted him.

"Why are you ignoring me?" she blurted out, her brows furrowed, a tremor in her voice.

He took a deep breath.

"I'm not ignoring you. It's just… better this way."

"Better for whom?" she retorted, her voice higher.

He clenched his fists. She was there, in front of him, two steps away. Her presence consumed him. She didn't understand. And he couldn't explain.

"Y/N… I'm tired. That's all."

That's all ? A lie.

She stared at him for a long time, her lips pressed together. Then she whispered:

"It's my brother, isn't it? He said something to you."

He didn't answer. And that was the worst mistake.

She took a step back, her face frozen. Tears didn't come easily to Y/N. But her gaze… it was broken.

"It's him. You're not saying anything, so it's him."

She turned on her heel. Without another word.

Later, he learned they had argued. She and Si-eun. It wasn't common. They were bound by years of silent survival, of shared pain. But this time, she had confronted him. And Si-eun hadn't denied it.

He didn't know what they had said to each other. But the next day, she walked past him without a word.

And that… that hurt more than anything.

He swore to himself to hold on. Because even if it tore him apart, it was better this way. She needed to be free. To grow up without him in her footsteps. To become who she was meant to be, without his burning glances at her back.

But Y/N… she was a flame. And flames don't accept walls.

One day, she came back to him. He was sitting on the steps behind the gym, where he often went when he needed air.

She sat next to him without saying anything.

The silence was thick. Almost heavy.

Then she whispered:

"I'm mad at you."

He turned his head towards her. She was looking straight ahead, her legs pulled up to her chest.

"You don't understand what you mean to me. And you disappeared without warning me. Without telling me why. What do you think I am? A child? A clinging girl? I'm not stupid, Gogo."

The nickname echoed in his chest. He had to close his eyes to keep from faltering.

"Y/N, I…"

"Shut the fuck up."

She was trembling. Not from cold. From anger.

"Do you think you're helping me? You're hurting me. You're hurting me like no one else."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Because if a single word crossed his lips, he wouldn't be able to stop. He would tell her he loved her, that he dreamed of her, that she haunted his thoughts. And he didn't have the right.

A few days later, they all got caught up in a situation that went bad.

An old score to settle with a former group. Nothing new. Except this time, Y/N was there.

She shouldn't have been there. She was never there when things got serious. But that evening, she had decided to follow Si-eun and the others, despite her classes. Maybe to keep an eye on him. Maybe to prove something to herself.

When Hyun-tak understood what was happening—the ambush, the familiar faces of those who came for them, the improvised weapons in their pockets—his blood ran cold.

He searched for Y/N with his eyes.

She was there. Too close.

"Y/N. Leave." His voice was firm.

She frowned.

"Huh? No, why?"

"Leave! Now!"

"But I…"

"Y/N! GET OUT!"

She flinched. He never yelled. Never at her. She remained frozen.

Then he grabbed her arm, pushed her towards an alley.

"You have to leave. Run until you hear nothing more. Do you understand me?!"

"But why? It's not serious, I can—"

"You shouldn't be here! Don't you understand, damn it! I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE!"

She opened her mouth. And saw it.

The look.

That of a boy who is scared. For her. Who trembles at the mere thought of her being touched. It wasn't anger. It was raw panic. Naked.

She backed away. Slowly. Then she turned on her heel.

He watched her disappear. And at that moment, he felt something within him collapse.

He had just yelled at her. Forced her to leave. As if she were a burden. As if she were a problem.

But she was none of that.

She was the only precious thing in this rotten world.

And he had pushed her away again.

The fight was short. Violent. A little disorganized. They got out of it. But in Hyun-tak's heart, something had frozen.

He wasn't afraid of dying. He was afraid she would be hurt.

When he got home that night, he clenched his fists so hard that his nails left marks.

He sat on the floor, back against the wall. Again.

And he hated himself.

Y/N, for her part, didn't come back to him in the following days. Not like before.

She looked at him from afar. Her eyes dark, hurt. Silent.

She didn't know he loved her. But she knew he had pushed her away. She knew he was keeping his distance. And for her, that was already too much.

And him?

He acted as if he was fine.

He smiled in front of the others. He laughed with Hu-min. He listened to Juntae. He talked with Si-eun, as if nothing had happened.

But as soon as she entered a room, he stopped breathing.

Because love, true love, isn't happiness.

It's a constant burn.

A fire that cannot be extinguished.

And that must be hidden so as not to burn everything down.

---

For the past few days, a new sensation had been forming within Hyun-tak. A burning he had never felt before, and one he couldn't name at first. It wasn't disgust. It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't sorrow. It was anger. Pure. Cold. Muffled. Against Si-eun.

Because he had seen Y/N crumble. He had seen her struggle against rejection, against incomprehension, against a suffering that was far too heavy for her still-teenage shoulders. And Si-eun had let her down. He had his reasons, Hyun-tak was sure of it. But that excused nothing.

He resented Si-eun for imposing this distance. For looking him straight in the eye and telling him to stay away from her. He resented him for hurting her.

And most of all, he resented himself for listening.

That night, he was on his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His phone vibrated once, then a second time. An alert. The location app they had installed together, as friends, as a joke. Y/N was in a weird place.

He frowned. A nightclub?

He called Si-eun immediately.

"Why is Y/N in a damn club?!"

Silence on the other end of the line. Then:

"What?!"

"Check the app. She's in a damn club. Explain to me what she's doing there?!"

He heard Si-eun's hurried movements. Then the call cut off.

Hyun-tak jumped up, pulling on a jacket. He couldn't wait. Not this time.

Y/N was already outside the club when Si-eun found her. She swayed, dishevelled, a tight black dress clinging to her slender hips. She was scarlet, her cheeks flushed, her eyes washed out by alcohol.

"What did you do, Y/N?! You just took off like that without saying anything?!"

She turned her head towards him and laughed. A bitter, grating, joyless laugh.

"You want to know? Nothing. I was just tired of being invisible. Tired of you, of Gogo, of your secrets and your orders."

He took her arm to drag her to the apartment. She walked with difficulty, dragging her feet. Halfway there, she collapsed onto the pavement, sitting down like a spoiled child.

"I don't want to go home!" she cried. "Let me go, I'm sick of you both!"

She was screaming. Hoarse, tearing cries. The kind that comes from too deep to be calmed.

"EVERYTHING is my fault, isn't it?! I don't have the right to exist as I want! I don't have the right to love the people I want! No right to live!"

"Y/N, stop…"

"NO! You're lecturing me when you've messed up my life! You and your damn silence! You're not my father, you're not even a real brother sometimes!"

And that's when Hyun-tak arrived.

He stopped dead when he saw her. Sitting on the ground. Her arms dangling. Her hair dishevelled. Her legs exposed. A dress too adult for her. A sadness too great for her body.

Something exploded inside him.

"Are you stupid or what?!" he roared. "Have you been drinking?! What did you do in that shitty club?!"

She looked up at him. And she smiled. A sad, defensive smile.

"Oh, Gogo. You came too. Great. Come lecture me too."

"Do you think this is a game?! What do you want to happen to you? Do you think we can protect you all the time, huh?!"

He was yelling. Loudly. His voice trembled. His fist was clenched, his breath short.

"Do you want us to find you in an alley, clothes torn and eyes empty?! Do you want to end up like that?!"

She sprang to her feet, stumbling.

"I'll do what I want! You're not my father either!"

"And do you think I want to be, damn it?! I-"

He cut himself off. Because he was about to say something he would regret.

Y/N was crying.

Big, painful, desperate tears. She hit her chest with her fist.

"You don't love me! No one really loves me! I'm just a damn burden!"

"That's not true!" Hyun-tak cried. "That's so untrue…"

But she wasn't listening anymore. She was still screaming. She was in ruins.

And so was he.

He took a step forward, then two. Then he stopped.

She was magnificent.

Not beautiful. Magnificent. Broken, lost, but so alive. With her red eyes, her dangling arms, her crumpled dress, her cries of pure pain. She was truth incarnate. And he loved her. God, how he loved her.

And he wanted her to hate him.

Because if she loved him… he could never let her go again.

He took her in his arms, without a word. She let him, empty. He slipped his back under her arms and lifted her against him. She was light. Burning. He carried her as one carries what one never wants to break.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

But their hearts screamed.

---

The sun filtered gently through the thin curtains, caressing the sheets with a warm light. Y/N slowly blinked, her stomach still knotted with the emotions from the day before. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was: there, in Hyun-tak's living room, stretched out on the old sofa he'd always refused to change.

Her throat was dry, her head heavy. And yet, something else tore her from her stupor: voices.

Voices arguing.

Gotak's, first, nervous, laced with anger.

"You think that's enough for me ?! You put a barrier between us and now you want to act like everything's fine?!"

And Si-eun's, lower, tired. But sincere.

"I don't want to separate you anymore. You're the one who's angry. Not me."

Y/N slowly sat up, straining her ears, her heart beating faster.

"I tried to do what was right," Si-eun said. "I messed up. But I thought it was what I needed to do to protect her."

"You think by moving away from her, you're protecting her? Do you know how she felt when she looked at me, not understanding why I wasn't laughing at her jokes anymore? Why I wasn't brushing against her? Why I was changing paths when she arrived?!"

"I know."

"No, you don't know. Because you only see what you want to see. She looked at me like I'd become a stranger. She smiled at me even when she was sad, and I couldn't do anything."

A pause. Then Hyun-tak's voice, lower.

"I love her, damn it."

Y/N felt her chest constrict.

Hyun-tak continued, almost in a whisper, as if he no longer had the strength to hold it back.

"I did everything to tell myself it was stupid. That it was temporary. But every time I see her, every time she touches me without even thinking about it, it's like I fall a little more. I tried to detach myself. I failed."

A thick silence followed. Y/N didn't move, frozen.

Then, the door softly closed. The voices faded away.

She then noticed a sheet of paper on the coffee table. Familiar handwriting.

It's from Si-eun, she thought.

She picked it up, and read:

"Y/N. If one day your heart races, make sure it does so for the right person. Not for an illusion. Not for a crumb of affection.

For something that burns slowly, that remains.

You've always inspired me, even if I never told you.

You've always forced me to be better, even if I denied it.

I didn't want you to fall. But I made you fall. I didn't want to distance you from those who did you good. But I did. And I won't apologize with empty words.

Just... choose someone who never asks you to hide. Who looks at you like you're worth more than the world.

I think he already does.

Oppa."

Y/N put the paper down, tears welling in her eyes.

-

Hyun-tak was on the roof. As often. Sitting on the edge, legs dangling in the void, a can of soda in his hand.

She joined him, her heart both heavy and light.

"You don't smoke anymore?"

He startled slightly, turned.

"I don't know how to do it. Have you forgotten?"

She smiled. Then sat down beside him.

Silence settled, but not heavy. Sweet. Warm.

She turned her head towards him.

"You said you. loved. me."

He blushed. Lowered his head.

"You heard..."

"Every word."

He sighed, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

"I hadn't planned for it to come out like that. But it's true. It's even worse than what I said. I've loved you for months. Maybe more. You changed me, Y/N. You taught me to laugh at my own foolishness. You made me believe that maybe I wasn't so bad. And I was scared. Because I've always been the one people look at last. The one who protects but is never chosen."

He finally turned his eyes to her.

"But with you, I wanted to be the first. The only one. And I was ashamed to want it."

She said nothing.

And then, without thinking, she leaned in and kissed him.

A sudden, clumsy, desperate kiss.

She pulled away immediately, her heart pounding, terrified.

"Sorry! I thought... I believed..."

But he didn't wait.

He placed his hand on her cheek, gently, and pulled her towards him.

And this time, it was he who kissed her.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

With that modesty and intensity that don't deceive. As if he had waited a lifetime to do it. As if he was putting everything he had never been able to say into that kiss.

His fingers trembled slightly against her neck, but his lips were sure. Her heart beat fast, too fast, as if every second could break him or save him.

When he pulled back, she had her eyes closed.

He looked at her, a shy smile on his lips.

"It wasn't a fireworks display," he said. "It was a lighthouse."

She opened her eyes.

And smiled.

Her heart stronger. Clearer.

They didn't know where it would lead them.

But it was already there.

And it was true.

.................................………………………………………

New Geum Seongje fanfictions

MY SHELLA 🤧

: Gotak watching Sieun act like he didn't do anything 😐

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART ONE

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, violence, death (minor characters), bits of gore, 141 are mean pirates, kidnapping

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

The village was tranquil as you stepped through it, bare feet threading through the soft grass, hands wrapped around the handle of a woven basket. It was peaceful, as it always was, without the souls of townsfolk to burden you. They didn’t dare bother you with the witness of elders around, keeping any torment to themselves until nightfall when the small vendor shops had closed up for the evening and the old folk returned to their homes.

You basked in the warm summer rays that shined down on you as you walked past the various shops. Really, they were far from any real shops, only showcasing simple merchant carts with limited supply for the village to gather, but it was a small village, and everything you needed was for mere survival. You weren’t a greedy woman, and you were plenty grateful.

Stepping up to one of the merchants, you offered a polite smile to the older woman sitting behind it, bowing your head in greeting.

“Hello, Mary,” you addressed, and she perked up from where she stood, occupied with counting together the sum of coins she’d earned throughout the day. She reflected her own smile to you, standing a bit taller. A wrinkled hand lifted to brush strands of her gray hair that had blown astray in the light breeze, revealing her radiance.

“Afternoon, dove,” she greeted in return. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

“Just need a few more herbs, is all,” you shrugged, shifting your eyes away from hers to pick around her cart. Mary always had plenty on hand, and usually snuck you a few extras when you weren’t looking.

“Ah, I see. Well, you know the routine, dove. Feel free to pick as many as you need,” she encouraged. You smiled graciously, collecting a small variety of herbs and plants to place in your basket.

It was a different decision every week, seeing as you often performed trial and error with them in the comfort of your home. Despite many in your village disagreeing with your efforts, you were attempting to learn more about medicines. The village was in desperate need of a proper healer, and a female one at that. The male in current practice was much too biased and reckless, though you were sure to get a mouthful if you were to express the concern.

So, you took it upon yourself. Living in the village rather than out on the mainland, it wasn’t a simple teaching. Resources and education were much more difficult to come by, and it wasn’t deemed necessary information for women to have. It was exactly the reason why you were seen as a bit of an enigmatic outcast to all – all except Mary, of course. Perhaps she simply pitied you.

“This will be all for me, Mary,” you declared, setting the basket on top of her cart. Reaching for the small pouch that rested comfortably on your hip, you dug through it, collecting a few bronze coins and setting them in the old woman’s frail hand.

Mary accepted, placing the coins in her own pouch and throwing you a kind smile. “You sure, dove? Nothing else I can do for you?”

“I’m sure,” you confirmed with a nod. “Still in the experimentation phase, I fear.”

“You’ll get there,” she assured, clasping one of your hands between both of hers and giving it an encouraging shake before releasing. “Perhaps I’ll come visit you one of these days. An old lady like myself could use a few tweaks.”

This elicited a light laugh from you, shaking your head as you grasped the basket. “You look as healthy as a babe, Mary. But yes, please do. You know my door is always open for you.”

The two of you said your sweet farewells before you set off down the grassy trail once again. You passed the other merchants, who didn’t welcome you with the same kindness Mary had, but didn’t scare you away with shrewdness either. It was a typical routine, at this point, for others to look down on you. A woman, unwilling to marry and bear children and instead, studying medicine. A true scandal, some might say.

The walk back to your home was done so without issue, but when your humble abode came into sight, tucked away on the farther side of the village for more private practice, the faces of recognizable men came into view. This was just as frequent as the judgeful side eyes you received, but much more inconvenient.

“Afternoon, dove,” one of the men greeted with a slimy smile, the nickname the village had given you slipping off of his tongue like rotted poison. Dove, a name of something so beautiful, given out of mere pettiness. You were free like a bird, yet you should’ve been confined to your cage. Something pretty to look at, but proving no use. “Never quite got back to me about my courtship.”

Right. You had ignored it on purpose. Though deemed as strange and grotesque by the townspeople, this particular man hadn’t quite gotten the hint. Lucius was his name, fitting, seeing as he was as close to the devil as they came. Conceited and boastful with no decency of leaving you be.

He was awfully determined in wanting to fix you, to make you the housewife everybody expected you to be, just like the other village women. It was common practice, seeing as women didn’t do much other than simply that. While some were quite content with that lifestyle, you sought out more. You didn’t want to be chained down to a simple man who had nothing but arrogance to offer, nor a man you weren’t in love with.

“Yes, that’s quite right,” you confirmed dryly, stepping up to your home. He blocked the doorway, barricading you from entering.

“It’s quite rude for a lady to reject,” he interjected, a devilish smile plastered on his face. You blinked up at him with a look of indifference. “I am only asking for an answer.”

“I believe I’ve told you no plenty of times,” you sighed, adjusting the basket on your hip. “I am simply not interested.”

He sucked his teeth together, glowering down at you from where he stood. It was clear he wasn’t pleased with the answer, but unfortunately for him, it was all he was going to get. You were solid with your decision, and god forbid you did change your mind on being a wife and mother, it would not be with him.

“Can’t change your mind at all, dove?” he asked in fake sweetness, reaching for your hand that wasn’t holding the basket. He took it in his grip, much too tight for your liking. “Perhaps I can help change it if you give me one night.”

You scowled at his underlying tone, pulling your hand from his grasp and resting it on the knob of your door. You pushed it open, stepping inside before turning to him. “Please do not humor me with such indications. I am not interested, nor will I change my mind.”

Abruptly closing the door on him, you settled inside of your home, breathing a low sigh of relief. You could hear his faint chuckles with the other men present, their footsteps soft against the grass as they took their leave. He never took things too far, such as forcing his way into your home or worse, forcing himself on you, but you feared that day may come the longer you rejected his advances.

You set your basket on your desk, slouching down in the old chair you’d spend days upon days occupied in. Your journal sat open with ink scattered on the pages in your scribbled handwriting, brief sketches drawn about of the varying herbs you worked tirelessly on. Above you, jars lined the shelves with fading labels, filled with makeshift medicines of all kinds.

With the village and its people now out of sight and out of mind, you resumed your studies with the fresh herbs, focusing on what your heart truly desired.

You don’t remember falling asleep. It had been hours of you with a pen in your hand, jotting down useful notes for your studies, and it was no surprise you had succumbed to exhaustion at the comfort of your desk. Your cot in the corner of the room was more a stranger than anything, but with the sight of moonlight still pouring in through your small windows, you debated on moving over to it so you could resume.

Standing from your desk, you rubbed the sleepiness crusting over your eyes, a yawn threatening to tug through your throat. Just as you began your short trek to your bed, a slight tinge of orange caught your eye, peeking in through your window. It was faint, barely knowledgeable.

Curiosity got the best of you, and through your hazy state, you tugged open the front door of your small cottage, daring to see what was outside. The orange grew brighter in view now that the door opening had allowed more light to pool in, and when you rubbed at your eyes once more, you recognized it as fire.

Fire, burning fiercely in the night, eating away at your village. The sounds of terrified screams and chaotic madness became abundantly clear when you stepped outside. It made your blood run cold. All hairs on your body stood straight in warning, beckoning you to return inside, to hide.

As much as you wanted to listen, the first thing to vacate your mind was Mary. In the brush of flames, you needed to know if she was alright, if she had gotten to safety before the angry fire had broken into her own home. Where most of the townsfolk treated you as a mere joke, Mary was the one who had given you kindness when needed.

Your feet moved in a rush to sprint towards the village, the grass damp from the midnight dew and sticking to your soles. The closer you came towards the heart of the village, the louder things grew. It was blood-curling, hearing booming voices bark various orders while others shouted in petrified fear. Mary’s house was on the other side of the village, and in an act of triumph, you aimed for it.

The heat of the flames became more apparent as you closed in on the town center. Townsfolk that you had grown with since a baby were in a frenzy, some bloodied, some weeping. They looked like they had gone through the pits of hell and crawled their way out, only to be inches away from being dragged back in again.

There was no explanation for why the men of your village were wearing the crimson color of fresh blood, or why some were laying in broken heaps on the ground. They were in agony, shrieking in deafening decibels. The healer in you wanted to stop everything you were doing to aid them, but the child in you wanted to reach Mary first.

You did what your heart wanted and ran for Mary.

Approaching her house, the flames had not yet approached. It wasn’t burned to ash, nor was it in shambles. Instead, one large man had Mary in their hold by each of her arms as she attempted to fight him off while another ransacked her home.

“Mary!” you shouted, helpless. The man’s head whipped in the direction of your voice, cruel eyes narrowing in on you. Mary joined him, fearful eyes catching yours.

The sight of the men was foreign to you, but you’d recognize heartless monsters such as them anywhere. They were mere stories shared between the village, often used to scare the children away from the sea for their own protection. The village was so small, nobody had ever worried about the stories happening to them.

Pirates. Cruel, greedy, malicious. Like dogs off a leash, bearing sharp teeth and frothing at the mouth. They raided innocent villages for their supply, leaving it in disarray once they got what they wanted. Sick bastards who deserved punishment, yet slipped away in the roaring waves of the sea before it could be handed to them.

“Let go of her,” you pleaded with the pirate, hands clasped together. You knew you couldn’t fight him off, even if you tried. Mary was just as powerless as you, and old age was starting to catch up to her. She was fragile, and with the way he was handling her, you feared she’d get harmed.

The mysterious pirate continued to stare at you with an unreadable expression. He grunted in annoyance, loosening his grip on Mary but not quite releasing. It did nothing to comfort you, and that feeling grew tenfold when the other pirate stepped out of Mary’s home, locking in on you.

“Grab tha’ one, will ye, Gaz?” the one holding Mary huffed, gesturing towards you with a nod of his head. The other, Gaz, nodded in return, sauntering up to you like death on wheels. You needed to run, to escape, but he was too quick. Before you knew it, Gaz’s arms had wrapped around your waist, hauling you over his shoulder like a doll.

Flailing in his embrace did nothing. His grip was firm, arm locked on to you impossibly tight, and the punches you threw to his back seemed almost comical to him.

“Find anythin’?” the other asked Gaz. Gaz shook his head, releasing a frustrated exhale.

As chaos ensued around you, the two men began dragging you and Mary along towards the heart of the village where you were moments ago. Gaz’s grip loosened on you, before he dropped you to the damp ground carelessly. You landed with a huff, soreness soaring through your back.

Looking around, you realized that many of the townsfolk were in the same condition. Lined up besides one another, pleading for their lives, weeping with ugly snot running from their noses. Mary was beside you, shaken but unharmed from the looks of it. She stared at you with heart wrenching fright, and you wished you could’ve told her things would be okay.

But they weren’t. The village was set ablaze, its people lined up like prisoners with a group of pirates looming over them like reapers prepared for death. The peace from this afternoon had vanished, and there would be no return. Things would be forever different, if they spared your lives.

Gaz and the other pirate stood side by side as they looked over the townsfolk. Another was beside them, face distorted by a ghastly mask that resembled a skull. It sent shivers down your spine. It was as if you truly were looking death in the eye.

A fourth pirate stepped forward, eyes that should’ve been considered kind instead staring down every last villager with heated observation. He was silent as he paced slowly, hands behind his back, the fire casting a doomful glow upon his face.

“My name is Captain Price,” he introduced. His voice was booming with authority. “If you do not wish to aid us, then we do not wish to aid you. The choice is yours.”

Sweat beaded your hairline from both the flames of fire scorching around you, and the anxiety that spiked inside of you. Your eyes locked in on the Captain, watching his every movement, noting the way he stood tall and proud, showcasing the true power he held. The villagers and you were helpless against him and his crew, and he was ensuring that it was obvious.

“We seek a medic. If you cannot provide that to us, then you are of no use to me,” he explained, pausing his pacing. He took in the sight of every grim face. Once he landed on you, you shivered, looking away in a panic. “I will ask you once. Who is your medic?”

Deafening silence filled the air apart from the flickering flames that threatened to consume us whole. Nobody dared to speak a word, nor did they look away from Price. It was as if time had stopped and everybody froze.

Price sniffed, glancing around the villagers. Though he seemed collected in his behavior, you could recognize the impatience from the way his lip twitched and his shoulders tensed.

“The Captain asked you lot a question,” Gaz sneered in defense. Price spared him a glance before returning focus. Still, nobody spoke for the next few moments.

It wasn’t until Price’s hand drifted to his waist, hand coming to rest on a handgun that the air shifted into one of unease. The sight of it made you sick to the stomach. Handguns were a specialty only the wealthy or military could acquire. They were rare and expensive, a luxury to some, but deadly. One click, and your soul was taken right from your body.

Price grasped the handgun, holding it in his hand as if it were a toy. He stepped up to the line of villagers, peering down at them like useless pigs. The sight of the gun had women quivering in fear, tears streaming down their rosy cheeks. The men were men no more, stripped away of their masculinity and replaced with little boys, unable to protect their kin and fulfill their duty as defenders.

The gun was raised, threat building with every inch. The barrel pointed right at the horror-stricken face of the very man who intruded on your home earlier – Lucius. Gone was the cocky mockery of a man, replaced with a whimpering boy who feared death just as much as another. He was shaking, shoulders slouched in attempts to appear small.

“We will try this again,” Price demanded. The cold barrel pressed to the temple of Lucius’ head and you could do nothing but sit and watch, unsure of what to feel. Sure, he kept a sour taste in your mouth simply from being. But to wish death on him for being a hindrance was distasteful. “Who is your medic?”

Lucius wouldn’t possibly rat you out. He was a selfish man who took what he wanted, but surely, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that cruel.

The coward’s shaky hand lifted to point in your direction. It felt as if he were throwing a sharp dagger at you, the way he exposed the occupation you’d been so meticulously working hard towards.

Eyes shifted towards you, sending an ice cold burst through your veins. They were prodding, dissecting you from head to toe as if you were an experiment for them to test on. It was unsettling, sinking your heart down to the pits of your stomach.

“You’re the medic?” Price questioned. He hadn’t lowered his weapon, keeping it firm against Lucius’ skull, but his attention had shifted to you. His eyes weren’t warm and kind like they were shaped out to be, but rather cold, glossed over with hardened hostility.

“I–” You swallowed. “I am merely a medic in practice. I am not a professional, I do not know proper teachings–”

“Ghost,” he interrupted, whipping his head to look at the masked man. Ghost was a brute of a man, a shadow that would’ve been consumed by the night if not for the illuminating glow coming from the village in flames. “Take her so she can gather her things. She’s coming with us.”

Dread struck you right to the core. You wanted to beg for them to leave you be, to explain that you weren’t what they wanted. You didn’t want to be stripped from your home and tossed onto a ship with no clue of where your next destination was. These men were dangerous, seeping pure rancor and poisoning the very ground you laid on. Leaving with them was a death sentence.

Ghost said nothing, and even if he did, you wouldn’t have been able to hear it from the subtle weeping from villagers beside you. His strides were long as he approached you, and without warning, his rough hand grasped your elbow, hauling you to your feet. The force startled you, throwing you off balance but his grip was tight enough to keep you grounded.

As you were dragged away towards the direction of your home, you could hear an uproar of cries. Terror struck the village once more and you could do nothing but accept fate for what it was. You wanted to turn your head to see what was becoming of your people, but you were scared. Scared of what you may see, scared of what Ghost will do if you look.

You kept your gaze forward, legs moving quickly to match the heavy pace of Ghost, guiding the lion into your den.

Arriving at your home, you were hit with the realization that it would be the last time entering it. Your hard work would vanish, the space you made into your security blanket would be destroyed, burned to ash once the flames settled. It tore your heart to bits.

“Hurry up,” Ghost gruffed, his voice gravelly and hoarse. Just like Price, it was assertive, leaving no room for discussion.

You made haste to pack your essentials into a flimsy satchel. It wouldn’t be able to fit much, and you could only pray they would at least provide you with bare necessities on your voyage to hell. In your satchel went your journal, the cluttered jars of experimental medicines, your favorite quill, and a daring change of clothes. If Ghost thought you to remain alive long enough to have the opportunity to redress, he didn’t express it.

“That all?” he huffed, and when you nodded, he seized your arm again. “Let’s go.”

The sight of your home became a distant memory the farther you went from it. Already your body was pleading to go back, to curl up in bed and pretend that all of this was a sick dream. You regretted not making your cot of more use, sleeping in that damned wooden chair instead.

By the time you arrived back at the town center, it was like witnessing purgatory itself. Bloodshed with the bodies of your people laid across the ground like animals tossed aside. Useless and unworthy, that was how these pirates treated them. Though your people had never been kind to you, this was a fate you would never have wished upon them.

Their faces were unrecognizable as you took them in. Some burned, some beaten so bloody their faces had swelled into ugly monsters, some slain. The sight of the deceased made you want to vomit, bile piling in your throat and threatening to expel out.

Your eyes frantically searched for Mary, aching to know if they had given her mercy. She was a frail woman, withering with her age. She was innocent.

You couldn’t find her familiar face, and you weren’t sure whether to feel relieved or dreadful.

The three other pirates were standing around one another. They were unphased by the actions they had bestowed upon the village, as if it was another simple day. It unnerved you, rattling your bones with burrowing fear. When they noticed the return of you and their crewmate, they wasted no time in guiding you off to the small port in which their ship had been docked.

It was large, wood tainted with brown so dark it could’ve been black. It blended in with the abyss of the sea, which you realized was entirely the point. Unnoticed and concealed.

Ghost didn’t let go of you as he helped you on to the ship, nor did he release once your bare feet connected with the wood. It was just as restricting as before, causing a light pulse to form in your bicep where he held you.

“Take her to the chambers until we figure out the next step,” Price ordered Ghost, nodding his head in the direction of raggedy doors. You could only imagine what lies behind them, waiting for you.

Ghost grunted in response, tugging you with him and having you stumble on your own two feet. The wood was rough and sharp on your soles, slicing tiny splinters into your skin. Shoes weren’t needed in your village unless it was winter, and even then, the grass was always enough to consume them in warmth. Now, you were regretting not owning a pair.

“In you go,” Ghost uttered once he had the door pulled open, shoving you down a small flight of stairs towards the lower section of the ship. It was dingy and unlit, the only light seeping in being the moonlight from a tiny window.

Once inside, you recognized your new home as a cell. Barred and caged in, being tossed inside carelessly. There was nothing but a cot and a bucket to relieve yourself. It was completely empty and void of comfort.

Ghost shut the cell door, locking it with an annoyed grunt. You hadn’t even noticed him pull out the set of keys to open it for you, nor had you noticed when he locked you in. You watched as he thrusted the keys in his back pocket, the only evidence of its presence being the small glint of metal from the moon’s light.

“Wait!” you cried out when he turned to leave. You scrambled on the cell floor, hands wrapping around the cold bars. He paused his walk, throwing you a look of disinterest. “You can’t just leave me in here!”

Ghost snorted in what you dared to say amusement. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, princess. You’ll be of use soon enough.”

Ignoring your pleas, he stepped up the stairs and returned to the main deck, shutting the door and leaving you utterly alone. Silence filled the air apart from the calming waves of the sea, though it did nothing to soothe you. You were helpless, deprived of any form of escape.

You spent what felt like hours on the floor of your cell, weeping into your own hands, silently praying to a God to release you. When nobody came to your rescue, you knew it was far too late for a miracle. This would be your new life, your new home, for as long as they kept you alive.

Part of you wished they would’ve just killed you instead.

[emacrow]

Raven found a Feral Farshee and saved a town

Teen Titans got an alert for another candidate from titans east only the signal led to a broken titan in the middle of a dark foggy and scary woods in the middle of Illinois that seems to be causing the other to hallucinations and get lost.

Raven seems to be the only one immune to this as the teen titans got picked off one by one, distracted by something only to end by the shadows and a terrifying wail that scared the living souls out of them.

This was worse than movie night when her powers went out of control due to fear, except she beaten her own fears.

She know there was someone or something in this woods causing all of this and whatever it was, it was in pain, a whole lot of pain to steal everyone who seem to wander in the woods without hurting them.

Perhaps to absorb safety to distract itself from its own pain is what raven was thinking until she found the source.

In a barren broken town covered in frozen snow and ice. An old cracked sign covered fully in overgrown frozen vines barely said anything until she used her telekinesis to move them.

Welcome to Amity Park. It's a nice place to live! Home to the most famous sup- phant-! What was the sign said if it weren't for the evacuation and Do Not Cross tape and signs all around it.

There wasn't a place like this on the map, let alone on the Titan tracker that wasn't working anymore.

It was cold, below 20 winter cold as Raven flew in the town.

She could feel the eyes of something staring at her as she anazyling the town.

Something had happened here, something big as she was seeing ice statues of varieties ages people in clothes, shoes around stuck in place as if their were doing normal town things or running from something.

More and more statues in clothes, hats, dress, police uniforms, suits, etc she kept finding as she flew by..

Only to stop at a familiar statue.. it was Robin, except he was frozen completely like a ice statue except his Robin uniform were still on with his titan communiater in his hand still pressing the buttons as if he was shouting about something.

Her heart dropped as most teen titans members were here, along with a Titans east frozen like ice statues.

Before her eyes caught something, bringing another statue. She dipped into the shadows immediately.

"Safe, must keep everyone safe, safe, safe in forever ice, nobody can get hurt now, all safe, they can't leave through the portal, all safe..."

Watching as a very long white-haired boy wearing a frozen crown floating in a black hazmat suit and a mystical cape, carry beast boy frozen in ice statue like state as a frighten falcon with one claw out.

He was much taller than cyborg, but thinner than a scarecrow, four arms, with exposed skin on his long hand paler than sickening white paint with lines of blue.

His eyes were dull blue, wearing a necklace glowing a bright ominous blue, a familiar necklace tied with a simple gold thread she had read about once.

A curse necklace of power, thought to have been lost in a bargaining chip with the infinite realm King due to twisted and corrupt the user's power to gain control over them unless forcefully taken off or cut off, reverting the effects.

It seemed to taken over this person completely.

She thought of a plan easy enough for her to snap it. Manifesting a pair of thin shadow scissors to cut the gold thread through.

Hearing the sharp snip cut through the necklace immediately alerted his attention toward her, only for the snapped necklace to drop on the floor.

Dull blue eyes shrank before a glowing green and sharp pupil revealed themselves in his eyes before rolling upwards, gravity taking effect immediately for him to collapse on the floor immediately.

The guy fell into a deep sleep as she kept him contain in a giant shadow grasp, probably out of exhaustion as the status of her teammates started to thaw out, skin exposed as the ice practically fell off them.

Each teammate suddenly gasped for air. It wasn't just them as the town itself was melting, ice cracking, noise of people were gasping or mid screaming, coming back to life from the frozen prison.

The culprit, who cause all this was still asleep, suddenly had a flash of light surrounding them as long silvery mixed with black hair teen very malnourished thin lay in the shadow grasp.

Before Raven could explain, the town folks were suddenly holding strange guns glowing green.

"Let fenton go, you creeps!"

Part 2 -> here

[scarletttries]

Write A Kiss Request: Kang Dae-Ho/Player 388 (Squid Game) x Reader...a kiss in a rush of adrenaline

(prompt list here) & 2025 Request List - requests open

..a kiss for Dae-Ho in a rush of adrenaline

You hadn't really thought about finding an ally in this awful place. Honestly you thought the desperation that filled the sad dorm every night would make everyone here focus on only looking out for themselves. But amongst the darkest times there is always a glimmer of hope in the kindness of others, and the Squid Games were no exception. After only the first game you found yourselves falling in with the previous winner Gi-Hun and the team of friends he seemed to so effortlessly gather around him. One of your teammates in particular seemed to have the innate ability to keep the lights of hope on in your heart when they could have so easily been extinguished - Dae-Ho.

The awkward former marine had been the first to offer you a seat with them, dusting off one of the metal steps you perched on as if he was pulling out a chair at a nice restaurant. It was easy to feel safe around him; his strong arms always settling him in the seat beside you, his kind eyes seeking reassurance you were okay as the games progressed, and his sweet smile telling you this situation would be over soon enough, even though you had no reason to believe him. The two of you were clearly drawn to each other as you entered the game of Mingle, Dae-Ho swearing on his life to keep you close no matter what. But with each passing round the crowd got more aggressive and desperate, the sea of frantic bodies pulling you apart in its current, even as you fought to stay together. After each round you managed to find each other again, only to be grabbed by different groups in the next round and left desperately hoping and praying you both would emerge safely when the doors unlocked again.

"Hold onto my hand." He said firmly as you reunited for the final round, a renewed intensity in his eyes knowing that he only needed to keep you safe for one more torturous minute of this terrible game. "In-ho thinks it will be two per room next, so I promise, me and you are going to be safe." He tried to sound confident, but even in the dim lights you could see his eyes were glistening on the edge of tears as he clung to your hand and braced himself for the wheel stop.

"Groups of Two!" The automated game voice called out for above, and suddenly you felt your whole body getting heaved upwards, the ground below you moving faster than you thought possible from this strange new angle. As you saw the spinning platform disappear from your view, your hands clung desperately to the shape moving at full pelt below you, everything happening in such a blur you couldn't make sense of it.

You heard a door slam and lock, and finally the same strong arms that had made you feel welcome in this strange, scary place gently lowered you back to your feet from where you had been resting over Dae-Ho's shoulder.

"I wasn't taking any chances that time." He laughed out with a nervous smile when he saw your awestruck expression. Rather than risk losing you in the crowd again, he'd just held you tightly and ran as fast as he could to the first free room, never looking behind him because he knew he had everything needed with him.

You stared up at his bashful grin, his head shaking apologetically for the rough way he had handled you, feeling the sheer weight of the situation finally sink in. You were safely through another game. Because of him.

"We're safe! You kept us safe!" You cried out excitedly, your heart hammering in your chest at the realisation, your skin tingling with electricity where his hand still rested lightly on your back until he was sure you wouldn't fall.

"I told you I'd keep you safe." He said simply, offering you a small smile that felt so sincere you couldn't stop yourself from crashing your lips against it. Your hands reached over his shoulders to thread through his long black hair, desperately pulling him closer as if in this moment you two were the only people here. Like you would always be safe if you could stay this close.

Not losing a moment Dae-Ho arms wrapped tightly around your waist, lifting your feet off the ground as he dragged you closer, diving into your kiss like it offered him salvation from your solemn surroundings. His teeth nipped against your bottom lip clumsily, all hungry desperation and making the most of every second, shutting out any noise from outside your little room; your little sanctuary, a place where everything would be okay.

As the lock on your door clicked open you both reluctantly parted, unsure if anything so sweet could exist in the rest of this foresaken place. Dae-Ho spoke first, goofy smile plastered across his face where once a worried grimace had been.

"We should go vote to leave, and then maybe I could buy you dinner with my winnings?"

[em1i2a3]

A House In Nebraska

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x (Ex?)Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After considering it for a long time, you have decided that it is time to leave the Thunderbolts and pursue a normal life after being passed from team to team for years. When you make the announcement it is met with a mix of emotions, but nobody is taking it harder than Bob.

Warnings: Angst and more Angst (with an ending that everyone will like hopefully), Hurt/Comfort (technically), Bob is going through it kinda, Unspoken Feelings Between Reader and Bob.

Author’s Note: I’ve been wanting to write this scenario for a while and I was finally able to get an ending that I truly loved and adored, and I am so glad that I was able to finish this and get this out to you guys, and I hope you guys enjoy it <3

Word Count: 8,336

”I’m leaving…”

The words felt foreign as they left your mouth. Soft. Like they didn’t quite belong to you. Like someone else had said them first, quietly, in some dream you didn’t remember waking from. They drifted into the room like smoke–barely there, but impossible to ignore. They were the kind of words that rearranged the air, and twisted it up into something totally different and new.

It was supposed to be a normal night.

Everyone was tucked into their usual spots around the low table in the compound’s common room–takeout containers open, steam curling toward the ceiling, the hum of the base’s heating vents filling the quiet between bites. You had ordered everything–from the popular Chinese takeout place down the road that somehow knew everyone’s preferences better than they knew each other’s. Spicy drunken noodles for Yelena. Chicken, Duck and Pork with extra rice for Alexei. Garlic dumplings with extra garlic and extra chili oil sauce for Bucky. Sweet-and-sour chicken for Walker. Tom Yum Soup and Spring Rolls for Ava. And Bob’s quiet favourite–plain lo mein with shredded pork, no veggies, extra sauce–which was nestled in front of him barely touched.

He had known something was off the moment you said dinner was on you. Everyone did actually. They had racked their brains trying to think if they somehow missed a birthday, or if a holiday passed and somehow they didn’t realize it, but after hours of thinking they had said to themselves that it was just a regular Thursday…Which raised their suspicions and their worries. But nobody could’ve ever expected this.

You were sitting between Bob and Yelena, your knees pulled up under you on the worn-down couch, your tray balanced on your lap. Bob’s thigh was pressed lightly against yours, as it always was–casual, comforting, and familiar, something he always did because it was second nature for him to be close to you. But the second your words hit the air, it was as if that contact felt electric, like a shock went through his body. You could feel him go stiff, and you didn’t even have to turn your head to know he was looking at you.

So was Yelena.

Both their heads had twisted toward you almost simultaneously, disbelief etched into the sharp lines of their profiles. It wasn’t often that they mirrored one another. But tonight, confusion and a quiet thread of betrayal lit up both their expressions like a crack of lightning.

You didn’t dare to look at either of them. You didn’t want to. You didn’t trust yourself not to fall apart. Not when you had already made the impossible decision.

So you kept your eyes on your food instead, though your appetites had vanished hours ago when you made the choice to tell the team tonight about what your plans were.

The silence that overtook the room was instant, not even the low tapping of chopsticks could be heard. Nobody moved, and no one dared to speak.

Except Bucky. Or rather–not Bucky. He was the only one who didn’t react. He stayed perfectly still at the far end of the couch, arms braced on his knees, jaw flexed like he was trying not to wince at how tense the room was at the moment. He blinked slowly, lifted his beer and took a long sip.

He was playing his part well, because he was the only one who knew–the only one you had told. You didn’t want the others trying to stop you. You didn’t want soft glances or hands on your arm or late-night conversations asking if this was about a mission, a memory or a nightmare you couldn’t shake. You didn’t want to be the problem they tried to fix.

You were done being that.

And the only person who you knew would understand where you were coming from was Bucky.

When you had told him, he had looked at you like you were speaking a different language. You had cornered him in the weapons bay a week ago, in the quiet lull between missions. He was restocking tranquilizers, and you just stood there until he looked up.

”I’m leaving,” You had said then. His brow furrowed at the announcement.

”Is everything alright?” You hadn’t hesitated to respond.

”Everything’s fine…I’ve never felt more sure about a decision actually.” That was when he stilled.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t scold you for even thinking about it. He just watched you like he knew how much it cost you to finally say it out loud. He let you speak for what felt like the first time in months. You told him about the way the noise was finally too much. The walls. The walls in your mind and the ones around this compound. You told him about waking up every morning with a part of yourself missing, hollowed out by years of being someone else’s weapon.

Bucky had listened in silence. Because he understood.

He knew what it was like to be built for the battlefield. To want to come home and realize you didn’t even know what home meant.

By the end, he nodded. Not in resignation–but in understanding. He didn’t try to convince you to stay. He promised to keep your secret.

And now, watching him at the edge of the couch–quiet, still, unreadable–you were genuinely impressed. He was playing the part like a professional. Eyes neutral. Shoulders stiff. Not a single twitch of his mouth betrayed what he knew. What only he knew.

Before anyone could speak–before the team could do what you were dreading—you jumped in again.

“I told Val a few days ago,” you said, your voice calm but low. “She’s aware of it. And… She’s actually helping me relocate.” A sharp scoff broke the tension like a blade.

“Bullshit,” Walker muttered, dropping his chopsticks onto his plate with a dull clatter, “Is hell frozen over or something? She would never do that.” You gave him a long look, steady but not unkind.

“I thought the same thing too. Trust me. But Mel followed up with a bunch of housing options…And that’s when I realized she actually meant it. She’s…Allowing me to go.” There was a pause–one of those unnatural ones where it felt like the whole room was holding its breath.

And in that silence, you noticed it.

Bob was rubbing his knees. His hands were pressing down on the fabric of his black sweatpants, fists tightening over and over like he didn’t know what to do with them. He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t moved. But something was coming undone beneath the surface, and it was almost unbearable to watch.

Your jaw clenched as you leaned the slightest bit toward him, fingers moving gently to rest over his wrist. You didn’t grip, you just placed your hand there–soft, grounding. It was something small, but he flinched like the contact had burned him. Ava’s voice broke through next, sharp and direct.

“Why the hell are you leaving?” She asked, eyes locked on yours. Her tone was level, but there was something trembling behind it. Something brittle. “You’re one of us. This team–we’ve been through hell together. Why now?” You didn’t answer right away.

You breathed in through your nose. Let it fill your lungs like it might soften the blow. Then you met her gaze.

“I was born into an environment where I was trained to fight. Kill. Infiltrate. Deceive,” you said, each word measured, not cold–but tired. “I never saw the sun until I was sixteen. I was kept in rooms without windows. I was…Catalogued. Modified. Passed around like I was inhuman.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’ve never had a home. Never had a normal day. Never been able to choose anything for myself. I’ve spent my whole life being used–over and over again–and all I want now…Is to live in peace, and to have a normal life. I don’t want to travel and go after people anymore…I don’t want to harm people and fight them to the death. I want to wake up in a house I could call mine, and exist without being needed.” You looked around the table, eyes landing on each of them in turn, “I’m not built for this life anymore…And I know you might hate me for it and think I’m selfish…But my task here is done…” You added.

There was a long pause, thick enough to choke you–and maybe that’s what you wanted.

And then–

“…S-So you can’t live a no–normal life with us?” Bob’s voice was barely a whisper. Barely even a sound. But it shattered something deep in your chest.

You turned your head slowly to look at him.

His face was twisted into something small. Vulnerable. His eyes, wide and watery. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t furious. He was just…Breaking.

“Bob…” You said gently, your voice catching. “You know it’s not like that.”

But he was already pulling his arm away from your touch.

“Sure se–seems like it,” He said, and his voice cracked halfway through the sentence. Then he stood abruptly–too fast, too sharp–and walked out of the room.

His food remained untouched.

The only trace he had even been there was the imprint left in the cushion beside you. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room, and your lungs were compressing and begging for air.

Yelena let out a slow, frustrated sigh, shifting in her spot, her knuckles turning white around her chopsticks, jaw set tight, clenching so hard it seemed like her teeth made a sharp grinding noise.

“When are you going?” She asked, not looking at you, not daring to even make eye contact. You licked your lips, feeling your throat tighten from the dryness that you were suddenly aware of in the air.

”Next Wednesday.” Yelena let out a low, bitter laugh. One that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Well,” She muttered, getting up from her spot slowly, “I hope it’s peaceful for you.” And without another word she walked away too. The remaining warmth of the room had left with her, and in its place was an empty, brittle kind of quiet that came after an argument no one wanted to admit had just happened.

“Wow,” Walker muttered, low and sardonic, shoving a piece of checking into his mouth without looking at anyone, “You really know how to thin out a crowd.” Bucky shot him a sharp look. A warning.

”Walker.” But he turned towards him, fork pausing halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing with that familiar glint of provocation.

”What?” He snapped, “Are we seriously supposed to be okay with this? Just sit here and clap for her while she walks out? We all have fucking baggage here. We all bleed for this team. You were the one that was brainwashed for seventy years, Bucky. If anyone deserves a normal life, it’s you.” His jaw tightened at the comment.

”This is where I want to be, John,” He said firmly, “She doesn’t want to be here anymore…She’s burned out and exhausted. She’s done. Do you understand? Or do I need to get out the whiteboard and draw it out for you like you’re a fucking child?” That shut Walker up for a beat.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the metallic tang of blood blooming faintly on your tongue. Your stomach turned with the weight of being discussed like you weren’t even there, like you were some walking existential crisis just dropped into the center of dinner.

“Can we not act like I’m not sitting right here?” You asked, voice tight and edged.

Walker looked like he wanted to say something back, but Alexei shifted heavily in his chair, making the wood groan under his weight. He leaned forward on his elbows–his plate long forgotten in his lap–and looked at you with something gentle in his eyes.

”I support…Whatever you do,” He started slowly, his accent heavy but words carefully chosen, “You must do what you feel. Think for yourself. Not for team. Not for mission. That is not weakness. That is freedom.” His massive hand reached over and patted your shoulder—solid and warm, like he was trying to anchor you to something. His expression was soft in a way that felt rare. Earnest.

Your eyes stung.

”Thank you Alexei.” You said quietly, throat already tightening from the tears that were threatening to escape. Alexei just nodded and leaned back again, folding his arms over his chest as if he’d said all he needed to.

Walker blew out a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded vaguely like “Still think it’s bullshit”, but he didn’t continue to push the subject–he knew it was no use.

As you stared down at your hands–at the faint tremble in your fingers, at the spot where Bob had sat, now empty–you realized something painful and true.

You weren’t just leaving a team…You were breaking a family.

And even though it was the right decision for yourself…That didn’t make it hurt any less.

———————————

You were in your bedroom, surrounded by half-filled boxes–some sealed, some still yawning open with uncertainty. The floor was a mess of folded sweaters, books, tangled cords, and scraps of your life that had clung to the corners of the compound without you realizing it. A permanent layer of dust had formed beneath the bed, now exposed, and a lone sock had somehow ended up behind your nightstand. The hum of the ventilation system buzzed quietly above you, low and steady, the only constant sound in an otherwise hollow space.

There were labels on each box–Clothes, Gear, Kitchen Stuff, Important Docs, To Val–but one sat alone at the edge of your bed.

A box labeled simply: Bob.

Polaroids, mostly. Ones you’d snapped at odd hours, between missions, at safe houses and gas stations and rooftops during sunset. There was one of him half-asleep with his hoodie pulled over his face, slumped sideways on a bench in Prague. One where he was squinting into the camera because you’d caught him mid-chew during a ramen run in Oslo. A few blurry ones he’d taken of you without asking, and you hadn’t even realized until weeks later when you found them in the stack.

You added one last thing–a keychain.

It was dumb. A glittery, over-the-top crescent moon trinket you’d won from a claw machine on a mission in Atlantic City. Bob had said it looked like something a seven-year-old would clip to their backpack. And then later, quietly, he’d asked if you could win him one too.

He’d kept it on him for months before it broke. You’d found the spare in your drawer last week, still sealed in its plastic, and tucked it into the tissue beside the photos.

The ache in your chest hadn’t stopped since that night in the common room. Not once. It hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had grown sharper with every day Bob avoided you. Every time he turned down a hallway the moment he saw you coming. Every time he shut the door a little too fast behind him. You’d tried–three separate times–to catch him when he was alone. To talk. To explain. But each time he shut you down with silence. His eyes flickered, his hands clenched, and he walked away.

He didn’t hate you.

You knew that much.

But something in him had closed off. Locked down. Like if he said a single word, the rest of it–all that golden, aching softness–would pour out and ruin everything.

Yelena, on the other hand, had surprised you.

She gave you a chance.

A few nights after the dinner fallout, she found you in the training bay–sitting against the wall with your knees drawn up, water bottle dripping condensation between your palms. She didn’t ask questions at first. Just sat beside you in silence. For nearly ten minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then she muttered, “I’m here if you want to talk.”

And this time…You did.

You told her everything. Not all at once, not easily, but enough. Enough for her to understand that you weren’t running from the team–you were running toward something you had never been allowed to have. Peace. Quiet. Your own name, your own morning, your own walls that didn’t have reinforced steel embedded in them.

Yelena didn’t say anything when you finished. Not at first.

She just sat beside you, her shoulder barely brushing yours, her eyes fixed on the far wall of the training bay like maybe she was trying to memorize every crack in the concrete. Her jaw was tense. You could hear the way she was breathing through her nose–slow, controlled. Not angry. Just…Processing.

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t the suffocating kind. It was careful. Heavy with meaning. Like the two of you were both sitting in the aftermath of something important.

You didn’t expect her to speak. You didn’t need her to.

Because she stayed.

She didn’t storm off or call you a coward. She didn’t try to talk you out of it. She didn’t even ask you to stay for her. She just sat there with you in the grief of it. Like someone holding vigil beside a wound that couldn’t be stitched.

When she finally did speak, her voice was low. Rough.

“Felt like we were finally building something here,” She murmured. “Like maybe… we were gonna be okay.”

Your throat tightened. “We are gonna be okay.”

She turned to look at you. Not cold. Not bitter. Just…Wounded.

“It won’t be the same.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t lie. You didn’t try to sugarcoat it or cushion the fall with reassurances you couldn’t promise.

Instead, you nodded.

“I know,” You said softly. “It really won’t.”

Yelena blinked slowly, like that answer hurt more than anything you could have said. But there was a kind of respect in it, too. The way she held your gaze. The way she didn’t look away.

You offered her the only thing you could.

“I’ll FaceTime you. Anytime you want. Doesn’t matter what hour it is. If I’m free, I’ll answer.”

She gave a soft, humorless snort and rolled her eyes–but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You say that now. Wait until I call you at three a.m.”

“I’ll still be there…Even if I’m half asleep.” You replied, nudging her shoulder with yours. She looked down at her hands for a moment, then looked back at you, her eyes glossy.

”I’m still mad at you.” You nod.

”I know.”

”And I still think you’re abandoning me…”

You nodded again, “I know that too.” Yelena’s jaw twitched. She looked like she was going to say something else, but then she just reached down, picked up your water bottle, and twisted the cap off. She took a sip and handed it back like nothing had happened. Like the training bay wasn’t holding the fractured pieces of your friendship in its concrete walls.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna miss you,” she muttered.

You smiled, soft and aching. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

She glanced at you again—this time longer. The look in her eyes was weighted, but steadier now. Not entirely okay, but… accepting. Like the fight had drained out of her and what was left was only the sharp sting of goodbye.

“You better not disappear,” she said quietly. “Or I will come find you. And I’ll drag your sorry ass back here kicking and screaming.”

You laughed–really laughed, even as tears burned behind your eyes. “Okay. Deal.” She stood then, brushing her hands on her sweats, and offered you one last look before she walked off.

It was simple. Wordless.

But it said everything.

And after the door clicked shut behind her, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

The ache in your chest was still there. Still raw. Still full of Bob’s silence and Yelena’s resignation and the ghost of the team you were leaving behind.

But somewhere beneath it all…Was the first glimmer of peace.

———————————

That night, sleep didn’t come—it hovered just out of reach, like a memory you couldn’t hold onto. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind filled with static. Movement. Noise. A hundred moments pressing down on your chest all at once.

So you gave up trying.

The clock read 2:47 a.m. when you finally swung your legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool beneath your bare feet. You pulled on a robe, soft and worn from too many laundry cycles, and padded quietly across the room. The boxes seemed to watch you as you passed—silent witnesses to the pieces of yourself you were leaving behind.

You didn’t bother with shoes. It was spring, and the air was warm enough to touch your skin without biting.

The elevator ride up to the roof was quiet, but your stomach twisted tighter with every passing floor. You weren’t sure what you were hoping to find up there–maybe just some air. Maybe some stillness.

But when the doors slid open with a soft ding, your breath caught in your throat.

Bob was there.

He was lying back on one of the outdoor couches, head tilted up toward the stars, arms folded across his chest. The glow of the rooftop lights had dimmed to their nighttime setting–just enough to paint the space in soft gold. You could see the outline of his shoulders rising and falling, slow and deep.

At the sound of the elevator, he lifted his head slightly. His eyes met yours for only a second before he turned away again and let his head drop back down with a quiet thud against the cushions.

You stepped out onto the roof, swallowing the lump that was already forming in your throat.

“Bob…” You called softly, moving toward him, “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

He didn’t answer.

“You can’t just let me go without saying goodbye.”

Still nothing.

You moved closer, your steps careful, hesitant. When you reached the couch, you saw he had rolled halfway onto his side–facing away from you now, his back rigid, spine curved like he was holding the weight of something that wouldn’t let go. There was just enough space behind him on the cushions. You lowered yourself gently, wedging into the curve his body didn’t fill. Close, but not pressing. Not yet at least.

“C’mon, Bob…” You murmured. “Can you please just talk to me?”

You heard it first. A soft, quiet sniffle.

Then a voice, broken in half:

“Am I not wo–worth staying for?”

The question hit you like a punch to the ribs. You blinked hard, reaching toward him before you could stop yourself. Your hand rested on his chest, over the thin cotton of his t-shirt—his heartbeat thudding unevenly beneath your palm.

“Bob…” You said, your voice catching. “Of course you are. Of course you are. But I can’t stay. I can’t be a Thunderbolt anymore.”

He didn’t look at you.

But you saw the tears glistening on the bridge of his nose, catching in the faint rooftop light as they slid down into the fabric of the pillow.

“So why don’t you ju–just quit the te–team and stay?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick and shaking. “Stay with me?” You closed your eyes, your thumb brushing gently back and forth against his chest.

“Because I need a clean slate,” You whispered. “I love you guys so much…But I can’t surround myself with these things anymore. I’m so tired of it.”

His hand rose shakily and settled over yours. His fingers curled around yours like he needed to hold onto something before it slipped away.

And his chest shook beneath your hand as he cried.

“I have been owned by people my entire life,” You said, your voice low and slow, every word weighted. “I never got to make decisions for myself. I never got the choice to be… who I am now. I was born into it. I didn’t get a say. I was punished for things I couldn’t control, and I had to pick up the pieces of myself that I never knew existed.”

Bob was silent, but his grip tightened slightly.

“I have never had a sense of normalcy,” You continued. “I’ve never experienced being on my own–really on my own–and being in control of my own life without the strict schedules of missions or handlers or daily combat briefings. I’ve been surviving for so long, Bob… And I want to live.”

You shifted closer, forehead resting gently between his shoulder blades, your breath warming the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m trying to find who I am outside of a weapon, outside of what I was raised to be. I need to know who that person is. Do you understand?” For a long time, he didn’t say anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the wind brushing across the roof, and the quiet, unsteady rhythm of Bob’s breathing.

Then, finally–so softly you almost didn’t hear it:

“I understand.” He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the side of his face. His eyes were rimmed red, lashes damp. “…But…” He whispered, voice cracking like a fault line beneath the surface, “I ca–can’t imagine living my life without you in it…”

The words struck something so deep inside you, you almost didn’t breathe.

Your heart seized.

A slow, aching twist that started in your chest and moved outward like a ripple through still water. Your eyes filled instantly, no warning, just heat behind your lashes and the sudden blurring of everything around him.

“Bob…” You breathed. The name didn’t even feel like a word–it was just grief in a single exhale. Heavy and fragile all at once.

But before you could say anything else, he moved.

His hand found yours, and with trembling fingers, he brought it to his mouth.

You felt his breath first–hot, unsteady. It fanned across your knuckles like the flicker of a flame. His lips hovered, trembling, and then your fingertips accidentally grazed the curve of his bottom lip. You flinched–barely–but the touch set your pulse reeling.

“Yo–You can’t say that,” You whispered, voice unsteady. “You can’t…”

He nodded, his eyes closed now, like he was bracing for impact.

“I kn–know,” He said, his voice thudding low in his throat. “But I need you to also understand the truth from my eyes as well… I ca–can’t keep that bottled in.”

A single tear broke free from your lashes and slipped down your cheek. You felt it trace your jaw, warm and cold all at once. You didn’t wipe it away.

And then–

His lips pressed to the tips of your fingers.

It wasn’t a kiss, not really.

It was something else.

Like a confession made in silence. A truth laid bare in skin and breath and trembling restraint. You felt the warmth of his mouth wetting your fingertips slightly, felt the tremor in his body as he held you there like he was hoping time might pause.

Like maybe if he just held on long enough, the rest of the world might forget to take you away.

The moment stretched, thick and reverent, until all you could do was whisper into it.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know,” Bob murmured, mouth still brushing your skin.

“I think I love you.” The words tumbled out before you could catch them–raw and stripped down and full of everything that had gone unsaid for too long.

You felt him still beneath your touch.

Then he exhaled–shaky, wrecked.

“I do lo–love you,” He whispered, broken and sure and barely there.

Your throat closed around the sound.

He finally turned to face you fully then–his eyes red and glassy, the soft streetlight glow catching his hair. And the way he looked at you…God. You’d never been looked at like that before. Like you were everywhere in his world. Like you had taken root in the hollow behind his ribs and nothing–not even the grief–could pull you out.

You leaned forward, forehead brushing his, and for a second the two of you just breathed the same air. Sharing silence like it was the only language that wouldn’t break you. Bob wrapped his arms around you like he didn’t know how else to stay whole.

There was no hesitation anymore. He just pulled you into him–tightly, fully–like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against his body. His hand slid up your back and cupped the base of your skull, his fingers trembling slightly in your hair. You buried yourself in his chest, the soft fabric of his shirt warm from his skin, damp from his tears.

“I sh–should’ve said it sooner…” He whispered, voice frayed at the edges. “And I know it’s too late no–now… But I wanted you to know before you le–left…”

You pressed your face harder against him, your forehead nudging the hollow of his collarbone. His scent wrapped around you like a balm–soft and warm and impossibly sweet. He smelled like vanilla bean and the faintest trace of brown sugar, like the last page of a well-read book and fresh sheets on a summer night. There was a lingering note of coffee in there too–familiar, comforting, so Bob.

“I wa–want you to be happy,” He murmured, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “And if th–this is the way you’ll be happy…Do what you need to do…”

A fresh wave of tears slipped down your cheeks, warm against his shirt, soaking into the cotton like ink into paper. You felt the rise and fall of his chest match your own–uneven and trembling, the both of you wrapped in grief you couldn’t outrun. Not this kind.

Neither of you spoke after that.

You just held each other, clinging to the fading moment, to the ache of what was about to be lost. The silence was thick, but not empty. It was shared. Like the pause between heartbeats before something new begins.

You didn’t know how long you sat there.

But eventually, when your sobs had softened to slow, silent exhales, you shifted your weight just slightly. Your hand moved to rest over his heart, and you tilted your head to look up at him, chin resting lightly on his chest.

“Did I ever tell you about the first time I was able to go outside?” you asked softly.

Bob blinked down at you, his eyes still red and rimmed with salt. He shook his head gently, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand in a way that made your throat clench.

“I was in a lab in Nebraska,” you began, voice distant, like it was echoing down a hallway of memory. “I’d just been transferred there. One of the lab assistants was going through my records…Noticed how often I got sick, how reactive my skin was. All my charts said the same thing–chronic immune issues, recurrent infections, photophobia–but no one ever questioned why.”

You swallowed.

“They asked if I’d ever been outside. And I told them no. I didn’t even know what ‘outside’ really meant.”

Bob’s brow furrowed, his fingers curling around your waist, pulling you in closer.

“They brought me out the next day. Just behind the facility, this patch of open field surrounded by chain-link and barbed wire. It wasn’t much, but it was sky. Real sky. And sunlight.” You exhaled slowly, remembering. “I stayed out there until my skin burned. My arms, my face, the back of my neck. I couldn’t stop shaking. But I didn’t care. I was sixteen. I had spent every day of my life inside a room with no windows. I wasn’t going to waste it. I wanted the full experience.”

Bob gave the smallest, broken smirk. It was laced with so much hurt, but also wonder. He was listening with his whole body.

And then you said, voice softer still:

“…When I first saw you in the Vault… I thought I was having the same experience.”

He blinked.

“You did?”

You nodded. “When you looked at me…I swear Bob, it was like I was seeing the sun for the first time…The awe…The ache in my chest…I knew from the moment I saw you…You were going to be someone special to me…Just like the sun.” His mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to say something–but he didn’t have the words. He just stared at you like the world had stopped moving for a moment. Like you’d just told him something too big to hold.

Then–

Ding.

The soft mechanical chime of the elevator broke the stillness, and both your heads turned.

Bucky stepped onto the rooftop, eyes adjusting quickly. His brows raised when he saw you tangled in Bob’s arms, cheeks flushed, eyes swollen from crying.

He froze.

“…Sorry,” He said quietly. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

You sat up slowly, gently pulling away from Bob–but not far. You looked at Bucky and gave a faint shake of your head.

“No,” You said softly. “You’re not.”

And that was where the conversation ended.

——————————

The quinjet loomed like a shadow against the early morning sky, sleek and still beneath the soft haze of sunrise. The compound’s landing pad was bathed in gold light, long shadows stretching beneath your feet as the team worked in quiet rhythm, hauling your boxes up the ramp one by one.

Everyone was there.

Except Bob.

You scanned the area again–half-hoping, half-desperate–but his tall frame was nowhere in sight. Not lingering by the cargo bay. Not leaning against the railing like he always did. Not even watching from a distance the way you knew he sometimes did when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

Gone.

After everything you shared on the roof last night, part of you had believed–naively, maybe–that he’d come. That he’d meet your eyes one last time. That you’d have a goodbye that felt like something final and full and whole. Something sacred. But the empty space where he should’ve been said everything you didn’t want to hear.

And your heart cracked. Quietly. With no fanfare. Just a hollow snap beneath your ribs.

The last box clunked into place in the cargo hold. You stood at the foot of the ramp, hands hanging uselessly at your sides, watching the team slowly gather near you, one by one.

Alexei came first. He was cradling your coffee machine under one arm–comically oversized in his grip–and he set it down gently before reaching for you. His hug was firm. Solid. The kind of hug that wrapped you in safety without words.

His arms enveloped you fully, a wall of warmth and steady breath as he muttered gruffly, “Is always place for you at my table. No matter where that table is.” He squeezed once, hard, then stepped back like anything more would undo him.

Ava followed. Her hug was briefer, more reserved, but no less sincere. She touched your upper arms and rested her forehead lightly against yours. “You come visit when you can…We’ll miss you a lot.” You nodded, throat tight, and she offered a faint smile before stepping aside.

Walker surprised you.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, scratching the back of his neck like he was unsure whether a goodbye was earned between you. Then he stepped forward, arms spreading almost defensively like he expected to be swatted away. But when you let him hug you, he pulled you in–not hard, but secure. Not rigid, but genuine. His hand patted your back once, and he muttered under his breath, “It was fun working with you…And I hope you find what you’re looking for…”

You smiled, and let out a small breath, “Thanks, Walker.” Bucky was last before Yelena. He stood a little off to the side, arms crossed, jaw set. But when he stepped forward, it wasn’t with the stoic air he wore in the field—it was something softer. Tired. Human. He looked at you like he wanted to say more, but all he did was pull you into a single-armed hug, metal arm staying at his side.

“When you figure out what ‘home’ really means…Let me know…Maybe I’ll find mine too.” He murmured.

Your throat closed up. “You can visit anytime. Seriously.”

He nodded, releasing you gently, his lips twitching into something almost like a smile. “One day. I will.”

Then it was just Yelena.

And everything in you stilled.

She didn’t rush. She walked to you like she was measuring every step. Then she opened her arms without a word, and you crashed into them.

Her hug was everything.

Tight. Unyielding. Unapologetically emotional. Her fingers curled into the back of your shirt, and her breath hitched against your shoulder.

“I don’t forgive you yet,” She whispered shakily, “but I’m trying.”

You nodded, arms squeezing her just as tight. “I know.”

She sniffled, pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. Her mascara was smudged.

“I’ll call you once I land and get everything sorted,” You said, voice trembling.

“You better,” she said, and tried to blink away the tears. “Or I will track you down.”

You nodded again, unable to say anything else without falling apart.

And then–it was time.

You turned, climbing the ramp slowly. Every step away from them felt like it dragged a little piece of your heart behind. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. If you did, you weren’t sure you’d be able to leave at all.

Inside the cockpit, you slipped into the seat, fingers shaking slightly as you ran through launch protocol. The quinjet hummed around you. Systems came online. The ramp sealed shut behind you. You typed in the coordinates for your new house, and pressed enter.

You stared out at the horizon, waiting for the weight in your chest to lessen.

But it didn’t, and as the jet lifted off–smooth, steady, rising into the quiet morning–you pressed your forehead against the glass and whispered so low only the sky could hear:

“Goodbye, Bob.”

And the clouds swallowed you whole.

———————————

The quinjet touched down in a slow, whisper-soft descent, the grass parting gently beneath it as though the land had been expecting you. You powered down the systems one by one, the low hum of machinery giving way to stillness–pure and uninterrupted. There were no voices. No distant alarms. No radio chatter or metal doors hissing open in the background.

Just silence.

When the ramp hissed open, the world met you with a breath of spring.

The air was cool–cooler than it had been at the compound–but not cold. It wrapped around your skin like a clean sheet pulled fresh from the line. There was a weight to it, not heavy, but full. Damp with dew. Sweet with the scent of tilled soil, blooming clover, and the soft tang of wild lilacs carried from somewhere far down the slope.

You stepped onto the grass, and the earth gave a little beneath your feet. The field rolled out around you like a green sea, golden in the sunlight. The quinjet stood in the middle of it like some strange, sleeping bird. A few feet away, tucked against a thicket of trees and set back from the gravel path, was your house.

Your house.

Your throat tightened as you looked at it.

It wasn’t grand. Wasn’t sleek or modern or fortified with anything but wood and love.

But it was everything.

A one-story farmhouse with soft grey-blue siding and white trim that had weathered seasons of wind and sun. The porch stretched across the front like open arms, its columns uneven and chipped but sturdy. A rickety wooden swing hung on rusted chains from one corner, moving slightly in the breeze. The railing was scuffed in places, like someone had leaned against it a hundred times to watch the sun go down. Ivy had started to creep along one edge.

There were windows everywhere.

Tall ones. Bare ones. Not a single one had bars. They were thrown open to the wind like someone had once opened them and never thought to close them again. Light poured from the inside, golden and warm, dancing over the warped floorboards of the porch.

You took a step forward.

And then another.

The mailbox stood on a crooked wooden post, its red flag bent sideways like a tired elbow. You popped it open and found the envelope tucked inside. Your name was written across the front in soft cursive. Inside: one brass key.

Your fingers curled around it.

It was heavier than you thought it would be. Not physically. Just…Symbolically. Tangibly. Like something final.

You climbed the porch steps slowly, savoring the sound of each creak under your feet. They weren’t sharp or alarming–just lived in. Familiar. You reached the front door and slid the key into the lock.

It turned with a quiet, satisfying click.

And then you stepped inside.

The warmth hit you first.

It wasn’t the kind of warmth that came from heat or sunlight. It was the kind that came from home. From a place that had been touched, loved, settled in–even if only by someone preparing it for you.

The floor beneath your feet was hardwood–old, slightly warped, but recently cleaned. A wide area rug stretched across the living room, woven in soft tones of sage, clay, and wheat. A couch was tucked beneath a large window, throw blankets tossed lazily over one arm. There were mismatched pillows, soft and frayed at the seams, like they had been used to prop up lazy Sunday afternoons.

To the right, the kitchen opened up–warm wood counters, a farmhouse sink with a deep basin, and cabinets painted buttercream yellow. A cast iron kettle sat on the stove. The window above the sink looked out into the field, and the breeze was gently lifting the gauzy curtains.

There was a small dining table tucked into the corner, set with two chairs. One of the seats had a tiny chip in the backrest. It didn’t look lonely. It looked like someone had pulled it out and sat there for hours, sipping coffee while the wind spoke against the windows.

You moved forward and set your keys in the ceramic dish that waited on the entryway table.

They landed with a soft clink.

You smiled.

It was the first real smile you’d felt in weeks. Maybe longer. A smile that didn’t ask anything from you. A smile that came from a chest slowly, slowly uncoiling.

You walked further into the house. Past the fireplace. Past the faded print on the wall of rolling hills and prairie skies. Past the stack of firewood and the tiny woven basket someone had left on the coffee table filled with lavender sachets and a handwritten note: Welcome home.

And that’s when you heard it.

A voice–low and familiar, carved with hesitation, but laced with that gentle brand of humor only one man ever used on you.

“You’re going to ha–have to get a better security system…” You stopped mid-step. Every hair on your body stood up. The air shifted around you–suddenly warmer, suddenly sharper. You turned slowly, your feet rooted to the hardwood, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.

The voice had come from the back hallway.

From the open doorway at the far end.

And when you stepped into the frame and followed it with your eyes–you saw him.

Bob.

Leaning casually against the bedroom door frame like he belonged there. Like he’d always been there. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a navy blue crewneck, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, exposing the lines of his hands–familiar, scarred, warm. His hair was tousled, and wind-tangled. And his mouth–God, that soft, crooked smile was already stretched across his face.

His eyes flicked over your expression, and something about the way he looked at you made the shock in your chest soften. Melt. Like the earth had tilted just slightly under your feet but settled in a better position.

“I th–thought,” He started, his voice cracking slightly, “Instead of saying goodbye…I’d be the fi–first to say hello.” Your mouth opened, but no sound came out at first.

You blinked in shock.

And then–your smile broke through, wide and disbelieving, laced with something just this side of laughter. “How did you… How did you know? And how the hell did you get here?”

He pushed off the doorway with one shoulder and walked toward you slowly, like he didn’t want to spook you. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his sweats, and his eyes never left your face.

“Well…” He said, shrugging, “I as–asked Val.”

You raised your brows, still trying to catch up. “You asked Val?”

“She’s still ki–kind of scared of me snapping, so she…” He gave you a sheepish, apologetic glance. “Gave me the information pretty fast.”

That made you huff out a laugh.

He paused a few feet away, then looked down for a second. “Then I just…Fl–Flew here.”

You stared at him. “You used Sentry?”

He nodded once. No shame. “Of co–course I did.”

Your hand rose to your mouth, trying to hide the slow, surprised grin spreading across your face. “Jesus, Bob.”

He shrugged again. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like flying to you was as natural as taking the subway. There was a pause. Just the two of you standing there in the middle of your new living room, the breeze moving through the open windows, the quiet pulse of shared history hanging between you.

Then Bob added, voice softening:

“Af–After you told me about that story yesterday…I thought you were go–going to be moving here.”

You tilted your head at him, warmth blooming slow and thick in your chest.

He smiled again, smaller this time. “Glad I caught on and that you didn’t just ra-randomly tell me that story about Nebraska for the hell of it.”

You laughed under your breath, a sheepish little sound, and rolled your eyes. “Even though it was still relevant…”

“Mhm,” He hummed, and then his gaze drifted past you, scanning the space like he was seeing it all for the first time–the porch swing, the chipped paint, the breeze in the curtains, the scent of lavender and old wood. “It’s ni–nice.”

You nodded. “It is.”

He looked back at you. His eyes were soft, and gentle, glistening in the lighting.

“Is it okay…If I st–stay for a little?” He asked.

Your breath hitched–just for a second–but the answer was already in your chest before he’d finished the question. You nodded once, slow and sure, the weight of your breath caught just beneath your ribs.

“Of course…” you murmured, voice soft. Then–after a beat, after a shift in the air that felt impossibly delicate–you added, “But I need to do something that I should’ve done last night.”

Bob blinked. His eyes searched yours—gentle, uncertain, wide like he hadn’t dared to hope for this exact thing. His hands slid a little deeper into his pockets, like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you on instinct.

You stepped forward. Just one step. Then another.

And when you were close enough to feel his breath on your face, you looked at him–really looked at him.

At the soft barely–there freckles scattered across his cheeks, at the faint lines beneath his eyes from sleepless nights, at the way his bottom lip trembled just slightly, as if bracing for something too good to be true.

“I should’ve kissed you last night,” You whispered.

His breath caught.

The seconds that passed between you then were slow and golden and suspended in something you couldn’t name. Something like awe. Something like gravity giving you mercy.

And when you rose onto the balls of your feet and brought your hand to the side of his face–fingertips ghosting along his cheekbone–he leaned into it like it was instinct. Like he didn’t remember how to breathe without you.

Your noses brushed.

His lashes fluttered.

And then, finally–

You kissed him.

It was slow. Soft. Barely a breath at first.

But God, it was everything.

It was months of unsaid words, of near-misses and held-back glances and aching silence pressed into a single point of contact. It was the exhale of something sacred. The kind of kiss you only get once in a lifetime. The kind that feels like a promise made in a language no one else will ever speak.

Bob’s lips were warm–tentative at first, trembling slightly against yours like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. But then he sank into you, deepening it just a little. One hand lifted–hesitant, reverent–and cradled your jaw like you were something precious. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheekbone. His nose bumped yours gently.

You sighed against his mouth. A sound that was equal parts relief and wonder.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together, your noses still brushing, breath shared in the quiet space between your mouths.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“…Wo–Worth the wait.”

You smiled–soft, a little wrecked, fully his. “Yeah,” you breathed. “It was…And I’m glad you came…”

[milfsloverblog]

Delayed (NSFW)

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: Larissa Weems, you, an airport lounge. The rest is history! Enjoy <3

VIP Lounge, Terminal B
Somewhere between cities, between hours

The rain had been falling in thick, unrelenting sheets for hours. It beat against the glass with the low, sullen rhythm of a heartbeat, steady and heavy, too familiar now to notice unless you let your mind drift toward it. The sky had bruised into a deep blue-black, clouded over entirely. Somewhere out there were lightning forks cracking open the night, but inside, the airport lounge was muted, cocooned in sterile quiet and artificial warmth.

You’d claimed your place in the corner hours ago. Half a glass of flat tonic water sat abandoned on the small side table beside you, your phone long dead, your book forgotten somewhere in the bottom of your carry-on. The air held a low hum—whispers, an occasional clink of cutlery, the soft sigh of a tired receptionist fielding questions about standby lists. You had stopped checking the monitor when the third flight delay came through. There would be no flying out tonight.

And yet, you stayed.

The lounge was a space designed to dull inconvenience with velvet upholstery and dim, expensive lighting. No one looked anyone else in the eye here. Everyone was floating. Between cities, between obligations, between versions of themselves. You were no exception.

That was when you saw her.

She wasn’t there, and then she was. Like someone had written her into the room just slightly out of time. Seated at the lounge bar, one elegant arm stretched along the marble counter, her posture the picture of composure. Hair pinned back in that old-fashioned twist, every pale strand immaculate. Her profile was sharp under the warm overhead light—cheekbone catching it just so, the sweep of dark lashes veiling a glance you couldn't yet see.

She was alone.

You looked once, casually. Then again, slower.

Her suit was a shade of ivory too rich to be mistaken for white, tailored to fit like a whisper. She raised her glass—something gold-toned, neat, deliberate. You watched her sip. The lipstick she wore was a kind of red that should’ve felt loud in a place like this, but somehow didn’t. Everything about her was too intentional for accident. Too perfect to be tired, delayed, or adrift like the rest of you.

Still, there was something beneath the surface. You couldn’t name it. A quiet intensity. A suggestion of waiting.

You stared too long. Caught yourself. Looked away.

Then back.

This time, she was looking directly at you.

It wasn’t a dramatic thing. Her gaze didn’t snap or linger or invite. It just found you—settled on you like gravity, calm and assessing, and held you in place. Your breath caught somewhere under your ribs. Her lips curved faintly at one corner, more acknowledgment than smile. Then, as if nothing had passed between you, she turned her head, lifted her glass again, and resumed whatever internal rhythm she had been keeping before.

Your fingertips tingled.

You weren’t brave. Not yet.

You tried not to look again.

You tried, but the space between you hummed with the awareness of that brief, searing glance. Like an invisible thread had pulled taut between your corner chair and the polished curve of the bar. Every time you shifted in your seat, her presence whispered at the edge of your senses. Not imposing. Not loud. Just there.

You watched her reflection in the chrome of a coffee machine, in the black glass of the television screen no one was watching. Once, you saw her cross one long leg over the other, the hem of her trousers sliding just enough to show the sharp line of her ankle. Another time, she touched her glass to her mouth and lingered there, eyes fixed distantly ahead—though you could’ve sworn her lashes flicked up toward the mirror.

You thought she might be watching you back.

Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’d already forgotten you. A glance meant nothing. A look could be a thousand things. But your hands were sweating.

You waited for something to give. For the staff to announce another flight. For her to gather her coat and disappear into some silent hallway without ever meeting your eyes again.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly—and looked at you once more.

This time, there was no room for ambiguity.

She held your gaze for three full seconds. Not a smile, not quite—but something softened her expression. Interest. Confidence. Permission.

You stood before you could think better of it.

Your legs felt unsteady, like you hadn’t walked in hours. You crossed the lounge, heart hammering in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the kind you felt in your throat more than your chest. As you neared her, she turned slightly on her stool, body angled toward you now, open in a way that felt rehearsed. Regal. Welcoming.

But she said nothing.

Neither did you, at first.

Up close, she was... impossible. A sculpted thing, lacquered and real, scent clinging faintly to her—something floral but cold, expensive. Her gaze was sharp even in stillness, made of glass and intellect and something untouchable.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, voice quieter than intended.

A pause. The corner of her mouth curved. Not kindly, not unkindly. Almost like she was amused by the idea that you thought you needed to ask.

“I would’ve been disappointed if you hadn’t,” she said.

Her voice was low and deliberate, velvet over ice. Polished vowels. The kind of voice you only ever imagined hearing in dreams or in old films. She gestured faintly to the empty seat beside her.

You slid onto the barstool, pulse ticking in your throat. She lifted a hand and caught the bartender’s eye without looking. A moment later, he was in front of you both.

“I’ll have another,” she said, holding up her glass—nearly empty now, but not quite.

The man nodded. “And for you?”

You hesitated.

“She’ll have the same,” she said simply, gaze not leaving yours.

That made you smile. A quiet, startled little thing.

“Don’t like giving people choices?” you asked.

“I find most people don’t know what they want until it’s offered.”

There it was again—that hum, that low thrum of something dark and thrilling beneath the surface. You weren’t sure if she was talking about drinks anymore. You weren’t sure you cared.

You accepted the glass when it came, letting the burn of the alcohol settle something nervous in your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was oddly comfortable, though your mind raced with every breath she took. Her posture was perfect even in rest. One fingertip drew slow circles along the rim of her glass. She wore a ring on her right hand—a single pearl, perfectly set.

“What brings you here?” you asked eventually, just to hear her speak again.

She tilted her head, a cool, unreadable glint in her eye.

“A delay,” she said. “Same as everyone else.”

“But you don’t look... stranded.”

She looked at you then. Properly.

“And you don’t look nearly as discreet as you think you are.”

Heat rushed to your face. You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “Fair.”

Another sip. Another moment. Then she leaned in just slightly.

“You’ve been watching me for a long time.”

“I know.”

“I don’t mind.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t sure if I was imagining the... return attention.”

Her smile, this time, was undeniable.

“I don’t return attention I don’t want.”

That pulled the air right out of your lungs. You reached for your drink again, hands a little unsteady. She watched you calmly, with the air of someone who had never once been nervous in her life.

“I’m not usually like this,” you said, not sure why.

“I would hope not,” she murmured. “It’s much more interesting if I’m the exception.”

You sipped your drink again. It burned less now.

The silence between you had shifted. Still comfortable, but heavier, like a room with the door shut. The clink of cutlery and low hum of televisions faded to a distant buzz. You weren’t sure when you’d last looked at the clock. Maybe time had stopped mattering.

She looked forward again, not at you, but not far—eyes fixed on something beyond the glass walls, where the night swelled with storm and shadow.

“What do you see out there?” you asked.

A pause. “Nothing I haven’t already lived through.”

You let that settle. It didn’t feel dramatic when she said it. Just tired. Or honest.

“That bad?”

She turned her head slightly, meeting your gaze without flinching. “No,” she said. “Just long.”

You nodded, unsure if that made her older than she looked or just more tired. The kind of tired you recognized. Not the bone-deep exhaustion of lack of sleep, but the quieter kind. The kind that comes from holding yourself upright too long.

“I always thought airports were a little liminal,” you said. “Like you could be anyone, and it wouldn’t matter. No one really sees you.”

“They look at you,” she said. “They don’t see you.”

You glanced at her.

“Do you?” you asked. “See people?”

Her lips curved, almost fond. “Only when I want to.”

You let out a small breath of laughter, shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m aware.”

Her fingers lingered against the rim of her drink. You watched the way her shoulders moved when she turned toward you, slow and deliberate, like she was never in a rush to be anywhere.

“There’s a comfort in being unmoored,” she said quietly. “In drifting. No past to explain, no future to plan for. Just... now. Just this.”

You swallowed. “You speak like someone who’s been doing that a while.”

Something flickered in her eyes. “Too long.”

You leaned forward a little, elbows on the bar, drink cradled between your hands.

“I don’t usually talk like this,” you said. “Not to strangers. Not to...” You glanced at her. “Beautiful women who look like they’ve stepped out of a novel.”

She smiled, indulgent, almost a purr of amusement. “You should do it more often. It suits you.”

You hesitated, then said it.

“I left someone. A few months ago. Three-year relationship. Comfortable. Safe. But I was disappearing.”

She didn’t look surprised. She didn’t say sorry. Just waited.

“I thought travel would help. I needed to remember who I was before... I tried so hard to be who he needed me to be, I forgot what I actually wanted.”

“And what is it you want?”

Your eyes met. Her gaze didn’t press—it invited.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I think I’m still trying things on.”

“Then try this,” she said, voice low, silk sliding beneath the words. “This night. This conversation. No name, no past, no future. Just... this.”

You felt it again—that gravity. That quiet but undeniable draw to her. She wasn’t promising anything. She wasn’t offering safety. But she was real in a way that felt impossible. Like something plucked from an older world, or a dream you didn’t remember having.

“You?” you asked. “Are you trying something on, too?”

She looked at you, and her expression softened—not the way someone softens when they care, but the way someone softens when they decide to share something real. Risk something.

“Once,” she said, “I believed I had to be everything for everyone. The poised one. The perfect one. I thought if I held it all together long enough, someone might finally see me.”

Your chest ached. “Did they?”

“No,” she said. “But I stopped waiting.”

You let the silence fall again.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full.

“I don’t want to forget this,” you said, almost without meaning to. “Even if we never speak again. Even if we never...”

She looked at you, calm and unwavering. “You won’t forget. That’s the thing about moments like these. They root themselves quietly. You’ll think about it when you least expect it. The next time you’re stuck somewhere. Or lonely. Or trying on someone else’s version of you again.”

You reached for your drink. She reached for hers.

Only yours was empty.

Her gaze slid to your hands—steady, but no longer hiding how tightly you were holding on.

She slid her glass towards you and when her fingertips brushed yours, it wasn’t an accident.

It was an invitation.

You didn’t pull your hand away when she touched you.

Her fingers were cool—slim and deliberate, like they were meant to hold crystal or tilt chins. She didn’t linger, but the impression stayed. Your skin hummed. You swallowed around the ache rising in your throat.

You brought her glass to your lips, purposefully placing your mouth on the lipstick marks that stained the rim.

She watched you steadily, lips parted just slightly, as though deciding something. Then—

“Truth for truth?” she asked.

You nodded.

She turned toward you fully then, crossing one long leg over the other. The hem of her trousers shifted, revealing the sharp line of her ankle again, elegant even in the smallest of movements. The lounge lights caught the pearl on her finger as she lifted her glass, though her eyes never left you.

“I’ll go first,” she said, voice soft but assured. “I haven’t had someone look at me the way you have in a very long time.”

You blinked. “What way is that?”

“Like I might still surprise you.”

Your breath caught. She didn’t say it for effect—it wasn’t flirtation, or self-pity. Just the simple, naked truth of it.

“My turn,” you said, quieter. “I think I wanted to talk to you before I even saw you. Does that make sense?”

She considered the question, then nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Her fingers brushed the rim of her glass.

“Your question.”

You hesitated, then asked, “When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to?”

She huffed out a low, amused sound—more breath than laugh. “You don’t start small.”

“I don’t think you’d enjoy it if I did.”

“I wouldn’t.” Her voice dropped slightly. “The answer is... right now.”

Your pulse thudded low and hard.

Your turn. You curled your fingers around your glass. “Ask me something hard.”

She didn’t even blink. “When was the last time you felt desirable?”

You looked down at your hands, then back up at her.

“I don’t remember,” you said. “Until now.”

Her expression shifted—just slightly, but it did. Something softened at the edges. Approval, maybe. Or heat.

She leaned in a little then, close enough for her perfume to catch in your throat. “Then let’s make sure you do.”

Your stomach dropped. Your breath quickened.

“Come with me,” she said.

You rose without asking where.

She didn’t wait to see if you would follow. She simply stood, gathering her coat—not to put on, just to sling carelessly over one arm—and walked with unhurried grace toward the far end of the lounge. Past the empty concierge desk. Past the hushed hallway with the restrooms marked in gold lettering. Her heels clicked against the marble only when she allowed them to.

You followed.

Of course you followed.

And every step you took felt like shedding something.

The lounge restroom was designed for elegance, not necessity.

Muted lighting glowed from behind golden mirrors. Marble counters, pale and gleaming. Velvet chairs against one wall, absurdly comfortable for a space meant to be transitory. The scent of eucalyptus and wood polish hung faintly in the air. Not a sound but the hush of your own breath and the soft click of your shoes on tile.

The moment the door clicked shut, she turned to you.

Not in a rush. Just with that quiet, unshakable certainty.

Her hand found your wrist, her fingers wrapping there like they’d always meant to. She pulled you closer—until your hips met the counter, until your breath mingled with hers, until her eyes, steady and blue as storms, pinned you there.

You thought she might kiss you.

But she didn’t.

“You’re trembling,” she murmured, voice low and indulgent.

“I’m not used to being wanted like this.”

She tilted her head, studying you. “Then let me show you what it’s like.”

Her hand traced the curve of your waist, down your hip, until her fingers dipped just beneath the hem of your shirt, touching skin—barely. You inhaled sharply. She watched your face as she slipped that hand lower, slid beneath your waistband, unbuttoned you without breaking eye contact. Her mouth curved, like she liked how breathless you were getting just from the anticipation.

Her fingers slid between your thighs, and—

Oh.

Warm. Sure. She stroked you through your underwear first, a teasing glide that made your breath catch. Then she slipped beneath the fabric and touched you properly, slick and wanting and already so ready for her.

You let your head fall back against the mirror, knees trembling.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “Let me.”

One long finger slipped inside, then two. No fumbling. No hesitation. She took you slowly, deliberately, her palm brushing just right as she curled her fingers inside you. Her other hand braced at your lower back, holding you up when your thighs began to shake.

She watched every flicker of your expression. Every stuttered breath. Her eyes were on your mouth when you moaned, on your chest when you arched, on your throat when you whimpered in a voice you barely recognized as your own.

It felt like being unraveled one touch at a time.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” she said softly.

“Yes,” you gasped.

“Imagining this?”

You managed a nod, though your body felt molten.

“Good,” she said. “I want you to remember me when you fly away.”

You came with a quiet cry, body clenching around her hand, hips grinding down into her palm. She held you through it, whispering soft encouragements—that’s it, just like that, you’re doing so well—until your pulse stopped hammering and your breath came back ragged.

When her fingers slipped free, they dragged slowly along your thigh. She reached for a towel, cleaned you gently—too gently for someone who hadn’t asked your name—and then kissed the corner of your lips. Not possessive. Not romantic.

Just a moment.

Just a mark.

You both returned to the lounge without speaking.

The storm had quieted outside. The lightning was gone, the thunder a fading echo somewhere in the distance. Through the tall, soundproof windows, the tarmac gleamed wet and silver under the pale light of early morning.

The air was different now. Less charged. Less heavy. But something still hung between you, thread-thin, invisible, and impossibly strong.

She took a seat at the bar again, legs crossed, posture impeccable. You slid into the seat beside her. Close, but not quite touching.

The bartender reappeared like magic. She ordered a whiskey, neat. You asked for water, suddenly parched.

For a while, neither of you said anything. You just sat in the afterglow, the quiet hum of music and low conversation filling the space around you. You glanced at her hands, remembering the way they’d felt between your legs, and had to look away again.

And then—

A chime rang through the lounge.

“Now boarding: Gate A19, Flight 704 to London Heathrow.”

She turned her glass slowly in her hand.

“That’s me,” she said softly.

Something in you faltered.

You weren’t surprised. You’d known this couldn’t last—hadn’t been meant to—but the finality of it still hit sharp.

She stood and gathered her coat, draped it over her arm again. She didn’t rush. She didn’t linger. She was exactly what she had been through the evening: composed, graceful, impossible to hold onto.

You rose with her, suddenly unsteady. “Wait—”

She looked at you. And God, her eyes were soft. Not sorry. Not cruel.

Just real.

You swallowed. “Your name.”

A beat. She studied you like she might refuse, like keeping it sacred would make it easier.

But she didn’t.

She stepped a little closer. Lowered her voice.

“Larissa.”

It landed in your chest like the softest impact. A name. A tether.

You nodded, almost to yourself. “Thank you.”

Her smile was small. Almost sad.

“Don’t lose sleep over me,” she said.

“I won’t,” you lied.

And then she turned.

You watched her walk away—tall and calm, heels quiet against the floor, disappearing into the soft blur of travelers and announcements and time.

And even though you knew you’d never see her again, you would remember.

The storm.
The glances.
Her hands.
Her name.
Larissa.

————————————————————————

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[bucephaly]

Before I even read the messages he said 'nvm' and blocked me so I guess there's that done with

I turned comments off on the furry appropriation bluesky and now one of the guys is sending me pages in my dms